Murder at the Monks' Table (7 page)

“We are fine,” Eileen said quickly, then skipping over the whys of their being outside, she told the priest what they actually had stumbled upon.

“We have come to find Owen Lynch,” she said, her words coming out in small icy puffs.

By now both the nuns and the priest were shivering with the cold. “You must be nearly frozen,” he said. “I know I am. Let me go and find Owen myself and tell him what you've told me. You needn't trouble your heads.” He thought for a moment. “Why don't you two go around the outside of the tent to the Monks' Table? Have a cup of hot tea. I'll join you there as soon as I can.”

Without another word, Father Keane started back toward the tent. Silently the nuns stared after him.

“A cup of hot tea sounds good,” Eileen said, making a path with her flashlight.

The combination of fear, cold, and weariness made Mary Helen feel almost drugged as she followed her friend toward the Monks' Table. It didn't occur to her until they had almost reached the pub that they hadn't asked Father Keane what in God's name—if it was in God's name—he was doing out in the cold, dark, dangerous field himself.

 

 

Sister Mary Helen drew back the heavy wooden door of the Monks' Table and stepped aside to let Eileen go in first. The sudden blast of warm air fogged up her bifocals, momentarily blinding her.

“Welcome,” she heard the publican call.

Finding a clean tissue in her sweater pocket, she wiped her glasses. Once she did, she saw that only three men were at the long bar. One sat at each end and one squarely in the middle.
Making sure the publican gets his exercise,
Mary Helen thought—
that is, if they ever actually drink from their glasses.
From where she stood, all three seemed to be doing more staring at the rich dark liquid than actual sipping.

“Mind your step,” the publican reminded them as they made their way toward the dining area in the back of the pub.

“Let's get a table close to a fireplace,” Mary Helen suggested. Her feet and hands felt like ice sculptures. She wondered, as the warmth began to make them tingle and burn, just how long it would take for them to feel normal again.

“Any place at all,” a middle-aged waitress said. “What with the gala tonight, the place is nearly empty.”

Eileen chose an alcove with a table that was next to an open fireplace. “How's this?” she asked.

“Great.” Mary Helen slid into the high-backed bench. The two of them put their feet as close to the fire screen as seemed safe.

“Hot tea?” the waitress asked in a weary voice.

“And two scones, please,” Eileen added.

“Sorry, dearie. No scones at this time of night.” The waitress tapped her pad with the tip of her pencil. “But the rhubarb pie is grand tonight.”

“Rhubarb pie it is, then,” Eileen said, smiling over at Mary Helen. “You have never tasted anything like this rhubarb pie.”

“Will you be having that with the whipped cream?” the waitress asked.

“Please,” Eileen said.

Mary Helen groaned. “Just thinking of the calories.”

“We need it for energy,” Eileen rationalized, as if they needed a reason.

“The place really is deserted,” Mary Helen said when the waitress had gone for their order. The high-backed benches made it impossible to tell if any other diners were in the alcove. If there were, they were awfully quiet. In fact, the entire pub was eerily quiet.

“Everyone must still be in the tent.” Eileen rubbed her hands together in an effort to warm them. “I wonder how long
it will take Father Keane to find Owen Lynch in that crowd?” she whispered, in case there was anyone to overhear. “And after he does, they'll have to take care of Tommy Burns, poor lad. I hope he's not frozen to death.”

“Surely they'll call the police, too,” Mary Helen said.

“Who'll have to come from Oranmore,” Eileen speculated. “At this time of night, it shouldn't take more than fifteen or twenty minutes.”

“Maybe you are right about our needing energy,” Mary Helen said as the waitress set down two large triangles of rhubarb pie topped with a mound of whipped cream. “It looks as if it is going to be a very long night.”

She was amazed at how quickly the pie disappeared. And Eileen was right, Mary Helen thought, as she resisted the temptation to order another piece: she had never tasted rhubarb pie quite so delicious.

The sweet aroma of hot tea filled the alcove. Cradling the cup in her hands, Mary Helen felt its warmth slip down her throat and settle in her bones. A medley of traditional Irish tunes played softly in the background. She was afraid to close her eyes. Surely she would fall asleep. Or maybe she was asleep. Maybe this was all a dream.

“Just what the doctor ordered!” Eileen sighed and settled back against the high bench.

Voices floated in from the bar. “Did you hear the one about the fellow who had a little too much to drink?” someone asked the publican, who said he hadn't.

“Driving home from the pub he's weaving and the garda stops him.

“ ‘It looks as if you've had quite a few,' the garda says.

“ ‘I did, all right,' says the fella.

“ ‘Did you know that a few miles back your wife fell out of the car?'

“ ‘Oh, thanks be to God,' says the fella, ‘for a minute there I thought I'd gone deaf.' “

“That's a good one,” the publican said, laughing.

“Unless you're
herself
,” the waitress said to the nuns as she cleared off the pie plates. She stifled a yawn. “That's old Terry Eagan,” she said. “He thinks he's quite the card. I say ignore him. Is there anything else I can get for you?”

“No, thank you,” Eileen said. “We are waiting for—”

“No matter,” the waitress interrupted, untying her apron strings. “Wait as long as you like. You can settle up with the publican when you're ready. I have got to get off my feet.”

With the waitress gone, the Monks' Table grew even more deserted. Mary Helen stared dreamily into the crackling fire. Without warning, a log crashed to the hearth. Sparks exploded, hitting the screen.

Eileen jumped and her hand flew to her chest. “If I had a heart, I'd be dead,” she said, standing up to make sure no embers had fallen on the rug.

“Over there.” Mary Helen pointed to a small glowing spot on the other side of the alcove. “While you're doing that, I think I'll make a little visit.” She moved toward a hallway with a large sign that read, “Toilets.”
No confusion there,
she thought, stopping at the narrow door marked “Ladies.”

Pushing open the door, she was greeted by a faint flowery smell that seemed to be fighting with a sharp acrid odor. Although the small room appeared unoccupied, the stall door was shut. Quickly Mary Helen stepped outside. Everyone appreciates a little privacy.

For several minutes she studied the framed photographs that hung on the wall across from the ladies'. They were candid shots of some of the pub's more illustrious visitors with a man she presumed must be the owner. She was fascinated to find such celebrities as Noël Coward, Princess Grace, Bing
Crosby, John Steinbeck, and Joan Baez. There was even a photograph of Princess Margaret and Lord Snowdon!

Eileen will be wondering what happened to me,
Mary Helen thought, staring into the blue eyes of a smiling Paul Newman. She listened for the sound of water running. There was no sound at all. Perhaps no one was in there after all. Perhaps the stall door is always shut.
I really didn't look,
she thought, again pushing open the door to the “Ladies.”

Once inside, Mary Helen bent over to check the stall for feet. Sure enough! There were two feet firmly planted on the floor. Big feet, actually. Muddy feet and long pants. But still no sound.

“You-hoo,” she called softly. “Are you all right in there?”

No one answered. Odd, she thought, as a shiver of fear shot down her spine.

“You-hoo,” she called again, her hand on the top of the stall door. At her touch, it swung open. Mary Helen froze. A large, beefy man sat on the closed toilet seat. He might have been expecting visitors except that he was slumped sideways, his head resting against the tank. The old-fashioned pull chain dangled past his sightless eyes. The handle of a small kitchen knife protruded from his chest. A bright red halo of blood soaked the front of his shirt, right where his heart ought to be.

“Are you all right?” Eileen pushed open the door. “I was beginning to worry,” she said, and then she stopped. “What is it?”

Mary Helen pointed. “It's … it's Willie Ward,” she whispered, scarcely able to catch her breath. “He's dead.” Afraid her knees might buckle, she leaned against the stall wall.

Eileen was saying something, but all Mary Helen could hear was the sound of her own blood pounding in her ears.

The poor man,
she thought crazily,
should not have had to die
sitting on a toilet seat with that silly old Donegal tweed cap perched
on his head, even if no one seemed to like him very much. Everyone deserved more dignity than that!

 

 

Sister Mary Helen wasn't sure what happened next. Suddenly, Father Keane was there and the publican whose name was Hugh Ryan and Tommy Burns, Mr. Death, with clothes on. Although from the fit it was easy to see they weren't his. Not that it mattered, Mary Helen thought; this surely was not a fashion show. And Owen Lynch, the chairman of the Oyster Festival, was there with them.

The priest's first order of business was to give the poor man the Last Rites. “I'll just pop over to the rectory for the oils,” he said and was back in no time.

The group lined the hallway in solemn silence while Father Keane pronounced the sacred words over Willie Ward's dead body. “By this holy anointing,” he intoned, “and His loving mercy, may the Lord forgive you whatever wrong you have done….”

When he finished, Father Keane insisted that they all sit down at the bar and have a hot whiskey to steady their nerves while they waited for the gardai to arrive. Tommy Burns didn't need to be asked twice. Hugh Ryan, who had locked the front door of the Monks' Table, seemed pleased to have something to do. And poor Owen Lynch looked as though he could use a double.

“Ah, Hugh, just a bit of it,” Father Keane said, watching the publican fill his glass.

“Nothing like this has ever happened before in the entire history of the Oyster Festival,” Owen whined.

“I hope the gardai get here before the tent empties,” Hugh Ryan said. His dark eyes shifted from the hallway to the front door of the pub. “Sure, some of the lads will want to stop in for
a quick one before they go home. What am I going to tell them?”

His question hung in the air unanswered. Owen Lynch nervously checked his wristwatch. “The gardai should be here any minute,” he said, his lips quivering slightly. “Only they think we called about someone assaulting Tommy. They were on their way before …” He hesitated, giving the two nuns what could only be called an accusatory look. “Before,” he repeated, “this happened.”

Mary Helen felt her spine stiffen.
This,
as Mr. Lynch put it, was not their fault. For heaven's sake, they had simply discovered the man. A few more sips of hot whiskey and she might be tempted to tell him so!

“Poor Willie,” Father Keane lamented, twirling his glass. “The scoop of his life—mayhem and murder at the Oyster Festival—and he missed it.”

“I'd hardly say he missed it, Father.” Ryan polished the already clean bar. “He was the main attraction, save for Tommy here. I don't mean to make light of your bump,” he said, refilling the young fellow's whiskey glass. “Need some ice for the head?”

“No, thank ye.” Tommy raised both his hands. “I've had enough cold for one night,” he said, shivering.

“A bit more, Father?” Hugh reached for the priest's glass.