Murder at the Monks' Table (9 page)

“Fat chance,” Mary Helen grumbled as the two of them hurried along the wet, deserted street to their mews.

 

 

May you live to be a hundred years,
With one extra to repent!

—Irish blessing

 

S
ister Mary Helen awoke feeling groggy. Eyes closed, she patted the nightstand, feeling for her glasses. It took her a few minutes to work up the courage to put them on and check the time.

She groaned. Eight o'clock! She'd had six hours of sleep, if one could call that fitful catnapping that she'd done sleep. Actually, she was more tired now than when she'd gone to bed.

In the distance she heard the rumble of a lorry and the slamming of car doors. The doleful caw of a crow in the yard seemed to signal the beginning of another day in Ballyclarin. Yet the mews itself was silent. Eileen must still be in bed, she thought. Thanks be to God! It was far too early to begin the day.

Let the lorries roll and the crows cackle. She'd just stay put and hope to drift off again. She pulled the down comforter up under her chin and tried to focus on the gently sloping green
fields and the soft textured clouds of blue and gray that she had enjoyed during her few days in Ireland. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

Despite her best efforts, all the patterned fields, shifting clouds, and deep breaths were not able to push aside the sight of Willie Ward in his tweed cap enthroned in the ladies'. She cringed and tried to blot out the terrible scene. Surely no one in this peaceful idyllic village could have done such a thing. Yet the man was dead. That was a fact. Unless last night was nothing more than a nightmare. Wouldn't it be grand to wake up and discover it was all a bad dream?

If it was not, then a stranger must have stolen into the Monks' Table and committed the murder, a very strong stranger. One had to have strength to stick that small knife into a man's heart.

Enough of this,
Mary Helen thought. She shut her eyes tight to keep out the daylight that was struggling to get around the closed drapes and into the darkened room. But sleep refused to come.

Instead, again and again, Willie Ward flashed before her, a knife protruding from his blood-soaked shirt, a plain old kitchen knife that could be found in anyone's drawer. Where had she seen one like it recently?

The answer played on the edge of her memory, just out of reach. Like names and places and faces often do when you are trying to pin them down.
Just relax,
she assured herself,
and it will come.
It had to have been within the last few days.

Of course, market day on the village green! Hadn't Eileen and she watched the farrier at work? She was almost positive that at his booth was a display of handmade kitchen knives.

Surely Detective Inspector White and his partner were aware of that. But just in case, she'd mention it, if she had the chance. She tossed uneasily. Did the farrier have any reason to murder Mr. Ward? None she knew of, anyway.

She remembered thinking at the time that he looked like a pleasant sort of fellow—peaceful, really, as he pounded the hot metal. Not that looks had anything to do with murder. In the few days since she arrived in Ballyclarin she'd met up with several locals who seemed to thoroughly dislike Mr. Ward. Maybe one of them had snatched a knife up from the farrier's booth when the man's attention was on shoeing the horse.

Mary Helen caught herself. This was police business, not hers. She was in Ireland on holiday, as they say. It would never do to get involved in what was certainly no concern of hers. She must remember that!

A sudden loud knock on the kitchen door of the mews startled her awake.

“Are ye up?” She recognized the cheerful voice of Paul Glynn, their hackney driver. “It's half twelve,” he called. “I was afraid there was another dead body or two.”

Twelve thirty! Mary Helen's eyes shot open. How had she missed the tolling of the mass bell?

“We've had a very long night,” she heard Eileen whisper.

“So I hear.” Paul warmed to the topic.

“Can I fix you a cup of tea?” Eileen asked softly.

“Beautiful,” Paul said, and Mary Helen heard the door bang as he settled at the small kitchen table.

Many a day we shall rest in the clay,
she thought, forcing herself out of the bed.

“Well, if it isn't herself!” Paul exclaimed when a few minutes later Mary Helen joined them. She had dressed so quickly that she stole a glance at her feet to make sure her shoes were a pair.

“How's the celebrity this morning?” Paul asked, obviously in high spirits.

“Celebrity?” Mary Helen was taken aback. “What celebrity?”
she asked halfheartedly. She was really too tired for guessing games.

“It's all over the village. Yes, indeed!” Paul grinned. “Yank nuns found Willie Ward's body, God rest him, in the ladies'.” The driver's hazel eyes danced behind his rimless glasses. He was having great fun.

Mary Helen felt her face grow warm. “The man was murdered, Paul,” she said.

“Ah.” Paul paused. Looking penitent, he ran his fingers through his straight dark hair. “None deserved it more,” he said piously.

Another knock came on the kitchen door. This was going to be a busy day. Before either of them could answer, the door was pulled open. Mary Helen was not surprised to see Detective Inspector Ernie White, still in his rumpled suit jacket.

His face was puffy, and the small dark moons that had formed under his eyes left no doubt that he'd been up all night, or at least a good part of it. His thick dark hair looked more than ever like a haystack. Mary Helen wondered if White had a wife or perhaps a lady friend who would tell him he needed a haircut. Badly!

“Can I fix you a cup of tea?” Mary Helen asked, trying not to stare.

“Ta,” the inspector nodded wearily and crumpled into the last chair at the table.

“Good morning, Sisters.” Detective Inspector Brian Reedy stood in the doorway.

“Tea, Detective Inspector?” Mary Helen asked, surprised that the man looked as fresh as he did.
Ah, youth!
she thought, going into the living room to pull in another chair.

“You needn't go to any bother,” Reedy said. “I'm on my way to headquarters. I just wanted to let Ernie here know.”

“Good luck, then,” White said, leaving Mary Helen wondering what all that was about.

For several minutes the only sound in the small kitchen was the sound of sipping.

Finally White cleared his throat. “Did you get any rest last night?” he asked.

“Some,” Eileen said, “but it was quite unnerving. Finding that poor man …” Her voice trailed off.

“Indeed.” White tilted back in his chair to study something on the ceiling. Then, bringing his chair forward, he seemed for the first time to notice the hackney driver. “And you, Paul?” he asked. “How did you sleep?”

“Fine, indeed, sir.” Paul looked surprised to be asked. “My wife and I had no idea what happened until this morning.”

“You didn't wonder a'tall when you left the tent and saw the tape and the garda at the Monks' Table?”

Paul shook his head. Not too vigorously, Mary Helen noted. “According to my wife, I was feeling no pain. She drove us both home,” he added quickly, in case the inspector had any question about his driving under the influence.

Dumbfounded, Mary Helen watched the exchange. Surely Detective Inspector White didn't think Paul had anything to do with the murder, did he? Unfortunately, his face gave nothing away.

“May I ask why you are here now?” His tone was friendly, almost chatty. At least, Mary Helen thought it was.

“I just came by to ask the nuns if they needed me today. I didn't know a thing about any murder till I came into the village. The whole place is full of nothing else.”

Paul's explanation seemed to satisfy White, who rose abruptly. “And you do understand,” he said, without taking his eyes off the driver, “that what you hear in this room, especially from the nuns, remains in here?”

“Yes, indeed, sir,” Paul answered, his tone all business, but his face barely masking his disappointment. Mary Helen thought she understood why. Recounting any fresh news to the enjoyment of the lads in the pub surely would earn him at least one free round.

“When you've finished your tea, Sisters,” White said, as if he'd just remembered that they were there, “may I have a word with you both at the Monks' Table?” He drained his cup. “I have a few questions. It shouldn't be long.”

When he left the room, an uncomfortable silence filled the cozy kitchen, but only for a few seconds.

“The nerve of that man,” Paul snarled, his cheeks reddening, “practically accusing me of doing in the old get.”

That word again! From his tone Mary Helen was pretty sure she shouldn't ask what precisely
get
meant.

“He did no such thing!” Eileen said, clearing the teacups. “He was simply asking you a few questions.”

“It came off as if he had me in mind,” Paul complained, sounding reluctant to let go of the affront. “The man is an odd duck, if you ask me.”

“He's probably just exhausted,” Eileen said.

“A lot you know about the gardai,” Paul snapped testily.

A
lot more than I want you to know,
Mary Helen thought, catching Eileen's eye.

“Do you think we will have time to go to the art show this afternoon?” Mary Helen asked, eager to change the subject.

“It will depend on how long they keep you, won't it?” Paul said, beginning to get back his good humor. “I'll check in at half two, if that's to your liking.”

“Why don't we meet with the detective inspector right now?” Eileen suggested, after assuring Paul that a 2:30 pickup was to their liking, indeed. “The sooner, the quicker,” Eileen, ever practical, remarked.

Outside the sky was a brilliant blue with startling white clouds all in a line. Cottage doors and windows were flung wide open, and wash hung out to dry. It was going to be a grand day. Everyone seemed to be counting on it. At least, Mary Helen hoped it would be a grand day. For Eileen and herself, it all depended on Detective Inspector White.

Sister Mary Helen recognized the pimple-faced garda from last night standing at attention in front of the door of the Monks' Table. Liam, Mr. Lynch had called him.
He has to have a last name,
she thought, smiling at the young man.
I can't keep referring to him, even in my own mind, as Liam with the acne.

The garda tipped his hat when the two nuns passed, revealing a head of thick sandy-colored hair. “Morning, Sisters,” he said, his cheeks glowing red.

“Good morning, Garda …” Mary Helen searched his chest for a name tag or some sort of identification, but a large yellow rain slicker covered any place she could expect to find one. She might as well come right out and ask.

“Garda Liam O'Dea,” he answered smartly.

Wasn't O'Dea the Oyster Queen's name? Something-very-Irish O'Dea? “Are you by any chance related to that lovely young women who is the queen?”

“If it's Tara you mean,” Liam O'Dea offered.

Mary Helen nodded. That was it. Tara O'Dea.

His face lit up. “In the West of Ireland we all seem to be related somehow,” he said. “But, yes, I am. Tara O'Dea is my first cousin. Her da and my da are brothers.”

The acne skin must be from his mother's side,
Mary Helen thought, not unkindly, smiling up at the young man.

“But enough of my relatives,” Liam said, suddenly all business. “Detective Inspector White is expecting you. I have strict orders to show you in as soon as you get here.”

 

Straightening his shoulders, Liam O'Dea pulled back the door of the Monks' Table and watched the two nuns walk inside. When he was sure the heavy door was completely closed, he moved closer to it, hoping he could overhear some of the goings-on. Hard as he tried, he heard not a sound. He glanced around nervously. It would never do for someone to catch him eavesdropping. No indeed, he thought, deliberately taking up his position closer to the curb.