Murder at the Monks' Table (20 page)

“Have you any idea of the time that this happened?” White tried to stifle a yawn.

“I was running a little late,” Oonagh said. “So, I'd say about half nine.”

“And did you see anyone else on the street?”

“No one,” Oonagh said. “Everyone seemed to be at the Court Hotel already.”

Everyone but our murderer,
Mary Helen thought.

The sound of doors slamming and voices outside announced that the ambulance had finally arrived.

“Tomorrow, then,” White said as the attendants helped Oonagh Cox onto the gurney. “We'll talk. Maybe you'll remember something that slipped your mind tonight.”

Putting his empty teacup on the sideboard, Detective Inspector White turned to face the Sisters. “I'll be heading off now,” he said. “Tomorrow, then.” He glanced at his wrist-watch. “It is tomorrow. Later today we can talk, too. Maybe you saw something. .. .” He let the thought trail off.

Maybe, indeed,
Mary Helen thought with a twinge of guilt. Just when was Liam O'Dea going to get around to talking to his superior? Mary Helen couldn't help wondering if the attack on Oonagh Cox had something to do with her affair with Owen Lynch.

 

 

Sister Mary Helen could scarcely keep her eyes open when she was getting ready for bed. Once she had climbed in, however, and her head touched the pillow, she found herself suddenly and absolutely awake.

Shadows scooted across the walls of the small room, creating a moving mural of shapes. The wind, which had come up quite unexpectedly, lashed the tree branches against her window. She half expected to hear raindrops hit her windowpane, but none came.

She stared up at the ceiling wondering, once again, what Detective Inspector White saw up there. All she noticed was a small water stain that made her wonder if the mews' roof had a leak.

She took a deep breath, trying to relax and coax sleep, but her mind would not turn off. Instead, her thoughts swam like fish in a small bowl.

At first glance, Ballyclarin had seemed to her like such a perfect little village. But villages were made up of people. At her age, no one needed to remind her that there are no perfect people.

On her longest day, however, she had not expected to stumble into a murder here. But stumble she had, right into the body of Willie Ward.

Every murder, she knew, had a motive. Who, she wondered, had motive enough to kill Willie Ward? Certainly Oonagh Cox had a grudge, she'd been told, from when Oonagh's husband had been in agony and Willie threatened to expose her for giving him cannabis for his pain.

Then there was Jake, the tinker, an angry man who resented Willie for sullying his name and whose talent Willie seemed to resent. Was that motive enough for murder?

And Zoë O'Dea, an odd duck at best, whom Mary Helen had heard tell Willie that she was surprised that no one had killed him yet, implying that a number of people might have a reason.

Sister Mary Helen plumped up her pillow, hoping to get comfortable. She tried to picture green fields, ocean waves, anything peaceful. But her thoughts kept jumping to Tommy Burns nearly naked in the field and Oonagh unconscious on the grass and the horrible shock of finding Willie dead.

What was the connection, if there was one? Why had all this hatred come to a head at the Oyster Festival? Mary Helen's own head began to ache. She needed to get some sleep. What had triggered the violence? What was going on behind the scenes? When she found that out, surely the motive and the murderer would come clear. Not that finding the murderer
was her responsibility, she told herself firmly—in fact, quite the contrary.

You know very well that Detective Inspector White has forbidden
you to get involved,
a small inner voice reminded her.

I'm already involved,
she reasoned.
Besides, he never said a
word about passing on information to Garda O'Dea.

He would have if he'd known you intended to,
the voice countered.

She turned on her side, trying to relax. “Oh Lord, how did I get into this mess? Help me,” she prayed as she felt sleep quickly overtaking her. “Help me!”

She could have sworn she heard the Lord reply. “I'm really trying to, old dear. Now get some rest.”

 

 

May
God grant you always …
A sunbeam to warm you,
A moonbeam to charm you,
A sheltering angel, so nothing can harm you.

—Irish blessing

 

W
hen Sister Mary Helen woke on Wednesday morning, her small bedroom was exceptionally bright. So much so that she wondered if she had fallen asleep with her light on. It took her a few moments to realize that the room was flooded with sunshine.

Peeking out the side of the drape, she saw that the sun was, indeed, shining and that the sky was a bright scrubbed blue. During the night the wind must have blown the clouds away, leaving Ballyclarin sparkling.

The brightness made Mary Helen's eyes burn, and she realized she had a dull headache, probably from lack of sleep. Nothing, she was sure, compared to the headache Oonagh Cox must have this morning.

Hearing Eileen moving about in the kitchen, she slipped into her robe and slippers and joined her friend.

“How are you this morning?” Eileen asked the moment she saw her. “You look awful.”

“Tell me what you really think,” Mary Helen muttered, taking the cup of coffee Eileen offered her. She settled down at the kitchen table.

Eileen sat across from her. “I was thinking what a glorious day it is. That it's much too beautiful to be in the house and that we ought to go visit Oonagh Cox to make sure she is all right.”

“I agree,” Mary Helen said.

“I thought you would, and so while you were still asleep I called the Coxes,” Eileen continued. “It seems that the doctor decided to keep her overnight in the hospital as a precaution. And although the son who answered the telephone was very polite, it was apparent that he was discouraging visitors.”

“You can't blame him,” Mary Helen said. “What the poor woman probably needs is rest.”

Mary Helen sipped her coffee in silence. “What's on the Oyster Festival schedule for today?” she asked finally.

“I looked that up, too,” Eileen said. “As luck would have it, today is a free day. That is, until early evening, when there is a hurling match.”

“Hurling?” Mary Helen stifled a yawn. “Do you know anything about hurling?”

“Next to nothing,” Eileen admitted.

“Maybe today should be our day to rest,” Mary Helen suggested. “To tell you the truth, at the rate we've been going, we'll have to have a vacation after our vacation.”

“And you are to meet with Detective Inspector White this morning,” Eileen reminded her, as if she needed to be. “By the time you are finished with him, a day of rest may be very much in order.”

Since the morning was so beautiful and Detective Inspector White had not yet come by, the two nuns decided to have
breakfast in the backyard. When Mary Helen had dressed she helped Eileen move out orange juice, warm raisin scones, and second cups of coffee.

The sunlit garden was aflame with bright sturdy fuchsias, long-stemmed orange montbretia, and oxeye daisies. Marigolds and buttercups appeared among the shrubs. And a plump wood pigeon cooed softly in the distance.

Ah, peace! Mary Helen sighed, feeling the warmth of the sun on her feet. At the moment she was unable to fit Willie Ward's murder or the attacks on both Tommy Burns and Oon-agh Cox into this idyllic scene. Maybe it had all been a dream. Detective Inspector White had not yet sent for them. Perhaps he had caught the culprit already.

The deep rhythmic
bong
of the church bell rang through the village calling the faithful to morning Mass. Compelled by it, the two nuns quickly brought their dishes into the kitchen and hurried across the road to the church.

A small congregation was already gathered, and one of the women was leading the Rosary. Mary Helen had never in her life heard it recited so quickly. Eileen had told her long ago that the Irish prayed that fast so that the devil couldn't get a word in.
Even an angel, let alone a human being, would have a tough time,
Mary Helen thought, trying to keep up.

When Father Keane finally did walk onto the altar, nearly ten minutes late by Mary Helen's watch, he looked as if he hadn't slept a wink. She felt sorry for him. Had he been on a late night sick call, or was he just unable to sleep?

Even the few words he did say after the Gospel reading were short and stiff, as if his mind was somewhere else.

Could it be on Oonagh Cox and Owen Lynch? Had he learned about their affair in the confessional? She couldn't help wondering as he gave the final blessing. Did murderers really confess their crimes, or was that just in the movies?

She'd never know. By the time the church ordained women, she'd be long gone.

Coming out of church, Sister Mary Helen spotted Detective Inspector White's automobile parked near the Monks' Table.

“Should I report in or should I wait to be summoned?” she wondered aloud.

“Probably the most prudent thing would be to report in,” Eileen said, “but since when has prudence been your long suit?”

Before Mary Helen had a chance to argue, Detective Inspector Brian Reedy came toward them, his short red hair still wet from the shower.

“Sisters, good morning,” he called cheerfully, “and a marvelous morning it is, too. You slept well, did you?”

“Yes, indeed,” Eileen answered for the two of them.

“I've a message from Ernie White,” he said. “He wants to know if it would be convenient for you, Sister Helen, to meet with him at half one this afternoon?”

“Surely,” Mary Helen said, not bothering to correct her name. She was eager to get the interview over. “Where would the Detective Inspector like to meet?”

“Your mews will be fine,” Reedy said. “He'll be at your door at half one, then?” With a quick smile, Reedy turned and left them standing in the road.

“It doesn't seem right to sit in the house on such a lovely day,” Eileen said, watching the handsome detective disappear into the Monks' Table. She checked her wristwatch. “And we've almost two hours before you are to meet the inspector. How about a little walk? And then we can get some lunch.”

Mary Helen readily agreed. The air was warm, and the sky was scoured clear. The day was perfect for a walk.

 

 

The whole village seemed to be taking advantage of the fine weather, Mary Helen thought as the two sauntered along a side street. Every house, large or small, had its windows thrown open, and linens like white sails hung on lines to dry.

“Everybody must have changed their linens yesterday,” Eileen noted, watching the breeze gently flapping the bed-sheets. “Or maybe they did it when they saw the sun this morning.”

“Out for a walk, I see, and ‘tis a grand day for it altogether,” Zoë O'Dea called from her front garden. Her sharp, dark eyes fastened on the two nuns. “You've been to Mass, have you?”