There was a small unhappy silence which Faro broke by asking, ‘Do you want me to go and talk to him?’ Imogen looked bewildered and uncertain so he continued, ‘I know you are fond of him but, if we don’t find out what was behind it all, then it is going to hang over you - a wretched cloud of uncertainty. It is far better to have him put his cards - other than poker ones this time - on the table. There might be some other innocent explanation,’ he added cheerfully but without much conviction.
Imogen nodded vigorously. ‘You’re right - as always.’
‘There are our last few days and I couldn’t bear to go away thinking...’ She hesitated for a moment and, despite her protestations, Faro fully realised that she could not put into words the enormity that her Uncle Des might be a murderer. ‘I won’t come with you,’ she went on. ‘Go on your own, whatever he has to say, it would be too embarrassing if I happened to be there.’ With a promise to come back and tell her the results, Faro left her at Maeve’s.
Walking across the common, dreading the interview that lay ahead, of bringing up the subject of why Desmond had lied to them, he half hoped that the detective would not be at home. But there he was attending to his roses in the neat little garden. Greeting Faro cheerfully, he laid aside the secateurs. ‘Thirsty work this. Time for a drink?’
‘Not disturbing you, am I?’
Desmond laughed and gave him a wry look. ‘You’re more than welcome. I’ve been hoping for an excuse for a while now. I’ve even been known to pray for rain. I’m not much of a gardener, I’m afraid,’ he added as, with a weary glance at the cloudless sky, he led the way into the house. The study was warm and welcoming, a place to relax with sunlight streaming through the windows. Desmond poured out two generous measures of whiskey, Faro took the glass and saluted him with ‘Slainte!’ and indicating the bookshelves, said ‘I should congratulate you! For a man who lives alone, you are admirably tidy.’ He did not add that his own untidiness drove Imogen to bouts of despair. For a man whose whole life was built on observation and deduction, she told him constantly, it certainly did not extend to his personal wardrobe or his filing system.
Desmond was watching him keenly. ‘Any further ideas? I was hoping you had seen signs of a breakthrough.’
Faro put down his glass. There was nothing for it but to tell him the reason for this visit. ‘We were out walking and Imogen wanted to see the Donnelly house. I had another look at the photo album.’ A shadow crossed Desmond’s face as Faro continued, ‘We made a discovery. The missing photo of the young man I found here in your study - it was of yourself.’
Desmond’s hand trembled. He stared at Faro angrily and seemed about to deny it then, banging the tumbler down on the table, he said, ‘So what difference does that make?’ He blustered, ‘Perhaps I just wanted it back again.’
‘Then why didn’t you say so? Why lie about it in the first place? Why say that you took it because you thought you might know someone in Carasheen...’ Desmond’s face reddened and, taking another drink, he evaded Faro’s eyes. ‘I believe that the real reason is that you did not want to be recognised. And, remembering when I first saw the painting of Molly Donaveen, I think I know why.’
Desmond turned the glass in his hand, scrutinising its contents. ‘And what would that be, may I ask?’
‘There was an unmistakable resemblance to the wedding photograph in the Donnellys’ album. I believe that Peg was Molly’s child.’ He paused. ‘And I suspect that you were the girl’s father.’
Desmond crashed the tumbler on to the table and sprang to his feet. ‘Damn you. Damn you, Faro. What business is that of yours? Poking your nose into old history.’
Faro regarded him coolly. ‘I take it that my suspicion is true?’
‘It is, it is. And, for reasons which must be apparent even to you, it had to be kept secret. We were both...’ he hesitated, ‘in marriages that were childless. Molly did not have the best of husbands. When he was alive, he ill-used her and, although she pretends to be heartbroken at his death, her "poor Sean" routine is a bit of a sham. She was often lonely and unhappy. She was a lovely young woman,’ he added wistfully and then he shrugged. ‘The thing is that I loved her and still love her.’
Pausing, he looked at Faro. ‘Maybe you can’t understand that. Seeing us both now - changed with the years. But Molly was the great love of my life.’ He shrugged again. ‘Inevitably Edith found out that we had been having an affair - although even she doesn’t know about Peg.’
Faro had a sudden vision of that unwanted baby being brought up in the church home. For the child’s sake, he felt the situation could have been better managed. Desmond continued desperately, ‘Don’t you see? The scandal would have ruined both our families. Molly would have faced Sean’s wrath. He spread the rumour that she was barren - her fault not his that he had no heir. Had he known the truth he would have killed her. Being the father of an illegitimate child would have done neither my marriage nor my career much good. And I was ambitious those days. We were both at our wits’ end and I planned all sorts of schemes for Edith and I to adopt Peg - only to discover that Edith hated the idea. She had never wanted children and had been quite happy as we were. It was quite a shock, I can tell you. All those years together and I had never known.’ He walked to the window and looked across at Faro. ‘I trust I can rely on your word as a gentleman to treat all this information as strictly confidential.’
‘My dear fellow, your past indiscretion with Mrs Donaveen is not of the least importance to me.’
‘Then why bother to bring it up like this?’ Desmond demanded impatiently.
‘Because surely you can see it has a connection with the murder of Mark Cara?’
‘I don’t...’ Desmond opened his mouth and closed it again. ‘Are you accusing me of killing him?’ he demanded in heavily measured tones.
‘I am only saying that you had the best reason of anyone in Carasheen - he and his brothers had murdered your daughter and her husband.’
Desmond smiled mockingly. ‘You will have a great deal of difficulty proving that. I have two friends, the doctor and Mr McBeigh who know and will swear that I was with them from five o’clock on the evening of Mark Cara’s death and I was still there in the early hours of the morning when Conn found him.’ He stood up and said, with great dignity, ‘Now, if you have finished your drink and if you will excuse me, I have some letters to write.’ As he watched Faro drain his glass, he added coldly, ‘Is there anything else you would like to know?’
‘There is, as a matter of fact. I would really like to know the reason why you did not apply for police reinforcements from Dublin to investigate the Donnelly’s murder.’
‘Of course I did...’ Desmond blustered but Faro held up his hand.
‘I believe Superintendent Fergus Brady is an old friend and colleague of yours. Is that not so?’
‘It is,’ Desmond said weakly.
‘Then, I have his word that you never did so.’
‘You have been busy, damn you!’
For a moment, it looked as if Desmond’s upraised fist was to strike him. He stepped back and lowered his arm in a gesture of defeat. ‘You did not apply for police reinforcements and yet you told everyone in Carasheen that you had done so. Surely you must realise that such an omission is capable of a very serious interpretation?’
Desmond shrugged. ‘Such as?’
‘That you intended to avenge the young couple’s deaths by personally exterminating the Cara brothers.’
Desmond sat down heavily and leaned his elbows on the table. He shook his head. ‘That was not the reason. I don’t know whether you, as a retired detective, can understand this since you have such an unblemished record of success. My record has not been so successful. What Imogen doesn’t know, what no one else here is aware of, is that my career ended in a dismal failure. I bungled my last two cases in Dublin and it was politely requested that for the sake of my reputation I should hand in my resignation.’ He paused, then added pathetically, ‘Do
n’t you see - even if I hadn’t been so personally involved, this was my last chance to prove myself, to go it alone, track down my daughter’s killers, without some smart young detective from Dublin, who had wind of my past, lording it over me in Carasheen.’ He paused. ‘I suppose I sound like a foolish old man but, worst of all, I couldn’t bear to lose face in Molly’s eyes...’
Listening to Desmond’s forbidden love brought some home truths back for Faro. He could never have seen what fate had in store. He had been a widower for many years before meeting Imogen Crowe, who had a criminal record as an Irish terrorist but was destined to become the bringer of joy, of opening the gates of a deep and lasting happiness. He sighed. The love of his life. His dear devoted Lizzie seemed to belong to a different world and, had she not died in childbirth, he knew he would have remained with her faithfully. But, as he advanced career-wise, he came to realise that they had little in common beyond their children, Rose and Emily. Dear unsophisticated Lizzie had always known that theirs was not an ideal marriage and had hinted that he should have had someone who had more in common with him - a fact which he had hotly denied. It had taken many years for him to discover that Lizzie had been wiser than he. It happened on the day when Imogen Crowe walked into his life.
Now footsteps on the path outside revealed a caller - Aaron McBeigh.
So there the painful interview ended - perhaps to the relief of both Desmond Crowe and Faro.
Chapter 20
The anxious look Aaron darted at Desmond held a question and told Faro that the American was aware that he had stumbled into a tense atmosphere. Turning brightly to Faro, he said, ‘I’ve been looking for you. Time for us to beard the one remaining lion in his den and make that final offer for the Kerry bull.’ And to Desmond, still white and shaken by the recent revelations, he added, ‘Care to give us your support?’
Hardly surprising, the invitation was declined and as Desmond left with mumbled apologies, they began their walk up the hill. The faithful Paddy was not quite dogging Aaron’s footsteps but remaining about twelve feet away, stopping whenever they did. Aaron shook his head, smiled kindly and seemed sympathetically disposed towards the lad. Faro had to admit that was one thing in his favour.
As Cara House drew nearer, the American talked volubly about the Kerry bull pausing to ask, ‘What have you in mind - for your part, sir?’
‘Simply to ask Mark Cara a few questions.’
‘Do you think he’ll answer them?’ Aaron asked ruefully.
‘I do have my doubts about whether he will cooperate. But even if he refuses, at least I’ll get a chance to make some observations and deductions.’
Aaron gave Faro a pitying look. ‘That’s just dandy. And I’m grateful to have you with me.’
‘What do you think your chances are of success?’
Aaron was a little nonplussed by the question. ‘Ever since knowing that my folks came from Kerry it has always been my ambition to get a bull from the famous breed for my ranch,’ Faro was wondering if Aaron had ever considered the difficulties involved when he added, ‘I really don’t know whether it will be worth it in the long run. As well as costing a small fortune to have such a valuable beast shipped across the Atlantic - if it survives the voyage better than the steerage passengers - and then halfway across America...’ He shrugged. ‘Maybe it is just a dream that should be left at that and not dragged into a reality,’ and staring up at the house looming above them, ‘at this moment, to be honest with you, it has all the makings of a nightmare.’
As they set foot on the long drive, Faro silently agreed with him. The elegant driveway, once an imposing and sweeping approach to the house had vanished under a wilderness of tangled weeds. Rhododendron and fuschia hedges had returned to the wild, spreading branches and roots across smooth lawns that had been, in times past, the gardeners’ pride and joy.
The front door lay ahead with its flight of steps. There was no escape now and looking around, Faro sighed. The present house had been built some seventy years ago, without imagination and with no redeeming features. Even a sunny day beneath cloudless skies could not redeem the harsh outlines of an ugly square building that had replaced the romantic but ruinous ancient castle.
Life itself seemed to have withdrawn from the scene apart from a cloud of quarrelsome large birds hovering over a field behind the house. Raucous crows and screaming seagulls were dipping and darting over the carcass of some dead animal. A rabbit or a sheep, thought Faro, as he followed Aaron up the steps to the front door where he rang the bell. It echoed through the house. They waited. Nothing happened. Aaron frowned across at Faro and applied himself more vigorously to the bell. Again they waited. ‘Where in damnation are they? That sound would wake the dead,’ he said.
Faro’s feeling of unease was intensifying. There was definitely something amiss. Where were the gypsy children? With an exasperated nod at Aaron, he tried the door. A push and it opened into the deserted untidy hall empty of all but sickening odours of dirt and decay which seemed to have intensified since the disastrous return of Matt’s body.
He shouted, ‘Is there anyone there?’ They walked across the floor, their footsteps echoing hollowly. Again they called. No answer.
Aaron threw open the door of what had been the library and then tried the sitting room. Faro explored the kitchen and scullery but he hastily closed the door on the debris of past meals - the piles of dirty pots and pans and heaps of decaying food. It just remained for the upstairs to be checked. Faro heard hurried footsteps and Aaron ran down the stairs clutching a handkerchief to his nose. ‘No one there. Dear God, what a place. It’s a wonder they didn’t die naturally of a fever. No one ever emptied the chamber pots - except on the floor.’
‘What about the children?’
‘No sign of them. But where the devil is Mark? Looks like he’s vanished into thin air - just like his younger brother.’ Aaron was already at the front door. He threw it open, saying, ‘Let’s get out of here before we suffocate, sir.’ In the fresh air, they both drew deep breaths filling their lungs.
Paddy was sitting on a wall nearby, waiting patiently. He waved to them, smiling as if this was a social outing. Aaron waved back. ‘Nothing for it, sir, but to search the outhouses. Stables first. That might give us a clue.’ They hurried along the path by the side of the house. In the stables, the stalls, which had presumably housed the Cara horses, were empty. Aaron leaned down and looked at the horses’ droppings and shook his head. ‘These aren’t new, sir. Days old.’ And, with a grim smile, he added, ‘An old lawman’s habit, sir, first thing we check on the trail.’
Both men were glad of the gentle breeze as they stared up at the cloudless sky filled with the noisy screeching of predatory birds, the darting shapes of black and white, which seemed to have multiplied over the field. Aaron took Faro’s arm. ‘Carrion, sir. That’s what they are,’ he shouted, ‘And that’s where the Kerry bull is kept. Saw it last time I came. God, I hope nothing has happened to the beast.’
As they raced along the path, Aaron, who was younger and fleeter than Faro, stopped a few steps ahead of him. Their arrival swept a cloud of angry birds into the air. A few of the bolder ones remained, cocking an eye at them as they looked up - reluctant to withdraw from their dreadful feast. Aaron gave a choking gasp as he turned to Faro. Beyond the gate, the body on the ground was not the prized Kerry bull. The body in the bullpen was that of Mark Cara. The great bleeding holes in his chest told their own dreadful story. He had been gored to death. As for the perpetrator of this crime, the Kerry bull sat calmly under a tree by the fence, at the far end of the field, munching happily with his back to the horrific scene before them, totally ignoring his victim’s body.
‘We’d better get back.’ said Aaron. ‘There’s nothing we can do.’ Faro, sick at the smell of blood and death, shook his head. ‘The man’s dead. We should go and get...’
Faro looked up at him. ‘Get help, you mean? It’s a bit late for that. Besides, I think Paddy will be well ah
ead of us with the bad news,’ he added, pointing to the wild figure who had followed them and was now racing down the hill towards Carasheen.
‘Can you make sure the beast doesn’t come near while I have a look at the body?’
‘You must be crazy,’ said Aaron. ‘He could cover those twenty yards in the time it takes you to think about it,’ Faro was inclined to believe him. Very early in his acquaintance with Imogen Crowe, he had had an almost fatal encounter with a wild bull when investigating a case on the Scottish borders. He wasn’t anxious to repeat that experience.
At his side, Aaron sighed. ‘Seems you are determined. Hold on, I’ll get a rope from the stables, see what I can do. Don’t move until I come back!’ Waiting for Aaron, Faro looked across at the bull who looked back at him. Now aware of the two men’s presence, he had stood up and was snorting but not making any threatening moves that would have brought him in direct contact with the dead man.
Aaron returned and shouted to Faro from the far side of the field where he was attempting to lasso the bull’s horns with a rope. The beast didn’t like that at all and, after several of Aaron’s attempts, which were accompanied by angry roars, he lowered his head for the attack. It was just the action Aaron was waiting for. The rope found its target and, with a cry of triumph, he fastened the bull securely to the iron fence. He walked round the field and returned to Faro’s side. Faro was amazed at his speed and his courage. ‘Well done, well done!’
Aaron grinned. ‘I’ve done all of this before, sir, many times in rodeos across the West - and been paid for it. But,’ he added with a shuddering glance towards the dead man, ‘never in such dire circumstances.’ Sighing, he nodded towards the tethered bull. ‘At least that will keep him anchored for a while. You can go into the pen now, if you like.’
Death at Carasheen (Inspector Faro Mystery No.13) Page 14
