Death at Carasheen (Inspector Faro Mystery No.13)

by Alanna Knight

  He could also have stolen his idol Aaron’s lariat, stretched it across the road at the lough and lain in wait to trap Matthew Cara. But Faro did not believe that Paddy could have forced him to drink the poteen, thrown him down the slope to the lough and then rushed up to Cara House to lure Mark out to the bullpen by telling him that the bull had escaped. Apart from anything else, it was doubtful if Paddy could have made Mark understand a word he was saying. Faro shook his head. No, these ‘accidents’ were much too well thought out and planned to be laid at the threshold of a simple mind. Such tactics certainly needed considerably more physical strength and ingenuity than Paddy possessed.

  It was also very unlikely, given his capacity for passionate devotion, Aaron McBeigh was a prime example, that he could have taken an axe to the young couple on their way home from the wedding. For one thing, the killer would have been covered in their blood but, when Paddy went to report what he had seen, there had been no mention of this. Faro shook his head, wondering, as he considered his two suspects, how he might raise the subject tactfully with Father McNee.

  He sighed. All things considered, although evidence pointed to Aaron as the most likely suspect, it had to be admitted that he had no motive whatsoever. He was a visitor who had arrived in Carasheen ostensibly to discover his Kerry roots and buy a bull to take back for his ranch. But, Faro thought sourly, he could also be in pursuit of Imogen Crowe with whom he had long been infatuated. He still felt angry that the American had been keeping in touch with Imogen’s movements through her publishers. And she had kept his letters to herself - perhaps wisely, Faro’s conscience told him, knowing his dislike of the man.

  He considered the third man to be most involved in all of this - Dr Peter Neill. Although he was quite excellent as a dental surgeon, he was incompetent at telling the time of death correctly. In his eagerness to declare all three deaths as accidents, he could be an accessory to murder, such as being blackmailed or through fear of the consequences to his family.

  Faro wrote down the three names. Of these, Desmond had the best motive and this led him to Molly Donaveen, whom he had earlier dismissed as a physical improbability. The worst that could be said was that she could be an accessory to murder. If, knowing that Desmond intended murder, she had lured his victim, Matthew Cara, to her house that night, then she was his accomplice. There was only one vital flaw. When Conn arrived to announce the discovery of Matthew Cara’s body, the three men had been in one another’s company playing cards all evening. Which left Conn himself. The person who discovers the body is often one of the prime suspects and Conn would certainly not be the first policeman to be a villain.

  But, again, there was a flaw - the lack of motive. What had Conn to gain, apart from a possible promotion, by bringing the killer of the Cara boys to justice? At the price of becoming the most unpopular man in Carasheen! But was escape from the dreary routine of Carasheen enough to make him commit two murders if his heart was set on marrying the Donaveen factor’s daughter?

  Or was it possible that Conn saw himself as the saviour of Carasheen, riding out to rid the village of their unholy trinity? Again, Faro shook his head. He was totally unable to visualise young Constable Conn in such a heroic role. Scoring off his name, he decided that the priest could also be left off his list.

  Chapter 24

  Faro was having lunch in the bustling inn. It was much busier than usual and he was certain that, although the talk was in the Irish, the main topic of conversation concerned the holy miracle that had rid them of their unholy trinity. Glances and an occasional smile came his way but no one came to speak to him.

  Finishing his stout, he looked out of the window. The rain had stopped and he decided to call on Dr Neill with some trumped-up excuse like a sleeping draught for his travels, when he often slept badly. However, what he did not want was something with the force that had knocked him unconscious for almost two days.

  Walking across the common, he met Father McNee going towards his church where Paddy was sweeping the path through the graveyard. The priest passed the time of day with him and, as Paddy looked up, smiled widely and waved to them. Faro sighed deeply. When Father McNee looked at him sharply, Faro said, ‘Sad that such a fine young man should have to suffer such a disability.’

  ‘There are no such disabilities in God’s eyes, Mr Faro. Paddy is as much loved by Jesus Christ - perhaps even more - than those with all their faculties. He certainly has fewer sins to answer for,’ he added sternly.

  ‘Suffer the little children - is that what you mean, Father?’ The priest nodded and Faro continued, ‘Witnessing that dreadful murder of the Donnellys must have been a horrible shock, but he seems to have recovered quite well.’

  Father McNee looked towards the busy figure now weeding between the graves. ‘I think, mercifully, that he has forgotten all about that terrible incident. For him, it will be no more than a bad dream would be for the rest of us.’

  As Joseph, the new curate, was hastening in Paddy’s direction, all fluttering cassock and determined expression, the priest continued, ‘I have studied Paddy carefully during the years he has been in my charge. An interesting study, indeed - for he is a creature who lives from day to day, even sometimes, I suspect, from hour to hour. His poor brain can only cope with present events - the past soon fades into oblivion.’

  Faro nodded towards the curate. ‘I see you have a new helper to ease your burden a little.’

  Father McNee sighed deeply. ‘I fear he is to be more trouble by far than Paddy has ever been - despite having all his senses. It is quite unworthy of me, I know, but I sometimes believe God and the bishop have sent him to test my patience.’ In the short silence that followed, the priest’s anxious expression indicated concern about Joseph and Paddy who seemed to be arguing, or rather, the curate was doing the arguing and Paddy was smiling at him and shaking his head gently from side to side.

  One more question remained before Faro could cross Paddy off his list of suspects. ‘Tell me, Father, that terrible day - when Paddy ran back to the village carrying the axe - does he not even remember being covered in blood?’

  The priest stared at him. ‘He certainly was not covered in blood - he had at least the sense to hold the weapon well away from his clothes. He has but few and was wearing his best Sunday shirt.’ Pausing, he gave Faro a shrewd look, knowing what Faro was getting at and, trying to put it delicately, he said, ‘You have my word for it - his clothes were unmarked. If Paddy had been guilty, I would have known it. Yes, indeed, there is little in his life that he could keep from me - especially a mortal sin,’ he added heavily.

  Faro was about to leave, when the priest held up his hand in a delaying gesture. After a moment’s hesitation, Father McNee frowned and then, taking a deep breath in the manner of someone who had made a difficult decision, he said, ‘There is another matter, Mr Faro, on which you could perhaps advise me. I should be greatly obliged to you, sir. I realise you are leaving soon and are doubtless very busy but, if you can spare me a few minutes only...’

  Puzzled, Faro nodded his assent and the priest led the way down the side of the church and into the vestry. The room was little more than a large cupboard with table, two chairs and a crucifix. A row of musty black robes hung on one wall like a group of emaciated and penitent monks in a silent order. The priest indicated a chair. There was another short interval of indecision during which he scrutinised Faro carefully. Then, with a sigh and a shake of the head as if he was still not quite sure that he was doing the right thing, he said, ‘What I am about to tell you, Mr Faro, has been preying on my mind. Although I have wondered if it would be better to keep it to myself, I feel a great necessity to tell someone.’

  Completely baffled, Faro waited. Did his questioning look and mysterious but anxious manner concern Paddy? Was he about to hear some revelations concerning the priest’s protege that would destroy all his theories and send him back to the inn to destroy all his notes on the Donnelly murder?

  ‘When we spok
e together outside just now, it occurred to me that you were the perfect person to confide in.’ With a grim smile, he continued, ‘Our roles are reversed, sir. Now it is I who am in the confessional because I must rely upon you to tell no one. Is that quite clear?’ Without waiting for affirmation, he went on, ‘You have the look and the reputation of an honest man - and there are very few –’

  Faro coughed gently, afraid that he was on the threshold of a preliminary and possibly lengthy sermon, complete with Biblical quotations on integrity, so he said quickly, ‘I will be glad to help you if I can, Father.’

  ‘Yes, yes. My information concerns the Cara brothers.’ For an instant, Faro’s spirits rose. Was it possible that the priest knew the real identify of the killers of Matthew and Mark? Father McNee’s hands slid together in the attitude most natural to them - one of prayer. ‘You will remember, sir, when Luke’s body was reputedly taken from the lough by his two brothers, there was no official report of his death and, as the brothers were non-Christian in their beliefs or their behaviour, I was not called upon.’ Pausing, he shook his head solemnly. ‘I prayed for them constantly, that they would see the error of their ways and turn again to Christ’s mercy but sometimes I did wonder if Luke Cara was dead at all. Was it possible that he had been merely injured in the accident when his horse threw him?’

  Again Faro’s spirits soared. If this was true, his own speculations that Luke Cara was still alive and had killed his two brothers might have foundation after all. The priest continued, ‘However, when I opened the burial vault to inter Mark’s body, there lying on one of the shelves, cocooned in a sheet, was the corpse of his unfortunate youngest brother.’ So much for that fleeting theory, thought Faro grimly. ‘There was, however, another problem - a corpse that should have been there but was not. I am referring to the body of Matthew I had abandoned in the hall in such disagreeable circumstances. The constable and I had placed it on top of a chest, presuming that Mark would place it in the vault.’

  He looked at Faro, shook his head and said, ‘I was shocked to realise that it was still unburied. And then I had an inspiration, I hurried back to the house with Paddy and Joseph and, lifting the lid of the chest, there was Matthew’s body.’ And giving Faro a bewildered glance. ‘What I fail to understand is why Mark placed it in the chest instead of removing it to the burial vault alongside his brother Luke.’

  ‘I think I may have the answer to that,’ said Faro. ‘I have reason to believe that Mark was already dead when you delivered Matthew’s body that night.’

  Father McNee nodded vigorously. ‘How strange - but a quite plausible explanation. It does explain many things. Thank you, Mr Faro, for putting my mind at rest,’ Faro looked at him. There were no searching questions which might have led again into the labyrinth of evidence - just calm acceptance. And the priest went on, ‘Now they all lie together, the vault is resealed and a Mass has been said - although I am doubtful about the ultimate destination of their souls and I fear that all three of them will go to hell...’

  There was a tap on the door and Joseph’s anxious face poked round and indicated a crisis. Father McNee stood up and sighed. ‘I am grateful to you for listening so patiently, sir. Thank God, this is the closing of a grim chapter in our lives.’

  Joseph’s face reappeared and the priest gave a long-suffering sigh. ‘I see trouble ahead. Oh dear.’ Then, smiling, he bowed, saying, ‘Good day to you, sir. And, if I don’t see you and Miss Crowe before you leave - the day after tomorrow, I believe - then God’s blessings go with you both.’

  Faro continued on his way through the village thinking of the priest’s words. As for that ‘grim chapter’ being closed, it was not so for him. There were still many questions and precious little time remained to find the answers.

  Dr Neill’s house was deserted so he went on to the police station where, again, he was unlucky. Wondering what to do next, the weather decided for him. The rain began once more, so a walk was out of the question, and he hurried back to the inn and went up to his room. Suddenly feeling unutterably weary and defeated, he lay down on the bed, intending to rest for a while. He opened his eyes some time later, feeling guilty and angry with himself for sleeping. His pocket watch said five o’clock, and he had wasted a whole afternoon when he should have been continuing his search for clues.

  Chapter 25

  Walking towards the doctor’s house, Faro was hailed by Conn who was about to leave the police station. Greeting him, Faro said, ‘I was hoping to see you. I was wondering if you might be persuaded to take me to the Romany camp. Seeing I can’t talk their language, perhaps, with your help, we might find out what happened to those missing children.’

  Conn shook his head. ‘Too late, I’m afraid, sir. I went there first thing this morning - same idea as yours - to find out what happened to those children. Camp was deserted - every trace of men, women, children, animals and caravans has vanished.’ He paused dramatically. ‘Quite uncanny. Gave me quite a turn, I can tell you. Looked as if they have been spirited away. Apart from the scars of campfires and grass bruised with wheel marks, there was nothing - not even a piece of debris - to show that they had lived there for over a hundred years. The place looks as if it has never been occupied.’

  ‘Which suggests, does it not, that they may have had something to do with the deaths of the Caras?’ asked Faro. Conn did not seem encouraged to speculate on this. He merely frowned and Faro continued, ‘Any idea where they might have gone? And how did they slip away without anyone in Carasheen being alerted?’

  The constable looked blank. ‘Sure, it is baffling but they could have stolen out on their own side of the lough, slipped away on the Cara estate side, invisible to the village. I don’t doubt that, with a whole tribe of them on the move, we’ll probably get sightings of their progress through other villages. I’ll keep the local police on the lookout in the most likely places on the map.’

  ‘They must have managed this exodus in a remarkably short while. When were you last aware of them?’ Faro asked.

  Conn thought for a moment. ‘I spotted smoke from their fires across the lough a couple of days ago. There are many Romany sites throughout the south-west here - Kerry and Cork, for a start. They are a tight-knit community and presumably they have their own means of keeping in touch with one another. But I agree with you, certainly the speed of their departure is remarkable.’

  It was indeed and it suggested to Faro that their disappearance most probably dated from Mark Cara’s death - that final chapter.

  ‘There is something else you might like to see, Mr Faro,’ said Conn solemnly, taking a sheet of folded paper from his pocket. ‘Pushed under the door while I was away.’ Printed in large letters were the words: ‘I am Watchin. Do Nothing If you Value your Life and your Future Prospects. A Well wisher.’

  ‘What do you think of that?’ asked Conn.

  A threatening letter and reasonably well written apart from one misspelt word which might have been accidental. It indicated to Faro that there was one person in Carasheen, at least, who was scared of the truth coming to light. Ignoring the constable’s question, he asked, ‘How do you intend to respond?’

  Conn shrugged. ‘Wasting their time, whoever it was. There’s not much any of us can do now, even if we wanted to. Two murders accounted for and their killers dead by the grace of God. Divine justice, that’s what I’d call it, Mr Faro, wouldn’t you?’

  Faro had his own views about that and they were quite unrelated to anything remotely as biblical as divine intervention. ‘What will happen to Cara House now?’ he asked.

  ‘It is too early to decide but I expect the valuable contents will be auctioned in one of the big towns and the money distributed among the folks here - it will be a great help to many of them. So good will come of evil, after all.’

  ‘What about the Kerry bull?’

  Conn laughed. ‘Mr McBeigh can have that and welcome to it, I should think, and at a bargain price. Although I am sure he will insist that his
money should go into the common good fund. I can tell you, Mr Faro, no farmer here would consider giving the animal field room. A bull that kills is very unlucky.’

  Particularly for its victim, thought Faro wryly, as they parted.

  His luck was in this time as he continued his way across the common. The doctor had finished his calls and his surgeries for the day and was about to sit down to supper. Pleased to produce the required sleeping powder from his dispensary, with an assurance that it was very mild, he insisted that Faro stay to supper and share Margaret’s excellent soup, a ham pie and one of Faro’s favourite puddings, a jam roly-poly.

  The talk was of family matters. A daughter still at school, a son in his first year as a medical student, following in his father’s footsteps at Dublin University and another daughter who had married a neighbouring farmer’s son at seventeen and now lived in the next village. A very pretty domestic scene, thought Faro - this pleasant intelligent doctor with an attractive wife who obviously adored him. They seemed a devoted couple and he had to admit that he could not imagine the Peter Neill, who was his host, in the role of a ruthless killer.

  Margaret Neill and the shy pretty schoolgirl, who had hardly spoken a word, cleared the table and withdrew to the kitchen, leaving the two men together. ‘Fancy a game of cards? Poker perhaps?’ asked the doctor hopefully

  ‘I don’t play,’ Faro laughed. ‘I’m a poor gambler and I’ve never been lucky at cards.’

  The doctor grinned and winked at him. ‘You know what they say - unlucky at cards, lucky in love. And judging by our lovely Miss Crowe,’ he added archly, ‘I think I’d prefer my luck to run that way.’ Faro smiled and Dr Neill continued, ‘You should have had Aaron teach you poker. He’s a devil at the cards - learned all the tricks during his days in the Wild West, he tells us,’ His face suddenly sad, he sighed. ‘We’ll certainly miss his expertise when he goes but our purses will be a little heavier. And we must look on the bright side. There are changed days ahead for our little village after our years of tyranny. Let us hope we can all live together in peace again.’