In Like Flynn (17 page)

“Because of the rocks we couldn't get near enough to see exacdy, but it looked like a person lying there, sure enough,” a second man added.

I didn't waste another second. I scrambled into the bloomers I had worn on the bicycle and put on my most sensible shoes. By the time I came downstairs Bamey had assembled the estate workers and was in the process of sending the chauffeur into Jones: Point to fetch the nearest constable. Mr. Rimes, still bleary-eyed and only half awake, stood at the top of the stairs in a plaid dressing gown calling, “What the devil is going on?” at the top of his voice. There was no sign of Desmond O'Mara.

Bamey set off with the fishermen, along with Tom and Adam, plus two gardeners whose names I didn't know bringing up the rear. I gave them a head start, then followed. The river was hidden in a thick morning mist and strands of mist drifted across the lawns so that the men ahead of me disappeared and reappeared as they walked. We reached the wooded area beyond the lawns, where I had sat with Eileen that day and sensed somebody watching. The mist was thicker here and seemed to deaden all sound so that I felt as if I was all alone and miles from anywhere. I had no idea how far ahead of me the men were and hurried on, picking up the path beyond the clearing. It became ever more narrow and overgrown with brambles, making me glad I hadn't worn my usual skirts. At last it emerged from the undergrowth and I sensed rather than saw that we were high above the river. Then the mist parted, revealing a fearsome drop to the water that swirled and splashed over rocks below us. The path continued, hugging the very edge of the cliff, only wide enough for one pair of feet at a time as it skirted giant boulders. The mist had made the rocks slippery and I moved for-ward cautiously. Then I heard shouts ahead of me and tried to hurry.

“Go and get ropes and a board, Adam,” I heard Bamey commanding. “Well have to find a way to lower somebody down there.”

Through the mist I saw a pine tree, growing precariously at the very edge of the drop. I held onto this and peered down. The cliff was maybe a hundred feet high, with spray-drenched rocks at its base. On these rocks the figure of a woman now lay sprawled. I turned away, feeling sick. Bamey had warned me about the dangers of this path. Some poor woman had chosen to ignore them and plunged to an untimely death.

Adam returned with the ropes that he tied to a tree before old Tom made the tortuous climb down the cliff face.

“She’s dead right enough,” Tom called back.

“Do you recognize her?” Bamey shouted down. “Is she a local woman?”

“Hard to tell. The face is pretty bashed about.”

Then get a board under her and lash her down so that we can haul her up,” Bamey shouted.

I didn't think they should do anything before the constable arrived, but I could hardly give them instructions without revealing my presence. Besides, there was no way they'd listen to a slip of
dr
girl fresh from Ireland. I watched as the board was lowered down and the poor woman’s body dragged onto it. Then with shouts and encouragement she was hauled up the cliff, just in time for the ar-rival of the constable.

“Fell to her death, did she?” the constable asked, watching as hands reached out to grab the board with the woman on it and drag her the last few feet to the path. “Not the first time it’s happened and won't be the last. One false step on that path and over you go. I wonder what she was doing here? Not a local woman, is she? And on your property too, Senator.”

“Probably some tourist from the city out for a Sunday stroll,” one of the men commented. “These modem women are too adventurous by half. Likely as not she didn't realize she was on private property.”

“Even though there’s that big notice saying, 'Private, Keep Out'?” old Tom said.

“Let’s see if she has any identification on her.” The constable began going through her pockets but produced only a lace hand-kerchief.

“Why don't we carry her back to the house?” Bamey suggested. “Someone will have reported her missing.”

I ducked back behind the rock as the procession made its way past me. I tried not to look at her, but I had to. Her face was a horrible black and blue sticky mess, hardly identifiable as a human being. One arm trailed in a pathetic gesture. Her sodden skirts left a trail of drips on the sandy soil. Suddenly I gasped. On that skirt was a recognizable streak of oil where a bicycle had collided with it two days ago.

Twenty

I
ran after them, my heart beating so fast that I found it hard to breathe.

“Wait,” I called.

The procession halted and turned to face me.

“I know who she is,” I said. “I had a slight accident when I was riding a bicycle two days ago. I knocked her down. There was oil from the chain on her skirt. Look—here it is. She didn't manage to clean it off.”

“And who are you, miss? A friend of hers?” the constable asked.

“No, this young lady is my cousin, visiting from Ireland,” Barney said before I could reply. “Where did you come into contact with this person, Molly?”

Come into contact was the right description and I would have smiled, had not the situation been so tragic.

“In the village, right outside the saloon.”

“Do you know her name then, miss?” the constable asked.

“I only know that she’s a visitor to the area and she told me her name is Margie McAlister.”

“Sweet Jesus and Mary,” Barney Flynn muttered.

You know her, sir?” The constable looked up at Barney’s oath.

Barney’s face had turned pale. “She used to work for us. She was my wife’s nurse, when Theresa had a breakdown after our son was kidnapped. But she left us three or four years ago. I have no idea what she was doing back in the area.”

“Might she have come back to pay you a visit?”

“It’s possible, I suppose, although I can't think why. I don't believe there was any particular bond established between her and my wife. She was an efficient nurse and she did her job, but we certainly didn't look upon her as one of the family, as we do our cook, or Tom here.”

“Any idea where she might be living these days?”

“None at all,” Bamey said shortly. “As I say we have a large staff and they come and go. When my wife recovered we had no further need of her services.”

i“I believe she said she was living somewhere called George-town,” I said. “But at the moment she was staying in the area. She said she found it healthful beside the river.”

“Did she tell you anything else?” Bamey asked.

“Not that I can think of. We were both shaken up. We exchanged a few words while we recovered. It was strange, though. I mentioned that I was staying with you and she didn't admit to former service in your household.”

“Maybe she had come up in the world and was ashamed to admit her former domestic employment,” the constable suggested.

I realized this might have been true. I had noticed the good quality of her dress, and she had the money to take a summer trip for her health.

The constable lifted her left hand. “No weddingring,I notice,” he said. “Never mind. If she’s staying locally we shouldn't have much trouble locating next-of-kin. What on earth made her come along that cliff path, instead of at the main gate like any normal person?”

“We'll never know that now, I'm afraid,” Bamey said. “Maybe we should carry her up to the carriage house until you can arrange trans-port to the morgue. It would be most distressing for my wife and the other ladies present if they saw her in this condition.”

The procession moved on. I didn't follow them this time. Instead, I waited until they were swallowed up into the mist, then I made my way back to the cliff path until I was standing above the spot where she had lain. The cliff edge had been disturbed by Adam bringing the body up, but I could still see the ppint at which the edge had crumbled as she lost her footing and slithered down. I stared at it with interest, picturing her body as it had lain on the rocks. So she had not been on her way to visit the estate at all. She had been on her way out. If she had lost her balance while going in the other direction there was a tree branch she could have grabbed onto to save herself. But heading away from the estate the branch would have been behind her. And the position of her body backed this up, even though she may have bounced off rocks on the way down. I shuddered and turned away What a horrible end to such an attractive young woman.

Then a sobering thought struck me. What if she had not just lost her footing at all? Was it possible that somebody had crept along that path behind her and given her a good shove? For some reason that partly overheard conversation came into my mind, the man’s voice whispering, “What the devil do you think you're doing here? … You remember our agreement. … I paid you well enough!”

Was that why Miss McAlister hadn't mentioned any ties to Adare? She had come to visit secretly and it could only be for one reason: blackmail. She knew something and was being paid to keep quiet about it. Was it about one of Bamey Flynn’s underhand deals, information which wouldn't look good if it came out during an election year? Or could it be about the kidnapping? Was it possible that someone still in the house had been involved in the kidnapping? Then I remembered Desmond O'Mara, hurrying across the lawn toward the cliff path. Desmond—the bright but penniless young man who certainly had the brain to hatch such a daring plot and who had stayed on in a menial situation for some reason. Was it because someone had a hold over him?

I walked back to the house deep in thought. I didn't know what to do next. I couldn't tell Barney, when everything was such pure conjecture. After all, it was possible that Bamey was the one she had come to blackmail, but I had to admit that he had seemed genuinely shocked when I divulged her name and hadn't recognized her until that moment.

There was little point in mentioning it to the local constable, who seemed a nice enough fellow, but a little on the slow side. My only hope was to tell Daniel and let him take it from here. And risk another lecture on poking my nose into affairs that were none of my business, I thought. Daniel might decide that I was overreacting and jumping to wrong conclusions again. Margie McAlister’s death could have been nothing more than a horrible and unfortu-nate accident and her reasons for visiting Adare nothing more than wanting another glimpse of the house of which she had fond memories.

As I returned to the house I encountered Bamey, coming down from the carriage house. “Where have you been, Molly?” he asked.

“I wanted to see for myself where shefell,”I said. “Morbid curiosity, I suppose. My mother always told me I was too curious by half.”

“A tragic business,” Bamey said, falling into step beside me. “I can't think what she was doing here, and least of all why she was attempting to come along that cliff path. You saw yourself how narrow and dangerous it is.”

“Maybe she just wanted another glimpse of the house and didn't want to disturb anyone at the main gate,” I said. “It could have been the most innocent of reasons—maybe she wanted to take a snapshot to show her friends where she once worked.”

I saw relief flood across his face. “Yes, maybe that was it.” He shook his head, smiling sadly. “What a waste of a life for nothing.” He leaned close to me. “Look, Molly, I'd be grateful if you didn't mention anything of this to my wife. You know how frail her health is. I don't want her upset again.” We climbed the front steps together. “The way servants gossip she'll probably hear that there was an accident on the cliff path, but she doesn't have to know the identity of the victim.”

“Of course not,” I said. “You can rely on me.”

He took my arm and squeezed it. “I knew I could,” he said. “And now I must telephone for a doctor to come and sign the death certificate.”

I opened my mouth to say something but thought better of it. Maybe I would have a chance to speak with the doctor when he arrived.

As Barney went into his study and closed the door behind him, I had another change of mind. I left the house again, heading up the driveway to the carriage house. The police constable had taken up a position outside the carriage house door. Presumably the body now lay somewhere inside. There was no sign of the gardeners.

“What a terribly sad affair, isn't it?” I said, going up to the police constable. “It gave me quite a shock when I realized that I had spoken with her only two days ago.”

“I'm sure it would have done, miss. A delicate young lady like yourself.”

Nobody could describe me as delicate with any stretch of the imagination, but I tried to look suitably pale and wan. “It can't be easy for you, either. Even though you must come across such things as part of your job.”

“No, death is never easy,” he said. “But it’s not like we get murders out here every day, like the police do in New York City. That must be a terrible place with killings going on all the time.”

“It must indeed,” I said. “But I bet you've seen some excitement during your time on the force, haven't you?” I gave him what I hoped was an adoring look. “Were you involved when the kidnap-ping happened here?”

“I most certainly was,” he said. “I was the one who got the first call that the child was missing. I helped them search the grounds all afternoon and then I was actually with them when the ransom note arrived.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes. I was the one who handed it to the Senator. His poor hands were shaking so hard he could scarcely read the words.”

“What exactly did the note say?”

“I can't remember the exact words now,” he said, “but it was awful chilling stuff—all about the child being buried alive and how they'd never see him again if they didn't obey exactly what the note told them. Of course, one of the things it said was, Don't go to the police,' and I was standing right there.”

“And of course he didn't obey, did he?” I said. “I understood that the police were there when the kidnapper came to pick up the ransom. Wasn't he killed by a police sharpshooter?”

“He was. And I was one of those policemen. But it was one of the federal marshals who did the shooting. Those guys always were trigger-happy, from what I heard.”

“What a tragedy,” I said. “And so unnecessary.”

“I couldn't agree more, miss. If they'd only let him pick up the money, then we could have arrested him with no fuss as he came back to the main road. He'd arranged the pickup in the depths of the forest, you see. Bad mistake, if you ask me. Got himself trapped. That was why he tried to run for it.”

'You're talking about the chauffeur, Bertie Morell, aren't you?”

That’s right, miss. You could have knocked all of us down with a feather when we saw it was him. We all knew him, see. He was a regular in the village, always at the saloon, laughing and drinking with the local boys.”

“I wonder what made him do an awful thing like that,” I said. “From what I hear, he liked children, and he was devoted to the Flynn baby.”

“If you ask me, miss, he did it because he had to. I believe he was in the pay of someone or something.”

“Something?”

He lowered his voice and looked around, even though we two were the only people in sight. “I saw the note, miss. There was a black hand on the bottom of it.”

“A black hand?”

He nodded. “So I'm thinking that maybe the Senator wasn't paying protection money where he should be and the Black Hand sent Morell out to put the squeeze on him.”

“Holy Mother of God,” I muttered. This put an entirely different complexion on things. But if the Black Hand had been involved, why hadn't it come out earlier? Unless Barney Flynn had been so frightened of them and what they might do next that he'd kept it a secret. Now I was definitely going to write to Daniel!

I left the policeman, promising to have a cup of coffee sent up to him, and hurried to my room. This explained a lot. If Bertie Morell was really Italian by heritage, then maybe he had become involved with the Black Hand and had no choice but to carry out their commands. Maybe he had family members who would have suffered if he hadn't obeyed orders. I positively ran up the stairs, free, for once, from the encumbrance of my long skirts, and sat at my desk to write.

“There is something strange going on here, Daniel,” I wrote.

I know you wanted me to confine my efforts to two spiritualist ladies, but I noticed an atmosphere of tension in this house the moment I arrived. Since then another tragedy has happened. A young woman who used to work here has fallen to her death. I don't think it was an accident although it would be impossible to prove it. And I have just found out from the local policeman who was at the scene when the kidnap ransom note was delivered that the note was signed with a black hand. Was this known to the police? Did they ever do anything about it?

I signed and sealed the letter and decided to face the long walk into the village immediately after breakfast. Almost on cue the breakfast gong sounded. I tucked my letter into a book, just in case, and had just reached the bottom of the stairs when the front door opened and Desmond O'Mara came in. His hair was untidy and his face looked flushed as if he'd been running.

“Oh Miss Gaffney,” he stammered. “Is the Senator in his office yet?”

“I think he is, Mr. O'Mara.”

“Oh dear, then I'm in for it.” He gave an embarrassed laugh. “I went across the river last night and I missed the last ferry back.”