Death at Carasheen (Inspector Faro Mystery No.13)

by Alanna Knight

  ‘Dublin shouldn’t be a problem,’ said Faro soothingly ‘You have given lots of talks on our travels.’

  ‘But not on Daniel O’Connell. This is new material. There will be people at the literary society who know a lot more about him than I do. I am just at the beginning of my researches.’

  Faro stretched out a hand and covered hers. ‘Imogen, dear, you have been talking about the man ever since I first knew you - you must know him inside out. Your lifelong hero, isn’t he?’

  ‘I know that. But talking to you and talking in public are not quite the same, are they? And to have to prepare a paper and give a lecture - it’s a very different matter.’ From his own recent experience of public speaking, Faro was well aware of that. He did not envy Imogen in the slightest although he had heard her speak many times and she always made it seem quite effortless.

  ‘There’s nothing for it, Faro. I shall have to go to Derrynane House where he lived. I really ought to have at least seen it before I give my talk on the man.’

  ‘Very well, I’ll take you there.’

  Imogen frowned, avoiding his eyes. ‘There’s a problem. I did promise Aaron - some of his family came from Waterville and it’s on the way so I could hardly refuse, could I?’ At Faro’s suddenly tight-lipped expression, she shook her head obstinately. ‘Don’t you see? It would be absolutely dreadful to sneak off without saying a word. What kind of excuse could I give when he found out, especially when we’ve talked about it and he’s so enthusiastic? I just couldn’t hurt his feelings like that.’

  Faro could have confessed that he had fewer scruples about Aaron McBeigh’s feelings but Imogen, waiting for his reply, was looking at him so pleadingly that he felt bound to say somewhat ungraciously, ‘Then we had better take him along.’

  At that Imogen brightened visibly, put her arms round his neck and hugged him regardless of her close proximity to toast and jam. ‘You’re a darling, you are,’ she whispered. I know he’s not your favourite man but it is only for a few hours we have to put up with him. A sort of three Hail Marys because we are so happy,’ Are we so happy, thought Faro, miserably contemplating a whole day with Aaron McBeigh?

  Relief however had made Imogen exuberant. ‘He’ll still be at his breakfast at the doctor’s. Margaret insisted that, while Uncle Des is away, he eats with them.’ And, with a sly look, ‘Who knows, maybe he has some other engagement and won’t be free to go with us today after all?’

  Perhaps not, thought Faro, his hopes rising as they walked across the common. As they approached Dr Neill’s house, Paddy was leaning over the garden wall, staring intently towards the windows. Grinning at Imogen, he seized her hand and kissed it thoroughly. ‘Are you here to see the doctor?’ she asked him in Irish as she freed herself with some difficulty. He shook his head, blushed fiercely and apparently took refuge in some incomprehensible explanation.

  ‘I gather it is his great friend Aaron he is waiting for,’ Imogen explained as the front door was opened by the maid who had seen them walking up the garden path.

  ‘The doctor is out on his rounds,’ she said. ‘You’ll need to come later if it’s him you’re after.’ Looking beyond them to where Paddy was impatiently waiting, hopping from one foot to the other, she whispered, ‘That poor soul, he’s never far away - follows the American gentleman everywhere.’

  The American gentleman had heard their voices. He rushed from the dining room and greeted Imogen like a long-lost cousin from whom he had been parted since boyhood. Finding himself included in the embrace as a long-lost friend when Imogen quickly and neatly turned her head to avoid Aaron’s assault on her cheek, Faro found such over-exuberance trying, particularly at nine in the morning.

  At the mention of Derrynane House, delighted at the prospect of spending a day with his two favourite folks, as he called them, Aaron sent the maid off to hire a carriage from the nearby stables. This was to be his treat. Lunch en route, at the most flash and expensive hotel in Waterville. No need for anything as prosaic as a picnic hamper when you were the guests of Aaron McBeigh. But there was no carriage available that day - only a gig that normally carried two persons. Aaron was undefeated at the prospect. He laughed. ‘I’m game for that.’ And, with a flirtatious glance at Imogen that Faro did not miss, he added, ‘The more the merrier and we’ll sure be cosy together.’ As they emerged, Paddy ignored Imogen and Faro and had eyes only for Aaron, following him eagerly and touching his sleeve. Paddy then managed to stammer some words of greeting in the Irish.

  Faro was touched and saddened by this almost child-like desperation to be understood. Aaron stopped, smiled and, patting his shoulder, said, ‘God bless you’ in the hope that Paddy understood. Soon they were on their way. Aaron seated in the middle, an anchoring arm around the shoulders of his two dear friends, they were watched quite tearfully by an alarmed-looking Paddy. Watching him helplessly shambling after them, Faro realised that no one was safe from Aaron’s good works. The sight of them boarding the gig perhaps suggested to Paddy that his hero was departing for distant shores and that he would never set eyes on him again.

  Sure that the American’s intentions were good, Faro felt uncharitable that the man grated on him. And, he told himself, it was not just because of McBeigh’s passion for Imogen, described in some detail to anyone ready to listen, tactlessly ignoring the fact everyone in Carasheen knew or guessed that Faro and Imogen were long-time lovers. Aaron said, ‘Knew the moment I set eyes on her in Heidelberg that this was the greatest girl I had ever met. It happens like that only once in a lifetime,’ he added, pausing to look deep into Imogen’s face which was conveniently close to his own. And, talking as if she wasn’t present and this was an intimate conversation between two men, he leaned across and said to Faro:

  ‘So beautiful, don’t you think? That red hair, those green eyes - so Irish. I guess that would have been enough for most men. But this great young lady has something else - she is A Writer,’ He paused to beam upon Imogen. ‘A Writer, ma’am,’ he repeated reverently, ‘and we writers have to stick together,’ Faro was aware that the three of them were sticking rather too closely together on a seat that was meant to comfortably accommodate only two. ‘Such a great bond we share - a very great bond. As well as being Catholics, there is something else we have in common - Daniel O’Connell.’ And then turning again to Faro, he said, ‘The great man is quoted as saying "no political change is worth the shedding of a single drop of human blood"’.

  ‘And that was something new for the Ireland that had suffered centuries of British rule,’ Imogen agreed.

  Aaron nodded vigorously. ‘Even in the last century, Catholics could not sit in parliament or hold important state offices. Did you know that they could not even own a horse worth more than £5?’

  ‘Terrible when you think that horses are the main form of transport, especially here where everyone owns a horse,’ said Imogen, warming to any discussion about her hero.

  Aaron looked at Faro. ‘It wouldn’t worry you, of course, since you don’t ride.’

  Faro grimaced. ‘I lived and worked in a city -’

  Aaron’s sharp nod cut him short as he interrupted, saying, ‘And I would like to bet that those handsome black mares of the Cara boys cost a lot more than five pounds each.’

  ‘Life isn’t all that great now but it was made intolerable for us in the old days,’ said Imogen.

  ‘Not all the British were against Home Rule,’ Faro put in defensively ‘Prime Minister Pitt was a wise man and sympathetic. He was all for Catholic emancipation.’

  ‘Until your silly old King George the Third said no - definitely no - and claimed it was the cause of his madness,’ said Imogen derisively. ‘Then the Catholics found a champion among themselves, a lawyer who founded the Catholic Association and represented the interests of the tenant farmers.’

  ‘I remember reading that membership was one penny a month,’ said Aaron. ‘One penny a month and they soon had a huge fighting fund and even the support of the clergy. It
was a great time for Daniel O’Connell - all of Ireland loved him, Catholic and Protestant alike could recognise the kind of man he was - the great leader they had been waiting for. After his victory in the Clare elections, they wanted him at Westminster and, thanks to the then Prime Minister, the Duke of Wellington.’ For Faro’s benefit, he added proudly, ‘The Iron Duke was an Irishman born, like himself.’

  Faro nodded. ‘Indeed, and the Emancipation Bill was passed in 1829,’ and Imogen looked at him, surprised but pleased, as if she hadn’t expected him to be knowledgeable about Irish politics.

  ‘That was just the beginning of Daniel’s influence,’ she said ‘when tenant farmers dared to vote in opposition to their Protestant landlords.’

  ‘He was also a liberator to the English Catholics as well, don’t let us forget that,’ Aaron put in.

  Imogen nodded eagerly. ‘Everywhere his mass meetings soared in numbers, even reaching 100,000 - enormous for the time. He arranged one at Clontarf where Brian Bora defeated the Vikings. When the government banned it - always unwilling to risk violence and bloodshed to his supporters - he called it off.’

  ‘I seem to remember that the English brought a conspiracy charge against him,’ said Aaron, ‘but the House of Lords, aware of his immense popularity, set aside his sentence.’

  Imogen sighed. ‘That also marked the beginning of the end of his influence. Sadly there was a wind of change blowing across Ireland. People were tired of being patient and started to look to violence to achieve their aims.’

  Faro, a champion of rights all his life, defender of the underdog, decided he would have thoroughly approved of the great liberator but as the conversation turned to politics in Dublin and a passionate debate on the rights to use guns instead of words, his attention wandered to pleasanter pastures - namely the magnificence of landscape and seascape through which they were travelling.

  The initial part of their journey was a repetition of that first visit with Imogen to Caherciveen, on the edge of the Ring of Kerry Now the scenery was even more majestic. They headed eastwards along the sea roads with tantalising glimpses of Valentia Island that Imogen pointed out to Aaron as the site of the first transatlantic cable in 1858. He laughed. ‘Ironic, isn’t it? Folk could get in touch with New York but they tell me they couldn’t communicate with Dublin which must have been very frustrating.’

  Beyond Valentia the sea was iridescent jade while, nearer the shore, wild waves hit the slate-contoured cliffs where shearwaters and kittiwakes rose, screaming at their approach. At Waterville, they stopped for lunch at one of the handsome recently built hotels overlooking the sea. Fuschias, blooming over garden walls, and palm trees, lining the promenade, hinted at exotic lands far from Ireland. As they waited to be served Aaron embarked on tales of the small animals he had been forced to eat to survive in his gold-mining days. Although the lunch was considerably better than Aaron’s rather disgusting gastronomic experiences, it was certainly not all that he had promised. The two courses of soup and fish were perfectly edible and adequate but, Faro thought secretly, the food was no better than Maeve or Tom served up every day in Carasheen and vastly more expensive. He suspected that the cost of that one meal would have settled Maeve’s grocery bill for a whole week. But Aaron had clearly enjoyed playing genial host and was in a very good humour as they set off on the final part of their journey.

  The bright day was looking somewhat worn and considerably cooler when the gates of Derrynane House came in sight. They were locked. A notice read, ‘House and Gardens Closed’. Imogen swore in a very unladylike fashion. ‘I could scream! All this way for nothing.’ United for once, Faro and Aaron tried to console her. As they boarded the gig, Aaron tried to explain that it had been a very pleasant journey at least and Faro gallantly put in a word about that excellent lunch. But Imogen refused to be consoled. ‘It is all right for you two but this wasn’t just a pleasure excursion for me. I needed to see the house,’ she groaned.

  There was nothing for it but to head back the way they had come. However, their troubles weren’t over. The thin sunshine had disappeared, the sky clouded over and the faint breeze became a sharp cold wind bringing with it what they most dreaded - heavy rain. Huddling under a large umbrella was quite inadequate and it quickly dawned on them that they must take shelter.

  Aaron came to the rescue. They would stay overnight at one of those elegant hotels at Waterville that doubtless also provided stable and coach accommodation. Supper and three rooms were officially booked - although only two were used. Imogen and Faro soon realised that every cloud, even one bringing with it drenching rain, has a silver lining. In much better spirits, they met with Aaron at breakfast next morning and set off on the homeward journey. But they arrived back in Carasheen to find it far from the tranquil sunny scene they had left the day before.

  The Cara boys had made a call.

  Chapter13

  Trouble was evident as soon as the gig approached the common. People were gathered in the main street. Anxious, angry faces turned towards them and Conn pushed his way out of the crowd outside the grocery store and pointed to the broken window. ‘What happened?’ Faro asked him.

  ‘Need you ask! Two of the Cara boys, Mat and Mark, came down to the shop last night. It was closed. They were drunk and started demanding more whiskey. They banged on the door, shouted that it be opened for them. They needed supplies. And, when the Kellys opened the door, they threw Sam on the floor and kicked him. When Mary tried to intervene they knocked her down and broke her wrist.’

  ‘That’s disgraceful,’ said Imogen. ‘They’re an elderly couple. How are they now?’

  Conn shook his head. ‘Sam had his head split open as he fell and Mary’s arm is in a sling. Dr Neill is taking care of them.’

  One of the women came forward. ‘What are we to do for food? They’ve ransacked the shop. See for yourselves. There’s hardly a thing left on the shelves.’

  Other women came forward to add their protests. ‘And what are you going to do about it, Constable Conn, standing there star-gazing?’ demanded one, shaking a fist at him.

  ‘Bad enough when they were taking things without paying for them - as their right. But to beat up the poor Kellys.’

  Other voices joined in the angry protests. ‘You’ll have to do something.’

  ‘That’s right. This can’t go on.’

  ‘This must be stopped. We can’t live our lives like this.’

  ‘What about our children? We all know what happened to the gypsy children down the road there.’

  ‘Ours will be the next. Just you wait and see.’

  ‘Nobody is safe here any more.’

  Faro and Imogen followed Aaron across to Dr Neill’s house. The doctor was considerably shaken by the assault on the Kellys.

  He shook his head. ‘I’m concerned about Sam, he’s in a bad way, his heart is none too good. Mary is stronger but they are two old people who have run this store all their lives and they are both suffering from shock. They had put up with the Cara boys taking food and not paying bills just to keep peace, but after last night - all I can say is that no one in Carasheen is safe any more.’

  ‘Perhaps Uncle Des will come back with police reinforcements,’ said Imogen.

  Peter Neill regarded her bleakly and said, ‘I hope so,’ without much conviction.

  Imogen had decided, with so little time in hand, thanks to the unexpected overnight stay in Waterville, that she would have to leave later that day for Dublin. Faro had intended to go with her and while she was giving her lecture, he was looking forward to the prospect of exploring the city he had seen so briefly on his first visit.

  But it was not to be. Faro’s unseen enemy was at hand or, more correctly, at mouth. Its name was Toothache. It had been the bane of his personal life for many years and was liable to make its presence felt at the most unexpected and most inconvenient times. This untimely visit had been brought about by that splendid dinner in Waterville when Faro, munching on a pork chop, had hi
t upon a bone. Part of that troublesome decayed back molar broke off and those intermittent twinges had roared into a constant painful throbbing.

  He had told himself on the journey back to Carasheen that he would settle it with his old cure - whisky or oil of cloves - and, if that failed, a hot salt poultice. So, while Imogen was packing at Maeve’s, Faro took out the emergency bottle of cloves that he always carried with him and asked the maid at the inn to bring him up a hot salt poultice. She smiled sympathetically, ‘The toothache is it that you have? Hot salt’s the best cure - one I always use myself. Always works.’ He noticed that, although she was very young, in common with most of the poor, her front teeth were already showing signs of decay.

  Alas, in Faro’s case, the cure failed. The ache got worse and became a raging agony. With the poultice against his cheek, he walked the floor, took a large glass of whiskey and was soon feeling as if death would be welcome. But, gallantly packing his valise for an overnight stay, we went off to meet Imogen who took one look at the scarlet side of his face and said, ‘You look dreadful!’

  ‘Thanks for your sympathy. I feel dreadful,’ he groaned and, stretching out his hand for her piece of luggage, asked, ‘When’s our train?’

  She snatched the bag from him. ‘My train is in half an hour, Faro. But this time I am going alone.’

  ‘Of course you’re not. I wouldn’t think of it.’

  ‘I am going alone,’ she said firmly, ‘and you are going to do something about that tooth. This must be the umpteenth time since I’ve known you that I’ve watched you go through agonies of toothache.’ She paused and shook her head. ‘Faro, darlin’, you’re a big strong man yet you let a tiny piece of decayed ivory in your jaw ruin the best moments of your life.’

  ‘I will be all right,’ Faro said desperately. ‘I might find a dental surgeon in Dublin.’

  ‘And, knowing you, might not.’ Imogen shook her head. ‘They tell me Peter Neill is very good as a dental surgeon too. He will do the necessary.’ Dreading what that ‘necessary’ involved, Faro tried to protest. But Imogen was past listening. He insisted on accompanying her to the railway station but, by the time the train steamed in, he was in such agony that he knew the journey to Dublin was out of the question. Leaning out of the window, Imogen kissed his woebegone face. ‘Promise to be rid of that toothache by the time I get back - that you’ll see Dr Neill right away. Promise!’