The Book of Killowen (Nora Gavin #4) (20 page)

The woman raised her hand in reply, then removed her dusty leather gloves as her colleague parked the loader and shut off the engine. “Yes, I’m Shawn.”

The accent was American, Stella noted, as she held up her ID. “Detective Cusack. I’m here about the body found in the bog yesterday. You’re the nearest neighbors, so I’m talking to everyone at Killowen. Does the name Benedict Kavanagh mean anything to either of you?”

Shawn Kearney shrugged. “No, I don’t remember hearing that name. Do you, Anthony?”

“Cuh-cuh-can’t suh-say that I do,” he said. His right arm shot out forcefully, as if he was going to land a punch, but he struck at the air. Stella drew back involuntarily.

“It’s all right, Detective,” Kearney said. “It’s just a reflex.” As if to demonstrate, Beglan’s hand shot out twice more, uselessly punching the air before him, and he let out a series of high-pitched squeaks. Shawn Kearney stood by as if this conversation were the most normal thing in the world. Stella had to concentrate on her questions and tried to keep eye contact with both of them. “We’re looking at the last two weeks of
April, asking everyone if they remember anything unusual from that time.”

“I was the on-site archaeologist as the new geothermal system was going in,” Kearney said.

“So you’d only just arrived?”

“That’s right. Never set foot on the place before the middle of last April. And now I can’t leave.” She raised her arms, as if astonished to find herself standing in a meadow next to a heap of stones. “Life is full of surprises.”

“You had no previous connection to Killowen before coming to work on the project?”

“No. I was at one of the big contract archaeology firms in Dublin.”

“You’re American,” Stella noted.

“Yes, I got my Irish citizenship after grad school—my gran was from Sligo. Ireland was a great place to find archaeology work—until the economy went to hell. I was lucky to be working when the job here came up, and when it finished, they let me go. With so much development on hold, there aren’t as many jobs. But I made out all right. I love it here.”

“What sorts of artifacts turn up in an excavation at a place like this?” Stella asked.

“There’s not much left aboveground in these early Christian settlements. We did find a stylus, a medieval writing tool. That’s how we met Niall Dawson—he came down to collect it.”

“When was Mr. Dawson here?”

“I put in the call to the National Museum right away, as soon as the stylus turned up. He was here the next day, the twenty-second of April. I showed him around a bit, but nothing else turned up, so he went back to Dublin.”

“What about you, Mr. Beglan?” Stella asked. “What do you recall from April?”

He opened his mouth to speak but instead began to yip like a small dog—once, twice, three times—and then said, “Nothing . . . strange.” His chin jutted forward and his jaws snapped shut, as if he were trying to recapture the words he’d just spoken into the air.

“Is the name Mairéad Broome familiar to either of you?”

“No, not really,” Kearney said. “But I’m fairly new here.”

“Picka-picka-painter,” Anthony Beglan sputtered. “Often cuh-cuh-comes here.”

“That’s right,” Stella said. “Benedict Kavanagh was her husband.”

Shawn Kearney’s eyes widened. “You think there’s some connection? That’s horrible.”

Stella eyed the loader Beglan had been driving. “Do you use a lot of heavy equipment around here?”

“Just that loader for stones, and the tractor,” Shawn Kearney replied. “Nothing heavier than that.”

“Never have need of a JCB?”

“No. Claire would usually hire out those sorts of jobs. Like when they brought in the digger for the new heating system.”

“Let me ask you, did anyone at Killowen have access to those diggers after hours, when the workmen had knocked off for the night?”

“Not that I recall,” Kearney said. “Besides, you’d have to know how to drive one—”

“I’ve operated a juh-juh-JCB,” Anthony Beglan said. “Not them ones, though. Huh-had their own, that crowd.”

“Where exactly were the new heating coils installed?”

“Just down this hill, Detective. Do you see that post in the ground, with the red flag attached? That’s where the coils went in.”

Stella turned back to the main house, trying to imagine the decibel level of a JCB and the distance from the house. “Did you ever see or hear anyone else using the machinery?”

“No,” said Shawn Kearney. Beglan shook his head.

“Well, thanks for your time.” She turned to leave, then pivoted on her heel. “I meant to ask, what are you doing with that load of stones?”

“Building a labyrinth,” Shawn Kearney replied. “A meditation path.”

The last person on Stella’s list, Tessa Gwynne, wasn’t difficult to track down. She was in the cottage that she shared with her husband, at the end of a path that wound through Killowen’s oak wood. The cottage was either authentically old or built to look that way, with small windows, rough whitewashed walls, and a rosebush, a vigorous climber that arched over the doorway.

All at once, a most exquisite ringing swelled from inside the house. Stella peered in through the open window and saw Tessa Gwynne on a low stool behind the door, playing a harp that looked as if it were strung
with gold. Was that even possible, or was it just a trick of the light? Tessa Gwynne’s eyes were closed, and her whole body moved to the music, the harp in her intimate embrace. Stella stood, rooted, feeling her chest tighten as the melody grew in urgency. As the music grew from a thrum of low notes to a thrilling race up the scale, she leaned into the wall, overtaken by a wild grief that welled up from nowhere and kept spilling until there was no more, until the miraculous notes finally settled into plaintive dignity, the feeling receding and fading with the notes like lapping waves.

Stella felt exhausted. She tried to collect herself, remembering what she’d come for. She rapped on the door and found herself looking into a pair of dark, heavy-lidded eyes that regarded her over a pair of half-moon reading glasses. The woman’s collarbone stood out like a yoke beneath her flesh. “Mrs. Gwynne? Detective Stella Cusack. I’m investigating the murder of the man whose body was found in the bog yesterday.”

Tessa Gwynne seemed to shrink slightly. “Ah, yes, a terrible business.” She didn’t step away, and Stella had to drag her gaze from the hand that gripped the door—thick nails, uncannily powerful fingers. Strange how playing heaven’s instrument could give one a hellish harpy’s claws. “You’ve found out who he is, then? We hadn’t heard.”

“Benedict Kavanagh.” Mrs. Gwynne’s long white hair was done up in a coil at the back of her head, and the claw fluttered at the wisps of hair at the base of her neck. “So the name is familiar to you?”

“Yes, my husband and I met him once. It’s many years ago now. Although there is a more recent connection. His wife is a painter—she sometimes stays with us.”

“So you knew that Mairéad Broome was married to Benedict Kavanagh? How is it your husband wasn’t aware of that fact?”

Tessa Gwynne gave a tiny, exasperated smile. “Because my husband is—like most men—off in his own world, never quite paying attention to all that’s going on around him.” Her voice was mild, the accent English and decidedly upper-crust, but she looked slightly frazzled, and a touch too thin. The word “careworn” popped into Stella’s head—probably the word her mother would have used.

“So only you and Claire Finnerty knew that Mr. Kavanagh was related to one of your guests?”

“I can’t think how anyone else would have known, except from talking
to Mairéad. Benedict Kavanagh was something of a celebrity because of his television program, but it’s unlikely that anyone else would have known who he was.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because we haven’t got a television at Killowen. Never have. This is a meant to be a place for contemplation, a retreat.”

“Then how did you happen to know about Mr. Kavanagh’s program, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Mairéad is my friend. She shared a few things with me about Benedict and his work.”

“Did you ever discuss the state of her marriage?”

Tessa Gwynne turned an even gaze upon her. “Are you married yourself, Detective?” Stella felt her face flush. “And do you speak to many people about the state of your marriage? I wonder. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude. Only I wonder how much we can ever really know about other people’s lives.”

“But perhaps you were able to form some impression?”

“My impression was that Mairéad loved her husband.”

Stella paused for a moment. “She told me that she and Graham Healy were lovers and have been ever since he came to work for her.”

Tessa Gwynne’s spine straightened, and her voice betrayed a glint of ice. “Well, since Mairéad has been so forthcoming, I’m afraid my impressions can be of no use to you.”

“Thank you for your time, Mrs. Gwynne,” Stella said. “I won’t trouble you any further today.” She took her leave and returned to the path up to the main house, thinking about Tessa Gwynne’s spellbinding music—and about what sort of friend tries to protect someone who doesn’t want her protection.

It was a few minutes past five when Nora spotted Stella Cusack coming up the path from the oak wood at Killowen. She hurried out to the drive, glancing around and feeling just a tiny bit paranoid about being seen talking to the police.

Cusack stood beside her car. “Dr. Gavin.”

“Detective, do you remember those marble-like things we found in Benedict Kavanagh’s throat?” Nora handed over the two galls she’d collected this afternoon. “I did a bit of research, thought you might like to know what I found. They’re oak galls, gallnuts. And they have another name as well. In folk medicine and magic they’re called serpent’s eggs.”

Stella Cusack’s brow furrowed. “Where did you get these?”

“Martin Gwynne’s studio. He uses them to make iron gall ink,” Nora said. “That’s where this one came from.” She pointed to the slightly more dried-up of the pair. “But I also found some in the wood just beyond the cottages. That’s where Mr. Gwynne gets his supply. Apparently Anthony Beglan collects them.”

“I see. May I keep these?” Cusack glanced up at her. “Is something else bothering you, Dr. Gavin?”

“It’s just . . . I happened to overhear a bit of conversation this afternoon. I’m sure there’s a perfectly innocent explanation—”

“If you wouldn’t mind, Dr. Gavin, just tell me what it was that you heard and let me worry about explanations.”

“It was about two o’clock. I was upstairs changing, when I saw Mairéad Broome’s young man—”

“Graham Healy,” Cusack said.

“Yes, the fella at the mortuary with her this morning. I heard him take a call from Vincent Claffey.”

“How did you know it was Claffey?”

“Because the man himself pulled up on a motorbike a few seconds later, and they were still talking on their mobiles. They must not have realized that I was at the window. Graham Healy didn’t want Claffey
here, that much was clear, didn’t want anyone seeing them together. They had evidently made some prior arrangement about how and when they were going to meet, and Claffey was upsetting the plan. They were arguing about it.”

“What else did you hear?”

“Well, it looked to be some sort of payoff. Healy handed over a fairly thick envelope, and he said to Claffey, ‘You’ve got what you want now—and you know what we want.’ ”

“And what was Claffey’s response?”

“He said he knew, but it was a lot to ask of any man, that he needed more time to think about it. He said he’d be in touch.”

“And then what happened?”

“Claffey got back on his motorbike and rode off.”

“Was there any indication that Mairéad Broome knew about this meeting?”

“Well, actually, I happened to hear her discussing it with Healy a few minutes later.” No need to mention the fact that she’d been up in a tree when that conversation took place. “Graham Healy said he had no choice but to hand over the money, since your man had the nerve to come to the farm in broad daylight. He seemed afraid of what Claffey might say unless they did something. Mairéad Broome seemed a bit more resigned—she said she knew Claffey was using them. But she didn’t want Graham to do anything; she told him just to let things be. Then they were out of earshot, and I couldn’t hear any more.”

Cusack thanked Nora, told her she had done the right thing in reporting what she had heard. Still, Nora felt a bit grubby. What if it was nothing? And what if the people she’d just blithely implicated were innocent of any crime?

As she entered the kitchen, a low murmur of conversation came from the corner where Claire Finnerty stood with the Gwynnes and another couple she hadn’t met.

“—but do we know how long she’s staying?” Martin Gwynne asked.

“I’m not sure,” Claire said. “She’s evidently helping the police with their inquiries—”

Spotting Nora, the group quickly broke apart. Claire returned to sawing through a crusty loaf and Tessa Gwynne began tossing a bowl of fresh greens. The new couple tended to something in the oven as Martin Gwynne began pouring the wine. Just another Friday evening
at Killowen, evidently. One could hardly blame this crowd for their slightly somber mood, considering that a pair of murders had just turned up a quarter mile from their doorstep.