Murder at the Monks' Table (28 page)

“You are sure it was Mrs. Cox and Mr. Lynch you heard?” White asked.

“Positive,” Mary Helen said, “but as I told you, both of them denied doing Mr. Ward any harm.”

White leaned back in his chair and studied that spot on the ceiling again. “But someone did,” he said, as though it were news. “Why would someone attack Tommy Burns, steal his costume, kill Willie Ward, and attack Oonagh Cox wearing the costume? It all must be connected somehow, but how?”

Reminding herself that this was probably a rhetorical question, Mary Helen bit her lip.

All at once, White's dark eyes focused on her. “And the note that was sent to Oonagh in the hospital. It had the same words on it that her attacker said to her. Sure, that must fit in somewhere. What do you think, Sister?”

“What do I think?” She repeated the question making sure she had heard correctly.
Poor fellow must be desperate,
Mary Helen reckoned with a twinge of sympathy. She wished she could help.

White's face burned red as he nodded his head. This time she had no trouble telling that he was embarrassed. As
well he might be,
she thought.

“Well, frankly, Detective Inspector, despite your admonition, I must admit I have given this case quite a lot of thought,” she said. “At first, I thought it might be Jake Powers.”

“The tinker?” White asked, flipping open his notebook and studying it before he continued. “What made you consider him?”

“His temper, his quarrel with Mr. Ward, which half the village witnessed. The fact that Jake thought Ward was responsible for his not being the only winner of this year's art contest.”

“But?” White said. “You sound as if you have a ‘but.' “

“But.” Mary Helen smiled, feeling a bit foolish. “He denies doing it, and I believe him.”

Detective Inspector Brian Reedy shifted uncomfortably in
his chair. “Maybe the man is just a splendid liar,” Reedy said, running his fingers through his short red hair.

“Maybe,” Mary Helen conceded, “but I think not. Then, I thought about Zoë O'Dea,” she continued. “When we first arrived in Ballyclarin I overheard Mrs. O'Dea talking to Mr. Ward. And I distinctly heard her say, ‘It's a wonder someone hasn't killed you already.' It sounded innocent enough at the time, but in view of what has happened …”

“Meaning you think she could have?”

“Not necessarily, unless she had reason. It could have something to do with her daughter Tara's being the Oyster Festival Queen.”

“Tara,” Reedy spoke up again, this time sounding a little defensive, Mary Helen thought. “She's a beautiful girl. Why wouldn't she be chosen?”

“That's not the point.” Apparently Eileen had been quiet too long. “You're right. Tara is a beautiful girl. And this whole tragedy seems somehow tied to the Oyster Festival, now doesn't it?”

A surprised White turned toward her, looking as if he had forgotten she was in the room. “What's that?” White asked, as if he hadn't quite heard her.

“Well.” Eileen smiled. “I just mean Tara became queen and not Carmel. Jake did not win first prize. Who could have enough power to make both these things happen?”

“Only the chairman, Owen Lynch,” Mary Helen answered, delighted with her friend's logic.

“Of course, old dear,” Eileen said. “Only Owen could make those things happen, and who has power over him?”

“Willie Ward, of course.”

“Are you saying that Owen Lynch is responsible?” All the color drained from White's face. “That he is the one who murdered Willie and attacked Tommy and Oonagh?”

“No, I'm not saying that he is our villain,” Eileen said sweetly. “Only that he bears looking into.”

The small room became suddenly quiet. The only sound was the rain tapping playfully against the windowpanes.

“Then, we had best do that,” White said at last. “And if you think of anything else, Sisters, please let me know.”

“That surely was a change of heart,” Eileen said, watching the two detectives run across the wet backyard.

“The man is as changeable as the weather,” Mary Helen said, gathering up the teacups.

“And just like they say about the weather,” Eileen quipped, “ 'Twill never last.”

 

 

Liam O'Dea sat in the small office in the back of the Monks' Table listening to the rain hit against the roof. He felt as if he had been sitting there for hours. When he checked his wrist-watch, only fifty-five minutes had passed. He shook it to make sure it was still running.

In the distance he heard laughter. It must be the crowd in the pub. Now, there was a good life, being a publican. Everyone was always happy to see you. Not like being a policeman.

Maybe that's what he should do with himself. Open a pub somewhere. He wondered how Carmel would like to be the wife of a publican.

What was he thinking? He felt his face grow warm.
I must be
daft. A doctor's daughter settling for being a publican's wife!

He checked his watch again. Fifty-seven minutes since White and Reedy had left. What were they doing over there?

What should he be doing, besides listening for the telephone, which was strangely silent? Was it working? He picked up the receiver and listened for the dial tone. It was.

He replaced it and leaned back in his chair and closed his
eyes. His neck and shoulders ached from hurling, but then, there was Carmel's kiss. Maybe he should take up hurling. Too bad it was an amateur sport and not one of those high-paid American games like baseball and football. Imagine making a small fortune for having fun!

He wondered where Carmel was right now. Probably visiting her mother in hospital, or maybe bringing her home. Liam's nose itched, and he scratched it.

Who could have sent Mrs. Cox such a note? A cheeky bastard, for sure. Someone who didn't think he'd be caught. Well, he would eventually, Liam knew, getting up and stretching, wishing he could join the lads in the Monks' Table for a pint. He checked his watch again. Nowhere near time to eat.

He had just about given up hope of anything happening anytime soon when the telephone gave off a shattering ring. Liam grabbed the receiver as if it were on fire.

“Tech team here. Is that you, Ernie?” the voice asked.

“No, sir,” Liam said, explaining that he had been left to receive the call.

“Be sure to tell him we did the tests as fast as we could, will you now, lad?” the voice said and then went on to report that all they had discovered of any significance was a small thread, most probably from a piece of heavy linen, possibly a bedsheet.

A bedsheet! Liam could not believe it.
Those bloody bed-sheets again,
he fumed, thanking the man, then ringing off and placing the receiver back in its cradle.

Would he be going through the search yet another time? What new could he discover? The sheet in question was probably two counties away by now.

Collapsing back into his chair, he stared up at the ceiling, the way he had seen White do when he was trying to figure something out. And he usually did. Maybe there was something to it, after all.

Liam stared up and listened to the rain tapping steadily on the roof. It was fortunate that the village women had done their laundry yesterday instead of today, he thought, noticing a small spiderweb in the corner of the office.

And wouldn't you just know that his Auntie Zoë would report him to Detective Inspector White.
More's the pity for poor Reedy if he wants to get serious about Tara,
Liam thought.
He'll have his work cut out for him.

Realizing that his neck was beginning to feel stiff from staring up at the ceiling, he looked down at the floor. There didn't seem to be anything more there than he found on the ceiling, but you never knew.

Liam felt his cheeks grow hot at the thought of Zoë and her knickers. What in God's name had gotten into him? It must have been the sheets. Was there some kind of sheet sickness, he wondered, that can affect a person after checking too many of them? Did a man start seeing things? Like water and an oasis appearing to a person who's been too long in the desert sun? He shrugged. Could be.

By the time he'd come to the Lynches' clothesline, he'd even noticed that the twins had flowered sheets. He wondered idly if Carmel did too, not that he'd ever know.

And he had started counting, too. There were seven sheets on Patsy Lynch's line.

All at once, Liam felt the blood rush to his head. His thoughts began to pop and crackle like fat in the fire. Maybe there was something to this staring business after all.

But wait now,
he cautioned himself. What was it his mam always said? “A wise head keeps a shut mouth.”

He didn't claim to be wise, but he wasn't a fool either. He'd wait till Detective Inspectors White and Reedy came back, then test his thought out on them.

What was taking them so long? he wondered impatiently,
checking his wristwatch again. When had fifteen minutes ever gone so slowly?

 

 

Detective Inspector Ernie White pulled up the collar of his raincoat around his ears, hunched over, and hurried down the road toward the Monks' Table. He knew his partner, following close behind him, was saying something, but he couldn't for the life of him make out what.

“What is it now, Brian?” White asked, pulling back the door of the pub.

The place was packed with people and the noise level was earsplitting. Hugh Ryan looked as if he had just won the Irish sweepstakes.

Reedy tried to speak again, but it was still impossible to make out what he was saying. “In the office,” White mouthed, and the two men hurried through the pub.

At last,
Liam O'Dea thought, relieved. The moment they stepped through the door, he rose to his feet.

“Did we hear from the tech team?” White asked, taking off his wet coat, shaking it, and hanging it in the corner. Reedy followed suit.

“Yes, sir, we did,” Liam said.

“And?” White asked impatiently.

“And they wanted you to know that they did the test as quickly as they could.”

“Yes, yes.” White rubbed his cold hands together. “Is there no heat in this room?”

“No, sir,” Liam said.

“Did they find anything?” Reedy asked.

Liam wished either one or the other would ask him questions. He felt like a Ping-Pong ball with the two of them going at him.

“Only a piece of string, which they thought could be from …” Liam paused. The collar of his shirt felt tight, and he was afraid he might choke on the word. “A sheet,” he managed.

Reedy chuckled. “Sheets, again,” he said. “Be Jaysus, it could be worse. It could be knickers.”

Will I ever hear the end of it?
Liam wondered, feeling the heat start at his clenched jaw and slowly crawl up his cheeks until it touched his hairline. His face must be blazing, he thought, trying not to look at either of the detectives. He speculated for a moment on what would happen to him if he grabbed Reedy by the throat and throttled him. Best not to find out.

“Leave the lad alone,” White said.

Liam could not believe his ears, which had to be bright red by now. “I had a thought,” he blurted out. “After the tech team called and while I was waiting.”

White blew on his fingers. “We could use as many thoughts as we can get, lad. What is it?”

Liam swallowed. His Adam's apple seemed to have swollen.

“Well?” He felt White's sharp eyes on him. “What's your thought? Out with it,” he said, sounding more like himself.

“I'm not sure, sir, but something is bothering me about looking at the sheets yesterday.”

“Get on with it,” White said. “What is bothering you?”

“One of the clotheslines had seven sheets.”

Both detectives stopped and looked at him. “And?” Reedy coaxed.

“If I'm not mistaken, beds have two sheets, so there should be an even number. Unless there is another reason for using just one. Which, of course, there could be,” he added quickly.