Hush Now, Don’t You Cry (12 page)

I crossed the lawn without seeing anyone. A smart new automobile was standing outside the house, presumably belonging to Chief Prescott as I had seen no auto the evening before. But of the chief himself there was still no evidence. As I came toward the clifftop, the wind picked up in force, almost snatching the hat from my head, and I could taste the salt of sea spray on my lips. The ocean was angry today, slapping in over rocks and sending up sheets of spray. If there had been any clues to what happened to Brian Hannan, then they would have been surely destroyed or washed away by now. I looked down at the shore below. The body was gone and the police with it. There was no indication as to where it had been lying. Rocks, seaweed, tide pools glinted in the morning sunlight.

I continued along the edge, taking care that I was not close enough that a sudden swirling gust of wind could send me over too. As I walked I checked the ground at my feet. It was all manicured lawn, right up to where it dropped away and I wondered how the gardeners managed to maneuver their lawn mowers in a spot like this. Perhaps they clipped the very edge by hand. Disappointingly there were no muddy patches revealing a clear, condemning footprint. Nor was there any sign of the turf being disturbed in a struggle, nor of the cliff edge having recently collapsed, thus sending Brian Hannan hurtling to his death. In fact the whole scene was peaceful and serene—a gentleman’s manicured country estate as one might see in a picture postcard.

I thought about the man I had seen leaving through the French doors the evening before and striding out into the darkness. If that person had been Terrence, and it certainly was someone of his build and height, then where could he have been going in this direction, away from the main gate and the bright lights of the bars in town. I looked around the grounds. On this side of the house were the formal gardens—the fountain and the tennis court. Among the trees I caught a glimpse of a gazebo and then the estate became a wilderness of shrubs and bushes. Nothing to entice a young buck like Terrence Hannan. I wondered if I’d be reckless enough to ask him about it, if I got the chance.

“There’s nothing you can do, Molly Murphy,” said the small, warning voice in my head. “It is not your case. You just mind your own business, look after your husband, and stay away from the Hannans.” I had felt that the house hadn’t wanted us when we arrived. Now a great tragedy had occurred but it was nothing to do with us and the best thing we could do would be to leave these people to their grieving. Maybe Daniel and I had only stirred things up and given more grief by even suggesting that Brian Hannan’s death was more than an accident.

I stood examining the clifftop, where the trees came close to the cliff edge. Why would Mr. Hannan ever have wanted to come here in the dark? Unless—another disturbing thought crossed my mind—unless he had wanted to do away with himself. I had heard how he grieved for his beloved granddaughter. Maybe he held himself somehow responsible for her death and had decided he could no longer live with the guilt, so he flung himself from the cliffs in the same spot that she had plunged to her death. Only that didn’t concur with what I had heard about Brian Hannan. He was an egotist who thought highly of himself, who liked to play the benevolent dictator, the puppet master who pulled the strings. Described as kind and fair and yet with enough power over his family to know that they would make the uncomfortable journey from New York to Rhode Island at this strange, unfashionable time of year when he summoned them. Such men usually believe that they are always right and would not consider killing themselves. But then he had said to Daniel, “I might have got it wrong.”

What might he have got wrong? And did it have anything to do with his family?

I looked down at the crashing waves. No, I couldn’t see a man like Brian Hannan had been described flinging himself over that cliff. It would not have been guaranteed death and more likely would have resulted in messy maiming. From everything I’d heard about him, he would not have wanted to survive as a cripple. If he was going to kill himself he’d have done it efficiently and neatly—a shot through the head in his own New York house, along with a written note explaining his actions.

As I turned away from the cliff I spotted something glinting among the rocks below. I made my way back to the place where descent was possible, even if not too gracefully. Indeed it did involve sitting on my bottom for part of the way, but I did check first that nobody was watching and arrived without incident on the shore below. The tide was receding and the seaweed-covered rocks were wet and slippery. I made my way cautiously to the spot where I had seen the glinting object. I was half hoping to find a jewel or something incriminating like a cigarette case with telltale initials on it, but it turned out to be nothing more than several pieces of broken glass. They could have lain there for any length of time, of course. But they hadn’t come from a passing ship. Their edges were still wickedly sharp. Some pieces lay among the rocks, some in a tide pool. I used my handkerchief to retrieve as many as I could, knowing that the larger fragments might contain a valuable fingerprint. Then I wrapped them in the handkerchief before I attempted the scramble back up the cliff to the gardens.

The glass was quite thick and obviously curved. I wondered if the autopsy might reveal that Mr. Hannan had been hit over the head with a bottle as he stood on the cliff. I also wondered why Chief Prescott’s men had not picked up the pieces themselves. I made it successfully to the top of the cliff, brushed off sand and dirt before walking back through the grounds. As I passed the French windows I paused, again trying to decide where the man who had left the house that way in the dark could have been heading. Perhaps there was a gate in the wall on that side of the property, where a person who did not wish to be seen could slip out unnoticed. But then why walk all that extra distance if one was going into town? Unless one wanted to meet somebody and didn’t want the family to know. My thoughts turned to Mr. Joseph Hannan and the woman who had been with him. What had he done with her, I wondered, and was tempted to go into town to find out if she had gone back to New York or was staying on in one of the small hotels.

Then I told myself that she was none of my business either. If Joseph Hannan chose to leave his wife at home and brought another woman with him instead, then it wasn’t up to me to snoop into their affairs. And surely her presence here could have nothing to do with Brian Hannan’s death. I paused, considering this, and made up my mind that I would go into town to see if I could find out any more about this mysterious Miss X.

Thirteen

As I came close to the back of the house I heard voices. I moved closer, taking the path that ran along the side of the house. A kitchen window was open and inside I glimpsed a row of black-and-white uniforms. So the servants were assembled in the kitchen and from the way those backs stood unmoving I suspected that Chief Prescott was grilling them. I dearly wanted to listen in but there was no convenient bush or obstruction near the window behind which I could hide. I went around the corner where there was a blank wall and flattened myself against this, praying that nobody would come, as I couldn’t think of any logical reason I should be standing in this spot. Certainly not to be out of the wind as it was about the most exposed corner of the house and buffeted me as I stood there. It also snatched away the voices that floated out through the window so that I only caught snippets of conversation. Not enough to make sense of what anyone was saying.

In the end I gave up in frustration and had just decided to move away when the back door opened and three men came out. I stood still against the wall, hoping that they wouldn’t turn and look back in my direction, but fortunately they stood for a moment outside the door, then started walking away from me. I recognized one of them as the gardener to whom I had spoken—a pleasant-looking lad.

“Well, how about that, then?” he said to the other men. “Poor old geezer, what a way to go.”

“What do you mean, poor geezer?” a larger, big-boned carthorse of a youth said. “Why should we worry about him? What about us, that’s what I want to know? Who gets the property now? What if they decide to sell it?”

“I suppose it goes to Mr. Joseph, doesn’t it? He was the master’s partner in business,” the pleasant lad said.

“We’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we?” An older man stepped in between them. “It’s not our place to speculate and until we’re told otherwise we get back to raking leaves and pulling weeds. Got it?”

“Yes, Mr. Parsons,” the boys muttered.

“You know what I think,” the gardener I had spoken to said. “I think there’s more to this than they are saying. The way they grilled those New York servants—they aren’t sure this was an accident, are they?”

“Watch your mouth, boy,” the older man hissed. “Nothin’ to do with us. We keep our mouths shut and stay well out of it.”

“Lucky for us we go home before dark, that’s what I say,” the bigger youth said, nudging his friend. “They can’t pin nothing on us.”

“Not so lucky if they find out that you haven’t got rid of those brambles over on the far side like you was supposed to,” the older man said.

“How was I to know they’d be coming here in October,” the boy complained. “Ain’t natural, is it? Whoever heard of a family coming up in October?”

“So you’d best get moving now, or you’ll be looking for another job,” the older man said. “We’ve already lost enough time today answering his danged fool questions.” And he stomped off in the direction of the stables. The younger gardeners exchanged a grin and then went their own ways. I paused until they were out of sight, thinking. Daniel had mentioned something about scraps of clothing fiber being caught on bushes. If there were lots of brambles in that far wilderness, maybe I’d turn up a valuable clue. I wasn’t sure why I was so keen on finding clues to an incident that had nothing to do with me—perhaps I wanted to show Daniel how competent I was, but perhaps it was more that I wanted to impress Chief Prescott. A little of both, I suspect. I’ve always enjoyed a good challenge and I had nothing else to do at that moment.

I set out across the formal garden, veering to avoid the fountain that was sending out a mist of spray in that fierce wind until at last I reached the part of the grounds that had been allowed to grow wild. A white painted gazebo was half hidden among tall shrubs. A flagstone path led to it. I went up the steps and peeked inside. It was a simple structure, six sided with a wooden bench running around the walls. There was nothing special about it, except for its location, hidden away from the main house but with a delightful glimpse of the cliffs and ocean through the arched entrance. A drift of red maple leaves had accumulated on the benches and floor and it had an abandoned feel to it. I almost turned away again, then something caught my eye. On the bench just inside the entrance was a tray containing a decanter and a glass, half filled with a brown liquid—brandy or whiskey, I surmised.

Of course my first thought was why the police had not come across this or chosen to remove it for testing. What if the whiskey had been tampered with? Had Brian Hannan been here? Had he decided to have a quiet drink before facing the family? Of course it could easily have a more simple explanation. Maybe Terrence or Joseph, or even Father Patrick, may have needed to escape for an occasional tipple. There was nothing wrong in this and they’d have no problem confirming their presence in the gazebo. But the tray must have been placed there recently, as there wasn’t a single leaf on it, whereas the bench beneath it was littered with them. So it was definitely worth mentioning to Chief Prescott. I changed direction and walked firmly around to the front of the house.

There was no longer a constable standing at the front door, but it was ajar and I stepped unchallenged into the foyer. Nobody was in sight and the hall still had that cold, unfriendly feel to it. I shivered and involuntarily glanced up the staircase. I didn’t care what Mrs. McCreedy had said, there was some sort of presence in this house. Almost as if a curse lay over it, claiming first the beloved child and then the master. But this was the twentieth century and it was America, not Ireland and people no longer believed in curses.

I stood waiting for someone to come, listening for voices but the house remained silent, apart from the wind that moaned softly down a chimney. Chief Prescott had been in the kitchen with the servants so I started down the passage that led to the rear of the house. Halfway along this hallway I heard men’s voices coming from behind one of the many doors. I put my ear to the door, trying to discern whether one of those voices belonged to Chief Prescott. I thought I recognized Joseph Hannan’s blustering manner and hesitated to barge in on him, when he had made it so clear that he wanted Daniel and myself off the premises as soon as possible.

I jumped guiltily as I heard footsteps behind me and spun around to see a footman coming toward me, carrying a tray containing a silver coffeepot and cups. He looked at me curiously.

“Can I help you, miss?” he asked in a voice that still had a trace of Irish brogue.

“I was trying to hear whether Chief Prescott was in this room,” I said. “Are you bringing that coffee for him?”

“I believe he is in there with Mr. Joseph,” the young man said, staring at me impassively. I could see him trying to judge from my appearance whether I was a guest or someone of lesser rank and whether he needed to treat me with deference. Of course I had been out in the wind and up and down a cliff so I’m sure the first impression was not too good.

“Is he expecting you, miss?” he asked flatly. “Do you have a message for him?”

“I wish to speak with him immediately concerning the alderman,” I replied in my haughtiest voice. “Kindly announce me when you take in the coffee.”

“Whom shall I say is calling?” he asked.

“Mrs. Sullivan. My husband and I are staying in the guest cottage. We were invited by the alderman himself,” I said. “And I have already made the acquaintance of Police Chief Prescott this morning.”