‘Odd, that he should choke like that. In my experience, such accidents happen only when the drunk is lying on his back.’
‘Perhaps Conn moved him to make sure that he was dead. Jump aboard.’
‘May I crave your patience for just a few moments more? I presume this is the area where the horse was tied to the tree.’
‘I don’t know where exactly but, according to Conn, it must have been nearby’
Any remaining clues were remote indeed. Watched impatiently by Desmond, who declined to join him in what he considered a fruitless search and waste of time, Faro took a switch of a branch and began to poke about in the nearby undergrowth among the trees.
‘I will only be a moment,’ he shouted and, as he disappeared from Desmond’s view, he could almost hear his sigh of resignation. In the surrounding area, any evidence of Matthew’s horse being tied to a tree had disappeared, but Faro was more fortunate with the remainder of his search beneath the trees a little away from the road. From under the weeds he unearthed a long thin rope that had been in excellent condition and was now in two pieces. It was frayed and broken in the centre as if by some violent action.
Carrying it over his arm, he returned to the gig and Desmond asked, ‘What on earth have you got there?’
‘I’ll show you in a minute.’ Taking the two ends of the rope, he laid them across the road. There was rope to spare at either end and, as he suspected, the break came in the centre of the road. He looked up and said triumphantly, ‘The perfect mantrap.’ Desmond got down from the gig.
‘Take one end, if you please, and tie it to the tree - yes, there. I will take the other end and hold it down here, just out of sight. That’s it.’ And a moment later, he smiled triumphantly. ‘And that, I think, is how Matthew Cara and his brother Luke might have met their fatal accidents.’
Desmond continued to stare at him. ‘My dear fellow, I see what you mean but it’s just a piece of old rope that has perhaps lain there for ages.’
‘Hardly used and discarded - a new rope,’ Faro corrected him, ‘and look at that frayed centre - snapped with violence but surely too good to throw away. I think that this is possibly our first piece of evidence.’
‘Very well,’ said Desmond, boarding the gig but sounding unconvinced. ‘Throw it in the back and we’ll let the others see it but, I think I should warn you, your theory sounds a little far-fetched for me. Trot on!’ In a more placable mood, he added, ‘Crimes are much easier to solve in winter snow or frost. Didn’t you find that in Edinburgh? Footprints and so forth don’t survive long in the countryside in summer - nature here soon takes over, obliterates everything.’
Faro knew it was true as he remembered his frustration returning to the scene where the Donnellys had been murdered two weeks previously. Thinking then that he was helping to investigate two murders, he had hardly bargained for what now seemed uncommonly like four! As they drove along the side of the lough, glittering so innocently in morning sunshine, Faro noticed smoke rising on the other side of the water.
Desmond pointed the whip. ‘Cooking fires! Smell the delicious rabbit roasting!’ Apart from the smoke, the gypsy encampment was securely screened off and hidden by trees. There was no other evidence of life but Faro decided that he would pay them an informal visit sometime. When he said so, Desmond shook his head gravely. ‘They don’t speak English - only Romany and some Irish. You would need an interpreter.’
‘In that case, what are we waiting for? Don’t you see, this is an excellent opportunity to call on them.’
At first he thought Desmond was going to refuse but with a long-suffering sigh he turned to the right, away from the Donaveen road. As they headed along a rough track, Desmond said, ‘I’m afraid it’s a waste of time but, if you insist, I’ll do what I can to make you understood,’ Soon they were circling the far side of the lough to where a narrow opening appeared in what looked from the distance like a natural steep cliff wall. ‘This was used by smugglers in the old days. They would come in from the sea and hide themselves and their illicit goods away from prying eyes. It was a natural hiding place and easily defended. Actually, this side of the lough and beyond is Cara property and it was well known that they were happy to befriend the smugglers. The Lees have lived here for a hundred years.’
Their approach had been observed by a small group of men who looked tough, strong and unfriendly. Desmond spoke to one of them, indicating Faro and apparently asking to see Romany Lees who suddenly appeared and pushed himself forward. He stood regarding them impassively but with a presence at once startling and impressive. He was tall, well above average height, a mass of thick black hair, streaked with grey above a weather-beaten face adorned by heavy gold earrings. He wore expensive-looking thigh boots and a velvet coat that was at least a century out of fashion.
As Desmond began to address him in Irish, he held up a heavily beringed hand and looking at Faro directly said in halting English, ‘Thou hast no business with us. Thou art forbidden to cross the threshold of Romany Lees who hath nothing to say to thou.’ And, with that, he turned on his heel, indicating his conversation with them was over.
Faro said to his departing figure, ‘What about your children taken by the Caras? Are they not of interest?’
The Romany came forward, his manner now threatening. Faro was over six-foot tall but Lees had the advantage in height and girth. ‘What business hast thou with the children of Romany Lees? Begone from our threshold, stranger. Return at your peril,’ he added, drawing from his belt an old-fashioned but still villainous-looking sword.
‘As you wish,’ said Faro as he managed a polite bow.
Desmond was already back in the gig and Faro joined him. Eager to depart, he drove off quickly, back along the narrow track. ‘I hate to say "I told you so" but I know what dealings are like with the Lees - to be avoided at all costs. And you are a stranger. They would soon recognise that and take advantage of it.’
‘Don’t they care about their children?’ demanded Faro angrily.
‘In the old days, it was traditional. Haven’t you been told that two children were sent up to the big house, as they called it, as rent for the Romany site and the right to hunt on Cara grounds? They were to be servants but they were also taught to read and write. It was considered an honour. Some of them greatly benefited and went on to become leaders of the tribe - as did Lee himself. That’s how he speaks that rather old-fashioned English.’
And that is how he gains a place on a fairly dubious list of suspects, thought Faro, as he said to Desmond, ‘Perhaps he and his colleagues might have had their own reasons for killing Matthew Cara.’
Desmond laughed. ‘Hardly! The Caras are regarded as the goose that lays the golden eggs. Don’t be concerning yourself about those slave children either. I assure you there are more than enough Lees children to spare. Perhaps there were reasons why those particular two were chosen, a mother who had offended the strict Romany rules.’
‘Illegitimate offspring?’
‘Quite so. Unmarried or from a forbidden adulterous union.’ He sighed. ‘We will never learn the truth, that’s for sure, or the complex rules which govern their society.’ They reached the Donaveen road and climbed the steep hill to the house. Watching Faro’s withdrawn expression, Desmond added, not unkindly, ‘I can only assure you without offence, my dear fellow, what is now perhaps strikingly obvious to you that we, in Carasheen, have enough to worry about and keep us busy without taking up the crusade of two ill-treated children. Much as we might deplore it on humanitarian grounds, it remains a situation we are helpless to deal with,’ Allowing Faro time to digest that information, he then said, ‘As for that rope you found - I’ve been thinking that a mantrap might have distinct gypsy possibilities. There is only one drawback. It was good and strong - with plenty of life left in it. I’m pretty certain that, if they had used that new rope, they would never have thrown it away. They never let anything go to waste.’
Faro was prepared to believe that and mental
ly crossed the Romanies off his list. But he would be interested to see the reaction to this new piece of evidence when they got back to Carasheen. There might be someone there who regarded his discovery with more personal anxiety. And, in the words of the old proverb, ‘Given enough rope, a man might hang himself.’
Chapter 17
Molly Donaveen was not in the least put out at the impromptu appearance of two gentlemen callers at ten thirty in the morning. Her ample curves, richly corseted, were adorned by a close-fitting heavy silk dress. Its many lace ruffles, as she glided across to greet them, suggested to Faro a ship in full sail. Her delighted smile and the warmest of welcomes were strengthened by the appearance of the housekeeper bearing a tray of strong tea and soda bread.
As she poured the tea, Faro made an interesting discovery. It took only minutes in the company of Molly and Desmond to suspect that they shared a close and intimate bond. Any stranger present might not have been struck by an almost unnatural avoidance of eye contact that suggested this was part of their behaviour in company - so as not to give the game away. For Faro, however, such avoidance had particular significance. It touched a personal chord for he recognised that, in the behaviour of Molly and Desmond, he was observing a situation similar to his own. This was exactly how he and Imogen behaved in strange company when they wished to keep the truth of their relationship concealed - lovers who behaved like polite but distant acquaintances.
Having made this discovery by mere chance or, as Imogen would have it, a coincidence, he could now ponder that perhaps Molly Donaveen was the real reason Edith Crowe had made her excuses and decided to remain in Dublin - thus allowing her husband to retire to Kerry alone.
He was so intrigued by this new revelation, which he longed to share with Imogen, that he came back to the conversation with difficulty. However interesting this prospect, it was not the reason for their visit.
The talk, which he must somehow divert on to important matters, was still of general topics and Molly’s occasional glance in Desmond’s direction indicated that she wanted to know why he had brought Mr Faro with him. Although her manner towards him was warm, cheerful and hospitable, Faro, now acutely observant, felt that she occasionally revealed moments of anxiety. But he was happy to let their conversation drift past him - grateful to be able to relax in such luxurious surroundings. He admired some handsome ivory chess pieces on a table nearby and, smiling sadly, Molly said, ‘Poor Sean brought them for me as a wedding anniversary present.’ And, with a sigh, she continued, ‘He was always going to teach me to play but the moves are far too complicated. Do you play, Mr Faro?’
‘I do.’
She smiled but there was no answering invitation, had she expected one, so she added, ‘Mr Crowe does not, I’m afraid.’ And that denial was very odd indeed - as well as being unnecessary. Faro looked across at Desmond. He knew Desmond did play chess for he had seen a board laid out in his study. Mutely, with a trace of embarrassment, Desmond avoided Faro’s eyes.
There were other pieces of bric-a-brac, small ivory figures that Molly, during a lull in the conversation, pointed out - pieces for Faro to admire - and ‘poor Sean’ was mentioned frequently as the donor. To a stranger the prefix clearly indicated, if one did not know already, that her husband was deceased.
When Molly asked Faro how he was enjoying his stay in Carasheen, Desmond seized the opportunity to interrupt, saying, ‘Mr Faro is interested in the Cara boys.’ Molly repressed a shudder and her face, no longer smiling and calm, turned curiously old, pale and grim as Desmond added, ‘You know, of course, that Matthew is dead.’
‘So I have heard. The factor got it in the village this morning,’ she added regarding Faro with new interest as he said, ‘We are anxious to trace his movements that evening.’ Her eyebrows rose and there was a wry smile at such formality.
‘Did he visit you by any chance?’
She laughed harshly. ‘Indeed he tried to but Annie closed the door in his face. He was drunk and persistent - as usual. A horrible boy, the worst of the lot.’ She shrugged. ‘Candidly I’m not sorry to know that he won’t be calling on me ever again.’
‘Everyone’s glad for you, Molly, it must have been a terrible ordeal,’ said Desmond.
Molly nodded. ‘Ordeal isn’t the word for it. The very idea that I could be blackmailed - I mean,’ she amended hastily, ‘that I would consider marrying such a creature or his dreadful brother Luke. As I told Mr Faro here when we first met, and as the whole of Carasheen knows, I was a laughing stock, the talk of the place, being courted by lads, all rivals for my dowry, and me almost old enough to be their grandmother!’ Her face looked warm now and suffused with indignation. ‘I understand Mat drank himself to death, the end he richly deserved. Him and his horrible poteen.’
There was a pause and then Desmond said, ‘You remember the bottle Conn confiscated on his last visit?’
‘I do indeed. I told him to save the bother and pour it down the sink.’
‘It was stolen from the police station and Conn believes that it was the same bottle they found lying empty beside the dead man.’
‘Then I hope someone had put poison in it first,’ was the very candid reply. Desmond and Faro exchanged looks as she continued, ‘I can’t help you as to whether it was the same bottle Conn took back with him or not. They often brought their wretched poteen, wanted me to drink a toast with them. They came to woo me and hoped to make me drunk so that I would sign away my property as a marriage settlement.’ She gave a trill of laughter as she clapped her plump hands together. ‘Now wouldn’t that be something? Glory be, I could have drunk the three of them under the table any day of the week, given the proper stuff and not that poisonous rubbish.’
There was more tea, some talk about Imogen’s visit and no more mention of the Caras. On the way out, Faro stopped in the hall. Above the handsome console table a large unfaded patch on the wall indicated there was something missing. Faro said, ‘The painting of you as a young girl -it was so lovely.’
She laughed and bowed. ‘Thank you, kind sir.’
He pointed to the empty space. ‘You’ve moved it?’
Molly shook her head vaguely. ‘There was a slight accident.’ Her tone indicated that she wished he hadn’t drawn attention to its absence and that the question somehow embarrassed her. As Faro waited for an explanation, she sighed. ‘One of the maids was dusting too vigorously - she’s new to the job - and the cord which is ancient - as I am.’ Another trill of laughter. ‘Sure now, it just snapped. The frame broke and it’s away being repaired.’
Seeing them off at the door, she pointed to the gig and said to Desmond, ‘Are you getting too grand to ride a horse these days?’
‘Not at all.’ A fact she must know, thought Faro, as Desmond continued, ‘Mr Faro doesn’t ride.’
‘Me neither,’ she smiled. ‘Not for years. Not like the old days - since poor Sean died, I haven’t had a riding horse in the stables.’
After a formal bowing and shaking of hands, the two men boarded the gig.
As Desmond drove off, he turned to Faro and said, ‘Sure now, our visit has confirmed what we most needed to know. Matthew Cara was drunk when he called at the house that night. It all goes to prove that his death was an accident,’ he added.
Faro did not share his complacency. He was far from being convinced about that fatal accident theory. If only Molly had not made that remark about hoping the bottle of poteen had been poisoned. Could she have had a hand in it? Could the poison had been added before it left her house and without any post-mortem examination, Dr Neill had been prepared to accept that Matthew had choked to death?
There was something else disquieting about that conversation. She had let slip the word ‘blackmail’ in connection with the Caras’ wooing and, although she had amended it hastily, the remembrance of such a mistake lingered in Faro’s mind. Was it possible Carasheen’s ‘unholy trinity’ knew something vital concerning Molly’s past or present that she was anxious to hide? It had
to be more than the fact, if his shrewd suspicions were correct, that she and Desmond had been or were lovers. That kind of scandal, although a little unsettling to the absent Mrs Crowe in Dublin, would have been no more than a piece of fascinating gossip in Carasheen.
Going over the interview in his mind, that missing painting was nagging at him with an urgent reason for wishing to see it again. Certain that the story about the maid’s incompetence and the damaged frame had been dreamed up on the spur of the moment for his concern at its absence, he recalled her fleeting discomfiture and annoyance. Had Molly Donaveen her own reasons for removing it from the hall? But why? Evidence perhaps, but of what and why was she afraid?
As they drove along the lough shore and the place where Faro had unearthed the long rope, Desmond said, ‘Perhaps we should let Conn have a look at it, if you still think it is significant.’
‘Sure now, Conn would be the proper person for its custody,’ he said hoping that the constable would be more scrupulous about its safety than he had been about the poteen bottle.
Nearing the common, Aaron rode over to greet them. Leaning over from his horse, he suddenly spotted the rope. ‘Say, where did you gentlemen get that from?’
‘I found it,’ said Faro.
‘Just now at the lough - near where Matthew Cara’s horse was tied to the tree,’ Desmond put in hastily.
Aaron didn’t take his eyes off the rope. Leaning over, he seized it and said triumphantly, ‘I will have you know that this belongs to me. It is my lariat and someone stole it, dammit.’ Circling it over his arm, he came to the break where it fell in two parts. ‘Dammit,’ he repeated, examining the frayed ends. ‘And they ruined it too. The best lariat I ever had, used it for roping steers, back on the ranch. Brought this new one to Europe with me, kept it on my travels. Part of a rider’s essential equipment out West and I guess the habit dies hard.’ Smiling at them ruefully, he then said, ‘Not that I expect to meet many loose steers in the streets of Heidelberg or Carasheen but it might be useful.’ And Faro guessed that someone had found it very useful indeed.
Death at Carasheen (Inspector Faro Mystery No.13) Page 12
