Читать книгу Murder in an Irish Cottage - Carlene O'Connor - Страница 12

Chapter 7

Downtown Ballysiogdun consisted of a church, a pub, one gift shop, one fruit-and-veg shop, a butcher’s, Molly’s Café, and a French restaurant. Everything else was meadow and stone and trees. The farmers’ market was set up at the end of the main street. It was six rows deep and in full swing when they arrived. Table after table were piled with crates of fruits and vegetables, cheese, milk, eggs, meat, and crafts. The sound of fiddles filtered through the air along with the smells of fresh baked pies. There was nothing lovelier to Siobhán than a good summer farmers’ market. If she were going back to Kilbane she’d be buying fresh flowers and food for the week. She felt a squeeze of guilt. She wished her siblings were here to enjoy the market and help her pick out goodies. Siobhán imagined selling her brown bread here; some healthy competition was always good for a marketplace. A large man with stringy brown hair and draped in a tattered cloak weaved his way through the crowds. Truth be told he looked and smelled like he needed a good wash. “C’m’ere to me,” he called as they passed. “Do you want to hear a tale of yore?”

“We do not,” Jane said as she clicked past with her cane.

“A seanchaí?” Siobhán had to run to keep up with Jane.

“He wishes,” Jane shot back.

Behind them, the storyteller began to mumble to himself, then switched to humming a children’s lullaby.

It made Siobhán smile. “He seems like a character.”

“Eddie?” Jane said. “He’s a nuisance. Blew into town recently. Always looking for a handout.”

That explained the odor. He was probably homeless, trying to make a bob telling stories. Jane seemed to have a hard disposition, with little room for empathy. As they made their way through the stands to Geraldine’s walking sticks, Siobhán noticed Professor Kelly loitering in front of a table hoisting up a carton of eggs, lifting each one out of the carton and offering them to the light. Siobhán put her hand on Jane’s shoulder. When they encountered him on the road he had been urging the crowd to go home. Was he a peacekeeper? Or had he been putting on an act?

Jane leaned in. “Something has stolen your attention. What is it?”

“It’s a who,” Siobhán said. “Professor Kelly.”

“Dylan Kelly,” Jane repeated with a nod. “What’s the story?”

“He’s fondling eggs,” Siobhán said. “Holding every one up to the sun.”

Jane laughed. “Joe Madigan is right. No one here trusts anyone.”

“Pardon?”

“My neighbor Joe Madigan has a reputation of sneaking in cracked eggs.” As they passed, Dylan Kelly spotted Jane and turned. His glasses slipped down his nose and he nearly dropped his egg as he pushed them back up with his index finger.

“Careful. You drop it you buy it,” a gruff voice said. Siobhán’s head snapped up. There was no doubt, it was the farmer she’d witnessed spying on them through binoculars. He had changed his red shirt and was wearing a muted green one, but the dark hat pulled low was the same. He was younger than she first assumed, in his thirties, and handsome except for the scowl. His expression softened when he noticed Jane. Maybe Siobhán should have come clean to her about him being a Peeping Tom. He did not make eye contact with her. Dare she say, he was refusing to make eye contact with her? Dylan Kelly set the carton of eggs back on the table.

“You fondle me eggs, you pay,” Joe said.

Dylan Kelly shook his head, but removed a wallet from the inside pocket of his blazer and completed his transaction. Joe thrust the carton of eggs at him and Dylan tucked them underneath his arm before heading for Jane. Once he was standing in front of them, he too barely glanced at Siobhán. Maybe they were all under a fairy spell, one that rendered them incapable of noticing anyone who didn’t live in their village.

“Miss Delaney, it’s Professor Kelly,” he said loudly.

“Hello, Dylan,” Jane said. “This is Garda Siobhán O’Sullivan.”

Dylan Kelly removed his hat with his left hand and placed it on his chest. His head was mostly bald with a few side pieces blowing in the wind. “I am horribly shocked and sorry to hear of your mother’s passing,” he shouted.

“She’s not deaf,” Siobhán said. She couldn’t help it. He was acting like a fool and nearly pierced her eardrum. “How did you hear?”

Dylan Kelly glanced at Siobhán but did not answer. The phone call Macdara had made to the guards—that was the only way he could have heard. Unless, of course, he was the killer. In that case, it was foolish of him to admit to knowing something that was still under wraps. Somehow the information from Macdara’s phone call had already spread to the village. Typical.

“Murder,” Jane said, raising the volume of her voice to match his. Several heads turned. “My mother was murdered.” She leaned into Siobhán. “Are they looking?”

“Nearly every one of them,” Siobhán whispered back.

“Let me know if any make a run for it.”

Siobhán’s head popped up as if expecting to see someone bolt from the scene. Dylan Kelly’s eyes flicked once more to Siobhán. “Garda,” he said with a nod.

“Mr. Kelly,” Siobhán replied, trying to sound equally formal. “Or should I say Professor?”

He arched his eyebrow. “Retired,” he said. “I’m an author now, with my first book soon to be published.” He looked as if he wanted to pat himself on the back. He grinned and turned back to Jane. “Murder?” his voice softened. “Are you sure?”

“The state pathologist will conduct a thorough investigation.” Siobhán should have warned Jane not to jabber about the case. It never occurred to her that Jane would do so. “What kind of book are you writing?”

“Poisoned and smothered,” Jane said, stepping forward.

No, no, no. What was she doing? “It’s best not to give away too much information,” Siobhán said. “We need to protect the investigation.”

“They need to hear this.” Jane pushed Siobhán aside. “The Little People did not kill my mother. Someone amongst us did. They poisoned her, and then smothered her!”

This was a disaster, a setback for the investigators. If social decorum didn’t dictate otherwise, Siobhán would have thrown herself to the ground to pummel it.

Gasps and murmurs rippled through the crowd. Geraldine Madigan, wielding her colorful staff, barreled toward them with surprising speed, jostling townsfolk out of her way with her elbows. She planted herself in front of Jane, her bosom still heaving long after she stopped. She held a finger up to Jane’s face. “Shame on you for not listening to our warnings.”

“Geraldine,” Jane said. “I should have known there wouldn’t be an ounce of sympathy in your old bones.”

Siobhán’s mouth dropped open. Jane Delaney was combative. There was definitely boiling water under this bridge.

“That cottage is cursed,” Geraldine said, spit flying from her mouth. “If it had been bulldozed as we told you, repeatedly, your mam would still be alive.”

“And here we were going to buy one of your walking sticks.”

“You can have as many as you want on your way out of this village,” Geraldine said.

Siobhán gasped. It was all she could take. “Have you no decency? She just lost her mam.”

Geraldine’s eyes seemed to dance with excitement. “We warned them,” she said, stomping her staff. “Over and over and over again.”

“What do you think of our lovely neighbors, Siobhán?” Jane said. “Are you listening to your mother?” Jane pointed at Joe with her cane. He jumped and dropped a carton of eggs. They splattered on the ground, yellow goo forming a puddle.

“Confound it!” He stared at the eggs as if weighing his options. Was he going to force a blind woman whose mother was just murdered to pay for the dropped eggs? “Jane, I’m very sorry for your loss.” Good choice. He turned to Geraldine. “Mother, please. Not here.”

Geraldine Madigan set her mouth in a straight line and nodded. “May she rest in peace.” She crossed herself.

“You old witch!” Jane lunged toward Geraldine. “If a fairy did this, it’s you they should have killed!”

“Enough.” Siobhán took Jane by the elbow and literally held her back. “Where is your parish priest?”

This seemed to stop all the chatter. “He divides his time between villages,” Geraldine finally said. “If he’s not at the church, he may be at the other village. Why?”

“Because I swear you all need to go to mass in the morning. I’ve never seen such a shameful display in me life!”

“Putting the fear of God into them,” Jane leaned in and whispered. “I can see why my cousin is taken with you.” Siobhán felt her face flush. It wasn’t like her to hold mass over anyone’s head, but if anyone needed it, it was this lot. Jane turned back to the crowd. “Joe Madigan,” she said, “I assume now that Mam is dead at least we won’t have to live with you peeping at us with those binoculars of yours.”

She knew? Yet another surprise from Macdara’s cousin. She’d meant it when she said her other skills were sharpened. As sharp as knives. There was also a playful tone to Jane’s reprimand that Siobhán found jarring. Ellen Delaney must have known about his peeping as well and reported it to her daughter. Why had they let him continue doing it? At least Joe had the decency to turn bright red.

Geraldine pounded her stick. “What are they on about?” She glared at her son.

“My bird-watching,” he stammered. “Ellen accused me of spying. I’m a bird-watcher!”

“My son is a bird-watcher!” Geraldine repeated with twice the enthusiasm but half the conviction.

“Tweet, tweet,” Jane deadpanned.

“Don’t you dare start spreading rumors about me son being a pervert,” Geraldine said.

“Leave her be, Mam, she’s only joking.” His shoulders hunched. He leaned into her. “And please don’t use that word.”

“I saw you this morning with your binoculars,” Siobhán said. “You seemed to be looking at me.”

“Birds,” Geraldine insisted.

“Birds can be a euphemism for women, can’t they?” Jane sounded thrilled with it. Siobhán imagined her wedding. The reception. The seating chart. Jane Delaney was going way in the back.

Joe looked at Siobhán then, quite openly. His handsome jaw was set. “Who are you exactly?”

“This is Garda O’Sullivan from Kilbane, County Cork.” Jane stated it proudly. Joe Madigan swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbed noticeably. Interesting. Guards made him nervous. Guilty conscience? The young mother with the chestnut braid they’d met earlier appeared behind Joe Madigan, this time toting two children, a boy and a girl. “This is me wife, Mary Madigan,” Joe said. “This is Garda O’Sullivan.”

William had his hand wrapped around his mother’s legs, just like he’d been clinging to her in the road when they arrived. The girl looked to be around six years of age and she stood by with her big eyes glued to the visitors. “We are so sorry about your mother,” Mary Madigan said to Jane. She turned to her daughter, now jumping up and down. “Lilly. Don’t make me count to three. One . . .”

The little girl stuck her lip out in a perfect pout but stopped jumping. “Hello, Mary,” Jane said. They exchanged pleasantries, but their voices were sour, as if they could barely force niceties out of their mouths. “Did you see my mother this weekend?” Jane asked.

“Me?” Mary said. She glanced at her husband and began to blink.

“Aren’t you in her painting class?”

Her shoulders relaxed slightly. “The class was moved to Friday night so we could capture the solstice moon. Ellen was not present.”

“Are you sure?”

“Quite sure.”

“I wonder why she missed it,” Jane said. She turned to Siobhán. “You must speak with Annabel.”

“Annabel?” Siobhán asked.

“She’s our teacher,” Mary said. “She’s very encouraging.”

“We have to find out if my mam gave her a reason for canceling,” Jane said. Siobhán didn’t like her use of “we,” and the number of times she was being forced to bite her tongue was taking a toll. Jane was right about one thing; she did wish to speak to Annabel. Jane turned back to Mary and Joe. “Did any of you see my mam this weekend?”

Glances were exchanged in the crowd, and folks began to move closer.

“Several have been wondering if . . . somehow . . . she had something to do with the strange events of Friday night,” Joe said at last.

“Why in heavens do you think that?” Jane sounded defensive.

Joe cleared his throat. “A woman was seen running through the meadow toward the cottage. Right after that awful scream.”

“You saw this yourself?” Jane asked.

“Me?” Joe stammered. “No. I’m only telling you what I’ve been hearing.”

“Joe was out of town,” Mary said. She turned to her husband. “Isn’t that right, dear?”

“Yes,” Joe said. “I was gone from Thursday day to Saturday morning.” It sounded stilted, as if he’d rehearsed it, yet his wife gave a satisfying nod.

“What about you then?” Jane asked the farmer’s wife.

“What about me?” Mary’s tone was clipped.

“You must have seen me mother?”

Mary shook her head. “No. But Geraldine saw her.”

All eyes turned to Geraldine. She nodded. “Right after the scream. Running past the fairy ring toward the cottage.”

“Are you sure it was Ellen Delaney?” Siobhán asked.

“Who else could it have been?” Geraldine sounded outraged at the question.

“She was only asking if you were sure,” Jane persisted. “Answer the question.”

“I don’t know,” Geraldine admitted. “The figure was dressed in dark clothing. But she . . . or he . . . was running toward the cottage. No one else goes near the place if they don’t have to, especially at night.” She visibly shuddered. “The things I saw that night. The moon. The strange lights. That scream. That horrible, horrible scream.” She lowered her head. “Something was going on.”

“Every one of you will need to give your account of that evening to the guards,” Siobhán said. If Ellen Delaney had been seen running to the cottage, where had she been running from?

“Sounds like everyone is being overly dramatic,” Jane said. “Or they’re protecting a killer.”

“How convenient that you weren’t here to witness any of it,” Geraldine said.

Jane’s jaw clenched. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Geraldine edged closer, her staff pounding the ground. “Where were you?”

“I was at a conference in Dublin.” She pointed to Siobhán. “Ask her.”

Siobhán was floored. Not only did she have no proof that Jane had been in Dublin, she’d been the one begging for it. “The guards will get to the bottom of this,” Siobhán said. “Alibis will be collected from everyone. Here and now is not the time.”

In the distance, she could make out Aiden Cunningham huddled with Professor Kelly. From the pointing each one of them was doing, it seemed they were in a heated conversation. Siobhán didn’t realize she was staring until Aiden’s head whipped around as if he sensed her. He then turned and propelled himself away from the professor. How odd. What had they been talking about so intensely, and why had he reacted that way to her spotting them?

“I can’t bear to be around these people another second,” Jane said. “I’m so tired.”

So much for a nice day at the market. Siobhán touched Jane’s arm. “Why don’t we go and get that cup of tea?”