Masters of the House (24 page)

“Yes,” said Matthew. He added, to hide the bareness of it, “Of course, being the eldest, I remember Mum the best.”

She shook her head vigorously.

“Oh, Matthew, the time for lies and evasions is past. That wasn't the reason at all, was it?”

There was silence in the room.

“No,” said Matthew at last.

“No, of course it wasn't. I told lies to you, and you caught me out in my lies and guessed the reason for them. Oh, there've been too many lies altogether in this business, and it's a wonder the good Lord let any good come out of it at all. It's always surprised me that no one asked any questions as to why I came and took over this house and poor Dermot and you children. You'd think the people at St Joseph's would have wondered.”

“I think they were so glad that someone did that they didn't
want
to ask questions,” said Matthew.

“Maybe you're right. I was a sort of gift horse, wasn't I? But it was a penance, really, at the beginning. My punishment of myself.” Tears suddenly welled up in her eyes. “Oh, you've no idea how I longed in those early months to be back in Ireland, in my own home, with my own people! I'd forced myself into exile, and I was amid the alien corn. You children never knew how I wept! But He turned my punishment into the greatest joy of my life. I don't understand His ways, but I thank Him from the bottom of my heart.”

“Tell me about it,” said Matthew. “The others will be wondering.”

She stirred in her bed.

“Sure, they will, and you must tell them. In your own way, at a time of your choosing. Either now or after. It's difficult to know where to start. I've known I'd have to tell you before I went, but I've tried not to think about it. I've tried to write it down, but I'm not a writing person. I suppose it started when I came over on that last visit to Rob and Carmen, though things go back further—they always do, don't they?”

“You'd hated Carmen for a long time, hadn't you?”

“Oh, years and years. Almost from the first time I met her. She poisoned my son's life, though he didn't realise it himself. I felt degraded being in the same house with her. But it wasn't
that
, Matthew.”

“Wasn't it? Are you sure?”

“Oh, yes.” Her mouth was set determinedly. He was not to think
that.
“That would never have made me do what I did. . . . I came over and found that Rob had been delayed on the rig for a few days. That upset me because I hated being alone with her. Her politeness as usual ran out after the first twenty-four hours. I tried to get out more, went to as many church things as possible, went to the Irish Club, though I never liked all the drinking that went on there. It was at the Irish Club that I heard about you.”

“About me? Or about us?”

“I heard talk about the Heenans. Talk was just beginning then. Carmen was asking questions, and you remember Greg let something slip at school. It was more than once, I think. You should have realised that small children
will
talk. Mary O'Hara's little girl went home and told her mother that Greg's father was shut up in a little bedroom all day and never came out of it.”

“And she told you?”

“That's right. We just talked it over, gossiping, really; but I wasn't
involved
in any way. I'd known your mother a little and liked her, but that was the extent of it. But as we were talking, Carmen came over. ‘What's that about Dermot Heenan?' she asked—all sharp and tense. I could tell she was interested. More than that: I could tell she was
involved
in some way. And it wasn't difficult to guess what way that was. We told her about the rumours that were going round, and she snapped, ‘I've been round to see those kids, and they're all right.' ”

“Did she claim to have seen Dad?”

“No, she didn't. It could have rebounded on her if he was found to be totally out of his mind. She just said, ‘The kids say he's fine—just very busy.' Even then the thought struck me that if he was very busy surely someone would have
seen
him. But then I'd never been much inclined to believe what Carmen said. I'd too much experience of her lies. I thought she was just making it up.”

“Actually we had said something like that to put her off the scent. What happened next?”

“Nothing for a bit. Rob came home, and that reined her in for a while. I was half expecting her to find some excuse to come round here, but I'd no evidence that she did.”

“If she did, it must have been just to spy. She didn't knock at the door. We'd told her Dad had forbidden us to let her in.”

“Whether she came or not, I know she was very interested. She didn't do it when I was around; but she was asking people for news of the Heenans, had they seen Dermot, and so on. This was reported back to me because people hated Carmen, especially the women at St Joseph's. I was by now quite sure she had
had an affair with poor Dermot. I was finding it difficult to be polite to her, and she hardly bothered to try with me.”

The voice faded away, very tired. Matthew squeezed her hand and let her take her time.

“The day she died . . . I told you lies about that.”

“Yes. Let's not go over that old ground.”

“We must, Matthew. I want it all straight. . . . The arrangement with Mary O'Hara was for the night after, and she and I had fixed it up days before. But the night she died, Rob was to be out at a darts tournament, as you know, and I soon realised Carmen was taking the opportunity to go on the loose in some way or other. She said she'd be out for a bit that night, and I simply suspected she'd got a date with a man—maybe your dad, maybe someone else. Then it happened.”

“What?”

“It was early in the evening, about a quarter to seven. Carmen was down in the garden, getting some clothes off the line. The phone rang, and I picked it up. When I'm in someone else's house I just say ‘Yes' because I haven't got their number off pat like I have my own. If I'd said the number he probably would have realised it wasn't Carmen, but he didn't. He said, ‘How's the woman who incinerated her own mother?' . . . I know what people mean now when they say their blood turned to ice. Something started at the top of my spine and went all the way down. I just stood there paralysed. Eventually I stuttered ‘Who is that? What do you mean?' He must have realised then what he'd done, and he put the phone down.”

“He was blackmailing her.”

“Yes. Or getting ready to when the insurance money came through. I'll not say who it was—”

“I know, Auntie, I know. There's nothing to be done about that now.”

“No, of course not . . . Peter's a fine man. You made a good friend there. So much good has come out of this. I put the phone down, and I just slumped in my chair, thinking. The first thoughts were dreadful. I believed the voice absolutely. Carmen's mother had died in the fire in January, and I now knew she'd killed her for the insurance money. I was just horrified. I knew she was a horrible woman, but
that . . .”

“Did you connect it with Dad?”

“I think at the back of my mind I was beginning to. Or at any rate to
wonder.
But mainly I started to wonder what Carmen was going to do that night. She'd come in from the garden and gone up to change. She took an age, and when she came down around half past eight she just shouted, ‘I'm off' as she clumped through the hall and banged the front door. I went to the window, and she wasn't dressed up—tarted up—hardly at all. Navy skirt and a yellow blouse—quite ordinary for her. Not meeting a man, then, I thought.”

“But you decided to follow her.”

“Yes. Her car was in dock, you see, so it was easy enough. As you know, it's a fifteen-or twenty-minute walk to get here—a long walk for Carmen but certainly not for me. I left it a minute or so, then began following her. She marched along, never looking back, so it wasn't difficult. When she got to the roundabout on the Ring Road I hung well back, but once she was across it I could keep her in sight as she came up past the BP Garage and turned into Calverley Row. As soon as I came up and saw the name on the street, I knew what Carmen was interested in.”

“It had come up, I suppose, when people were talking about us?”

“Yes, it had: ‘Has anyone been round to Calverley Row?'—that kind of thing.”

“Was it dark by now?”

“No. Just the beginning of twilight. Carmen was walking near this house, but she was kind of irresolute. I disappeared into the garage and bought a torch, thinking it might come in useful after dark. When I came out, she was back on the main road and walking towards Calverley, but obviously just to kill time. I knew she'd be coming back. I came along Calverley Row, went into the field and waited as it got dark. As twilight fell, someone turned on the lights in the house here and pulled the curtains.”

“That would be Annie. She never left the curtains open when the lights were on. And eventually Carmen came back?”

“Yes. She was trying to walk softly, which didn't come easy to her. It was almost dark, and I was in the field just behind the garage of this house. She came quietly through the gate and went up to the living room window. She went along it, looking for a chink in the curtains.”

“We always made sure there wasn't, once we knew she was spying on us.”

Auntie Connie nodded.

“Annie was a clever little housewife, even then. Carmen swore and went round the back. I came into the front garden and followed her round. When I got to the corner she was bent down at the kitchen window. The curtains there were old and had shrunk. There was a band at the bottom where she could see into the kitchen. There was no light on, but there was in the hall, so she knew she'd be able to see if anyone came to get anything. She was obviously hoping it would be Dermot, and she could see if the rumours were true. She was terrified, obviously, about what he might give away. That was behind everything she'd done since your mother's death. She had to know about your father, what frame of mind he was in, how he felt
about her and what she'd done. Anyway, once in the back garden and knowing she had a view into the house, she settled down to wait, and I did the same. After a time there was movement inside the house, and lights went on upstairs.”

“That would be Annie putting Greg to bed.”

“I realise that now. Carmen strained forward to see, and I kept my eyes on her. Then it happened.”

“What?”

“I dropped my torch. It was plastic and didn't make any great clatter, but before I could even decide whether to run for it, Carmen was on top of me, had grabbed my arm and was hauling me over to the kitchen window to see who it was. When she saw she said, ‘Christ—I could kill you!' And I said, ‘Like you did your mother?' ”

Matthew was leaning forward, caught by the terror of the scene.

“What happened?”

Auntie Connie shook her head, her face twisted at the memory of it.

“She went berserk. She threw me against the wall, her hands went to my throat and she began to throttle me. I don't know to this day whether she was in earnest or whether it was just to frighten me. Probably she didn't know, herself. But she had no self-control, and I really do think—I'm not saying this to excuse myself—that she would have gone on. I couldn't breathe. I felt I was bursting, and then out of the corner of my eye I saw that knife, a kitchen knife.”

“I'd been using it in the garden.”

“I suppose you could say it saved my life. My hands were free. I grabbed it and I stabbed her, first in the side, then when she cried out and started to fall, in the chest, again and again. If
it started as self-defence, me saving my own life, it went on as . . . as something more. I wanted to kill her. I wanted to kill a woman who was so wicked she could have her own mother burnt to death. All my old hatred of her welled up with double force. I can't excuse myself, Matthew. It was murder.”

“Maybe that's not for us to judge, now.”

“Yes, it's God's mercy I'll be needing soon.”

“What did you do?”

“Carmen slumped to the ground, and I stood there for a moment, looking at what I had done. Then I just turned and ran. It was sheer panic. I'd
killed
someone. Me—a simple, homely body from County Clare—I'd
killed
someone. I ran down the path, out into the street, and started running back the way I'd come—wildly, feeling like screaming in my fear and panic. How I got across the Ring Road I can't imagine. It's a miracle no one reported a madwoman. When I got back to Rob's house, it was quiet. He was still at the darts match. I went upstairs, got into my bed and lay there, sobbing, shivering and thinking what to do.”

“Did you consider going to the police?”

“Yes. But I didn't do it. I'm a wicked, lying woman, I know that.”

“Perhaps you were meant for something else.”

She shook her head vigorously.

“I
decided
not to go to the police, Matthew. It wasn't God's work, it was mine. I couldn't face it—the shame, the shame for Rob, prison, what people at St Joseph's would say, what my neighbours back in Ireland would say. And once I'd decided not to go to the police, I had to be prepared to brazen it out.”

“I suppose you expected the police on Rob's doorstep the next morning?”

“I did. I got up, listened to the local news on the radio, and there was no mention of a woman's body being found. Rob came down to breakfast and said Carmen hadn't been home the previous night. He was concerned, but when I suggested he go to the police, he laughed. Carmen wouldn't thank him for
that,
he said.”

“It wasn't the first time, was it?”

“No. He told me that later on. I pretended to be very shocked, but knowing what I knew about Carmen by then nothing could shock me. And I'd always had a fair idea what sort of life she led while Rob was away.”