by Carol Coffey
After some time, a tall grey-haired man looked out of one of the large offices at Seán but seemed to be talking to someone in the room with him. Eventually he came out and offered Seán his large, roughened hands that seemed to have seen plenty of work.
“Hello, Mr Byrne. I’m Paul Roberts, a partner with the firm. Sorry for keeping you waiting. I understand you wanted to know something about your father’s will.”
While Roberts introduced himself, the man with whom he had been talking came quietly from the room. Seán caught a glimpse of him as he passed – a middle-aged, red-haired man who glanced his way. He was sure he had seen him before but could not place him. He stared after the man who was now hurrying along the brightly lit corridor.
Seán interrupted the solicitor who was still talking.
“Sorry, Mr Roberts. That man, there, I know him from somewhere. Is he from Wicklow?”
“No, Mr Byrne. That’s Mr McCracken. He’s a Dub through and through. He’s one of the solicitors here.”
Seán shrugged his shoulders and walked with the solicitor towards his open office. He didn’t know any McCrackens.
He sat down uncomfortably in the chair facing the solicitor’s desk, his father’s death certificate folded roughly in his hand. He cleared his throat nervously and waited until the solicitor, who was leafing through documents, finally spoke.
“Seán, your father first came to this firm a couple of months back. He arranged for all his papers to be sent here from a local solicitor in Wicklow. He wanted to write a new will. I remember him well. At first he was convinced his wife had been in here. He said she was recently deceased and that he had found our business card in her handbag and thought she was ‘pulling’ something on him. We checked our files but had no record of a Mrs Maura Byrne and told him so.”
Seán was amazed to hear his mother had the name of a Dublin solicitor’s office in her bag and could think of no reason for her to come all the way to the city to see a solicitor. Maybe she didn’t trust Brown & Son but he didn’t think that was it.
Roberts was watching Seán carefully.
“The strange thing was, Mr Byrne, that the business card she had was at least fifteen, maybe even twenty years old. We had changed the logo on it twice in that time. She must have had it for a long time. I didn’t mention that to Mr Byrne. He was agitated enough as it was.”
“Can I ask about the contents of his will?” Seán asked as calmly as he could while his heart pounded loudly in his chest.
“Yes. I can tell you now that he’s deceased. You could get this information anyway if you wanted to. I’ll read it to you. But I must first tell you that a complication has arisen.”
“A complication?” Seán could hardly speak.
“Yes. But let me read this first.” Clearing his throat the solicitor began: “This is the last will dated June 17th, 1971 of me Michael Byrne of Dublin Road, Árd Glen, Co Wicklow HEREBY REVOKING all former wills and Testamentary Dispositions made by me.
“I give, devise and bequeath all of my estate to my only son, Benedict Byrne, for his own benefit absolutely. I appoint Mr Seán Byrne as the estates manager until Ben is twenty-one years of age. If Benedict does not survive me, I give, devise and bequeath all of my estate to my daughter Teresa Mary Byrne for her own benefit absolutely with Seán Byrne appointed as estate manager until Teresa comes of age.”
Roberts watched the colour drain out of the young man’s face.
“Mr Byrne, are you okay?”
Seán sat there motionless as though he was paralysed. His mind seemed to be going in slow motion, going over things that had little or nothing to do with what had just been said. Memories of Michael Byrne beating them flashed across his mind. It was clear to Seán now why their father had been so hard on him. He cleared his throat.
“What did his previous will say?”
“Let me see . . . yes, here it is. He wrote it at Brown & Son in 1961. It’s pretty much the same except it leaves everything to his only daughter, Teresa.”
Seán’s eyes opened wide in surprise, the realisation that Kate was not Michael Byrne’s daughter shocking him to the core. He had reluctantly suspected that Byrne was not his natural father but was stunned that his mother had borne two children for someone else.
Roberts was not embarrassed at informing Seán that Michael Byrne was not his real father. He had dealt with similar family situations over the years and the lad did not look too shocked by the news so must have had some idea beforehand. He looked sympathetically at the young man whose entire fortune had vanished in one short afternoon and proceeded to tell him the rest of the story.
“Your, em – father seems to have been a rather unsavoury character. I had handled his affairs up until that point but was away when the will was drafted. I asked Mr McCracken to see him when he came in to sign it but he never returned. From the death certificate it looks like he came to a bad end only days later. That explains why he never returned but leaves us with the question of what to do next. An unsigned will is not legal so the previous will is still valid, making your sister Teresa the legal owner.” He paused. “Are the police involved?”
“Yes,” he replied flushing. “They think my sister Tess did it. She was – em – found over the body.” Seán cringed at discussing such personal family details with this stranger.
“What do you think?” the solicitor asked cautiously. He didn’t want his company caught up in a situation like this and had to tread carefully.
“Tess couldn’t have known about the will. Anyway, it would have meant nothing to her. She’s only eleven and . . . oh, I don’t know . . .”
“Didn’t the police ask about motive?”
“Yes, but the farm wouldn’t have come into it. It was just accepted by all that it would come to me being the eldest son and all . . .”
“And you’re sure you knew nothing of your – of Mr Byrne’s intentions?”
“No, well, not like that. I knew he resented me but didn’t really know why. Now that he has done this I’m not surprised, but I didn’t know, that’s the truth.” Seán decided he had said enough and stood up.
“We’ll have to inform the police, you know, of the will,” Roberts said cautiously.
“I know,” Seán replied as he walked out of the office.
“Thank you, Mr Byrne, and good luck,” said the solicitor.
“Byrne? It’s not really my name, is it?”
As Seán left the building, from his office window Éamonn McCracken watched the shy young man as he walked down the steps, his head bent, shoulders hung forward. He did not feel as he thought he should upon seeing his son again. There was no rush of love, no urge to hug him. Instead McCracken felt a deep shame and guilt. He wondered if Seán’s life would have been any better if he had done the right thing by Maura all those years ago. He stood and watched his son walk down the quays, the Ha’penny Bridge symbolically visible in the distance.
Chapter 15
1981
Sam Moran found himself yet again at Mattie Slattery’s bar, too early in the day for a drink this time but there was information that he knew Mattie would be only too happy to give him. Mattie remembered the case well; it was rare for a murder to happen in the area back then. He remembered the sergeant on duty. Pete Mullins was retired now but still came into Slattery’s sometimes. Also, Tom Healy, the man who found the child standing over the body, still lived locally. Mattie said that Healy, who was very old now and deaf as a post, might be willing to talk to Moran. He told Sam about Maura’s brother, Jimmy Kelly, informing him that Jimmy was still bitter about losing his farm. He didn’t think he’d talk to Sam but he suggested he try to talk to Jimmy’s son Liam who was known to be a bit loose-lipped with a few drinks in him.
“What about the girl, Mattie? Do you think she’d talk to me, tell me her side of the story?”
“Ha! You’re taking yourself a little too seriously there, Sam. It’s worth a try, I suppose, but don’t forget I warned you that she’s
odd. She’s never on her own anyway. You’ll have to get by the sister to talk to that one!” Mattie laughed as he walked away. Shaking his head at the small-time newspaperman who liked to call himself a journalist.
Dermot Lynch was becoming used to the strange woman he had picked up in Dublin only a few weeks before. Today as he worked in the barn he saw her coming towards him, a quizzical look on her face, and he knew he was in for more of her questions.
“Dermot, where are you from?”
“Galway.”
“What is it like?”
“Like here, except it rains more,” Dermot replied matter-of-factly. He was already learning to keep his sentences short when talking to Tess. Not that she wasn’t smart – she was certainly bright – but he knew that too many words confused her.
“Do you have a girlfriend there?”
“What?”
“A girlfriend, someone you’re going to marry?”
“Tess, that’s a personal question!” Dermot replied embarrassed.
“You apologise,” Tess said quickly. She did not want Dermot to be angry with her.
“Tess, you should say ‘I apologise’, not ‘you apologise’.”
“I apologise, Dermot,” Tess replied, her head bowed.
Dermot, seeing the look of distress on her face, decided to answer her question.
“Tess, some people don’t like answering personal questions but I’ll answer you. No, I don’t have a girlfriend in Galway.”
“Do you have one here, in Wicklow?” she asked, her head suddenly rising with interest.
“No, Tess, I have no girlfriend anywhere. Now are you satisfied?”
“Yes,” Tess replied as she ran back into the house, leaving Dermot laughing and shaking his head as he got back to his work.
Kate Byrne was busy. Since Seán’s health had deteriorated and they’d had to take Dermot Lynch on to manage the farm part-time Kate found herself having to do more and more work on the farm as well as running the house. As she bottle-fed three lambs, Tess hovered around, her head bowed, preparing for yet another round of questions.
“Kate?”
“Yes, Tess?”
“Dermot Lynch doesn’t have a girlfriend anywhere.”
“Does he not, Tess? Well now, that’s very interesting,” Kate replied even though she knew that sarcasm would go over Tess’s head.
“Do you think he’s nice, Kate?”
Kate frowned, feeling suddenly worried. She had not thought of Tess maturing in this way.
“Yes, Tess. I think he’s a nice man but he’s more suited to a woman my age, you know?”
“Yes.” Tess nodded in agreement as she wandered off.
Kate watched her sister as she walked slowly back to the outer field and thought that Tess must be lonely here all day. She felt angry that Seán continued to shout at Tess whenever she tried to talk to him. Kate tried to talk to him about it but all she could get out of him was that he hated Tess’s staring eyes. Kate felt it had more to do with Tess owning the farm than her habit of staring. Perhaps Deirdre could suggest something for Tess to do besides hanging around the farm all day. It might even take her mind off Dermot Lynch.
Sam Moran climbed over the broken gate that led into Tom Healy’s land. He rarely phoned ahead to ask for an appointment, knowing from experience that most people did not like talking to reporters and that catching them off guard was a much better way to get a story than asking politely if you could visit. A dog barked loudly in the distance, which made Sam nervous, and it became louder as he approached an old stone cottage about a hundred yards back from the gate. Sam hated dogs but he really didn’t know why; there were always dogs on the street where he grew up. A psychologist he met in a bar once told him he could have got bitten as a small child and couldn’t remember it. Sam didn’t really think this was likely – it sounded too alternative to him.
He hoped to talk to Sergeant Mullins as soon as he had spoken with Healy. He needed to know exactly what the girl said when she was detained. By the time Sam arrived at the cottage his good leather shoes were covered in cow dung. To his relief the dog was tied up with just enough rope to enable visitors to knock at the door safely. An old man appeared after what felt like hours, the dog continuing to bark and pull at the rope that prevented him from getting to Moran who stood sweating at the back door.
The door creaked as Tom Healy finally opened it, peering out through bloodshot eyes.
He was now eighty-two years old and had given up fishing years before. His eyesight was bad and had not improved despite two cataract operations in Dublin. His wife had died suddenly eight years previously. He went fishing early one morning, leaving her asleep in the bed they had shared for over fifty years. When he came home he was surprised to find her still in bed. There was a faint smile on her ice-cold lips and as he kissed her for the last time he hoped she had been thinking of him. It had been a good marriage and they’d had nine children together, losing two in infancy. Tom never drank and never raised his hand to his wife or children and he believed that was why their life had been so happy. Tom’s sons and daughters lived all over the world now with only one daughter living locally. They wrote often and sent pictures of their families from Melbourne, Auckland and Toronto. He had never visited because he didn’t like the idea of flying and had only been to London once by boat for his older brother’s wedding over fifty years ago. He had lived a simple life. The small farm he had inherited from a bachelor uncle did not bring in enough to feed his large family so Tom often worked in Dublin on the building sites when his eldest son was big enough to look after the livestock. He had missed Doreen so much in those days and could still remember the loneliness of being away from her, how it had a smell of its own. He felt that way now, since Doreen went, and even felt that way in a crowd of people. All people seemed to say was “You’ll get over it in time, Tom.” He didn’t want to get over Doreen and had come to prefer to be left alone, to be left to go over the memories they shared. He could remember her better that way.
“Yes?” he asked Sam.
Sam thought the old man looked as if he’d been crying.
“Hello. I’m Sam Moran. I work for the –”
“You’re not from the police, are you? My daughter told me the Byrne girl was home. Why can’t you just leave well enough alone?”
“No, Mr Healy. I’m a reporter actually. I’m doing a story on the murder and I’m trying to find out what happened back then. I heard you were a witness to the scene. I thought you might remember something.”
“Remember? What the hell does that mean? You think because I’m old that I’ve lost my wits! I remember all right but I still say leave well enough alone. I gave my statement to the police at the time. Girl paid the price, didn’t she, so why don’t you leave well enough alone?”
Sam stood at the door silently. He hadn’t expected the old man to be so firm and didn’t want to have to argue his case.
“Sir, I just want to tell the girl’s side of it. See that her story gets heard, you know?”
“Well then, son, go ask her,” the old man said as he slammed the door with full force into the reporter’s face.
Sam walked away, his self-esteem only slightly damaged. If he hurried, he would make it to Mullins’ house before lunch.
Sam walked confidently to the front door of the retired sergeant’s home and knocked loudly.
“Come in!” a voice shouted loudly from within the tiny house, which was situated on a small side road to the left of the town’s main street.
Sam turned the key, which was tied to a piece of old twine and left permanently in the front door. He was surprised that the ex-sergeant took such risks. Árd Glen was still a relatively safe place but Moran wouldn’t go as far as to leave the key in the door. His wife was always telling him it was his Dublin upbringing but he denied this. He was simply a cautious man who admitted to seeing the worst in the human race.
Sergeant Peter Mullins sat slumped in a worn armchair in the
kitchen. The walls were blackened from the range and an old oilcloth covered the kitchen table, still dirty from whatever meagre lunch he had prepared for himself. A white plastic television sat on a small table in the corner but was not plugged in and there was no radio to be seen. The small dog that sat by the old man’s feet watched Moran carefully and snarled occasionally.
Great, thought Sam – another bloody dog to contend with.
“Does he bite?” he asked nervously.
“Not unless I tell him to,” the retired sergeant answered, so straight-faced that Sam wasn’t sure if he was joking or not.
From the sergeant’s slumped figure and the smell of whiskey from his breath, Sam could see he had wasted his money buying the sweetener of a bottle of Jameson on his way over. Slattery had told him that Mullins was an alcoholic, often drinking alone in the house and in the daytime too. Sam could see that this information was right as Mullins was well oiled. This should be an easy interview, he thought to himself shamelessly.
“Sergeant Mullins, I’m Sam Moran from the Weekly News. I’m doing a story on the Byrne girl. She was released recently and I wanted to –”
“For a start, son, I’m retired now so call me Pete. Also, you cannot say released as she was admitted to a hospital, not a prison. She was only eleven years old, remember. You ever hear of a child going to jail?”
“Well, no, I didn’t, but she was guilty, yes?”
“Who knows? She was found there, just standing and staring the witness said. At the time Healy said she seemed more interested in the piece of granite in her hands than the body she stood over. Infatuated with shiny things, I believe. You know she’s retarded?”
