Murder at the Monks' Table (26 page)

Hesitating, Jake frowned. “About my photograph,” he said. His mouth tightened. “You are still keen to have one, are you?”

“Yes! Yes, indeed,” Mary Helen said quickly. What was the matter with her? She didn't even know what time Oonagh was attacked, let alone what time he had dropped by. Was she getting to be as suspicious of him as he claimed others were?

She felt Jake's eyes boring into her. “What is it? Is something gone wrong?” he asked.

He had picked that up, Mary Helen thought.

“No, not really. Can you sit for a minute?” She patted the bench beside her.

Still frowning, Jake settled in Eileen's seat next to her.

No sense beating around the bush,
Mary Helen thought, taking a deep breath. “You must be the only one in the entire village who doesn't know,” she said.

“Doesn't know what?” Jake pulled up his coat collar against the crisp wind.

“That Oonagh Cox was attacked last night and left on the lawn behind our mews.”

Jake's face drained of color, and his eyes seemed to grow even larger. “On your lawn?” he asked. “I was there about half eight and I didn't see anyone at all. In fact, the entire village looked deserted. Only when I realized that you weren't at home either did it occur to me that everyone must be at the barbeque.”

He stopped. “You don't think that I … ?” Abruptly he rose to his full height. Reaching up, Mary Helen grabbed the sleeve of his coat and pulled him back down.

“Of course I don't,” she said with as much conviction as she could manage. “What I was thinking was that if you were at our mews at eight thirty and we found Oonagh about eleven, that narrows down the time frame.” She smiled. “We had better tell Detective Inspector White. He seems to need all the help he can get.”

With a rush, the color flooded back into Jake's face. His eyes
flashed anger. “Detective Inspector White, indeed! That's all he needs, a tinker to blame this on.”

“Jake,” Sister Mary Helen said soothingly, “I'm sure that the detective inspector—”

Without letting her finish, Jake shot to his feet. “You don't know what you're sure of,” he said angrily. “You don't know shite about a tinker's life.”

“Wait!” she sputtered, but he didn't seem to hear her. Feeling a little sick, Mary Helen watched his tall sinewy body move cougarlike down the bleachers and out of sight.

“What was that all about?” Eileen asked, handing her a cup of tea that she had managed to find.

The hot, sweet aroma rose and warmed Mary Helen's cheeks. “Jake was at our place last night at about eight thirty,” she said, “and he says he didn't see anyone there, which means that surely Oonagh could not have been there.”

“She would have been hard to miss,” Eileen agreed.

“I suggested we tell Detective Inspector White—to pin down the time,” she explained. “Obviously it was the wrong thing to say.”

“He went ballistic, then, did he?” Eileen asked. “Right.”

“Thought he'd be blamed, did he?”

“Right again,” Mary Helen said. “How did you know?”

“I'm just guessing from our conversation with him at his home.”

“I thought he had some valuable information to pass on to the inspector.” Mary Helen shrugged. “But he didn't see it that way.”

Eileen blew on the tea. “Why was he there?” she asked.

“At our place?”

Eileen nodded and cautiously took a sip of the hot liquid.

“To offer us one of his pictures, I think,” Mary Helen said. “He stalked away before I could ask him more about it.”

“Do you think he'll be back?” She scanned the bleachers and the sides of field, but Jake seemed to have completely disappeared.

“It's difficult to tell,” Eileen said. Her words were scarcely audible over the roar from the crowd that greeted the returning teams.

“There's Liam O'Dea,” Eileen said, pointing to the young garda running down the field.

“Oh, yes,” Mary Helen said, but her mind was not on the game. All she could think about was Jake Powers. Such a talented fellow and so angry. Poor man! How had she been so insensitive to his feelings? She wondered if she would have a chance to see him and apologize before they left for home.

And should she tell Detective Inspector White about Jake being at the mews at 8:30? It sounded like a valuable bit of information to her, but he had told her several times in several ways to stay out of his business. Maybe she should pass this latest discovery on to young O'Dea, who was, at this moment, on the ground. But O'Dea hadn't been too reliable conveying the one bit of information that she had given him to pass on. What reason had she to believe that he'd be any better with her second discovery?

Frustrated that she couldn't make up her mind what to do, she figured that she might as well try to enjoy the game. Hard as she struggled, she couldn't seem to keep her mind on it.

Frankly, she was relieved when the crowd rose to their feet and started picking up their belongings. At last, the whole thing was over.

“We won!” Eileen, her cheeks red with excitement, informed her.

“Hooray!” Mary Helen said, assuming that “we” was Paul's team.

“Let me take you two home,” Father Keane offered. “Paul
will no doubt be doing a bit of celebrating with the lads.” He turned and looked at them inquisitively. “Unless you two want to stay and join in the fun.”

“Thank you, no,” Mary Helen answered quickly. “Home is fine.” She glanced at Eileen to make sure.

“Home, James,” Eileen said with a grin, “and don't spare the horses.”

It had been a long, full day, and all that fresh air and sunshine had done them in. Sister Mary Helen did not remember anything at all after she climbed into bed and pulled up the soft down quilt.

 

 

May
the Lord keep you in His hand
And never close His fist too tight.

—Irish blessing

 

O
n Thursday morning, both Sister Mary Helen and Sister Eileen overslept. When Mary Helen finally did wake up, she lay in her bed listening, hoping to hear familiar sounds, but there were none.

The mews was eerily quiet, as if it were deserted. In fact, the whole village sounded deserted. Even straining, she could not pick up the sound of a voice or tires on the macadam or even a lorry door slamming.

She checked her bedside clock. Ten fifty! Was it possible that she had slept through the church bell calling the villagers to morning Mass?

Silently, she slipped out of bed and into her slippers, anxious to check on Eileen. She was surprised to find her still in bed, too.

“Is that you?” Eileen asked groggily as Mary Helen tried to back out of the bedroom without waking her.

She was tempted to say, “No,” but it was too soon after waking to try to be funny.

“What time is it?” Eileen asked, her eyes still shut and her blanket around her ears.

“Nearly eleven,” Mary Helen said.

Eileen's gray eyes popped open and she sat up. “Oh dear,” she said. “We've missed the field trip to the Burren. I think the coach was leaving at ten.”

She fumbled on her bedside table for the list of Oyster Festival activities. “Sure enough,” she said, sounding a bit disappointed, “this morning was the trip to the Burren with,” she read from the brochure, “the naturalist Ignatius D'Arcy.”

“The Burren?” Mary Helen didn't remember Eileen mentioning it. “What is the Burren?” she asked.

Getting out of bed, Eileen slipped into her bathrobe. “I'll put on some coffee,” she said.

Mary Helen followed her into the kitchen.

“The Burren,” Eileen explained, sounding like the schoolteacher she had been, “is a section of western Ireland, about one hundred square miles, to be exact, which resembles nothing as much as a moonscape with miles of polished limestone stretching in every direction. It is an archaeologist's delight with megalithic tombs and Iron Age stone forts. Botanists are amazed to find arctic, alpine, and Mediterranean plants growing there together. At this time of the year they bloom.” Eileen stopped. “If you want to go, we can give Paul a buzz,” she said. “I'm sure he'd take us.”

Although it was tempting, Mary Helen didn't know if she was up to driving on the opposite side of another narrow road with Paul at the wheel. “Maybe we should take the morning off,” she said, “unless you want to go.”

Eileen considered it for less than thirty seconds. “We need a holiday from our holiday,” she said and began to hum a few
bars of “The Old Gray Mare, She Ain't What She Used to Be.”

Pulling back the kitchen curtain, Mary Helen checked the morning sky. To her amazement it was bright blue and cloudless. “It's another glorious day,” she said, watching a pair of black jackdaws hopping across the lawn as several Great Tits, their large white cheeks standing out, flitted among a cluster of magenta foxgloves.

“Two in a row.” Eileen opened the back door and took a deep breath. “What a blessing,” she said.

With nothing special to do and nowhere in particular to go, the two decided to enjoy a leisurely brunch in their garden.

Eileen was just taking several strips of crisp bacon from the frying pan when the telephone rang.

“Sister.” Paul sounded anxious when Mary Helen picked up the receiver. “Did you miss the bus to the Burren?” he asked.

“Yes, Paul, I'm afraid we did.” Rolling her eyes, she said it loud enough for Eileen to hear.

“Do you want me to take you, then?” he asked.

“No. No, thank you. Not at all,” she answered quickly. “We decided to take it easy today.”

To her surprise, Paul didn't insist. Actually, he didn't even offer a second time. If the truth be told, he sounded downright relieved.

“You've saved me a bloody fortune,” he said in a low whisper.

“How's that?” Mary Helen asked, straining to hear.

“My wife loves that perfumery that they have there. According to herself, they have a special smell that she goes daft about. She'd want me to bring some back, and it costs an arm and a leg.”

“What is so special about it?” Mary Helen asked, feeling a little sorry that they were depriving Paul's wife of a treat.

“You've got me there,” Paul said. “It looks like yellow water
to me. She says it captures—that's the word she uses, mind you, captures—the scent of wild orchids and an Irish summer.”

“I see,” Mary Helen said, although she didn't. For the life of her, she couldn't remember ever smelling a wild orchid, nor had she the faintest idea of what the aroma of an Irish summer might be.

“To me it smells like fern and moss with a few bits of old wood thrown in for good measure. They even sell a yellow candle that smells the same way.” He was talking louder now; his wife must have gone out of earshot.

Mary Helen watched as Eileen scrambled the eggs, adding a few slivers of creamy white cheese. “Well, if she likes it,” she said, anxious to hang up before the eggs were done.

“If you ask me, what she likes about it is the fact that some of the ladies in the village wear it. You know, the ones whose husbands have money.” He lowered his voice again. Obviously, the wife was back.
Good,
Mary Helen thought.
He can't go on much longer.

“So you don't want to go, then?” He quickly changed the subject. “I'm home, then, all day, if you change your mind. Or if you need me for anything at all, just ring. Oh, and I'll ring you later to see if you want to go to tonight's jamboree.”

The receiver slammed down before Mary Helen could even congratulate him on last night's victory and his brilliant playing.

“Perfect timing,” Eileen said, dishing up the eggs and bacon. “Butter the toast, will you please, old dear? Let's eat while it is piping hot.”