Death at Carasheen (Inspector Faro Mystery No.13) Page 3

  Impatiently awaiting Imogen’s arrival gave Faro plenty of time to consider what he was letting himself in for. He knew the importance of proceeding with great caution at the beginning of a case, aware that he should be in full possession of all the facts, and that included an accurate timetable of the incidents as they had occurred, a close examination of the scene of crime and interviewing any witnesses where such existed. But none of this was going to be possible before he accompanied Desmond Crowe and plunged headlong into a disastrous and perhaps even fatal confrontation with that unholy trinity the Caras boys. He sighed. In the case presented to him by Desmond Crowe, the evidence and other matters of vital importance were without a satisfactory explanation. They had only the word of the simple Paddy who claimed to have witnessed the murder, but what was the motive for the Caras’ attack on the young couple? All of Faro’s experience indicated that murder must have a motive but, in this case, no one seemed able to provide a satisfactory reason for killing the young couple and, of vital importance, was their behaviour at the wedding odd or provocative in any way. A mild-mannered, inoffensive couple by all accounts, what was their house like? Would it yield any interesting clues?

  As he sat at the table making notes, the action took him back to his Edinburgh investigations. How he had thought such matters were over forever when he took young Prince George back to Luxoria last year - a fraught and heartbreaking adventure at Her Majesty’s wish (or command), leaving him with a secret he must carry untold into eternity. He had emerged fortunate to be alive for such he knew had not been the grim intention of that particular mission. But it had also convinced him that this was to be his last venture into crime and mayhem.

  Afterwards, he had relaxed and was prepared to enjoy his retirement with the much-travelled Imogen. Now they would go together to all those cities he had read about and dreamed of visiting during his long service with the Edinburgh City Police. With a gesture of disgust, he threw down his pen. What had happened instead to all those plans? An innocent occasion like a family wedding had plunged him into yet another chilling murder case. His thoughts were interrupted by a tap on the door. A maid stood there. ‘Miss Crowe to see you, sir.’

  ‘Send her up, please.’

  The young maid stared at him, her shocked expression hinting at some improper suggestion. She shook her head. ‘Sure now, sir, that ain’t allowed. Ladies . . .’- she placed an emphasis on the word as she repeated it - ‘ladies are not allowed in gentlemen guests’ bedrooms. Ye’ll have to come down and see her yerself,’ she added virtuously.

  Imogen was waiting for him and kissing her in full sight of Tom and the customers at the bar, he demanded angrily, ‘Did you know about these absurd rules?’ Staring defiantly in Tom’s direction, he repeated the maid’s words and Imogen merely laughed.

  ‘Nonsense, isn’t it? But what can we do about it, Faro?’

  ‘Makes us sound like wicked schoolchildren or frustrated lovers,’ he grumbled.

  She looked at him candidly. ‘And are we not just that?’ Before he could reply she linked his arm. ‘Sure now, don’t take on so, Faro. We can meet in my room.’

  And at his eager glance she laughed. ‘No, you can’t stay the night since I share it with Cousin Maeve.’ And, when he scowled, she added, ‘Sure now, she’s very understanding about giving us time together.’

  Maeve’s cottage was pretty with a thatched roof. Very old, very comfortable, with a huge kitchen and a peat fire, it warmed his heart, carrying him back to those long lost childhood days in Orkney. A huge fish pie, topped with buttered potatoes and cabbage from the garden, followed by a suet pudding banished his black mood and a well-filled stomach soon had him better disposed towards life in general. Home-brewed ale added to Faro’s sense of well-being especially as, perhaps warned by Imogen, Maeve refrained from any mention of the recent murders.

  Reminded him in looks and bearing of dear old Mrs Brook, erstwhile housekeeper of his home in Edinburgh’s Sheridan Place, Maeve was not quite as much the soul of tact as that lady, clearly dying to know with some thinly veiled questions if he and Imogen were getting married sometime soon. But he could afford to smile away such hints heading his way.

  Puzzled that Imogen called him by his surname, she said, ‘It doesn’t sound quite proper for an...’ a small hesitation then a bold step forward ‘an engaged couple not to be on first name terms.’

  Faro laughed. ‘Some folk across the water often still call each other Mr and Mrs after many years of marriage.’ Then, with a smile, he added, ‘I’m called Jeremy.’ A bow towards Imogen indicated that she provide the explanation.

  Imogen shook her head. ‘I thought Jeremy made him sound like a little boy. It didn’t seem quite strong and dignified enough for a formidable Chief Inspector of Police when we first met. I got into the habit of calling him Faro then and now I can’t change.’

  ‘Jeremy is a nice name. I like it,’ said Maeve defiantly.

  ‘Then you call me that,’ said Faro.

  ‘And so I shall,’ was the reply as Maeve darted a reproachful look in Imogen’s direction. Then, with a sigh and laying aside her sewing, she announced, ‘I have a few things to do upstairs, then I am for bed, Imogen darlin’, so you and your young man...’ Something must be wrong with her eyesight, Faro decided, as, without batting an eyelid, she continued, ‘can enjoy a bit of peace and quiet. I dare say you have lots to talk over. So goodnight, Imogen, and goodnight, Jeremy. Just make yourselves at home.’ And, with an arch look that spoke volumes, she left them.

  It was good to sit on the old sofa with Imogen’s head resting on his shoulder as she asked, ‘Comfortable, Faro?’

  He smiled and kissed her. ‘Not much of a substitute for a fleecy white pillow though, is it?’

  Imogen sighed. ‘Not a bit as I hoped or planned, I can tell you. Uncle Des could have managed somehow - especially once the Dublin folk get around to sending some regular police to help as he asked.’

  Faro smiled wryly. He had grave doubts about that promised help arriving in time. ‘I’ve given your uncle my word. I’ll do all I can to help him.’ Pausing he drew her close. ‘But the die is cast, as the saying goes, and the sooner we get it over with the sooner we will be able to head back to Dublin and you can do the rest of your research there.’

  ‘I need to be here for a while. Daniel O’Connell was a Kerry man remember,’ The clock struck ten and she sighed. ‘You had better go, darlin’. I don’t want to keep Maeve awake. She’s a light sleeper. You know how it is in the country. Up at dawn to milk the cow and feed the hens - and, in her case, a creche of wee bairns, bright eyed and bushy tailed at five, demanding food and attention.’

  Tiptoeing hand in hand to the door, she whispered, ‘Uncle Des will take you to...to where it happened...and to meet Paddy. You will need an interpreter to talk to him as he doesn’t have the English.’

  ‘What about the young couple’s house?’

  Imogen shivered. ‘Empty, I imagine. Just as they left it. No one will want to live there ever again, I fear.’ Placing a hand against his cheek, she added, ‘Dearest Faro, I know how awful this is for you.’

  ‘Nonsense, my dear. All in a day’s work,’ he replied with a cheerful confidence he was far from feeling.

  Imogen shook her head. ‘That isn’t true - not now, anyway. And I got you into all this, can’t help blaming myself...’

  Faro placed a hand over her lips and then he kissed her once more. ‘You know I cannot refuse. Besides, I never could resist a challenge.’ And what a challenge, he thought, as with a sinking heart he walked back to the inn where Tom stared at him from the public bar, his brusque goodnight making sure that his guest was climbing the creaking stair alone.

  Surprisingly, he slept well, his dreams free of the nightmare that awaited him - the nightmare that was Carasheen’s reality.

  Chapter 4

  The young maid brought warm water for his ablutions and, considering her anxiety about his moral conduct, swiftly departed with a
scared look in his direction. As he shaved, the smell drifting upwards hinted at fried bacon with the possibility of sausage and eggs. His appetite aroused, he was greeted unsmiling but polite by Tom and breakfast was all that he had hoped for. He was downing his second cup of rich, strong, dark tea when the door opened to admit Desmond Crowe, obviously eager to start the day’s activities.

  Taking a seat opposite, he declined refreshment, saying: ‘Just the two of us - it is Conn’s day off. He’s gone to visit his mother.’ And, leaning across the table, he whispered, ‘The axe - the evidence, you know, is kept locked away should you want to see it.’

  With no excuse to linger, they emerged into bright sunshine and a cloudless sky where Desmond’s remarks about how lucky they were to have such a fine day fell flat for Faro considering what lay ahead.

  ‘I presume you ride,’ Desmond said.

  ‘Not very well or very often,’ Faro admitted. ‘It wasn’t a necessary qualification in my Edinburgh days.’

  Desmond laughed. ‘I guessed that somehow. Everyone rides here but I have other means of travel,’ he added, pointing to the inevitable pony cart.

  As they drove through the village, Desmond indicated the church and the hall next door where the wedding reception had taken place. They skirted the village and came to a halt by a stile at the end of a tree-lined lane.

  ‘We go on by foot,’ said Desmond. ‘Along that path is where it happened.’

  Faro followed but with little hope of finding any remaining evidence. There were piles of sawn logs and a fallen trunk used as a chopping block but no signs of a struggle - nothing left to suggest that murder had ever taken place. Recent rains had washed away any bloodstains and nature had taken over, healing any scars made by brutal human activity. Underfoot the grass had grown strong and straight again.

  Faro looked around hopefully. Perhaps he might spot a broken branch or two. As the birds twittered and sang above their heads, he had a sudden vivid mental picture of how that song had been stilled by the terrible cries coming from beneath those branches. At his side, Desmond said, ‘There’s nothing here now, is there?’ Faro shook his head. That there might have been some clues remaining was too much to hope for. It was impossible, even now, to imagine much less describe that terrible murder scene.

  ‘If there had been no witness it would have been unbelievable,’ said Desmond solemnly, reminding Faro that the next stage was the visit to Paddy.

  ‘Does he live nearby?’

  ‘No, in Carasheen with the priest, Father McNee. Paddy makes himself useful in the house. Like many who are simple minded, he is exceptionally strong. He helps in the church. The father was sorry for him when his mother died. She was a decent woman, deeply religious and so, we gather from Father McNee, is her son. He knows the Bible at least.’

  Desmond sighed. ‘The father is one of the few people who understands Paddy’s speech. It needs patience even for those of us who have the Irish.’

  A few minutes later, they were at the church. As Desmond thrust open the door, Faro momentarily found the mingled smells of wax candles and incense overpowering. The priest, who came forward to greet them, had hardly any more flesh on his bones than the skeletal figures of mortality decorating the monuments on the walls. The bones of his skull were evident for there was not a hair on his head or on his face and the colour of his deep-set eyes was lost behind heavy eyelids. His voice too was thin, reedy, hardly above a whisper.

  Faro was surprised. As he waited for Desmond to introduce him, he realised he had expected a village priest to look like Friar Tuck or like those depicted in Shakespeare’s plays, round, well-fed and merry. Desmond was explaining the necessity for this interview with Paddy. The priest’s eyes swivelled constantly in Faro’s direction, plainly ill at ease with the suggestion and regarding this stranger to Carasheen with a mixture of distaste and suspicion.

  ‘I don’t want you upsetting poor Paddy. I absolutely forbid it,’ he said sternly to Desmond, who he guessed might have the greater authority. Then, turning to Faro, ‘It was a terrible thing for the poor lad to have to witness. You can take my word for what happened. I had it all from him and he never lies.’ He paused, waiting for some comment or assent from Faro. There was none. With a despairing sigh, he went on, ‘A terrible sight for the village when he ran back to the hall, brandishing . . .’ He closed his eyes against that vision. ‘The axe. And screaming - screaming words that none of us understood.’ Again he paused. ‘When we got him calmed down, that was terrible too.’ He frowned and bit his lip. ‘There are those who are unsure about Paddy,’ he added candidly. ‘Perhaps some imagined he had finally lost what wits he ever had and had gone mad.’

  Picturing the scene, Faro found that not too difficult to understand as the priest continued. ‘Fortunately, I was able to reassure them, convince them that they were in no mortal danger from Paddy. He told me the whole story again in the confessional and I could guarantee that it was the truth.’ Turning sharply to Faro as one who might be sceptical, he added, ‘The lad is deeply religious. And he is certainly innocent. If I need further proof, everyone knew he doted on Peg and Will Donnelly and they thought the world of him. Although they teased him, scolded him about spying on them, they treated him tolerantly, as one would a lively, exuberant puppy.’

  ‘What can you tell Inspector Faro about Peg and Will?’ Desmond interrupted.

  ‘They were good Catholics, a fine young couple who came to Mass regularly and to confession.’ It wasn’t much to go on but Faro knew better than to ask what he most wanted to know - whether they had ever indicated in the confessional anything that might be of importance, anything that might be a clue to their murder, particularly about the lad Paddy.

  ‘It would be very helpful if we could have a word with Paddy.’ said Faro.

  ‘Desmond has already talked to him several times,’ said the priest sternly.

  ‘I did so immediately - Inspector Faro knows that,’ said Desmond, ‘but he will need you to interpret.’ They were interrupted by a sound like an animal in pain and, as they turned round, there was Paddy standing inside the door, watching them and listening too - if he understood a word they were saying. Speaking to him in the Irish, indicating that he join them, Paddy came forward twisting his bonnet in his hands.

  Staring at Faro, he circled him if this was some new species of creature he had never before encountered. At that moment, Faro was considering wryly the cruelty of nature. The young man - who could have been any age from eighteen to forty - had something of the beauty of the angels who adorned the church walls. Blonde curls, wide-set blue eyes and classical features that should have added up to the handsomest of men. There was only one difference - his eyes were a mere fraction out of alignment, as were his chin and mouth, the portrait of a fallen angel painted by a busy artist who was irritated and impatient with his subject.

  Faro realised by Paddy’s sudden change of expression that Desmond and the priest were now discussing the murder with him. The result was terrible. He placed his hands over his ears to try to block his terror. Sobs racked him, he flung the bonnet on the floor and stamped his foot on it, as if it was some creature that had done him an injury. He roared, in a great voice, some words repeated over and over in Irish and lost on Faro.

  The priest put a thin arm about his shoulders, patting him, murmuring soothing words as one would to a fractious child. It had the required effect. Paddy stared at them, his huge eyes welling with tears. Father McNee picked up the bonnet, handed it to him and, shaking his head, indicated to Desmond and Faro that they should leave now. The interview, if it could be so called, with the one witness was at an end.

  Leading them to the church door, he whispered, ‘Come back later, when I have had time to explain it all and calm him down.’ Once out of the church and into the morning sunshine, Faro realised that this was the nearest he would ever come to questioning Paddy. He would have to take Desmond’s word for it - and the priest’s - that the lad was totally honest and he wa
sn’t looking at the killer of Peg and Will, which in all truth, he had been seriously considering. After all it was a logical conclusion. Laughed at by the village, perhaps that good-natured teasing by Peg and Will had humiliated him and one day thrown him over the edge.

  Faro sighed. So little was known about such aspects of human behaviour but, from many years of experience, he was perfectly aware that the first to discover the body and report the crime, whether bringing the murder weapon or not, was very often proved to be the killer. But, apparently, not this time. Still, it seemed a regrettable omission not to interview Paddy in the manner instilled in him over many years as a detective and regarded as normal procedure for a main witness.

  Faro shook his head. The thought of sitting with an interpreter, the stern and disapproving Father McNee, and questioning that poor creature, inflicting further cruelty on that tortured mind, was beyond him. This was just one more frustration in a murder case forced upon him, an investigation outwith any previous experience that had ever come his way in Edinburgh.

  Desmond was awaiting some comment. ‘I shall have to take your word and Father McNee’s for it,’ he said. ‘You both seem absolutely certain that Paddy is innocent and that he did not run amok with an axe.’

  Desmond gave a shocked exclamation. ‘That just isn’t possible if you knew anything about Paddy’

  ‘And I’m not likely ever to know that at first hand, am I?’ said Faro wearily. ‘But I should like to know something more about Peg and Will than the scant information I have had from anyone so far. In particular, I would like to see over their house.’

  ‘I will take you there gladly. But I hardly think it will yield any vital clues.’

  And, as they boarded the pony cart and sped through the summer greenery of narrow lanes, Faro had little hope of that either.