The Haunting Ballad (23 page)

“At ease now, Lee Plunkett!” a particular brogue commanded. “You wouldn't want to thrash your own assistant, now would you?”

Mr. O'Nelligan stepped out beneath a streetlamp.

I dropped my fists. “What the hell are you doing skulking around like that?”

“It's not skulking. Well, maybe it is a bit, but it's not for your benefit.”

“For whose, then?”

“For the Doonans. I was just in the coffeehouse and saw them making stirrings to leave. I thought I'd wait out here to intercept them in case you didn't return in time and I needed to confront them on my own. Mazzo informed me you'd gone to see Miss Dovavska and I should expect you from this direction.”

“Wait a minute, why do the Doonans need confronting?”

“I learned something interesting during my dinner with Marguerite—a very pleasing repast, by the way. Do you remember Patch Doonan mentioning that he'd spent some time as a local thespian?”

“Couldn't you just say ‘actor'?”

He didn't answer that. “Well, it seems that Marguerite and Patch happened to share the stage a few months back in a modest production of J. M. Synge's
Deirdre of the Sorrows
. Certainly that work is not up to the caliber of Synge's
Playboy of the Western World
, but since
Deirdre
was written on his deathbed, one can't expect—”

“Whoa!” I held up a hand. “Please tell me that a lecture on Irish drama isn't the ‘something interesting' you promised.”

“It isn't. Though it
would
be to your betterment if you immersed yourself more in the arts.”

“I'll take that under advisement. Now, what about Patch?”

“In Ireland, this past winter, a certain incident occurred,” Mr. O'Nelligan said. “One I'd already heard of prior to tonight. On New Year's Day in County Fermanagh, there was a failed IRA attack on the Brookeborough police barracks. Most of the insurgents escaped, but two were killed. Afterward, an effort was made in some quarters to make heroes of the dead men. As it so happens, the three Doonan brothers were back in Ireland visiting their family at the time.”

“Okay, but what does that—”

“Listen now. By mid-January, the Doonans had returned to New York, and Patch and the rest of the cast had begun rehearsals for
Deidre.
One of the stagehands was another Irishman, from Fermanagh as it turns out. Apparently, he mentioned to a few of the actors, Marguerite included, that the Doonans had an uncle, one Michael Doonan, who supposedly took part in the barracks attack. Furthermore, there was a rumor afoot that Patch was somehow involved.”

“Huh. What did Patch have to say about that?”

“Apparently, the stagehand only mentioned it to Marguerite and three or four others before someone told him to stop spreading unproven gossip. As far as Marguerite knows, Patch was never aware that tales were being told about him.”

“Well, I grant you, that's certainly interesting,” I said. “So how does it play into our investigation?”

“I'm not sure if it does or doesn't. Here's another little piece—Loomis Lent had a minor role in that production. Though Marguerite doesn't know if he was party to the rumors about Patch.”

“Again, interesting, but is it important?”

“Again, I don't know, but these are people who were associated with Lorraine Cobble, and anything of an unusual nature should be explored.”

“I suppose we can go talk to this stagehand if we want to pursue things.”

Mr. O'Nelligan shook his head. “Unfortunately not. The man moved back to Fermanagh at the end of February.”

Down the street, a couple of people emerged from the Mercutio, but no one I recognized.

My partner glanced at them, then back to me. “While we wait for the Doonans, tell me of your own adventures.”

“Adventures…” I sighed. “Sure.” I told him first about my encounter with Byron Spires, not sparing the niceties of my Cagney impersonation, Little Miss Coco, Spires' fishing analogy, or Audrey's phone call severing their friendship. That last elicited a smile and nod from my partner. He obviously was pleased that Audrey had slammed that door shut. I next went on to detail my time with Ruby, discreetly leaving out any mention of stovepipe hats. Mr. O'Nelligan mulled over what I'd just shared. “Hmm, if Miss Dovavska did keep company with Lorraine at ten that morning—yet did
not
write the letter requesting a ten o'clock rendezvous—then that clouds things. What became of Lorraine's meeting with our unknown letter writer?”

“Maybe she just decides to blow them off. Maybe she chooses to decline the offer and instead go for breakfast by herself. Then she sees Ruby and invites her to join her. The letter writer gets stood up.”

“Perhaps appearing at Lorraine's later that night, embittered at being shunned.”

“I guess that's one direction to go with this.”

My colleague drew a slow hand down his gray whiskers. “I'm intrigued by Ruby's theory that Lorraine sensed her end was nigh. What if it's true?”

I tried for a nonfanciful take on that. “You mean Lorraine might have learned someone meant to harm her?”

“I wasn't thinking in such tangible terms.”

“You're not thinking spooky voodoo omens, are you?”

Mr. O'Nelligan cast a chilly eye on me. “Are you truly expecting me to answer in the affirmative?”

I didn't need to reply to that since, just then, the Mercutio's door opened again and four figures stepped out onto the sidewalk. The Doonans and Kimla. They were heading our way, their voices filling the air. Well, mostly Patch's voice.

Upon reaching us, they halted and the eldest Doonan called out, “Well now! It's our deductive duo again.”

“May we have a word with you, Patch?”

“What's your pleasure, Squire O'Nelligan?”

“Perhaps you'd prefer to converse privately with us?”

Patch offered an uneasy grin. “Uh-oh, I don't like the sound of that.”

“What is it, sir?” Neil stepped next to his brother. “Anything you say to one of us, you can say to all.”

“Wise sentiments those,” Patch readily agreed.

Tim came a step closer as well. The brothers were closing ranks. Kimla, standing just to the side, didn't look like she was going anywhere either.

“Very well,” said Mr. O'Nelligan. “If that's how it is.”

“It is,” Tim said, by way of punctuation.

My partner began, “Patch Doonan, a tale has been circulating concerning you…”

Without mentioning his source, he repeated the account of the attack on the police barracks and the subsequent suspicions. The Doonans listened raptly.

When Mr. O'Nelligan had finished, it was an agitated Tim who spoke first. “That's rubbish! You can't fling loose allegations around like that.”

“Aye, rubbish,” Neil echoed, though more evenly. “There's no truth at all in it.”

Tim kept on. “It's true we're for a united Ireland and that we've some relations in the north who've been involved in a thing or two. That doesn't mean Patch or any of us had anything to do with Brookeborough.”

“You have an uncle who might have,” I put in.

Tim turned to me. “Uncle Mike? Forget it. He's a breezy enough fellow, but more than half daft. Not even the most desperate republicans would tap him for an operation. Sure, and wouldn't it be just like Mike to try to make himself the big man by lying that he'd been in on that business?”

“Indeed it would,” Neil added. “Especially with people making martyrs of Sean South and young O'Hanlon. I wouldn't put it past Michael to throw Patch's name into the bargain. He's always favored Patch, since they both play the idiot.”

“There you go,” Tim said. “In his twisted way, Mike would see it as a kindness to include his favorite nephew in the lie.”

Mr. O'Nelligan had been listening intently, assessing the merits of what was being proposed. He now weighed in. “That would be a dangerous piece of bragging, would it not? After all, the men who actually conducted the raid and lost comrades wouldn't look kindly on false claims of participation. On the other side, we have the authorities, who would certainly want to come down hard on anyone involved in the attack.”

Tim had an answer for that. “Likely as not, Uncle Mike's just passed the lie around to a few drinking mates, not thinking it would travel far. Besides, you'd have to know the man…”

“That's right,” Neil said. “Mike's an utter gobshite.”

Oddly enough, the one present Doonan who'd remained silent throughout the discussion was the one most central to it—and the one who generally kept his tongue running nonstop.

Mr. O'Nelligan now addressed the curiously hushed Patch. “What's
your
perspective on all this?”

Patch didn't answer at first, choosing instead to stare off down the currently deserted street. When he did at last speak, his voice was tight and strained, as if he were trying to hold back a wave of anger:

“You want to know what my bloody perspective is? Glad to convey it. I'm thinking people who don't know what they're bloody talking about should keep their gobs shut. Whatever I've done or haven't done, no bloody idle gossips have a right to speak my name.”

“Yet they have,” I said. “We're just trying to help figure out what—”

“Bollocks!” The wave broke. “Don't be pretending to assist anyone but your own snaky selves! You're paid snoops, the pair of you. You say you're down here about Lorraine Cobble, but maybe it's the British bloody crown you're working for.”

Tim tried to intervene. “Be still, Patch! You've no cause to say that.”

Patch now turned to face Mr. O'Nelligan. “Wouldn't it be just like the Brits to use one of our own against us.”

“Ease up. Now,” Neil said. “He's a countryman of ours.”

Patch kept his eye on my partner. “So what? Our history is rife with traitors!”

My partner stood his ground, betraying no reaction. I wondered how Doonan's words were affecting him. After all, in his youth Mr. O'Nelligan had been an armed rebel, fighting the English for Irish sovereignty.

Patch plowed on. “So what've you to say, O'Nelligan? Where do you fall on Irish independence? Are you a nationalist or has John Bull swayed you with a few greasy shillings?”

Tim grabbed his brother's arm. “Enough, Patch! You're raging like a proper madman. Just say now that the Brookeborough rumor was nothing but fiction, and be done with it.”

Patch shook Tim loose. “Leave me be! I don't need to speak out like a damned trained parrot. I'm finished here.”

Then he turned away and began heading down a dimly lit side street.

“Patch, wait up!” Tim called out. “Stay with us.”

Patch shouted over his shoulder, “A pleasant bloody night to all!”

Tim moved as if to follow, but Neil placed a hand on his chest. “Let him go,” the middle brother said. “There's no reasoning with him now.”

“Where do you think he's headed?” I asked.

Tim answered wearily. “To some hole-in-the-wall where the whiskey's cheap and the company's too drunk to talk.”

Kimla came up and took the young man's hand. “Let's be going, Tim. You know he'll show up in the morning like he always does—drained and repentant.”

Tim gave a pained little chuckle. “You're right, of course.” He kissed Kimla on the cheek and put his arm around her shoulder.

Neil turned to Mr. O'Nelligan. “Sorry for our brother's accusations. He can be a grand lunatic when the mood's on him.”

“His words slid off me like rain from a steep roof,” my partner said. It sounded like the kind of adage you'd see stitched on a pillow in a great-aunt's home, and I wasn't convinced it was true.

I thought of squeezing in another question or two, but no one looked in the mood. With halfhearted waves, Neil, Tim, and Kimla moved off together down the street. We watched quietly as they dwindled into small shadowy forms, then vanished.

Mr. O'Nelligan broke the silence. “Interesting. Tim and Neil Doonan were left to protest their brother's innocence while he remained mute on the matter.”

“Yeah, you wouldn't exactly call Patch's little outburst a profession of innocence. Do you think he's mixed up with that attack?”

“I don't know,” my partner answered. “Our inquiries certainly roused him to an agitated state. There's an old acquaintance of mine who lives hereabouts, O'Hallmhurain by name, who is often privy to certain goings-on back in Ireland. When I get the chance, I'll give him a call to see what he might provide.”

“As meaty as this little subplot may be, we've still no reason to believe it ties in at all with the Cobble case.”

“Correct. Just as we don't know if Cardinal's letter or Loomis' gambling or Manymile's prison record has anything to do with it. These are all colors on our palette. It remains to be seen which of them figure in the final portrait.”

The mention of portraits made me a little queasy, reminding me as it did of Ruby's recent invitation to nudity. For a terrible moment, I imagined I'd succumbed, resulting in a piece of artwork with a title like
Private Eye as Public Disgrace.

“Lee?” Mr. O'Nelligan summoned me back from that horror. “Are you all right? You look a touch ashen.”

“I always look pale when the old brain gears are turning.”

“Truly?” my partner sounded unswayed. “I didn't know that about you, Lee.”

“Yeah, well, I'm a complicated cat, daddy-o.”

Mr. O'Nelligan grimaced wonderfully.

*   *   *

THE DRIVE HOME
to Thelmont was uneventful. After a final review of the day's events, we contented ourselves with the Saturday evening radio fare. For Mr. O'Nelligan's pleasure, we found an uninterrupted half hour of Elvis Presley tunes. Then, for me, there was a rip-roaring episode of
Gunsmoke.
It was a whodunit of sorts, in which Marshal Dillon had to decide which of three cowboys was guilty of murdering a Pawnee brave. I hoped we'd be as successful in our endeavor as Dillon was. Preferably we wouldn't have to dodge six-gun bullets to do it.