The Irish Cottage Murder (22 page)

“The next day, it got all strange.” He’d been in the stable office ordering supplies. It was afternoon, and Mr. Desmond came in and told him something bad had happened: Fergus Callaghan had found out about him killing the Finn. “Now Callaghan is trying to blackmail me,” Mr. Desmond said. “He wants ten thousand pounds.”

Brian had been frightened. He was involved. “How could Mr. Callaghan have found out?” he’d asked Mr. Desmond, and Mr. Desmond had laughed a bitter kind of laugh. “He’s close with Maureen Devlin, whore that she is. Lovers aplenty she no doubt has. Fergus Callaghan, for one. She must have told him. They’ll share the blackmail money.” Then Mr. Desmond said that Fergus Callaghan had telephoned him. Fergus Callaghan was coming to Castle Moore at two o’clock to collect the money. “I’ll pay him off,” Mr. Desmond said, “I have no choice. I told him to come to the stables. I don’t want anybody at the castle seeing him. And I don’t want you here, Brian. You’re in too deep already.” Then he’d patted Brian’s shoulder and given him two tickets to the horse auction in Cork. “‘Take Kevin,’ he’d said. ‘You can leave at noon.’”

But Brian didn’t go to Cork. And he only sent Kevin to Flaherty’s Harness Shop with a list of the new supplies so he wouldn’t be at the stable, and he’d told Kevin to wait there at Flaherty’s for him to check over the stuff. Why didn’t he go to Cork? He didn’t know. But he’d felt something was off. He was scared, but he had to see. And he wanted Kevin by, not off in Cork.

So at half after one, Brian went up to the storage loft next to box four. It was musty, motes and dirt. He could hardly breathe. But he could see down into the stable.

“At two o’clock, Mr. Callaghan came.” But right off it was strange. Mr. Callaghan left his motorbike in the stable yard and came into the stable. Sun was slanting into the stable from the row of windows above the boxes. Kevin had swept, but there were bits of hay on the concrete floor. The horses in their stalls were as usual, a little stamping and snorting, otherwise quiet.

“Mr. Callaghan wore country clothes, a shirt and light jacket and tan duck pants. His bits of gray hair were blown about by the wind.

“‘What did you want to see me about?’ Mr. Callaghan asked Mr. Desmond, as though he hadn’t been the one to demand Mr. Desmond meet with him and pay him blackmail money.

“‘Just one or two little things, Mr. Callaghan,’ Mr. Desmond told him. ‘They don’t amount to much. For one, I seem to have misplaced a video.
Irish Gardens, Twentieth Century.
Did you happen across it when you were working in the library?’

“‘A video?’ Mr. Callaghan sounded surprised. ‘No, that I didn’t.’

“‘No? You didn’t by any chance happen to view the video?’

“Then Mr. Callaghan said something about how landscaping wasn’t one of his interests.

“‘So it isn’t,’ Mr. Desmond said back at him. ‘Well, then … a little shoe? In the library, did you happen across a little shoe? A doll’s size shoe? Black patent leather?’

“At that, Fergus Callaghan clenched his fists. ‘A little shoe? Yes, a little shoe!’ His voice went all high and funny. ‘A little shoe I found on your desk. God help you, Desmond Moore!’

“Then he called Mr. Desmond a pedo-something bastard, and he said, ‘Brian Coffey lied, didn’t he? Brian’s a nephew to Danny Devlin. Brian thinking to protect the reputation of his aunt, Maureen Devlin, and not shame the Devlin family. Bad enough to the Devlins that Maureen is bringing up Finola a Protestant.’

“Mr. Callaghan’s face had gone all flushed and fierce. He took a step toward Mr. Desmond. ‘I saw Finola bury the doll in the woods! The doll is in my bureau drawer in my bedroom on Boyleston Street in Dublin. With both shoes on.’

“Then Mr. Callaghan—he was standing with his fists all clenched at his sides—Mr. Callaghan said in a funny voice, ‘I know what Lars Kasvi saw through the cottage window.’”

“No! Please!” Maureen Devlin’s voice rang through the station. “Stop!” She took a step toward Brian Coffey. “Stop!” Her fists were clenched to her chest; her face was agonized.

65

Sergeant Bryson moved quickly forward and took Maureen Devlin’s arm. “Mrs. Devlin.” She gave him an anguished look. “No!”

But she let him lead her back to the wooden bench beside the Coke machine. She sank down and put her fingers to her temples. Fergus Callaghan, beside her on the bench, was a stone image, eyes fixed on Brian Coffey.

Inspector O’Hare felt in the silence something almost tangible, a screen with the words
pedo-something bastard
and
doll
and
doll’s shoe
floating across it.
I saw Finola bury the doll in the woods.
Finola, Maureen’s little girl. Yes, even in Ballynagh. He glanced around. Winifred Moore, in her dramatic cape, looked fascinated, her russet color high, her eyes gleaming, Shelia Flaxton stood biting the handle of her umbrella, while Luke Willinger was looking toward Ms. Tunet, as though hoping to catch her eye.

As for Ms. Tunet, she was chewing one end of her bandanna, which O’Hare noticed at this odd moment, had a motif of peacocks. Turquoise. She shot a glance, somehow resigned, toward Luke Willinger and mouthed what looked to Inspector O’Hara like, “Oh, hell!”

“I’m afraid,” Inspector O’Hare said kindly to Maureen Devlin, “Mr. Coffey will have to continue. If you would care to leave, Mrs. Devlin? Sergeant Bryson will be glad to escort—”

She cut him off with a wave of her hand, as though she were pulling aside a veil from before her face. Lovely blue eyes, clean jaw, sadness and forbearance. Funny, the things you notice about a person you’ve seen so often before. Odd. He turned to Brian Coffey. “Go on, Mr. Coffey.”

So then, Brian Coffey went on. “Mr. Desmond in a nasty way called Mr. Callaghan a fool, an imaginative fool. ‘You don’t know what Lars Kasvi saw through the window,’ he said, ‘it is all nothing.’

“Then Mr. Desmond turned his back on Mr. Callaghan. He was holding his riding crop in his hand. He cracked it down on the half-door of Black Pride’s box, and Black Pride reared and screamed. Mr. Desmond laughed and turned back to Mr. Callaghan. ‘One of the servants, Rose or Janet maybe, could’ve left a doll’s shoe in the library. Things get left about.’

“Then Mr. Desmond laughed again. He looked big and handsome and as though he owned the world as well as Castle Moore. He stared at Mr. Callaghan as though Mr. Callaghan was a serf in Russia on his estate and he could have him whipped if he wanted to. Like he had cossacks and such.

“But then Mr. Callaghan only gave a big sigh and said something about how he’d managed to get a copy of Mr. Desmond’s Visa bill for the last six months, and he said, ‘The June bill includes a purchase in Waterford. I know where you bought the doll.’”

To Inspector O’Hare, listening, it was as though with Fergus Callaghan’s words,
I know where you bought the doll,
a looming wave had finally crashed. Ugly. Sad and ugly. The room was quiet. Maureen Devlin had put a hand to her throat; there was terrible pain on her face. No one made a sound; there was not even a shuffle of feet, only the rain spattering against the windows.

Inspector O’Hare looked back at Brian Coffey. “Go on.”

Brian said, “That’s when Mr. Desmond threw the riding crop aside and took out the knife. And I knew then that all the time,
all the time
he had asked Mr. Callaghan to the stable to kill him. He’d find a good-enough reason. He’d tell the police something. He was clever, oh, clever! And strong!

“He went for Mr. Callaghan’s chest. Mr. Callaghan pulled a gun from his jacket pocket—he was no fool, after all—but he was too late. Mr. Desmond knocked the gun aside. It fell on the ground and went off, flying behind a bale of hay. The gunshot set Black Pride to rearing and screaming, and Black Pride, gone crazy, burst out of the box and took off like thunder. Startled, Desmond let the knife fall to the ground.

“For a second, Mr. Desmond and Mr. Callaghan stood frozen. Then Mr. Callaghan dove for the knife. At that, Mr. Desmond laughed like he was in charge, even lazy about it. Strange, it was, shivery, like he was playing some mean game with a cornered animal—a cat or a weasel or some such—and he went to put his foot in its riding boot down on Mr. Callaghan’s hand that was picking up the knife, except that a stone or something turned under his foot and he lost his balance and Mr. Callaghan stood up with the knife.

“‘I don’t want to, but I will,’ Mr. Callaghan said to Mr. Desmond, waving the knife around. He was all choked up. He sounded scared, like he didn’t know what to do. He was backing away and holding the knife awkwardlike, like he hated even to touch it. ‘I thought you might—So I brought the gun. In case you tried—As you did! As you did! It’s you or me, isn’t it, Desmond Moore?’ His voice was way high, almost a squeak. ‘You or me.’

“Mr. Desmond just smiled, the superior smile he sometimes does, and he said, ‘Now, now, Mr. Callaghan, maybe we can figure this out. There are other ways. Monetary, perhaps?’ He was moving closer to Mr. Callaghan, but I don’t think he fooled Mr. Callaghan. Mr. Desmond had his eye on the knife in Mr. Callaghan’s hand, and I could see by the way his shoulder moved he was going to attack Mr. Callaghan, grab the knife from him. The way Mr. Callaghan watched him, he knew it too, that it wasn’t over.

“Then Mr. Desmond, as though like a sneer that he couldn’t help, it had to come out, said, ‘What’s the difference? You sleep with the mother; I have
my
 … proclivities’—and he made a sudden grab for Mr. Callaghan’s wrist, with the hand that held the knife.

“At that, Mr. Callaghan made a terrible sound in his throat and raised his hand with the knife and drove it into Mr. Desmond’s stomach. He must have struck something vital inside Mr. Desmond because Mr. Desmond just stood still for a minute then went down on his knees and fell sideways, blood spreading dark on his vest.

“That’s when Mr. Callaghan dropped the knife, like he was throwing it away from him.”

66

Stunned silence. Then, “Christ Almighty!” someone murmured. Willinger? Heads turned to stare at Fergus Callaghan. Inspector O’Hare, with shaking fingers, took out a cigarette, looked at the N
O
S
MOKING
sign on the wall, and put the cigarette back in the pack. He was hot and cold and unbearably excited. He flicked a significant look at Sgt. Jimmy Bryson, who moved to stand behind the bench where Fergus Callaghan sat beside Maureen Devlin.

“You saw…” Mr. Callaghan said numbly, looking across the room to Brian Coffey. “You
saw!
”

Inspector O’Hare was grimly pleased at Mr. Callaghan’s helpless, hopeless look. Mr. Callaghan in his belted tweed suit, with his tie awry, ran a trembling hand through his gray hair. He looked old and tired. Inspector O’Hare, in contrast, felt stronger and younger than ever and well-prepared to deal with Mr. Fergus Callaghan, murderer, never mind the why of it. But first—

“Exactly why, Mr. Coffey”—and he leaned, tight-lipped with anger and exasperation across the desk toward Brian Coffey—“exactly why didn’t you tell the gardai you had seen Mr. Callahan kill Desmond Moore?”

Brian Coffey ran a trembling hand over his face, which was filmed with perspiration. “I had a reason, all right! What happened then was—Mr. Callaghan got his gun from behind the bale of hay. He was going to go back, I guess, to get the knife. Just then I heard Janet Slocum calling out for Kevin, Janet coming toward the stables. At that, Mr. Callaghan turned and went away fast, stumbling like, running. But Janet Slocum never came after all. It was quiet, dreadful quiet.

“So then I came down from the loft, my legs all shaky. When I got close and saw Mr. Desmond, all bloody and dead, I got dizzy. I stumbled and tripped on the knife. I picked it up. I wasn’t thinking, it was part of—As if like I was going with it to get help … like maybe to show them…” He shook his head. “I don’t know. It was sharp and I cut my finger and it bled. Then I realized my fingerprints were on the knife. I could be accused of killing Mr. Desmond!”

Brian Coffey stopped. He looked from Inspector O’Hare to Sgt. Jimmy Bryson and back to the inspector. “I was scared, my blood being on the knife. I’d had a little trouble in the past, a bit of police trouble in Galway, in Oughterard. So I thought, better to hide the knife with my fingerprints and blood on it. Keep myself out of it, right? Nobody’d have to know I’d even been there.

“So I wrapped up the knife and put it in my motorbike pouch. I was afraid.… So then I went to Ballynagh, to Flaherty’s, to meet Kevin, instead of running to tell the gardai what I’d seen.”

Inspector O’Hare looked over at Fergus Callaghan, who sat staring at Brian Coffey and looking numb.

Brian Coffey’s white freckled face with his bruised forehead looked exhausted. “Could I have a Coke?” he asked Sergeant Bryson. Bryson nodded and got a Coke from the machine next to Nelson’s basket. He gave it to Coffey, who popped it open and drank thirstily, then wiped the top of the can. He looked over at Fergus Callaghan, a sullenly angry look, and turned back to Inspector O’Hare.

“Mr. Callaghan hates me. Account of what I told about Maureen Devlin. Her whoring. He’s in love with Maureen. So when yesterday I told about Mr. Desmond killing the Finn, how could I go on and tell all the rest—about Mr. Callaghan being at the stable and what I’d seen? Mr. Callaghan’d say I was lying. He’d have let me go to prison.”

A voice from among the listeners said softly, “Sure as there’s a devil, there’s an Irish ballad in this tale.” Winifred Moore? A deep contralto.
Likely her.
O’Hare thought. He felt a stir of pity for Brian Coffey.

“Yes, Mr. Coffey. And the knife? What about the knife?”

Coffey shrugged. “It must’ve been a knife Mr. Desmond got from the Castle Moore kitchen. Expensive. Later in the woods by the brook I washed the blood off it. But it was too good to throw away. So I kept it.” Gingerly, he touched the purple contusion on his forehead.

“After she caught me with the knife, Ms. Tunet held the pistol on me all the way back to the stables where I had my motorbike. ‘Now get on the motorbike, with me on the pillion behind,’ she told me. ‘We’re going to Inspector O’Hare. No shenanigans or I’ll kill you.’”