Cashelmara (104 page)

“Don’t worry. I have a gun, and I’ll be standing guard in the gallery while you arrest him. If he does manage to break away from you and come rushing out of the bedroom, he’ll find me waiting for him.”

“But I thought you said—”

“Well, I don’t intend to shoot him,” I said, “but it’s a poor sort of friend I’d be to you if I offered you no protection whatever if things went wrong.”

“It’s not that we’re afraid of him, Ned,” said one of them carefully. “Sure we’re more than a match for a dozen Max Drummonds, but …”

I knew they’d be no match for him at all, but I soothed them and said nothing to betray myself. Lighting one candle so they could see their way without stumbling noisily, I led the way up the back stairs. They were all breathing hard, and the faint odor of pig and sweat floated around me as we reached the gallery that ringed the hall.

I pointed to the door of my mother’s room and then gestured to the curtain that stretched from floor to ceiling beside us at the head of the stairs.

“I’m going to wait here,” I said. “Don’t worry. I’ll have you covered.”

The plan flickered for the last time through my mind. Drummond planning to bolt for America, necessary to arrest him, a struggle, my friends injured, shot while resisting arrest, hadn’t intended to kill him, but … had to protect my friends and detain my uncle’s murderer.

Leaving the candle burning on the table by the banisters, I parted the long curtains and stepped between them into the shadows.

A light still shone beneath my mother’s door.

Huge distorted shadows wavered on the walls as my friends crept into position and then turned to look back at me for the signal. The gun was ice in my hand. I raised my arm, nodded, and suddenly Sean flung wide the door with a bang and they all swarmed noisily across the threshold.

My mother screamed.

Drummond yelled, but I couldn’t hear what he said. All I heard was Sean shouting, “You’re under arrest for the murder of …”

He never finished the sentence. Someone shouted in panic, “Watch out, he’s got a …” and the next moment there was a blast that made my brain swirl with fear.

I knew he had a gun. Of course he had a gun—not his Colt, which had disappeared after he had arrived in Ireland, but a Smith & Wesson revolver, which was always kept in the locked cupboard downstairs. I didn’t know he had received threats on his life. Nobody had told me. I didn’t know he’d taken to keeping his gun at his side when he slept. Nobody had told me that either, and it had never occurred to me that he would be frightened enough to do such a thing.

Someone was screaming, but I didn’t know who it was. It was bedlam in the room, and although I tried to move I couldn’t because something had happened to my legs.

I managed to push back the curtain and raise my hand just as Drummond burst out of the room, his gun still smoking in his hand. Beyond the open doorway Sean was lying in a pool of blood, and Paddy, his face contorted with rage, had drawn his knife and was rushing in for the kill.

Drummond never hesitated. He leveled his gun to shoot.

The shot blasted in my ears, and high above us in the domed roof of the hall all the crystals of the huge chandelier shivered a second time in the shadowy darkness.

The gun was smoking in my hand.

Drummond spun around, unmarked, and beyond him the wood splintered from the bullet buried in the doorframe. His gun was leveled at me. But he never fired.

I didn’t fire either. I had one more bullet in that gun, but the bullet was never used.

I looked at him, knew he understood everything, and then, mercifully, my eyes blurred into blindness and I never saw Paddy Joyce plunge the knife into his back. But I heard Drummond cry out. I heard the cracking of the banisters as his body fell hard against them, I heard the clatter of the gun as it slipped from his dying hand, and at last, after a long, agonizing silence, I heard the crash of his corpse on the marble floor far below. There was a moment of nothingness. And then my mother rushed from the room and began to scream as if she were possessed.

I was with Kerry in our bedroom. I didn’t know how I got there. Someone was saying in my voice, “I couldn’t do it, I couldn’t do it, I couldn’t do it.”

Kerry was hugging me tightly. Her breasts were large and warm and comfortable.

“But it was done,” the stranger was saying, still using my voice, “and now it’s finished. But I’ll repay him everything I owe him. I’ll repay him through his sons.”

“Ned,” whispered Kerry to the stranger, and suddenly the stranger became familiar and I knew again who I was.

“Oh God,” I said, beginning to cry like a little boy. “Oh God.”

A shadow fell across us. “Here, Ned dear,” said Nanny. “Drink this. It’s some nice hot milk. You know how you always liked your hot milk”

Kerry said briskly in a sensible, grown-up voice, “Thank you, Mrs. Gray. Please be sure to let me know immediately Miss de Salis and Dr. Cahill arrive.”

“Yes, my lady,” said Nanny.

“Is Sean Joyce comfortable now?”

“Yes, my lady. I bandaged the arm very tightly and he’s lying on the couch in the boudoir.”

“Good. Please make sure Miss Cameron keeps the children in the nurseries. They’re not to come down yet on any account.”

“Very good, my lady,” said Nanny.

The shadow melted away. Kerry and I were alone.

“Did I faint?” I said, looking at the steaming cup of milk.

“No, darling, don’t you remember? You were so calm and brave and sensible. You told everyone what to do. Everyone heard the shots and came rushing to the scene, and you told Nanny to attend to Sean’s wounded arm, and you sent Flannigan to fetch Aunt Madeleine and Dr. Cahill and you grabbed the children and pushed them upstairs with Miss Cameron and then you carried your mother back into her bedroom.”

“What did she say to me? What did she do? What happened?”

“Sweetheart, she fainted—don’t you remember? She was unconscious. You told her maid to stay with her, and then you saw me and said you wanted to sit down. That was when I brought you here.”

I went on staring at the steaming milk. At last I said, “I’m so very, very tired.”

“You must go to bed. Now—at once.”

“But someone has to be in charge.”

“I’m in charge. Come on, I’ll help you undress.”

I was asleep almost before she pulled off my shoes. I slept for sixteen hours, and when I awoke at last it was four o’clock in the afternoon and Aunt Madeleine was at my bedside.

“I’ll never forgive myself, never,” said Aunt Madeleine. “I did a terrible, wicked thing.”

Her eyes shone with grief, and as I watched, the tears began to trickle down her plump cheeks.

“Aunt Madeleine …” I was more bewildered than appalled. It was the first time she had seemed human to me, and I realized that I had always thought of her as a dictatorial saint who had no trouble deciding what was right and pursuing her decision regardless of the consequences.

“What did you do?” I whispered.

“I lied. I did it for the best. I acted as if I were God, and later God punished me.” She found a dainty lace handkerchief, dabbed at her cheeks and made another effort to explain. “It was your father’s last illness,” she said. “I knew something was wrong. I don’t know when I remembered the arsenic, but I did remember it, and then I knew. Your mother had asked me for some soon after she had returned to Cashelmara. That was long before your father died, of course, but the mice were such a trouble, and as soon as Sarah returned she took a large supply from me to last some time. So I knew there was arsenic at Cashelmara. I thought of the cordial she had brought him, but when I searched his room I found he hadn’t touched it. But there was a jar—the kind of jar they use in the shebeens. I suddenly saw what had happened when I saw that jar. She had smuggled it to him in the bottom of her basket of gifts, and the poteen it contained was poisoned. She knew he might have taken only a sip or two of the cordial, but she knew too that a man of his habits would never leave a jar of poteen unfinished. Oh God, I didn’t know what I was going to do.”

I was staring at her. I was beyond speech. Presently after dabbing her cheeks again she continued shakily. “I tried to think what would happen if she were found out, but I couldn’t bear to think of it. You four children … and you’d already suffered so much. And I was devoted to Sarah. I expect you can only remember us quarreling, but I loved her very dearly, and I’d seen her suffer all through those last years with Patrick—that dreadful man MacGowan—I knew what she’d been through. It seemed so wrong that she should have to suffer any more … and she was such a devoted mother, so—so deserving of some happiness at last. I know Patrick was my brother, but believe me, Ned, he wouldn’t have lived long. He was already suffering from his liver, and the quantities of spirits he was consuming daily were truly lethal. So I told myself that the living were more important than the dead. I told myself I had a duty to protect you children. And I concealed the murder.”

“Aunt Madeleine …” I could say nothing else. I took her hand in mine and held it.

“It was so easy. I washed out the jar that had contained the poteen and told Dr. Cahill when he returned that Patrick had suffered a severe liver disorder. I said there was no doubt at all about the cause of death, and of course Dr. Cahill believed me. Why not? I’ve been working with sick people for thirty years, and I’ve seen plenty of drunkards die here in Ireland. Dr. Cahill trusted my judgment absolutely. And then …” Her eyes brimmed with tears again. “David died,” she said. “Sarah asked me for more arsenic, and although I hesitated I gave it to her. There were several reasons why I did, the least important being that I didn’t want to arouse her suspicions by refusing her request and that I knew very well that there really were continual difficulties with mice at Cashelmara. But the main reason why I let her have the arsenic was that I didn’t believe for a single minute that there was anyone else she could possibly want to kill.”

“And she loved Uncle David.”

“Exactly. How could I have foreseen that she would need to kill him? But afterward … when I knew … Ned, you’ll never know the torments I suffered. I shall suffer them to my dying day. If I’d spoken up earlier I could have saved David’s life.”

“You did what you felt to be best, Aunt Madeleine. You couldn’t have done more.”

“It’s not enough to do one’s best. One should do what one knows to be right. I shouldn’t have tried to protect you children. I should have trusted in God to protect you. I didn’t trust in God, that was what it was. I’ve spent all my adult life preaching God’s word and living the kind of life for which He intended me, but when I was confronted with a fearful dilemma my faith failed me.”

I let her weep for a moment before I said, “I realized you knew about Uncle David.”

“I couldn’t talk about it with you. I felt I could only talk about it with Thomas, and I was in such a state of nerves that I felt I could do nothing without consulting someone. I was so upset … shattered … not myself.”

“Uncle Thomas will understand. When he arrives …”

“He’s already here. He arrived an hour ago, and I know he wants to talk to you as soon as possible. I’ll tell him you’re awake.”

“Very well.” I sat up in bed, stretched out my arms and kissed her.

“Dearest Ned,” she said, holding me close. “What a terrible burden you’ve had to carry.”

“But it’s all over now, Aunt Madeleine,” I said. “It’s finished.”

But I knew it wasn’t. Not quite.

“The District Inspector wants to speak to you when you’re well enough, Ned,” said my uncle Thomas after we had embraced, “but there’s nothing for you to worry about. Madeleine and I have already discussed the situation thoroughly and agreed what should be said. We think it best that Drummond should officially take the blame for what’s happened.”

He paused, looked at me, but I said nothing.

“We need only point out that there was a supply of arsenic at Cashelmara. Drummond’s reputation will do the rest. They’ll think he killed your father in order to avoid being turned out of his comfortable niche at Cashelmara and that he killed David because David found out that this was what had happened.”

“Has my mother said anything about Uncle David?”

“Your mother’s said nothing to anyone. She’s in a state of shock.”

“I want it to be made abundantly clear to the police that she’s in no way to blame for what’s happened.”

“That won’t be difficult now that Drummond’s not here to argue with us. As you foresaw.”

There was a pause. “Try and talk about it, Ned,” he said at last. “It would be best if you did.”

I shook my head. “I can’t.”

“Unless you talk about it now it’ll stay with you for years. For your own peace of mind I would most strongly advise you—”

“I can’t,” I said again. “One day I’ll talk to you about it and everything will be put right, but I can’t talk about it now. I can’t even think about it.”

“I understand. I still wish … but never mind. It would be wrong to force you. There’s no difficulty with the District Inspector, incidentally, about what happened last night. Your friends told him that you decided to arrest Drummond for fear he might escape before the police came and that his violent response took you all unawares. They’re not pressing charges against Paddy Joyce. It’s understood he killed Drummond in defense of his brother and himself.”

He stopped. There was a long silence. Outside the sun was shining, and I had an intense craving to escape from the house.

“Ned …”

“Yes?”

“If you don’t feel well enough to discuss this, you must say so, but I’m afraid we’ll have to talk about what’s going to happen to your mother.”

“There’s nothing to discuss,” I said. “I know what I’m going to do.”

“Ned, you can’t simply leave her alone, you know, and let her go on as if nothing had happened. She should be in some safe place—medical care—”

“I’ll talk about it later,” I said to him, “but I can’t talk about it now. Sorry.”

“I’m sorry too. Poor Ned,” he said, and when he took my hand comfortingly in his we sat for some minutes in silence, thinking of my mother.