Death at Carasheen (Inspector Faro Mystery No.13)

by Alanna Knight

  Faro signed Conn’s report as witness to the discovery, Aaron had already done so - and Faro went in search of Imogen. Returning with her to the inn for supper, she asked: ‘Anything further about the accident?’

  ‘The murder, I think you mean, my dear,’ he reminded her gently.

  Her eyes widened. ‘Surely you don’t think you can find out – in two days - what happened and if it really was murder, Faro?’

  ‘I have had less in my time and I certainly intend to try.’

  She took his hand across the table. ‘Dearest Faro, please leave it alone.’

  His eyebrows rose as he looked at her. ‘I never expected to hear those words from you, Imogen.’

  Evading his glance, she regarded her plate. ‘Don’t you see? It’s all worked out for the best - for everyone,’ she added softly.

  ‘Except the victims.’

  ‘Victims, indeed. I never expected you to waste a grain of sympathy on them! They deserved to die,’ she said hotly and, at his stubborn expression, went on in a calmer tone, ‘How can I make you understand, Faro darling. No one in Carasheen wants to know if anyone killed them or whether their deaths were accidental. They don’t care - one way or the other, they are free at last. That is all they are interested in.’ Pausing, she added, ‘You have no idea what it must have been like. Even thought I’ve only heard what it was like from Maeve - the last three years have been like something out of a nightmare.’ And, with a shrug, she said, ‘To be honest with you, I have nothing but admiration for whoever took the steps to rid the world of such vile creatures. The only thing that surprises me is that their reign of terror lasted so long - that someone didn’t summon up the courage to rid the world of them before now -’

  ‘Imogen dear,’ Faro interrupted gently, ‘I realise how you feel. These are your people and your sentiments are understandable. But you are you and I am me and I have to know.’ She continued to regard him mutinously and he sighed. ‘When I left Edinburgh, I thought such crimes and violence would be behind me forever. Instead, they seem to dog my footsteps wherever I go. And sometimes I wonder if it will ever end.’ Shaking his head, he went on, ‘It was the last thing I expected to find in a peaceful village in County Kerry - here, with you, in Carasheen. But what has happened cannot be changed and because I am certain that these accidents were in fact murders, I cannot rest with a crime unsolved.’

  He looked at her searchingly before adding earnestly, ‘You can hardly be surprised - you know me well enough by now.’ Imogen stared balefully out of the window and he continued, ‘I am damned if I will go away quietly in two days’ time, saying cheery good-byes to everyone - without knowing the truth. If you love me, Imogen, try to understand me,’ he added with just a little desperation in his voice. ‘I beg you to walk around in my shoes and see what it feels like.’

  Imogen giggled. ‘Sure now, and haven’t I been doing just that for several years now?’ Lifting his hand, she kissed it. ‘They are much too big for me, Faro darling - with vast areas still unexplored.’

  The food had been excellent and finishing her coffee, she stood up and said gently. ‘You have your two days.’

  Faro put a restraining hand on her arm. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Back to Maeve’s. It’s getting late and I thought you might walk me across the common.’

  ‘Stay and finish the wine first.’

  As he refilled her glass she said, ‘I hope I will still be able to walk after all this.’

  ‘If you can’t then I will carry you.’

  She looked at him narrowly. ‘And I believe you would do just that.’ Draining the glass, she looked into its depths and then whispered, ‘Damn Tom’s house rules. I wish I could stay with you tonight - I do wish that.’

  ‘And I - with all my heart.’

  Faro slept badly. What short intervals of slumber came his way were tormented by evil dreams. Finally, deciding at dawn that sleep had eluded him and, from the evidence his window afforded, the day promised well. This was confirmed as he walked quietly and let himself out into a perfect sunrise. As he walked across the common, early-morning mist shrouded the base of the old Celtic cross turning the area into the setting for one of his nightmares - nightmares in which all the demons of Irish legend, that Imogen had ever told him about, crawled out of their uneasy resting places to haunt him with hell fires. Whenever he had awakened, sweating in terror, he realised that never, in real life, had he endured such horror as he could succumb to in evil dreams. It was as if all the terrors he had encountered and suppressed as a detective inspector, all the murderers and bloodshed, lurked still in the utmost depths of his being, waiting for the chance to strike.

  As he walked, he looked longingly towards the house where Imogen still slept, wishing it was not too early to call on her. Had he done so, he would undoubtedly have earned black looks for awakening the rest of Maeve’s household, especially those irrepressible small children. Looking around he decided he would again take, perhaps for the last time, that first walk he and Imogen had shared together on the hill above Carasheen overlooking Dingle Bay, where she had so many happy childhood memories.

  The air was clear and the sunrise had turned the sea to rose. Seated on a boulder, he took out the pocket telescope she had given him on his last birthday. Far out to sea but now drawn magically close, the dark shapes of sheep-dotted islands mist-wreathed against the sparkling horizon. Nearer, a school of whales arose in a vast plume of spray, blew, dived and were gone. Dolphins arose from the sea. They dipped, darted and leapt into the air as if the beauty of the morning filled them with the sheer joy of existence. Closer still, as if aware of his presence, the inquisitive heads of seals stared in his direction, others barking like dogs on the rocks below.

  Laying aside the telescope for a moment, the scene before was a reconstruction of his childhood days in Orkney. He remembered the strange legends of the seals and their affinity with humans. He especially thought of the seal woman who was his grandmother and who, according to his mother, had webbed fingers and toes. He had always smiled at that idea, refusing to take it seriously. The Vikings, whose blood ran in his veins, were a different matter. The mirror in which he shaved each morning proclaimed their role in his life. For they had bequeathed him his yellow hair, now tarnished with grey, his rugged bone structure, high cheekbones and his wide-set eyes. Their ancient sagas of heroic and bloody deeds had shaped the pattern to Orkney’s destiny long before the Spanish sailors, shipwrecked from King Philip’s Armada, were swept ashore to mingle their blood strain of black hair and eyes with the native stock.

  For a short while, a cloud settled across the sun spreading a brief dark curtain over a scene he could have watched endlessly Then it moved on, letting the magic of Kerry, which he was sadly in danger of losing, take him captive once again. But he knew this was one of those moments, whatever the future held and however the world turned, that he would remember how sitting on a boulder in Kerry, he had experienced a feeling of affinity that all those born on islands shared with one another. An awareness of times past - as if all the old legends might spring to life, he might raise his telescope and watch Fionn and his seven warriors rise before his eyes and, with their banners flying, ride away to battle across the hills.

  It was the sound of a horse that brought him back to the present. However it was not Fionn and his warriors but a gig heading out of Carasheen in the clear morning air on the road far below. Bringing the telescope to bear on the tiny moving object, it became two travellers - a woman in a white blouse, with a parasol, and a man holding the reins, wearing a distinctive wide-brimmed hat. The man had his head turned towards the woman. Faro recognised the hat first - Aaron McBeigh. And his fellow passenger, under that oddly familiar parasol he had bought for her in the Rue de Trivoli, was none other than his Imogen.

  He sprang to his feet, waved frantically and called out. But they did not hear him. He called again and again, until, at last, the gig disappeared round a bend in the road. He stood clu
tching the telescope. Aaron and Imogen - he looked at his watch - riding out at seven in the morning. And curiosity turned to anger. A fury of jealousy arose like gall and banished the last dregs of Kerry’s magic that he had longed to share with her. He did a quick calculation and concluded that she must have already been up and about when he had passed by Maeve’s house, suppressing the longing in his heart and anxious not to disturb her on any account. This could not have been a spur of the moment arrangement. All must have been carefully planned - the decision made to go off on some secret jaunt with Aaron McBeigh.

  Where were they heading? He raced down the hill, carrying with him a faint hope that Imogen might have left a message for him. But he did not feel like storming into Maeve’s house to question her regarding Imogen’s early departure. Instead, he headed back to the inn where Tom was polishing the dining room table in readiness for breakfast. He grinned at Faro, said, ‘Early risers, today, sir,’ and handed him what he most wanted. ‘Miss Crowe left this for you.’ Faro unfolded the note. It read, ‘Where were you? Have gone with A. to Derrynane House. Last chance to see it. Know you won’t mind - realise you are too busy right now. In haste.’ Too busy, thought Faro, as he ate his breakfast of bacon, eggs and sausage. He discovered that, despite his fears that Imogen had betrayed him, the fresh morning air had given him an appetite. Betrayed? No, conscience told him he was being unfair.

  And, rereading the note before throwing it away, he realised its words touched forlorn echoes of his early life in Edinburgh, when, after Lizzie died, he was always ‘too busy’ to pay proper attention to his small daughters, Rose and Emily. Was this to be the ominous pattern of his association with Imogen? Although he believed she still loved him, perhaps doubts, that only she was aware of, were beginning to form like tiny clouds on their otherwise serene horizon. And, despite her assurances that Aaron did not attract her in the least, there was always Shakespeare’s dangerous ‘marriage of true minds’ to consider - they had much in common, those two, he had to admit. Both were writers and both had links to Kerry. What if Aaron talked her into leaving him, opening up the tempting vista of that millionaire’s life of luxury in America? Faro groaned. Such a thought was intolerable.

  He could not imagine life without her.

  Chapter 23

  His tea had gone cold. Beyond the windows, the clouds on Carasheen’s horizons were no longer tiny puffs of thistledown. Large, fierce and black, they swept in from the Atlantic, abolishing the sunshine, drowning those peaceful summer fields with threatening rumbles of thunder. ‘Sure, we’re in for a nasty day,’ said Tom as Faro headed upstairs, ‘If you fancy braving it, sir, there’s umbrellas in the hall.’ In his dingy bedroom, the change in the weather was a fitting companion for Faro’s own deep depression and watching the rain pouring down the window, he knew there was only one cure. He must put his wits to work on the events of the last two days and apply a logical approach to his next move of how to track down the Cara boys’ killer or killers.

  Opening his notebook, he looked at his observations so far:

  1. Luke Cara’s body seen at Lough Beigh. Discovered by Dr Neill, riding back from a confinement in a thunderstorm, encountered a riderless horse. No opportunity to examine body as Luke’s two brothers arrived on the scene. Dr Neill summoned Constable Conn and Mr Crowe, who were spending the evening together, and returned to the lough. The brothers had removed Luke, dead or alive, despite Dr Neill’s speculations that his neck was broken when the horse threw him or that he had drowned when he had rolled down into the lough.

  Verdict: Accidental death.

  (Note: Imogen and I were absent in Waterville and missed the storm completely)

  2. Two days later, Matthew Cara found dead, also on the lough shore, by Conn in early hours of the morning, his horse tied to tree. Empty bottle of poteen beside him (stolen from the police station - Conn claimed he had confiscated it as illicit whiskey from Molly Donaveen earlier). Dr Neill summoned, from a game of poker with Aaron and Desmond, examined body - drunk on poteen, had choked on his own vomit. (Molly D. confirmed was drunk when he tried to call on her earlier that evening.)

  Verdict: Accidental death.

  3. Mark Cara found dead on the Cara estate, by Aaron and myself - gored to death by the Kerry bull.

  Verdict: Accidental death?

  (Note: Not satisfactory. The house was open, signs of a hasty departure and the gypsy children had disappeared. And why did Mark refuse to see Father McNee who delivered Matthew’s body to the house two days earlier?)

  Faro sat back. Although Luke’s death was unconfirmed at this stage, he was willing to believe it was accidental but the coincidences of the two following accidents were not acceptable to him. Irritatingly enough, he had been dead to the world himself when Matthew Cara was found - thanks to Dr Neill’s pain-relieving drug after his tooth extraction. He felt, however, that the doctor’s behaviour was odd, the discrepancy over his timing of Mark’s death bothered him. From his own experience of dealing with murder victims, Faro knew, by the state of the corpse, that it was days since death had taken place rather than the fourteen hours claimed by the doctor. He threw down his pen.

  And what about the missing children? Was there a clue in the priest’s strange and disagreeable reception when he went to deliver Matthew’s body to his brother? There was only one obvious answer - that Mark was already dead and there existed a strong possibility that both he and Matthew had died within hours of each other, on the same night. If he could work out how these prepared ‘accidents’ had been skilfully engineered, Faro knew he would have a very good idea of the killer or killers’ identities. Dr Neill could have been wrong about Luke being dead. If this was the case and the youngest of the Cara brothers was still alive, would he have murdered the other two? Faro felt certain that whoever killed Matthew Cara had to be the same person who called at Cara House and induced Mark to rush out to the bull.

  He did not have far to look for an answer as to who that might be. Aaron McBeigh was the one person with an interest in the prize Kerry bull and prepared to offer Mark Cara an exorbitant price. Did he go with him to the bullpen, strike him down with a blow that drew blood and push him into the field for the bull to finish off? Feeling suddenly sick at heart, Faro realised that it was essential for Aaron to have had someone to accompany him when the discovery of the body was made. And who better than Faro himself? How easy it would have been for the American to plant his own lariat across the road, trap Matthew, force him to drink the poisoned poteen and then make it look as if he had drunk himself to death. He had probably relied on Dr Neill accepting the evidence of his own eyes rather than insisting on a post-mortem, which might have detected the poison. Did Aaron then leave Matthew’s body and ride quickly to Cara House with an excuse such as an elaborate story about seeing the Kerry bull roaming free, to lure Mark Cara to his death? Faro had a feeling of certainty that, somewhere in his speculations lay the truth; that Aaron McBeigh was the guilty one.

  His deliberations, he believed, accounted for the deaths of two of the brothers, presuming that Luke’s death might still be the only accident. One important thing, alas, was still lacking - the motive. What had Aaron McBeigh to gain? But of much more concern to Faro, at that moment, was the fact that Imogen, all unknowing and alone, might well be spending the day with a ruthless killer.

  Aware that he was in danger of treading the path where injustice lay, Faro laid aside his pen and calmly read over his notes. He had always been aware of the trap that was the downfall of many detectives, a trap baited with prejudice that had led them to condemn innocent men and women to the gallows because of personal detestation or ulterior motives. He knew some who had even gone to the ultimate length of planting enough evidence for a conviction. This was almost exactly what he was guilty of himself with regard to Aaron McBeigh. Here he was building up evidence primarily based on personal reasons, the human frailty of jealousy and the coincidence of the American’s interest in the Kerry bull. But Aaron, from th
e more accessible evidence of his own eyes, was not a mean man. As a millionaire, he could afford to be lavish with money but not by the wildest stretch of imagination could Faro believe he killed Matthew and Mark Cara just to obtain the Kerry bull at a bargain price.

  With a sigh, Faro realised the dangers of seizing upon circumstantial evidence and decided he must open his mind to another possibility, one much closer to Carasheen - Desmond Crowe. After all, Desmond had the best motive of all - avenging his natural daughter’s murder. Faro recalled that, only a short while ago, Desmond had occupied the role of prime suspect. Not only was the murdered Peg his daughter, but of greater significance, he had lied about summoning official police reinforcements to help him investigate the Donnelly murders. His motive regarding his anxiety to prove his forced retirement wrong by solving this case on his own, although plausible enough might also be a pack of lies. Had he intended to kill Carasheen’s unholy trinity? Was he aware that he could rely on his friend Dr Neill not looking too closely into their deaths, especially as the village would be counting their blessings at being rid of their tormentors?

  Faro went right back to the Donnelly slayings. Despite the mocking denials, defiance and threats of the Cara brothers, he was certain that these two deaths had begun it all. And the evidence of the sole witness, the simple-minded Paddy, seemed indisputable. The unlikely onset of a brainstorm in Paddy’s head and the subsequent murder of the young couple to whom he was devoted was beyond logical contemplation. However, it was well within the bounds of possibility that Paddy could have sneaked into the police station, stolen the bottle of poteen and added poison to it - such things as arsenic were readily available in village homes and farms for the poisoning of vermin.