Cashelmara (91 page)

We were in the morning room downstairs. The cherubs of the china clock were busy striking eleven o’clock, and beyond the windows the rain blew mistily across the untrimmed lawn.

“Perhaps it’s a good thing your mother’s not here,” said Aunt Madeleine surprisingly. “If she were she would without doubt have a nervous collapse, and that would only serve to complicate the situation. Let me see. I’d better arrange with your nanny—Mrs. Gray, isn’t it?—for you all to go to Salthill for a few days. Sea air is most bracing for children at this time of year.”

I stared at her. “You mean—I don’t understand—you don’t think Papa should see us?”

“Certainly not! First of all, he has absolutely no right to come here and abduct you in direct defiance of the court order, and second he’s drinking very heavily again and it would be most unsuitable if he took charge of you. The situation is quite different from that time earlier in the year when he was sober and requesting to see you in a proper manner. Of course, Edith is entirely to blame for the present distressing dilemma. Your uncles were firmly opposed to your father leaving England, but Edith influenced him, and once your father had made up his mind there was nothing your uncles could do to dissuade him. The best that can be done now is to remove the children to a secret destination and then talk to Patrick until he sees reason. He must realize that this notion of abduction simply won’t do. If he wishes to get the custody order amended he must do it through the courts.”

“But, Aunt Madeleine … you do think, don’t you, that we should go on living with Mama? I wouldn’t mind visiting my father, but—”

“Of course it would be unsuitable if you lived with him permanently. He must stop drinking again before that idea can be considered. As for your mother, I hardly know what to think. I cannot condone her liaison with that man, and I think it’s very bad that you should be confronted with it daily. John doesn’t matter—he’ll always be too young to understand—but it’s a shocking example to those girls growing up and God only knows what effect it’s having on you. One can only pray, as I do daily, that you survive with your moral standards untarnished.”

“I don’t want to be taken away from my mother,” said my voice.

“No, of course you don’t, and in spite of all I’ve just said I don’t think you should be. This ceaseless tug of war between your parents is even worse for you than seeing daily examples of your mother’s infatuation with Maxwell Drummond, and that’s what I must persuade Patrick to accept when I return to Clonareen. Now, I think I should speak to Nanny to arrange for your departure to Salthill as soon as possible.”

We left for Salthill that afternoon, and Drummond, to my relief, rode with us. Aunt Madeleine was opposed to this, but we had to spend the night at Oughterard, and traveling is difficult enough with three young children without the complications arising from an overnight stop. Drummond found rooms for us, saw that the horses were properly attended to and tipped all the right people so that we received good service. I don’t know what I would have done if he hadn’t been there. When we reached Salthill the next morning he installed us in a quiet hotel near the promenade and stayed until Miss Cameron and Mr. Watson arrived with the luggage in the extra carriage, which had been hired from Leenane. It was only then that he told me he would be leaving.

“It would be nice to spend a few days with you by the sea,” he said to me, “but I’d best go home in case your father makes more mischief.”

“I wish I knew when Mama will be coming home from Dublin.”

“She might be in Galway tomorrow. I thought that before I go back I would leave a note for her at the Great Southern Hotel to tell her where you are, so maybe in a few hours she’ll be arriving here to look for you.”

He was right. She came. She was red-eyed from weeping, and her clothes were shabby after the long train journey and she hadn’t bothered to do her hair carefully so that it fell down as soon as she took off her hat.

“You look very tired, my lady,” said Nanny at once. “You’d better lie down and rest for half an hour.”

“Oh no,” said my mother. “I must see the children. I’ve got to see the children.” She was quite distraught.

After a pause Nanny said, “I’ll fetch them. They’re with Miss Cameron at present. Ned dear, order your mama some tea.”

“What happened, Mama?” I said when we were alone.

“They weren’t sure about the deed. They thought perhaps it might be set aside. But they said you could easily be made wards of court if your father applied to the judge. Do you know if he’s applied yet? I told the attorneys I didn’t know if he’d applied.”

“I don’t know. Mama, if we’re made wards of court, does it mean the judge would appoint someone like Uncle Thomas—or Aunt Madeleine—to be our guardian? Because if so, we would still stay with you. Aunt Madeleine said we should stay.”

“The judge is almost certain not to allow that. There’s the adultery. And I haven’t gone to church. I’ve failed to set you a good religious example. And there’s the fact that I haven’t sent you to a proper school and allowed you to associate with those peasant boys.”

“Good God!” I said, so amazed that for a moment I forgot to be frightened. “What stupid things people worry about!”

“I’ve got to stop your father,” she said, not listening to me. “I’ve got to reason with him. I’m going back to Cashelmara tonight and then I shall call at Clonagh Court.”

“Mama, you can’t go back tonight—forty miles! It’s impossible! Stay here tonight. Please stay.”

“But I must leave early tomorrow. There’s no time to waste.” Her eyes were bright, as if she had a fever. She was twisting her hands over and over in her lap. “I must see him,” she said. “I must.”

“Let me come with you.”

“No!” she said sharply and then added in a softer, more normal voice, “Stay here and look after the little ones for me. Please, Ned. It would mean so much to me if you did that.”

So I stayed. For three days I played with my brother and sisters on the beach or in the hotel, and then at last on the third night Maxwell Drummond arrived and asked to speak to me alone.

We went to my bedroom. It was a narrow little room, and the wallpaper, which consisted of a pattern of enormous roses, made it seem even narrower. There was a chair and a washstand, a tallboy and a brass bed.

“What happened?” I said in a low voice.

He sat down on the chair. I had never thought of him as being either young or old, but now he looked every one of his forty-five years. His eyes were bloodshot with tiredness, and the lines were deep about his mouth. He looked at me without expression.

“Sit down, Ned,” he said.

I lowered myself onto the edge of the bed. Nothing happened except that I began to feel sick and was gripped by the terrible conviction that soon I’d feel sicker still.

“Your mother went to see your father at Clonagh Court,” he said. “She was prepared to be friendly and even brought him some gifts from the children, but he was beyond reason and there was a quarrel. She left. He drank himself senseless. The next morning he was so ill that your cousin Edith sent for your aunt Madeleine, who said your father was suffering from an illness called cirrhosis of the liver. It’s common among drunkards, and your father had suffered attacks before. Your father was very ill for twenty-four hours and finally went into a coma.” He stopped.

I said nothing. Above us the gaslight flickered, and beyond the curtains the rain was tapping at the pane.

“He died,” said Drummond.

There was another silence.

“This morning it was … Your aunt came to Cashelmara to tell your mother, and I spoke to her. ‘Cirrhosis of the liver,’ she said, and I made her say it two or three times to make sure I had it right.”

He stopped again. I was gripping the edge of the bed and waiting for the dizziness, but it never came. The knuckles of my hands were white.

“I’m sorry, Ned,” said the man. “I know you were fond of him once. I know this is a shock for you.”

I suddenly realized I was by the window looking out. It was raining very hard outside.

“Please ask Nanny to tell John and the girls,” I said.

When I said nothing else he answered, “I will. Would you like me to stay with you for a while?”

I shook my head.

But he didn’t go. After a long pause he said, “If you’re thinking …” But he stopped. Then: “I’ll be in room fifteen if you need me,” he said and went out, closing the door softly behind him.

I sat down on the edge of the bed and thought about cirrhosis of the liver. After some unknown time I thought: Of course it would have had to be arranged so that there was no mark on the body. Too dangerous otherwise. Clever about suggesting an illness that often kills drunkards. No difficulty about Dr. Cahill signing the certificate of death. No autopsy.

I wondered how it had been done. Common knowledge my father was drinking again. Something in the poteen probably. A servant? Cousin Edith must have had at least a cook and a handyman. Yes, of course she did, for Seamus O’Malley had told me only the other day that his uncle had been caretaker at Clonagh Court. O’Malley. Drummond’s kin. Of course.

I tore a piece of paper from my English composition book, found a pencil stub and began to write.

“Dear Uncle Thomas and Uncle David, I have reason to believe …”

I stopped. Wait. Think. Be careful. What about my mother? In any denunciation of Drummond, how could she possibly escape? And she had been at Clonagh Court on the very day my father had drunk himself into a stupor; she had probably gone there without Drummond’s knowledge. How horrified he would have been when he had found she had unwittingly placed herself in a dangerous position! If poison were ever found in the body, the police would immediately suspect my mother, and maybe Drummond would even go scot-free.

Tearing up the letter, I burned it to ashes in the bedside candle tray.

After a long while I wondered if my father really had died of cirrhosis of the liver. It was possible. I knew what happened to people who stood in Drummond’s way, but there was such a thing as coincidence. I tested the theory, probing it. My mother had been in desperate straits, Drummond would have done anything to help her, and then my father, coincidentally, had died.

So much for coincidence.

I was quite calm. I thought I would feel dizzy and confused but I didn’t, so I was able to consider the situation rationally. Murder was wrong, but it would be even more wrong if my mother were convicted of a crime she didn’t commit. I didn’t want to protect Drummond, but I had to in order to protect my mother. No choice. Besides, if I were to be honest, wasn’t it for the best that my father was dead? He had caused my mother a great deal of suffering in the past and had died while bent on causing her a great deal more. I was sorry he was dead, of course; that was only fitting, but when all was said and done he had really been no use to anyone, least of all me. It was true I had been fond of him once, but that was over. All fondness had been destroyed by his disgusting behavior, and now there was no need either to grieve or to dwell upon the past.

I lay awake all night thinking of him.

I thought of the book he had given me about the Knights of the Round Table. “Oh, Papa, how nice you would look in a suit of armor with a crusader’s cross on your chest!” I had exclaimed, and he had laughed. “I’m no hero, Ned,” he had said. I could so clearly remember him saying that. “I’m no hero.”

I cried a little then but didn’t know why. It didn’t make any sense. If only I could make sense of it—and I was afraid of going to sleep in case I dreamt of the Tiffany lamps.

We went back to Cashelmara. My mother was very distraught, and Dr. Cahill called each day to see her. After my uncles arrived from England the funeral was arranged to take place at the end of the week, and I saw the two men who had helped my father in the garden disappear up the Azalea Walk to dig the grave.

“Very sad,” everyone kept saying. “Inevitable for a man of his habits, perhaps, but very tragic.”

At dawn on the day of the funeral it occurred to me that perhaps there was some proof that Drummond had committed the murder without my mother’s knowledge. He might have written to her, mapping out a plan, and when my mother rushed home from Dublin in horror to stop him she had failed to arrive in time to stop my father drinking the poisoned poteen. This theory would explain why she had been in such a hurry to see my father and why she had left him so abruptly. They hadn’t quarreled at all; he had become ill in her presence and in a panic she had rushed away.

If the letter was still in existence—which seemed unlikely—it would be in the Carlton House writing table in my mother’s boudoir.

After dressing quietly I left my room and padded around the gallery above the hall. I saw no one. It was still too early for the servants to be up, and I knew my mother would be unlikely to rise before eight, but I had to be careful not to disturb her because the boudoir was next door to her bedroom.

The writing table, highly polished and elegant, stood in the corner. Tiptoeing over to it, I fingered my way through all the drawers, but it was only when I found nothing that I remembered the secret drawer and reached for the hidden spring. My mother had shown me the drawer when I was small and had allowed me to hide things in it.

The spring clicked. The drawer eased open. By this time I was convinced I would find nothing that could possibly interest me, so it came as a great surprise when I discovered the letters. They were folded neatly together and tied with red ribbon, but they weren’t from Drummond to my mother. They were from my father to me.

They were letters I had never seen, letters he had written to me when I was in America, letters my mother had kept from me but for some reason had never brought herself to destroy. Perhaps she had planned to give them to me when I was twenty-one, as if they were some bizarre heirloom. However, that hardly mattered now.

I sat down on the chaise longue, and while my mother slept in the room next door I read every one of those letters.

One of them in particular imprinted itself indelibly on my mind. “Maxwell Drummond, who deals out murder and violence as casually as other men deal a hand of cards …”