The Irish Manor House Murder (16 page)

“But what?”

“I’ve been to see Inspector O’Hare. To confess about Rowena Keegan. My conscience! Torture! Sleepless nights! Tossing and turning.”

Winifred carefully put down the feather pen on which she’d been working on a rondel. A rondel was not a computer poem, but a feather pen poem. It made a difference. “Sheila, I want no clichés in this room. No ‘tossing and turning.’ No ‘sleepless nights.’ It sticks to the walls.” But the look she turned on Sheila was serious. “You’ve been to Inspector O’Hare to confess what about Rowena Keegan?”

“That day on the bridle path? When Dr. Ashenden was killed? The hot water heater went off and I wanted to wash my hair and have a bath. I couldn’t find Meecham’s address under plumbing, and neither could Rose, and it turned out you’d gone off racewalking. So I went looking for you. I went past the bridle path just five minutes before that awful — just before Dr. Ashenden came galloping, cantering, whichever. Anyway, I saw Rowena Keegan
right there.
Looking very sneaky, somehow. Up to something. I could tell.”

Winifred regarded Sheila. “What did Inspector O’Hare say to that?”

“Say? He asked me to repeat it and told Sergeant Bryson to type up what I said.”

“And then you signed it? What Sergeant Bryson typed?”

“Yes. But now I’m
worried
about it. It doesn’t actually prove anything against Rowena. And I like her. She’s one of my favorite — but finally I had no choice, it was a matter of my conscience. At night I kept tossing and —”

“Sheila,
please!
”

46

“Got you!” Inspector O’Hare said aloud. He was alone in the station and pacing fast, Coke machine to toilet door and back. He was on a coffee high. One eight-ounce morning cup was usual, but he’d had two. It was a jubilant occasion, after all. “Got you!”

Stunned. Exactly how he’d realized Rowena Keegan was pregnant, he couldn’t say. That creamy look under her chin? No, not that. Nothing different in her figure, either. But he had only to think of Noreen to know.

Lying in bed last night beside Noreen, he’d thought,
Pregnant by whom?
Strange that Rowena Keegan had never brought a young man or two to Ashenden Manor. It would’ve been common knowledge if she had. Old Mrs. Brennan would have known, would have gossiped about it, would have ferreted out the possible suitor’s age, religion, business, family background, social position, likely inheritance, height, education, drinking habits, and whether he was country or city bred. All of Ballynagh would have known. Besides, Jennie O’Shea at Ashenden Manor was a magpie on the phone to Rose at Castle Moore and would have mentioned this or that prospective suitor, and Rose’s younger sister Hannah kept company with Jimmy Bryson, not that if Hannah had mentioned to Jimmy …

Indeed. Because this was Ballynagh, where a cat’s spawn in a barn was known within minutes, as well as O’Malley’s daughter’s having taken ten pounds from the till to go larking in Dublin.

In bed, Noreen’s soft breathing. O’Hare, staring into the dark, was remembering having years ago seen a newspaper photograph of the pretty little Rowena when only eight being held astride a mettlesome young horse by her grandfather, as though the three of them had become one, something sexual in it. He was remembering and remembering; other scenes through later years floated across his vision.

So now, was it
possible?
His heart beat hard. All those years, the girl a victim? And now, finding herself pregnant. Yes! Her repressed rage bursting forth. Revenge! That elusive
why
of Rowena’s attack on her grandfather in the meadow! And, finally, the murder of her grandfather on the bridle path.

Now, pacing the police station, O’Hare told himself,
Sit down,
but instead he gave a laugh and a shudder and kept pacing. He’d have to work out his procedure. But now that he had the link, the nexus, however tenuous, he’d forge ahead, get proof. He was sharp and had proved himself in the past. He thought of the confession he’d ultimately get from Rowena Keegan. He thought of delivering his final successful, startling, sensational conclusion of the Ashenden case to Chief Superintendent O’Reilly at Dublin Castle. Those damned eyebrows above the chief superintendent’s cold blue eyes would —

“Morning, Inspector.” Sergeant Jimmy Bryson, a half hour late — it was already nine o’clock. He was taking something from a paper bag. “I got this for Nelson.” A fake bone, meat-flavored. Nelson was standing up and going to Bryson, wagging his tail and nosing into Bryson’s hand. He always knew.

“Very nice.”

“The forensic report about the gypsy, Inspector. It came in by fax last night. I put it in the green folder.”

At his desk, O’Hare flipped open the folder. The forensic crime report was short. Death: eight-fifteen
P.M
. Alcohol level in the woman’s body: point three three. So, very drunk when smothered with the pillow. No blood. No fingerprints. A cigarette butt in the grass beside the sill.

Sergeant Bryson said, “I’d lay a thousand pounds, Inspector, that they’ll just file it away. Unsolved. It isn’t upper-class society. Not even drug-related. Or bloody and sexy.”

O’Hare nodded. The gypsy’s wagon had proved unrevealing: A stack of pots and pans. A dishpan full of cheap earrings, bracelets, necklaces. A kneesock contained thirty-four pounds and some pence. The gypsy’s sad-eyed, shaggy little pony was now in the Castle Moore stables, courtesy of Ms. Winifred Moore.

O’Hare closed the green folder. It was to the shame of Ireland, as he’d said more than once to Sergeant Bryson, that those itinerants — gypsies, tinkers, and “travelers” as those folks in their caravans were called — were scorned as lesser citizens.

And meanwhile! Meanwhile, look at the shenanigans of the rich landowners in such stately homes as Ashenden Manor!

“Inspector?” Jimmy Bryson was looking out onto Butler Street. “Them, again, isn’t it?”

Inspector O’Hare followed Bryson’s gaze. Two people going past. He recognized them. They’d been in Ballynagh on a previous case. That skinny photographer in his black turtleneck and duffle and camera bags was from the scandal sheet
Scoop.
The fat girl with the shaggy bangs and big behind was his assistant. The sharks were closing in.

47

On the plane from Copenhagen heading southwest toward Dublin, Torrey ate the last half of the chocolate bar with almonds she’d bought at the Copenhagen airport; she’d had no time for lunch. Against the dark windowpane, she saw Ingeborg Steensen’s face and heard her voice:
I can only tell you that, were I Rowena, I might have tried to kill him too.

Torrey rubbed her temples. Devastating to hear, but — something off, something missing. Two things: Rowena, because she
was
Rowena, would never have committed anything premeditated like the bridle path murder. Never! Not Rowena.

The second thing was the perplexing question: Why, up to the very day that Rowena tried to ride down her grandfather in the meadow, had she and her grandfather been such close, loving friends? Up to that very day. Up to that very afternoon.

That very afternoon.

*   *   *

In Dublin it was raining. The plane touched down at the Dublin Airport in Collinstown eight miles north of the city center. The temperature had fallen. Outside the airport it was cold, with gusts of rain. In minutes, Torrey’s heavy woolen jacket and knitted cap were damp. Shivering, she looked around for the 41A bus to Dublin. The bus would be chilly, clammy, smelling of damp newspapers and rubber. In Dublin, she’d have to get the local bus south and finally get off the bus on the access road to Ballynagh. She couldn’t afford the luxury of a taxi even to Dublin; the taxi fare was about fifteen pounds, and then the tip. The shockingly expensive air fare to Copenhagen and back had knocked out her budget for the next month. In her shoulder purse right now she had two pounds and a handful of twenty and ten-pence coins, enough for the regular bus fare to Dublin, which was a pound thirty pence and would take until doomsday to reach the city in this miserable wet weather. People were hurrying past her, wet mackintoshes and umbrellas on all sides.

She looked at her watch. Five-forty-five, and having had no lunch, she was hungry. She pictured a bowl of Jasper’s delicious corn soup with the dash of hot red pepper, followed by one of his heartwarming and body-warming dinners while a fire glowed in the fireplace —

A shove made her stagger, and a grating voice said, “Get on there, miss, if you’re going!” A man in a greasy cap and shapeless overcoat pushed roughly past her, hurrying toward the 41A bus.

She followed, pulling her jacket collar closer, only to feel its cold dampness against her neck. To her left she noticed a sleek, dark blue Jaguar, parked but with its motor running. She thought longingly of the luxury of its soft leather cushions, the quiet purr of the expensive motor, the warmth of the air within, the —

“Torrey!
Torrey!
” The driver-side window of the Jaguar had slid down, and someone in the driver’s seat was calling her name. Or was she imagining —

“Torrey!”

The rain was coming down harder; it blurred her vision. A gust of wind yanked at her hair. A taxi whizzed past and a sheet of water splashed up and soaked her legs and shoes. Damn!

“Torrey! Over here!” That familiar, resonant voice. A parka-clad arm beckoned from the Jaguar.

In the driver’s seat, Jasper O’Mara.

*   *   *

Smooth mahogany dashboard, a silver-edged clock. The warm air was delicious, cozy, relaxing. Torrey toed off her wet shoes and and sank back against the soft leather. She wouldn’t ask. Not yet. In minutes, the car was purring along the road to Dublin as though gliding on silk, the landscape sliding past. Outside, rain spattered on the Jaguar’s blue hood.

“Try this.” A leather-covered thermos. “Hot raspberry tea with lemon and a shot of rum.”

She drank from the little cup. Her stomach glowed. Heaven. It was several minutes more before she said carefully, wondering too many things, “How’d you know I’d gone to Copenhagen? I’d told no one.”

“A book dealer wouldn’t have known.” Amusement in Jasper’s voice. “But easy enough for an investigative journalist to find out.”

She ran a finger reflectively around the rim of the thermos. “So that’s what you are? I was never really sure you were a book dealer. I thought maybe a chef.”

“A chef would’ve been my second choice. But I like puzzles even more. Less money, though. This Jag’s ten years old, but I baby it.” He shrugged. “Fine with me.”

“Exactly what else you told me was the truth?”

“Well…” A fog was coming in and he was squinting at the road ahead. “Dún Laoghaire to Clifden was the truth. I was only passing through Ballynagh, planning just bed-and-breakfast for the night. But there you were on the road, like a dying swan in jeans. Next morning, when I politely came by to check that you’d survived, I thought,
Ms. Tunet needs feeding up. Looks like Ophelia just dredged out of the lake. Potato and mushroom soup with a bit of fresh tarragon. Chicken dipped in the finest of bread crumbs, then sautéed. Green beans barely parboiled, crunchy to the bite.
So I thought I’d stay a night or two longer in Ballynagh. And then —”

“Then you stayed on. And seduced me with gastronomy.”

“Well, yes.”

“What about those rare books you were always bicycling off after? Rare books. Eureka! A Yeats first edition found in a thatch-covered hut. Or maybe finding a volume of a James Stephens in a cow barn, propping up a chair leg. A lie, right?”

“Well, rare books sounded romantic. I thought that would intrigue you, you love books. The fact is, I’ve a sideline. I was gathering recipes for a weekly column I write. So I —”

“You’re not JASPER!
That
Jasper? In the
Gaelic Guide?
”

“It relaxes me. With my kind of investigative reporting, I need it.”

Torrey looked at his solid, comfortable body. He wore old tweed pants and a gray-green sweater. “What’s your real name?”

“Shaw. Jasper Shaw.”

She recognized the name. Political, the
Irish Times.
Standing with Gerry Adams. She’d read his piece attacking the violence of the “real IRA” that was responsible for the shameful explosions in Northern Ireland. Photos of mangled bodies, dead children. “But why call yourself Jasper O’Mara?”

“Why? Because nobody’s ever heard of Jasper O’Mara. He doesn’t exist. But Jasper Shaw? At every bed-and-breakfast, the proprietor recognizes the name and gets a wild look in his eye, or
her
eye, and I’ve no peace over my breakfast while they’re tipping me off to an investigation I’m missing, such as who really shot crime reporter Veronica Guerin of the
Sunday Independent,
but they’ll give me a lead, the
inside story.
What’s more, they’re going to give it to me
right now,
over my sausages and eggs. Same thing in pubs. Wherever. From whomever. Why didn’t I tell you? I was always about to. But, I don’t know. We had something I didn’t want to jostle.”

Torrey said, “I see. Sort of.” But for now she had too much else to think about. “How’d you know to meet my flight tonight?”

“Easy. There’s only one afternoon return flight from Denmark that would’ve given you any time in Copenhagen.” She felt his glance. “
Brev:
Danish for ‘letters.’ Denmark. It was about Rowena?”

She felt suddenly exhausted and hopeless beyond belief. “Yes, Rowena.” She clasped the leather-covered thermos and helplessly began to talk. She never thought, can I trust Jasper O’Mara who is really Jasper Shaw? She knew only that in this warm blue Jaguar she couldn’t keep from confiding everything to him. To Jasper: dissembler, investigative journalist, marvelous cook, and lover.

Gazing through the windshield at the rainswept road, she told it all. At the end, exhausted, she said, “Rowena didn’t kill him. Somebody else did. Who?” And tiredly she leaned her head against Jasper’s shoulder and fell asleep.

*   *   *

A hand. A strong, tanned hand on the steering wheel. She woke to the luxurious purr of the car, aware of a clear dark sky, of stars, of the mountains of Wicklow. Lights of an occasional oncoming car swept up and vanished.