‘Sure, sure,’ said O’Shea. ‘That’ll be grand.’ And off he went to order a round of doubles.
***
Amiss was enjoying himself hugely when the taxis arrived. His group had been joined by several locals who seemed full of wit, spontaneity and merriment. The jokes and quips came even thicker and faster than the drinks. Amiss felt he had never been in better company in his life. When Gibson whispered to him that a taxi had arrived, he indignantly waved him away. His last memory of the evening was of O’Shea and the baroness on the dance floor performing what seemed to resemble a wild mazurka. Amiss and his colleagues led the crowd in thunderous applause.
***
It took a few minutes for the shrilling of the phone to penetrate Amiss’ consciousness. Fumblingly, he picked up the receiver and held it to his ear. ‘Yes,’ he croaked.
‘Wake up, wake up.’
Amiss groaned. ‘Oh, God, Ellis. What time is it?’
‘Time to get up. And I want to talk to you. I’m on my way.’
Amiss looked at his watch, cursed, crept out of bed as quickly as seemed prudent and headed for the bathroom. By the time Pooley knocked he was out of the shower. ‘What is it?’ he asked, as he opened the door and resumed towelling himself.
‘I’d better fill you in on last night.’
Amiss returned to the bathroom and began to apply toothpaste to toothbrush. ‘But do I want to be filled in on last night? That is the question.’
‘You need to be.’
As Amiss began to brush his teeth and tried to suppress the feeling of dread, Pooley perched on the bath. ‘Well, that was certainly a memorable evening in the island of saints and scholars. Cheered me up, too, since up to now I’ve been feeling utterly useless.’
Amiss brushed on.
‘All I’ve been doing is sitting around saying nothing while all these tenth-raters fight amongst themselves and socially I’ve spent most of my time fending off questions about my mysterious millionaire from the sort of people whose only interest is trans-Atlantic freebies. Which of course is most of them.’
Amiss spat out the toothpaste and rinsed his mouth. ‘True,’ he said, dully.
‘So it was good to be useful last night. Most of you wouldn’t have got to bed without me.’
‘Oh, God.’ Amiss looked at him with that nervous expression that the drunkard gives the sober friend the morning after. ‘How bad was it?’
‘In what sense?’
‘On a scale of one to ten, how embarrassed should I be?’
‘Depends on how easily you’re embarrassed.’
‘For God’s sake stop being playful, Ellis…that is Rollo. You know bloody well what I mean.’
‘All right, all right, calm down and don’t worry. Bearing in mind how some of the others were, I think you’d get away with five out of ten.’
Amiss looked at the razor and then at his right hand and, rather nervously, began to shave. ‘Just tell me what happened. When did we leave the pub?’
‘About two. Apart from Simon and Charles, who left not long after midnight.’
‘Did we go voluntarily?’
‘Well, no, not really. Most of you were keen to make a night of it and the remaining locals—not to speak of the publican—were enthusiastically concurring in the idea. You can’t fault them on the hospitality front.’
‘No trouble from the police?’
Pooley snorted. ‘Well, let’s just say that their notion of law-and-order isn’t exactly mine. I mean there was a moment when the music stopped, we were all instructed to be quiet and the lights went out. That, it emerged, was because the local guard had rung to ask for this display of reverence for the law. We were told that since a local deputy became Minister for Justice he’s become rather officious.
‘Mind you, it was pretty difficult to keep Jack quiet. She kept demanding that we ask him in and get him to dance, but fortunately he wasn’t trying to hear any disturbance so he didn’t.’
‘So what brought the evening to such an early end?’
‘Me being a killjoy, really. I couldn’t see any hope that left to yourselves you would stop before dawn or later, so I bribed the taxi drivers to say they were going home and threatened you all with a five-mile walk in the dark through the pouring rain.’
‘Who was left?’
‘Who do you think?’ He ticked them off on his fingers. ‘Hamish, Pascal O’Shea, you, Jack, oh yes, and Willie and Oki.’
‘Did we come quietly?’
‘If reluctantly. There were elaborate and affectionate fare wells which went on for the best part of half-an-hour and extricating Jack from her friend with the wellies at one stage seemed an insuperable problem. They clung to each other like Romeo and Juliet.’
Surprised that he had so far managed to shave without incident, Amiss directed his attention to the right side of his face.
‘The real problems began at the hotel. I should have thought to hire the taxi drivers to give me a hand in getting everyone to bed.’
‘Oh God.’
‘Oh, you weren’t so bad. Indeed, with Oki—who admittedly, was red-faced, giggly and no longer able to point his camera—you made an effort to help me carry Hamish to bed. Jack helped too, which is why we dropped Hamish in the lift, but we got him to his bedroom eventually.
‘But then Jack insisted on accompanying us downstairs to help with Pascal, who had passed out on the hall carpet. She felt that this was an appropriate moment to serenade him with a spirited rendition of “Thy tiny hand is frozen.”’
Wiping the soap off his miraculously uninjured face, Amiss began to cheer up. ‘I’ve experienced her once or twice in Pavarotti mode. Not that she can carry a tune.’
‘No. But she’s got good lungs. And she thinks she can carry a tune.’
Amiss nodded. ‘That’s true. Sober or drunk.’
‘Doesn’t suffer from a lack of self-belief, our Jack,’ said Pooley, as he followed Amiss into the bedroom and sat down on the bed, clearly looking forward to the next part of his story. ‘You, Pascal and Willie were all on for another drink—as was Oki, insofar as he could get any words out through his giggles—but Jack suddenly decided it was time for bed and disappeared without another word. I suspect she felt miffed that we were insufficiently appreciative of her aria.
‘Pascal was very hard to persuade to bed. He wanted desperately to share with you what characteristics of the English doomed Anglo-Irish relations to inevitable disaster, but I cheated him out of this by promising him we would all join him in his room for a drink within a few minutes and he was so fuddled that he didn’t notice I was getting him on to his bed.’
‘I’m very impressed, Ell…Rollo. I like that. El Rollo. We’ll make an epic out of you yet. Anyway I’m impressed that to your normal resourcefulness you’ve added the necessary deviousness and prevarication to get things done in this environment. I’m glad you came. Otherwise I suspect I’d be feeling a lot worse than I am now.’ He paused to consider that statement. ‘No, perhaps not. If you think about it, I’d be more drunk and less hungover and therefore feeling not so awful.’
‘Have some breakfast and you’ll feel better.’
‘That’s a rash statement, but I’ll try. Are you coming?’
‘Not yet. I want to phone Mary-Lou.’
‘Give her my love and tell her she missed something.’
‘I don’t think the natives would have stood the excitement,’ said Pooley.
***
By the time he reached the dining room, Amiss’ brief euphoria had evaporated and his health had taken a marked turn for the worse. He sat beside the baroness. ‘Morning,’ she said. ‘What’s wrong with you?’
He looked blearily at her. ‘I wish you didn’t look so well, Jack. I haven’t had a head like this in a very very long time. And I don’t want to have one like it ever again.’
‘Stop moaning. Didn’t you enjoy yourself?’
‘In a way. But not like you.’
‘Serve you righ
t for not dancing. You wouldn’t have had as much time to drink and would have got some of it out of your system through honest sweat.’
‘I had never realised that you had aspirations to be an Irish dancer.’
‘Just being cross-cultural. Applying to the Irish scene techniques I learned as a girl doing Scottish country reels.’
‘I don’t remember the end of the evening—though I’ve been filled in on it by Ellis—but I do seem to remember a few tumbles during it.’
‘There were times when they were all going the wrong way except me. But, with due encouragement, that chap in wellies who partnered me most of the evening was able to direct the tide our way. On balance, I’d say we won.’
She smiled broadly. ‘Ah, here’s Philomena. Good morning, my dear. And what should I eat this morning?’
‘The kippers. I made them get some specially. But have you heard the news?’
‘What news?’
‘There’s been another accident.’
‘What?’ cried Amiss. ‘Christ! Who? And is it bad?’
‘That funny priest. Now, don’t panic. It’s not too bad.’
Amiss jumped up. ‘I’d better do something about this. Talk to McNulty.’
‘The Inspector’s probably still at the hospital. Best thing you can do is sit down and have a decent breakfast. Father Cormac’s been taken off to casualty and Pat says at worst he’s got a broken leg.’
‘But how did it happen? And when?’
‘Seems to have slipped on the stairs coming down from his bedroom.’
‘It couldn’t happen to a greater pain in the arse,’ said the baroness. ‘Now about those kippers, Philomena, are they…’
The Sailor’s Hornpipe drove Amiss out of the dining room.
‘Have you heard about Father O’Flynn?’ asked McNulty.
‘Just.’
‘It’s worse than we thought. A lot worse. There’s a possibility that he might die.’
‘What? Philomena said he’d only broken his leg.’
‘Looked like that at first. Along with mild concussion. But by the time he got to hospital he’d lapsed into a coma and the doctors think he’s got a blood clot—and a dangerous one at that. They’re operating as we speak.’
***
‘My, my, we weren’t exactly thick on the ground to begin with, but this really is becoming a most exclusive event,’ said the baroness, as she sniffed at the kipper Philomena had put in front of her. ‘This is excellent, Robert. You should have some.’
‘Don’t be so callous, Jack. What the hell are we going to do about the press?’
‘I wouldn’t do anything at the moment. We’d better wait and see if he croaks. What does Simon think?’
‘The same really. I rang him and he’s going straight to the hospital to make sure he’s been properly looked after.’
‘Considering the way he feels about him, that’s noble,’ she said, removing the bones with great care. ‘I’d be more inclined to bludgeon him to death with his guitar. Now, I suppose we’d better break the news to the survivors before we get stuck into a truly exciting session on negotiating our differences or marginalizing our attributes or whatever this latest member of the intellectual caravanserai wants to urge upon us.’
***
Pascal O’Shea crept into the dining room looking very grey. ‘I wouldn’t be up,’ he quavered, ‘only that they were on to me at the crack of dawn this morning about reactions to Billy’s death. Apparently it’s being claimed that it could be more than an accident. Anyway I explained that we had a wake for him last night—as cross-cultural a one as we could. Thank God I had the sense to toast him early on or there might have been criticism. Did you see the news this morning?’
‘Yes,’ said the baroness. ‘I gather they burned bonfires in his honour last night on the Shankill Road. He’ll be starring in a mural of heroic Protestant heroes defending the symbols of the state before we know where we are.’
Amiss gazed about him distractedly. ‘Why?’
‘Because his death is being seen as martyrdom since he died demanding parity of esteem for a symbol of British Ulster,’ whispered O’Shea.
‘Have some breakfast and calm down,’ said the baroness. ‘I recommend the kippers.’
O’Shea looked at her plate and his colour changed to white. Muttering a broken apology, he ran from the room.
Chapter Fourteen
McNulty’s car came up the drive as Amiss finished telling Pooley about O’Flynn. They ran out to meet him.
He looked at them and shrugged helplessly.
‘He’s dead.’
‘Cormac?’
‘Yep. The hospital just rang. Died fifteen minutes ago apparently.’
‘That’s going to look great, isn’t it?’ said Amiss, with a note of self-pity in his voice.
‘You’re sure it was an accident?’ asked Pooley.
‘I don’t know. Any more than I did with Billy Pratt.’
‘You mean there’s nothing to explain why he slipped?’
‘He seems to have slipped on some empty Guinness bottles.’
Amiss clutched his head.
‘Come inside the caravan,’ said McNulty. ‘It’ll be warmer there.’
When they were settled, Pooley asked, ‘Where were the bottles?’
‘Presumably on the staircase. That is to say, there were five of them around his body, one of which was broken.’
‘Why would there have been bottles on his staircase, for God’s sake?’ Amiss was almost shouting.
‘Maybe he was carrying them?’
‘Why would he be carrying them? Couldn’t he have disposed of them in his wastepaper basket?’
‘Maybe he was a secret tippler and didn’t want the chambermaid to know.’
Through the woolly miasma that was gripping Amiss’ brain came a memory. ‘Simon said he was keen on drink.’
‘So he’s covering it up. He takes the bottles out, drops them and manages to stand on them on the way down.’
‘But why didn’t he see them?’
‘That’s the most suspicious aspect,’ said McNulty. ‘It was dark. The bulb at the corner had failed.’
‘An unlucky coincidence?’ asked Amiss hopefully.
‘Unless somebody planted the bottles and changed the light bulb,’ contributed Pooley.
‘Which would suggest they were prepared to put in danger anyone who came down that staircase—ranging from the maid to other guests. Seems very unlikely.’
‘Not really, Robert. He was the only guest using that staircase. It’s very narrow and leads up to just one turret bedroom. No one else would have been using it until the chambermaid arrived.’
‘It still makes no sense,’ said Amiss doggedly. ‘If he’d dropped the bottles, he’d have advanced very gingerly, wouldn’t he?’
‘We’ll call it an accident for the moment,’ said McNulty. ‘That’s what Dublin will want. Rollo, I’d like to talk a few things over with you. And Robert, you’d better be getting back to whatever you’re supposed to be up to. Something that’ll take your mind off things, I hope.’
‘You must be joking,’ said Amiss. ‘This morning’s torture is “Hegemonic historicity or archipelagian marginalization?”’
‘There are moments,’ said McNulty thoughtfully, ‘when walking around in wet grass in the middle of driving rain can seem almost attractive. Now look, all you can say about the poor Father is that you’ve heard the sad news that he died from an accident. Don’t go into detail. It’s enough to say he fell down the stairs. And then you can put out another of those statements about how much you’ll miss him.’
‘And what’ll you be saying?’
‘That it looks like an accident, but we have to examine the remote possibility that the death might be suspicious.’
‘If the ministry lets you go so far.’
‘Indeed. They may try to make me say it must have been an accident. But I won’t.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Nine o’clock. You’d be
tter be on your way. I hope you don’t have an outbreak of panic.’
‘Shouldn’t we simply cancel the rest of the conference as a gesture of respect to the two deceased?’
‘That’s the last thing I want you to do,’ said McNulty. ‘Think about it. I don’t want these lads going out of this jurisdiction. If we’ve a murderer here, here is where he should stay or it’ll all turn into tussles over extradition and God knows what. If anyone starts asking to go home, refer him to me. In fact you can tell them I’ll be needing to speak to them all and will be along at coffee time to tell them what’s going on.’
***
‘Be solemn, for Christ’s sake, Jack.’
‘You do it, Robert. I mightn’t get the tone right.’
She marched into the seminar room, which, being minus O’Flynn, O’Shea, Pooley and Hughes, looked rather empty. Wyn and Taylor, who were talking to a stranger, looked up.
‘Ah, Jack,’ said Taylor. ‘I don’t think you’ve met Dr Schwartz, who’s just arrived, and who, as you know, has this utterly fascinating theory about us all being of the same stock and there being no difference between Anglo-Saxons and Celts after all.’
‘It’d take a lot to make me believe that,’ she grunted, but she shook hands with Schwartz civilly and bade him sit beside her. ‘Now,’ she said, ‘Robert’s got something to tell you.’
Amiss, who had been wrongly optimistic that an adrenaline-rush would deal firmly with his throbbing head, stood in front of the group. ‘I don’t know how to tell you this,’ he said. ‘But we have experienced another bereavement.’
Laochraí leaped to her feet. ‘It’s Cormac, isn’t it?’
‘Well, er…’
‘Isn’t it?’ she screamed.
‘I’m afraid so. He’s had an accident.’
‘Accident?’ she shouted. ‘Accident? Don’t lie. They’ve murdered him.’
***
Pooley and McNulty sat side by side in the caravan, brooding.
‘What time did he fall?’ asked Pooley.
‘No idea.’
‘What was he wearing?’
‘A jumper and jeans. Though now you mention it, he certainly wasn’t dressed for the daytime. He had no socks or underpants.’
‘So why would he have left his bedroom dressed like that?’
Anglo-Irish Murders Page 15
