by Dicey Deere
She stopped walking as Mark came toward her. He was on his way to get his car from the stable garage. He’d be late getting to his office in Dublin, but they’d been up talking half the night, lying there in the great oak bed in the bedroom that had once belonged to Caroline’s great-grandfather, oil portraits of earlier Ashendens on the walls and above the fireplace.
“My father murdered!” Caroline had said. “The killer could’ve been the husband or wife of one of my father’s patients! A thoracic operation gone wrong and the patient dying. And a wife or lover or husband blaming my father! People do get crazy.” She told Mark that yesterday she’d gone to Inspector O’Hare, and O’Hare had agreed that it was definitely a possibility to be explored.
“Yes,” Mark had said, “worth investigating. Definitely.”
They’d talked then about her father’s will, Caroline’s inheritance of Ashenden Manor and now her unexpected estate responsibilities. It changed things. “Maybe we should give up our plans for the house in Ballsbridge,” Mark had said, “and live at Ashenden Manor.” As for Scott —
In Mark’s arms she’d felt a surge of bitterness toward her dead father and love and loyalty to Scott. “Poor Scott!”
“Oh, I expect Scott will be all right without a bequest,” Mark had said comfortingly. “He seems to be in funds.”
At that, Caroline had gone quiet. Mark, too, seemed to have no more to say. He turned out the light and took Caroline in his arms.
Now on the west lawn, in the old chinchilla coat, Caroline said, “Mark, you look like an angel in that striped tie. Here’s Scott.” Scott was coming out through the terrace. He wore a long, black soft leather coat. A wide-banded watch glittered on one wrist. He was carrying something under his arm, hitching along; grass was difficult for him. He reached the rhododendrons. “Morning, Ma. And” — he raised his brows at Mark — “and Pa.”
“What’s that?” Caroline asked. It was a shagreen box, old looking, the edges worn.
“Delivery. The Chinese chess set. I’m taking it to Padraic Collins. His booty, right?”
Caroline said, “Scott, have you had breakfast? You look so, so peaked. You don’t eat enough.”
Scott smiled at her. “Who, me? I’m omnivorous. Ma, I’m leaving it to you to gather up the trinkets, those little bequests that the good Dr. Ashenden left to his former medical colleagues. Cuff links, tiepin, and so on.” He gave his mother and Mark a half salute, emerald on a ring finger. “I’m off to Dublin.”
“Scott? A minute.”
He halted. “Yes, Ma?”
But she couldn’t say it: My father, that bastard, how could he have? Leaving you nothing. Nothing. She said, “At least have a decent lunch in Dublin. Fish is full of something awfully good.”
“Yes, Ma.”
The watch, or it might be a bracelet, glittered as he went hitching off across the grass.
27
Sergeant Bryson looked more closely at the inside of the pot. It was aluminum and supposed to be new. But the inside looked stained, as though tea or the like had been boiled in it more than a few times. Two pounds six, he’d paid. The gypsy had said it was new. Spangled earrings, flashing white teeth, neck needed washing.
The police station door opened, then closed with its definite click. “Afternoon, Sergeant. What’s that?”
At Inspector O’Hare’s tone, Byron knew the inspector was on the sharp. “Afternoon, Inspector. A pot. It’s a pot. For cooking. I bought it. Two pounds six. Aluminum. So I guess that’s cheap.”
“It might be, if it has a purpose.”
Inspector O’Hare leaned down and patted Nelson who was lying over near the Coke machine, nosing his old rag doll, relic of his puppyhood; Nelson looked up and wagged his tail.
“I thought maybe if we’d want to boil an egg?”
“Two pounds six? It’s got a dent.”
“Oh … Oh, yes. I didn’t at first see.…” Sergeant Bryson fingered the dent.
“That wooden handle’ll burn in no time, Bryson. Two pounds six of Gardai money out the window.”
“I paid her for it personally, Inspector, not through the office. My own money.”
“Paid whom personally? Got plucked by whom? A pot with a dent!”
“The gypsy. Same one as last year, the Romanian. She’s got a caravan and a pony in the woods by those old oaks at Castle Moore. Not one of the tinkers, but same as them.”
Inspector O’Hare was already at his desk, picking up his phone, his face concentrated. His color was high, and his eyes had that squinty look as though he were looking into the sun, Inspector O’Hare was definitely on the scent. “Inspector O’Hare,” he said into the phone when he reached his party. “Six days since the murder. About time! Right. Wickham and Slocum?” Inspector O’Hare was making notes on his yellow pad. “Who? Definitely. I’ll expect the fax.”
Bryson looked enviously at O’Hare’s cherry-red cheeks and fox-gleaming eyes. Someday, he too, Sergeant Bryson, would be heading a murder investigation. Not like his usual day, this morning’s piddling troubles and grievances: the Blodgetts’ fence, the Walshes’ straying chickens, the Nolans’ kitchen garden despoiled by the Hickey twins, those little bastards.
O’Hare said, “Dr. Ashenden’s will, Jimmy. Always a revelation, a murdered person’s will. Wills and insurance policies account for ninety percent of family murders.”
“Ninety percent, Inspector!”
“Or similar figures, Jimmy. And believe me, Dr. Ashen-den’s murder is strictly family.”
28
At Collins Court, Padraic Collins carefully replaced each ivory chessman in the faded leather box. He was in his favorite worn old suede chair at the gateleg table in the drawing room. He breathed in the sandalwood smell of the lining of the shagreen box. How many evenings in the library at Ashenden Manor, sitting opposite Gerald Ashenden, had he moved those exquisite chess pieces: that queen, that king, that knight, that pawn? And now, to his surprise, Gerald had left the set to him.
He closed the box. Peaceful evenings through the years, soft light from the bronze-based old Tiffany lamps. Afterward, cigars and a finger of Hennessey. It had never occurred to him that Gerald would die before him. Gerald was in such splendid shape. He kept himself fit, young, passionately young, you might say. Handsome and vigorous, with his crisp hair still thick, though gray.
“Not like me!” He himself, so pear-shaped and pudgy. His own fault! Self-indulgent, knowing better, but unable to resist the pleasures of the table. Why not indulge himself, he would think mutinously, the juices running in his mouth at sight of the crackling skin of the roast duck, the baby lamb chops with the charred delicous fat and the meat barely pink. And what of the veritable basin of trifle that sagged beneath its burden of thick cream and strawberries? Why not baby himself, what with his asthma, slight though it was, and his tendency to catch cold in the smallest draft? Hard-bodied Gerald, and pudgy Padraic. He’d never been jealous of Gerald on that account, never resented it. Through the years, the closest of friends.
But sex was private. They never exchanged sexual confidences. His secret shame, each time he gave in to his torment and got in the Honda and drove fast to Cork, sometimes with the fire burning so inside him that it was like a blast furnace, and him half choking with his need. He’d had to go. Ah, he had to! But never revealed.
Nor did Ashenden ever confide a sexual relationship to him. Neither through the years had there been rumors of illicit love affairs in Ashenden’s social life in Dublin. Ashenden preferred an active life at Ashenden Manor: schooling his horses, teaching Rowena to ride and to swim and taking her hiking through the mountains of western Wicklow. No young girl ever had such a solicitous grandfather. Padraic suddenly covered his face with his hands and moved his head from side to side.
A deep breath finally steadied him. He’d better get going. He had a full schedule; the damp weather was affecting more children than usual, and they needed seeing to. This evening after dinner he’d set up the chessm
en, get out his chess books and study a few moves.
“Doctor?” Helen Lavery was in the study doorway, an anxious frown creasing her brow. “Doctor, she’s hanging about again. The gypsy. Near the hedge, this side of the gates. Makes me nervous.”
“Oh? Back again is she?” Padraic gave Helen a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry. Gypsies! Known to be full of lies, as well as thievery. Persistent, yes. But not dangerous. Don’t fret that she’s dangerous.” He looked at his watch. “I’m going now. I’ve got to look in on the Robbins boy. I’ll send her away.”
In the old Honda, he rattled down the drive. Nearing the hedge, he saw the woman and stopped the car. Mass of dark hair to her shoulders, half a dozen rings on her dirty fingers, teeth flashing. “Go away!” he called out, trying to sound fierce, “Go away!”
* * *
In the evening, the weather turned wild. Branches of trees thrashed about in gusts of wind; young maples bent level with the ground. Sergeant Bryson, starting for home, stood a moment outside the police station. His rubber raincoat whipped about his legs. Farther down the street, Nolan’s Bed-and-Breakfast sign swung, creaking; shop windows rattled. Bryson knew that loose stones from the old bridge at the end of Butler Street would go clattering down into the stream. In the woods, foxes, squirrels, rabbits would be hiding in old fallen oaks; on the mountainsides, sheep would be huddled and border collies would be alert for orders. And now here came the rain, smacking Bryson in the face. “Oooff!” He shook his head, and drops of rain trickled down his nose. The rain would be sweeping in sheets down the village streets, on the hills, and across the broad lawns of Castle Moore, of Collins Court, and of Ashenden Manor. At dinner tables, the lights would flicker and go out, then go on again, then out … and on.
* * *
In the dining room at Ashenden Manor, the lights flickered for the third time.
“Where the devil are some matches?” Scott put down his soup spoon. “Candles, but no matches. Oh, sweet Jesus! Since everybody stopped smoking, you can’t find a match. Not even, as the butler said about cucumbers in that Oscar Wilde play, ‘Not even for ready money.’”
Rowena laughed. Mark Temple grinned and took a folder of matches, from his pocket. Caroline watched him, smiling as he lit the flat, little brass round of candles on the table. It was funny, in a way, how Mark had been champing at the bit to move into the new house they were building in Ballsbridge and then in the last week or so had changed. It was as if by some strange alchemy, at her father’s death, Mark had become lord of the manor, born to it. She’d even had to laugh at the new clothes he’d bought. “So country squire!” And he had laughed along with her, looking embarrassed.
As for Scott … With a constriction of the heart, Caroline looked at Scott who sat across the dinner table from Mark. Always, Scott’s cynical game, his light tone, a disguise put on as though it could conceal his pitifully wasted-looking leg. Besides, she knew him for a secret smoker. She knew too that he had a little gold lighter, a present from one of his friends in Dublin. The thought pained her. And as for Rowena …
Caroline saw that Rowena hadn’t eaten the spinach soup. She looked tired; her eyelids were tinged pink, her hair, usually such a gleaming red, looking dull. She was not attending her vet classes at University College in Dublin. Caroline could guess why: She imagined curious looks from Rowena’s classmates, covert whispers, The papers say she did it … her grandfather … gathering evidence … they’ll find out why … Bet you five pounds she’ll get away with it. Not that Rowena moped. She exercised her bay mare and Winifred Moore’s two horses at the castle. She rushed to help whenever a Ballynagh villager called with an animal in trouble and Liam Gogarty was busy elsewhere. Other than that, she walked the woods with Torrey Tunet. There was something … waiting about her.
Rowena had gotten up and was at the window. “The rain’s stopping. I’m going to Castle Moore. I want to take a look at Winifred’s horses. This kind of storm spooks them.” Caroline worriedly watched her go, walking so heavily.
Caroline for an instant closed her eyes. The terrible thing was that everyone near and dear to her seemed to have cause to hate her father. But of course not enough to murder him. No, no! The murderer was someone from away, from outside Ballynagh, a madman of a patient. Surely. It had to be.
“Ma?” Scott was looking at her. “Those keepsakes that grandfather left in his will, want me to drop them off at Wickham and Slocum when I’m in Dublin tomorrow? Let the lawyers do the honors.”
“I suppose that’s best. I haven’t gathered them up yet. I’ll do it in the morning.” At a passing thought, she frowned. “Why d’you suppose my father had his will out on the desk? Doesn’t it seem, well, odd?”
“Ma, your father was odd.”
“Really, Scott!” She looked over at Mark, smiling in fond exasperation at her son’s words. Mark, her dear, loving Mark smiled sympathetically back at her.
29
Back and back. It goes back and back. Torrey couldn’t get it out of her head. She smelled the musty stable and saw Rowena crying, her face pressed against the horse’s flank. Goes back to what? And what did Rowena mean by “it?” Murder snaking back and back to the “it”?
On Butler Street, Torrey waited while Willy, the grocer’s older son, put the groceries in the basket of her bicycle. Capers, heavy cream, butter, oranges. The “it.” A quarrel? A fight? A death? Back to Rowena’s mother? Or back even before Caroline? Related somehow, at least in Rowena’s mind, to the murder of Gerald Ashenden, a murder that was only now ten days old? Rowena crying, dust motes in the horse’s stall.
“Sorry about the black grapes. Next week, though.”
“Thanks, Willy.” She put Jasper’s grocery list in the pocket of her corduroys. Butler Street was all cobblestones, so she walked her bicycle back along the narrow sidewalk. She passed Grogan’s Needlework Shop. Above the shop, the swanshaped sign, Nolan’s Bed-and-Breakfast, swayed in the wind. Tonight, Jasper, skilled chef and lover, was making a turban de filets de sole followed by bavarois a l’orange, whatever that was. He hadn’t yet decided on the wine.
Back and back, such despair in Rowena’s voice. “How’s it going with Rowena?” Jasper had asked her last night. It was close to midnight, and she was in bed, drowsily watching him put on his clothes. His bike was outside; he’d be back at Nolan’s before they locked up. She still smelled him on her skin and in her bed. At his question, she felt her skin tighten with a kind of secrecy, because there wasn’t a way to tell Jasper any of it without revealing Rowena’s pregnancy. So she answered, “She’s keeping so quiet, I hardly know.”
Back and back. Crying.
Wheeling her bicycle past the glass-fronted Ballynagh police station, she glanced in. Sergeant Bryson was there alone, sitting at a corner desk bent over paperwork. Jimmy Bryson, who half the time blushed over God knows what. Nelson, the black Lab, was lying inside the glass-fronted door. He lifted his head and wagged his tail as Torrey went past.
A cold wind swept a swirl of leaves up the street and sent an icy chill down Torrey’s back. She shivered. She should have worn her windbreaker, or at least a heavier sweater. It was getting on to four o’clock. The mountains above the village were sharp-edged autumnal cutouts against a graying sky.
“Ho, there! Ms. Tunet!”
Winifred Moore crossed over from the other side of the road. She looked like a sturdy mountaineer in breeches, laced boots, a dark-green parka, and brimmed leather hat. “Need a lift? I can stick your bicycle in the back of my Jeep.”
“Thanks. But right now I need a cup of hot tea.” Ahead was Amelia’s Tea Shop. “Join me?”
“Tea? Not likely! I could do with a Guinness, though. O’Malley’s can give you a pot of tea while I have a beer.”
O’Malleys pub was uncrowded. Torrey had never been here before. So this was the place where, gossip in Ballynagh said, Rowena had come in that afternoon, face enraged and green eyes wild, and (“You can ask Sean O’Malley!”) had gotten crazy
drunk. “That bastard! That inhuman bastard! He belongs in hell!” Sean had eyes and ears and never missed. “And whom else could the girl have meant, seeing what she did in the meadow an hour after?” But why “inhuman bastard”? Torrey could not even begin to conjecture.
Warmth, blessed warmth. Smell of hops. Smell of hickory smoke from the fire. Wall sconces shed a yellow light on dark, polished wood walls that had framed posters. One showed a turn-of-the-century railroad train traveling through mountainous countryside. In another, a Spanish couple danced, the man in a sombrero, the woman’s flamenco skirt twirling.
A handful of men in workmen’s clothes and three or four others in country tweeds were talking at the bar, served by a curly-haired young bartender in shirtsleeves and a green vest. There was occasional laughter. Only two tables were occupied. At one, a middle-aged couple sat quietly over their beer. At the other, an elderly man with tousled white hair was reading a newspaper.
They settled at a small table close to the fire. Bliss, the warmth of the fire. Torrey’s cold hands cupped a wonderfully hot cup of tea. She was unexpectedly hungry and ate a surprisingly tasty slice of sponge cake that came in a cellophane wrapper. Never mind that Jasper would have made a disgusted face.
“So,” Winifred said, over her pint, “what’s this I hear? Dr. Ashenden’s will being read at the manor last night.” At Torrey’s look of surprise, she explained, “Telephone communication, once referred to as backstairs gossip.”
“Oh.”
“My underground informant tells me that Scott Keegan got left in the cloakroom. Skunked.”
“Hmmm?” This morning, working on the kids’ language book, she’d found herself frowning off into space, eyes narrowed. Dr. Ashenden had cut Scott off with only a handful of pence. Why? Because of course it was all one narrative. It goes back and back. Back to what?
