The Pig Did It (10 page)

He now heard Kitty say to Lolly. “Do you want the pig or do you not want the pig?”

In what seemed a somewhat strange answer Lolly cried out, “Quick! Close the door. Quick! The door! You—whatever your name is—quick, before he sees in.”

“Aaron,” Aaron said. “We were introduced.”

“Aaron, please, the—oh, my God, he's looking into the hole, there in the garden.” Kitty, looking out through the screen door on the far side of the kitchen, was wringing her hands, something Aaron was certain she had never done in her entire life. “Don't—don't let him look in. Don't—”

Aaron moved away from the wall and looked past the kitchen and out the door, into the garden. Kieran Sweeney, from the night before and recently mentioned in this very room, was bent over the open grave, staring down into it. Sweeney looked closer, then stood up and moved nearer the cairn. Aaron doubted the man could see through the screen door into the kitchen, much less through the hall and into the room where they were gathered. Before Aaron could decide what to do, Lolly came from her side of the bed, brushed past Kitty and grabbed Aaron by the arm. She swung him slightly to his right so that he was facing the hall directly. She then gave him a shove and slammed the door behind him. It was his instinct to turn around, knock on the door, and ask that he be readmitted, but before he could make his move, he heard Kitty's voice through the door. “Get rid of him. Get him out of here.” There was a pause, then Lolly added, “And don't let him see in here. Whatever you do, don't open this door. Do you understand?” Aaron nodded. “Can you hear me?” Lolly asked. Aaron started to nod again, then said, “Yeah.”

By now Sweeney was kneeling at the foot of the grave. He was bending forward, scraping against the earth just beneath where he was kneeling. The pig had come to watch. Sweeney seemed to have found something that encouraged him to dig more rapidly. He was tugging at what looked, from the distance, like a rope. There was resistance and he pulled harder, then scraped away more earth. He was tugging, trying desperately to pull something free of the dirt. More earth was removed, and the tugging, now a prolonged straining, was resumed. All the man's muscles, all his thoughts and feelings, seemed to be given over to pulling on the rope. The pig continued to watch.

Finally what looked like a sack came loose, the earth gave way, and Sweeney was tumbled into the grave, disappearing completely. Aaron went through the kitchen, past the table and the sink, to the screen door. Sweeney's head appeared, then an arm. He was sitting like a man in a bathtub. He started to get up, but something was in the way. He reached down, pulled up a good-size sack, made of leather—or earth-stiffened cloth—then flung it out onto the mound of earth next to the grave. Aaron heard a rattling, then a clunk. The pig's hind leg had been grazed, but the pig didn't seem to mind. Sweeney looked around, surveying his situation. He placed his hands, palms down, next to the sack, stiffened his arms and tried to hoist himself up. He had lifted himself about six inches when the ground under his hands crumbled and his face was sent full force into the dirt. For a moment he didn't move, letting his face rest where it had landed, his arms at his sides, himself kneeling inside the hole. The pig heaved itself away from the kneeling figure and trotted toward the tool shed.

Sweeney lifted his head, shook it, wiped his forehead, brushed his sleeve across his eyes and mouth, spit, and stood up. He flicked the dirt from his sweater, from his pants, giving special attention to his knees. He then lifted one foot, knocking away what chunks of earth were there, then lifted the other foot, repeating the act. He hiked up his pants, spit once more and moved his sleeve across his mouth.

Aaron could withhold his help no longer. He stepped into the side yard, letting the screen door slam so that Lolly and his aunt would know he'd gone outside. “Mr. Sweeney,” he called, managing not to sound too alarmed by the man's difficulty. “Mr. McCloud” was Sweeney's reply, surprised and cheerful, as if he hadn't expected to see him and was pleased at his good fortune. Before Aaron could offer his assistance, Sweeney said, “And what happened to you? You're wet to the bone.”

Aaron's clothes felt the wet all over again; the salt rubbed itself more meanly into his skin. The sea smell, the stink of fish, however, seemed to have diminished, but that could be because he was catching cold and his nose was being rendered inoperative.

“The tide came in,” Aaron said.

Sweeney, still cheerful, said, “You'll catch your death.” Aaron, on cue, sneezed. “Bless you. Bless you.”

“Thanks.”

“You were walking on the beach?” Sweeney seemed troubled by the vision he'd conjured up.

“Yes.”

“Far down the beach, to the north?”

“Yes.”

“Below the headland where it's all rock?”

“Yes.”

“And then the tide came in?”

“Yes.”

Sweeney's solemnity increased as the inquiry progressed. He had put one hand on each side of the grave and stood like an interrogator totally unaware that he was down in a hole. “And the water rose?”

“Yes. The water rose.”

“To the cliffs it came, to the foot of the cliff, and then it began to climb? The water? To climb?”

“Yes.” Aaron sneezed but received no blessing.

“And you'd nowhere to go but out to sea?”

“There was a rock.”

“The rock. Yes, the rock. You climbed the rock. And just in time. It's what I've been warning for years. Years.” By now his solemnity was absolute.

“Are the tides rising higher and higher?” Aaron asked.

“Oh, no, not that. It's anyone could know that, if he's any sense at all. It's that we don't do the fishing as much as we used to. The fishings have gone underfoot. All gone.” Squarely the man stood like someone in a pulpit, sending forth his knowledge and wisdom not from a height but from a depth. And he seemed most pleased with the inversion. “No one drowns anymore,” he said. “There hasn't been a drowning in three years. Before, we could count on ten to a season at the least. But not enough go fishing, not enough
get
claimed by the sea. And after all these years, the sea hasn't got used to it. It's developed an appetite. It's looking, the sea is, the sea's looking for someone—anyone will do—someone to drown. And it's going to keep rising and rising and coming farther inland and farther until it gets its due. It'll eat away the cliffs and even bring the rocks down onto itself, into its very bosom, looking, searching, not leaving until it's found someone to drown. The sea isn't famous for yielding its secrets. But it's after us all. You on your rock, you have to watch out. It's got sight of you and there, look at your clothes, it's made its claim. You smell of it already, so it will know where to find you.” He nodded, sure of the truth he'd spoken, his arms stretched out from his sides, taking the measure of Declan Tovey's grave. “Keep your distance from the sea. It's asked for you by name, and I'm ready to bet at any time that it'll get you yet.”

“I'm too good a swimmer.”

“A good swimmer is the best prize of all.”

“I didn't stay on the rock. I swam all the way back to where the path takes you up to the road.”

“Good. Good. Give the sea a taste of what lies ahead. Tease it a bit. Swim a little. Walk along the shore. Tease it. Taunt it. And see what it does.” He made a noise at the back of his throat as if he were gargling with mud. “Meantime, don't catch cold. That's no way to go when you've already been promised elsewhere.”

With what he hoped was a cold dignity, Aaron asked, “Do you need some help?”

In response the man said, “Want to see what I've got here?” He put one hand on the earth-encrusted sack. He smiled a conspirator's smile, his eyes catching a glint from the sun. “You want to know what's inside?”

Aaron shrugged.

“I'll tell you. Do you know a thatcher's tools?

“Thatcher's?”

“A roof thatcher. His tools. They're here, in this sack. A dutchman and a leggett and some tarred twine and I can tell you besides, there's a cup, like a chalice really, all made of purest pewter, for taking a drink. It's in there, too.”

“May I look?”

Sweeney put his hand on the sack. “No need to. I just told you.”

“Oh.” Aaron scratched his collarbone because it seemed the gesture of a stupid man and he wanted to appear stupid, incapable of knowing what the man might be talking about.

“You want some help out of there?”

“What kind of a man is it who can't get himself up out of a hole?” Sweeney, with a little assist from his hands and arms, sprang sideways and was upright on the level ground in less time than it took Aaron to blink. Sweeney was picking up the sack with one hand and brushing off his pants with the other. “I'm home to my cows now, but I'll come back when he's been returned to the ground. To see that he's safely away. Deeper, tell them, much deeper. And give this to your aunt and tell her I understand why she couldn't come out to say a word or two, and Lolly McKeever too.” He paused, then said, “You know, of course, she murdered him.”

“Who?”

“Declan Tovey.”

“You said murdered by someone. Who?”

“Who but her?”

“Who's her?”

“Must I say her name?”

“Lolly McKeever, you mean.”

“No, not that one. The other one.”

“Are you talking about my aunt?”

“You mustn't blame her. She had cause.”

“She says Lolly did it.”

“Of course she'd say that. But it's your own aunt who did it. And you've got to accept the truth.”

“I don't think I do.”

“Of course you don't. Because you didn't know what the woman was going through with this rascal all night and all day and all the times between. Forcing himself on her, insinuating in his insinuating ways. Doing for her all manner of things a man can do and all the time waiting to make his move. And then he makes it. But she'll have none of it. Not she. Not this woman. Into her own hands she takes the leggett, the iron implement from here in the bag, and she warns him. And he's getting closer. And she warns him again and moves off. But he's following and she's warning and gripping the leggett, and he's closer and she's against the wall. She has no choice. Aside the head she gives him the leggett. Not just to send him off, but to
get
him gone for good. To the floor he falls and she knows she's done it. And no regrets, none at all. He was given nothing he didn't earn. He'll never come after her never again. Never, do you hear? Never!”

Sweeney's eyes were blazing. He had worked his way not to an old wrath but to a triumphant bliss lived all over again. Sweeney had done it. Tovey was after his aunt. Sweeney was jealous. And he had just, in his own way, stated the motive and the means, jealousy and the instrument in the thatcher's bag. Aaron was relieved. He was giddy. Although he rather liked Sweeney. He had, after all, given him a ride, even with a pig. But now his aunt and Lolly were free. He could now convince them to turn the bones over to the
gardaí.
The case could be solved in minutes. Proof of Sweeney's guilt was in the man's hand. The sack. It held the murder weapon. He had come for it. It would have fingerprints. Aaron would testify. The murder was solved.

Sweeney had picked up the sack and held it out to Aaron. “Tell your aunt this comes from me. I was the one found it, but it's on her land and she's the one should have it. But be sure to tell her it's from me, and if she could part with the cup I'd be grateful.”

Aaron looked at the sack. Sweeney was undoing all his detection. He was surrendering into the hands of his aunt the probable murder weapon. The proof of his guilt. After two hesitant movements of his hand, Aaron took the sack. “I'll tell her. It's from you.” He held the sack at his side. There was no rattle. The clogged earth had muted whatever sounds it might want to make. It wasn't as heavy as Aaron had expected. He gave it a shake to see if he could hear the murder weapon. All he heard was a dull
thunk.

Sweeney was kneeling again, his head lowered into the hole. He reached down and picked up a pebble, then stood up and showed it to Aaron. “Give this too to your aunt.” It was the metal button that had come off Tovey's coat. Sweeney rubbed the dirt off with his thumb and held out the button. Aaron took it. Sweeney smiled again the conspirator's smile. “But I'll still want the pewter cup.”

“I'll tell her.”

Aaron drew the sack closer to himself, switched it from his right to his left hand and let it rest against his thigh. Getting dirt on his pants was the least of his worries. Sweeney had continued to smile, not moving away from the hole. Aaron realized it was his responsibility to leave first. “Thank you,” he said, giving the sack a shove with his knee. “I'll tell my aunt.”

Sweeney nodded. “And tell her her secret's safe with me. Not that
it
wasn't an evil thing to do. But she was provoked, and I honor her for fending off what she'd rather die than do. That much I know, and I credit her for it. She has a name I'll never speak, not even to accuse. You'll tell her that.”

Aaron nodded, turned and started toward the house. He knew Sweeney was watching. He walked faster. A new thought came to him. The pewter cup held the traces of poison. Instead of taking the cup, he'd asked for it, sure it would be given. Aaron picked up his pace. Then he slowed. This latest reasoning was inconsistent with the other confessions. The man had said a blow to the head. He should have claimed poison. But he hadn't. Aaron stopped walking altogether. Then it was all clear. Sweeney wanted his aunt to know he'd done it. Jealous of Tovey, maddened with love, he'd poisoned the poor unsuspecting man. And now he wanted full credit from the woman who'd driven him to so rash an act.