Night of the Dark Horse (An Allegra Fairweather Mystery) (4 page)

Enveloping me in a blast of beery breath, he said loudly, “It was just a bit o’ fun, darlin’, Aedan doesn’t mind.”

Drawing myself up to my full six foot and one half inch, I said, “
I
mind.”

“I told ya before. Mind yer own business. Yer here to get rid of the pooka not preach to us.”

At that moment I kind of tripped. The heel of my boot came down hard on Colum’s instep. “Oops, my bad.” I grabbed the nearest thing for support, which turned out to be Colum’s shoulder, and gosh, I squeezed a pressure point near his neck. A scream lodged in his throat. He struggled to remain silent.

“Leave Aedan alone,” I whispered. “Or next time I’ll aim lower.”

As I joined the others outside, Colum shouted after us. “Unlucky Aedan, just remember there won’t always be a girl around to protect you.”

Aedan tried to march back inside. With my arm around his waist it was easy to hold him back. “Not this time, tough guy. You’ll get your chance.”

“Bastard,” he muttered.

Bastard? That was the best he could come up with? Oh dear.

“How long you been in love with Niamh?” I asked.

“Since primary school. I proposed to her when I was seven. She accepted. Long time ago. Things change. I’ve made peace with that. So long as I can be near her it’s not so bad.”

“Maybe that’s your problem,” I murmured. “You won’t fight for her.”

“If I fought for her, I’d fall flat on my face.” He was probably right.

I glanced at Casper. “Think we could teach Aedan a few moves?”

Before his death, Casper had spent a lot of time fighting the Romans. Any moves he didn’t know weren’t worth knowing. Of course, there was that little rule forbidding him from brawling—unless he was protecting me—but teaching someone else the moves? I figured that wouldn’t breech his Rules of Conduct.

Casper seemed to agree. “I can teach Aedan to fight. Theoretically. But there might not be many practical lessons.” He leaned heavily on his cane.

“Just do what you can.”

“We’ll begin in the morning.”

Aedan was currently unemployed so there was no problem fitting the lessons in around work. After he and Casper had arranged a time to meet, I took the opportunity to question Aedan about the case. It seemed a no-brainer that anyone known far and wide as Unlucky would’ve been called to ride by the pooka and ended up in a bog. Probably more than once. But when I posed the question, he shook his head.

“I’ve heard it galloping through the village,” he said. “I’ve heard it call for people to ride. Once I even saw it. Derry Boyle was clinging to its back and yelling at it to do its worst, or something like that. But it’s never called me.”

Hmm. Maybe Aedan wasn’t as unlucky as people thought. “Have you seen a black eagle with yellow tips on its wings?”

He started to shake his head again, but then did a mental double take. “Wait on, I did see it. Scavenging for scraps. I threw it some leftovers.”

“Did it attack you?”

“No. It ate the food. Then it kind of nodded its head like it was sayin’ thank you, and flew off.” Aedan stopped at a tiny house. “This is me.”

There were no lights on in the windows. “You live alone?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

Casper and I watched Aedan walk to his door. We didn’t move on until he was safely inside with the door locked. Then we set off for Siobhan’s place.

The village was bathed in twilight. The kids and joggers and gardeners had abandoned the outdoors for their TVs and computers. We headed past brightly lit windows to a soundtrack of cop shows and news bulletins.

Siobhan lived on the outskirts of Dingaleen, the opposite side to Ronan, but their houses had much in common. Both were more modern than the historic cottages nearer the center of the village, and boasted double garages. Siobhan’s front yard was decorated with strange lumps of stone and abstract sculptures. One big downside—the place was still deserted.

“Maybe she stayed in Dublin—went clubbing,” I said.

“It’s too early in the week for clubbing,” Casper pointed out.

“Do we wait or head back to Ronan’s?”

“Let’s wait,” he said.

Did he know something I didn’t? Was he helping again? “You’ve been bending a lot of rules lately.”

Instead of giving me a reason, he said, “Enjoy it while it lasts.”

Hmm. That had a ring of finality I didn’t like at all. Before I could probe further, a single car purred down the street. It slowed and turned into Siobhan’s driveway.

“Perfect timing.” As a slender young woman climbed out of the car, I approached and said, “Siobhan Whelan?”

“That’s me.” She pushed dark bangs off her face, the movement making her silver bracelets jangle. Her lips were painted a bright red that not only suited her but managed to avoid clashing with the multi-colored dress. Gladiator sandals were laced halfway up her legs. She regarded us curiously. “Are you here on holiday? From America? Do you want to see my work? You’re welcome to look in the studio, but my best stuff is in the gallery in Dublin.” She dug a card from her bag and handed it to me.

“Uh, thanks.” I stuck it in my pocket. “I’d love to see your work. Next time I’m in Dublin I’ll drop by the galley. Right now I want to ask you some questions about the pooka.”

She took a closer look at me. “Who did you say you were?”

“Allegra Fairweather. And this,” I added as Casper joined us, “is my partner.”

Her brow puckered then suddenly cleared. “Of course, you’re Ronan’s paranormal investigator. Sorry, I didn’t realize—it’s been a long day. I’ll happily answer some questions so long as...” she cast an admiring glance at Casper, “...I can sketch him.”

Casper grimaced.

“He doesn’t like to be sketched,” I said.

“Shame.” She headed for her house, a ring of keys dangling from her long fingers.

I whispered to Casper. “It’s only a sketch. All you have to do is sit there. Please?”

Casper nodded wearily. “I wouldn’t do this for just anyone.”

“Well, Siobhan is pretty cute.”

“You know who I mean.” But he stopped short of saying it was me.

As we followed Siobhan into her neat cottage, she said, “I’m desperate for a cup of tea. Want to join me?” She offered us a choice of Earl Grey, Russian Caravan, green, white, peppermint or chamomile. As usual, tea was the last thing I wanted, but I settled for green, which I barely sipped. Casper asked for plain water. When Siobhan had made the drinks, she got out her sketchbook and pencils, and curled up in an armchair opposite Casper. We were in a casual living room, which led to her studio. Through the open door I saw the usual artist’s paraphernalia—tubes of paint, brushes, palettes, half-finished pics on easels—there was even a rack of costumes that I guessed were worn by her models. Hanging amongst the long floaty dresses, hooded capes, and faux armor was a barbarian’s loincloth.

“Do you want Casper to wear that?” I asked hopefully.

“No, a costume won’t be necessary. I can fill that in later.”

Bugger
!

As she continued to sketch, I pulled out my own pencil and notepad, and got to work.

“I understand the pooka appeared right after you tidied some graves,” I began.

“Not right after.” Her pencil flew across her sketchpad. “Two days, I think.”

“Do you visit the graves a lot?” That’s what Nola had told me, but Siobhan denied it.

“I went there once.” She paused to study her sketch, study Casper and chew the end of her pencil.

“Tell me about the graves,” I said as she got back to work.

“They were in some woodland.” She spoke absent-mindedly. All her attention was on Casper and the lines and swirls she was adding to her sketch. “I was wandering around looking for inspiration when I saw the headstones. They were half covered in vines, weathered and leaning like broken teeth. They looked so sad I just couldn’t help myself. I pulled the vines off. I tried to straighten the stones as well, but they were too heavy.”

“Did you sketch them? Or take photos?”

She shook her head. “My work is concerned with life, not death. It’s hard to explain why I felt the need to tidy those graves. Even harder to explain why I gathered posies of wildflowers and left one on each grave.”

“How many? Graves, I mean.”

“Three close together and another some distance away. The fourth was the most recent. The letters of the inscription were clear. At first I thought it was written in Irish Gaelic, but I couldn’t make any sense of it.”

“I’ll need to see the graves as soon as possible.”

She spread her hands as though she’d love to take me there, but... “I’ve so much to do with my show in Dublin. I’ll give you directions. You won’t have any trouble finding the place. Anyway, if you get lost just look for the mad eagle.”

“Would this be a black eagle with yellow wingtips?”

“That’s the one. A beautiful bird. Or so I thought until it went for my head. I barely got away with my hair intact.”

“So, returning to the pooka,” I said. “Talk me through the night you were called to ride.”

“There was a big storm. Storms always invigorate me, and I was working in my studio. On the Warrior Series. Casper will make a great addition.” She fell silent, concentrating on her work. I prompted her to continue.

“Right, where was I? Oh yes. I was working when a deep voice called, ‘Siobhan Branna Whelan.’ At first I thought it was the wind, or my imagination. When I realized there was actually someone out there—well, I wasn’t happy to be disturbed. I ignored it. Next thing I know, this black horse is galloping around, rearing up and tapping its hoofs on the windows of my studio. ‘Come out or I’ll kick them in,’ it said. Sure, I’d heard a pooka had come to the village, but it’s hard to believe in the reality of a talking horse until you’ve actually experienced it. The creature kept galloping around, threatening to kick the windows in if I refused to ride. I couldn’t risk my work getting water damaged so I went outside. It took me a while to get on its back. I almost wished I hadn’t. It galloped around the countryside with me clinging to its mane. I was wondering how the hell I’d get off, when it stopped dead. I sailed over its head and into some prickly bushes.”

“Nasty.”

“I was lucky it wasn’t a bog. That’s where poor old Derry Boyle ended up.” She added a bit of shading to the last of four sketches and put down her pencil. “Would you sit for a painting, Casper? No? That’s a shame. But I have these sketches.” She put down her sketchbook and pencil, stretched and yawned widely. “Do you have any more questions? I’m knackered.”

“That’s all for now.”

On the way back to Ronan’s, we swung by Nola’s place to confirm the bird that had attacked her cake was an eagle. Yep, black wings, yellow tips.

When we were on the street again, I said to Casper, “Looks like you might be right. The eagle is the key.”

He nodded as though I was his star pupil. This was such a massive change in attitude from his usual the-Powers-That-Be-won’t-let-me-help-you policy that I wondered whether he considered this case his swansong. Not a pleasant thought. To distract myself, I did a quick recap of the events so far. “This all began when Siobhan messed with the graves and was attacked by the eagle. Later she was called to ride by the pooka. Next, Nola shooed an eagle from her cake and the pooka called
her
to ride. Third, Derry shooed an eagle away from his garden and
he
was called to ride.”

“What do the eagle and the pooka have in common?”

“Well, duh, fairy shapeshifters can become all sorts of creatures. Horses and eagles are the most popular. The eagle and pooka could well be the same fairy in different forms.”

“What about Ronan?” Casper’s cane clicked on the road punctuating his words. “Did he see the eagle?”

“I plan to ask him in about five minutes.” Which was exactly the time it took to reach Ronan’s front gate. Irish music drifted out to greet us. I might have even danced a few steps right there in the road. Then I caught sight of Ronan through the open drapes of his living room. He was standing in the center of the room swaying slightly to the music. Leaning heavily on his own cane he executed a simple step. Growing in confidence, his steps became more complicated. He tossed aside the cane and attempted a turn. As he spun around, his hair rose like an eagle taking flight. He must’ve been beautiful to watch when his body was whole.

I turned to Casper wanting to share the moment. His face was granite-still, the cheekbones broad and strong like an ancient statue. Our eyes met. The clouds parted and a sliver of moonlight brushed his lips. It was a moment for romance, for hot kisses and melting into a lover’s embrace. An expression of intense longing passed across his face. My heart bucked like a crazed pooka.

Casper said, “I’m—um—tired. I need to get to Cloud 9.” As he disappeared, a loud crash came from Ronan’s house. Ronan had fallen sideways, crashing into a coffee table before he tumbled onto the floor and out of sight. My first instinct was to rush inside and help, but I held back. Ronan wouldn’t thank me for witnessing his failure. To save him embarrassment, I waited outside until he got to his feet, limped across the room and sank gratefully into a chair.

I didn’t have a key to his house so I had to disturb him by knocking. He took a while to open the door. I followed him into the living room. The table he’d fallen against was intact, but the broken pieces of a vase had been hastily brushed under the sofa. A lump had risen on his forehead and there was a small trickle of blood from a cut on his cheek.

“Maybe you should sit down,” I said.

He shook his head. “Too tired. I’ll go to bed.”

As I helped him to the bedroom, I asked, “You ever had any problems with eagles stealing food?”

“Eagles? No, I don’t think so.” He seemed confused. Maybe he had a slight concussion. “Is this important? The case?”

“Never mind. We can talk in the morning.” I helped him to his bed.

As I pulled the covers over him, he mumbled, “Stealing food. There was an incident. Not an eagle. A kid. I wasn’t long out of hospital—the time I had the flu, not for my knee. The weather was unseasonably warm. I took my cup of tea and biscuits outside. I’d forgotten the sugar and went inside to get it. When I came out, there was a kid shoving biscuits in his mouth like he hadn’t eaten in a month. I acted like a real shite and yelled at him to bugger off. He dropped the biscuits and ran. Jaysus, I felt lousy about that. If I couldn’t spare a biscuit for a hungry kid, what kind of person was I?”