“Before it could happen…he’d organised it, an ambulance to take her, everything…she became feverish and sick. They called for Cash. He wanted an ambulance too, but to take her to hospital. But, she died. Something…I’m not sure now. Something set in… an infection I think. They said something about something left behind. Afterbirth? Like I say I’m not sure and it’s all the same now anyway. The whole thing was a mess, and the girl died.”
The room fell into that hole of airlessness again. This is what regret feels like. The story was unclear, and some of that could be put down to the twenty-five years that had elapsed since it happened and some of it could be because of the cover-up and subterfuge that had been practiced at the time, to keep all of this under the carpet. It had mainly worked too -until very recently.
“The other girl was given enough money to go to London on her own. I forgot about her…just the odd time, I might think or wonder what had become of her...even feel a bit of dread that she might come back. But that wasn’t what happened.”
“So what did happen now…in the last weeks?”
Gerry’s voice sounded harsh in her ears, and she cleared her throat. She had to stop this. Whatever was going to happen in the future—to their marriage and family, she’d have to keep control of her anger for now. If there was one thing she was used to doing, it was that. She was a past master at keeping a lid on her feelings.
“That bloody boy turned up, that Yank. Like the rest of them, he wanted to find his roots. Except in his case, it was going to cause a whole load of trouble.”
“I suppose that must have been a nightmare…how could you explain the uncertainty…” Father Timothy shook his head.
The bark of a laugh that came from Frank sounded angry rather than amused.
“There was no doubt there…none whatsoever. One look at him was enough to know who his father was.
Chapter Eighteen
“Thanks for telephoning and thanks for coming too, Agnes.”
She laughed. Stopped laughing. Embarrassed.
“You don’t need to thank me, Dad, for goodness sake.”
A week ago, a few days ago, his daughter sitting in front of him would have been enough to make his heart sing. Now, it was just annoying him. That was terrible. He didn’t mean to think that. Not deep down. But, it didn’t matter all that much to him, not at this moment.
It was the picture of Dick playing itself out over and over, and that feeling that he could do something to change the ending. He couldn’t tell anybody. Maybe it would get easier. But, at the moment, he couldn’t escape the image; that and the thought that it was all such a waste. Going out to that hell-hole of a farm had solved nothing. They would have got to the bottom of Simon Crowe’s death anyway.
* * *
Maggie got up after three in the morning. She’d lain in bed, trying to say her prayers and calm her mind. It didn’t work. Her heartbeat got faster, and her chest was tight as though something restricted her breathing. She’d go downstairs and make a cup of tea. She’d stop thinking about the two things that were playing in her mind, tormenting her.
* * *
“Was he your son?”
Frank O’Sullivan looked at Gerry, and for a few seconds he looked strange to her; that odd feeling she’d had about how he had changed, only it was stronger now. It was a bit like looking in the mirror in the morning and seeing a different face looking out at you. She shivered.
“He was Simon’s. You could see it straightaway. He was the image of Simon as I’d first known him and even more strongly of a picture he’d shown us of his earlier days in Africa. There was no mistaking that…”
“Did you say it to him?” Gerry blurted out the question, the terrible urgency making her impatient. Not that urgency was an issue any more. She wanted to know because there was a sensation in her mind like tiles all slipping sideways—those little tiles you got in a board game; one sliding then the rest following. Now, she knew…thought she knew and understood. She needed to get away from Frank and from this place. She’d thought she’d no friends; not real friends. But, maybe she had now. Father Stephen. He was a friend.
It wasn’t that easy to go. Frank had reverted to the vulnerable, weak state.
“When will you come and see me, again? Gerry, you will come again, won’t you?”
“Of course. I’ll try, tomorrow, or the night after. It depends on a lift…”
She’d gone to him before they left, put a hand on his arm, patted it like he was a child she was trying to soothe.
His eyes locked on hers, but she looked away, focused on getting out of here, of getting into the car with the priest, of finding out what he thought about Frank’s story; what he thought about her theory.
* * *
Maggie moved close to the stove and drank her tea. She picked up the Ireland’s Own but put it back on the stool.
The sound of the door opening made her clench her teeth and realise that she must somehow get out of this life of service and find some way of getting her own roof over her head because, here, she couldn’t even be alone with her thoughts Canon Murphy couldn’t even bear the thought of her coming down to the kitchen in the middle of the night for a cup of tea and a think.
Only it wasn’t the canon. It was Father Stephen. He was fully dressed, looking as if going to bed was the last thought on his mind.
“Maggie. Miss Cahill, I’m sorry to trouble you. I’m worried about something.”
“Can I help? Tea?”
She nodded at her own cup.
“No tea, thanks. Do you remember what Mrs. Crowe said to you on the night her husband was murdered?”
For goodness sake. Not this again.
She tried to recall it again—the woman’s panic, her attempts to calm her down.
“I found out something, you see. I spoke to Frank O’Sullivan’s wife too…Gerry. She thinks…well because of what Frank told us…”
“You’ll have to talk to Inspector Cronin,” Maggie said, at the end of his story. She didn’t doubt it, though. Mary Crowe had murdered her husband. Her words about Ezra came back to Maggie. What must it have done to her? To see this long-lost son walk into her house. Be greeted, or otherwise by the husband…the husband who had allowed Ezra to walk out of their lives. When she had telephoned on the night, her husband was killed she said something…something about he shouldn’t have come…
* * *
Maggie loved the train, the feel of the seats, the smell of the diesel, the sound and most of all, the flashing countryside and the glimpses of lives, a donkey in a field being stroked by a small boy in wellingtons. A woman in a cross-over apron and big cardigan hanging out the washing. The time to look out the window.
They had had no trouble with Mary Crowe…she had hated him for years, and the final slap in the face had been the sight of a young version of him turning up on the doorstep, expecting…well, whatever it was he had been expecting, he hadn’t got it. So, he had gone off and taken enough of whatever it was to go to sleep forever in Donie Ford’s shed.
The canon hadn’t reacted when Maggie told him she was taking two days’ holidays. He wasn’t reacting to anything much at the moment—even to the realisation that there was no question now of keeping away the press. It was just as well that Father Stephen had stepped up. Stepped up too in a way she wouldn’t have predicted. And young Father Tom following him around like an eager shadow. Maybe there were the makings of a priest in him after all. Maybe she wouldn’t be around to find out. The countryside and the outskirts of the city passed her window. Too fast. Then she was in Heuston and what would happen in the next hours would decide everything.
ABOUT NOREEN WAINWRIGHT
Noreen is Irish and now lives in the Staffordshire Moorlands with her husband, a dairy farmer. She works part-time as a mentor at Staffordshire University and the rest of her time is spent writing. Many of her articles and short stories have been published and she has co-written a non-fiction book.
She loves crim
e fiction, particularly that of the “golden age” and that is what she wants to recreate with Edith Horton’s world.
* * *
Get in touch with Noreen:
Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/noreen.wainwright
Twitter - https://twitter.com/farmerwainwrigh
Tirgearr Publishing - http://www.tirgearrpublishing.com/authors/Wainwright_Noreen
OTHER BOOKS BY NOREEN
EDITH HORTON MYSTERIES
TREATED AS MURDER, #1
Released: August 2014
ISBN: 9781311087256
Set in 1931, Edith Horton is a former VAD who finds herself not only struggling with her inner demons, but with the presence of evil in her village in the Yorkshire Dales. Her brother is suspected of murdering an elderly wealthy widow, and the sins of the past have echoes in her life and the lives of those close to her.
DEATH AT DAWN. #2
Released: July 2015
ISBN: 9781311764348
WWI is over but its echoes are still felt in the 1930s. Giles Etherington was a brave officer who also had a darker side. He does not return from a lone morning’s shooting for grouse on the “glorious 12th”. Is his death an act of revenge for his actions during the war, or as a result of his behaviour since? Edith Horton, his wife’s best friend finds herself drawn into the quest for his killer.
CRIME AT CHRISTMAS, #3
Released: November 2015
ISBN: 9781311568892
Jeremiah Arkwright’s death was sudden and violent. He was a domestic tyrant and uses his strict religious beliefs to control his family. He also had fraught relationships with his farming neighbours. There was another side to Jeremiah, however – a secret life. Has somebody discovered his secret or has someone close to him sought revenge? Edith Horton is drawn into the dark secrets of Pear Tree Farm.
SWALLOW HALL MURDER, #4
Released: October 2016
ISBN: 9781370056538
What links the dead poet to Swallow Hall? Many lives have been damaged by a controlling mother, and more than one person has ties to the dead man. Edith has her mind full with concerns about her own relationship and her brother’s health. But, when one of her old friends returns home, Edith is soon involved in the mystery of the Swallow Hall Murder.
The Body at Ballytierney Page 22
