The Death of an Irish Lover
Read The Death of an Irish Lover Online
Authors: Bartholomew Gill
The Death of an Irish Lover
A Peter McGarr Mystery
Leixleap is a composite fictional town based on several Shannon River communities in the Midlands of Ireland.
Pulling his car onto the shoulder of the dual carriageway, McGarr peered down into the valley of the Shannon.
Below him stretched a vista that had remained unchanged at least since Ireland had been cleared of its forests in the seventeenth century—a patchwork of green fields, iridescent under a pale sun and bounded by a web of gray-stone walls.
The pattern stretched in every direction as far as the eye could see, dotted here and there with bright bits of black-and-white cattle that were feeding on the last green grass of the year before being confined to barn or haggard the winter long.
It was fully autumn now, and the smoke of kitchen fires could be seen rising from farmhouse chimneys into the chill air. Down in one low field, a hopeful farmer was disking the land to plant winter wheat in spite of recent snow. A cloud of crows wheeled in the
lee of his tractor, diving for the grubs and worms that the bright blades were turning up.
The Shannon itself divided the idyllic scene, as in many ways it did the country, east from west. A wide and sinuous strip of silver, the river had overflowed its banks in places, rushing to the sea. But on a high bluff in a bend of the confluence lay the town that had summoned McGarr. Because of the report of two deaths. “Murdered together in bed,” the caller had told him.
Called Leixleap (literally, “Salmon Jump”), it was a collection of no more than three dozen houses around the spires of two churches and a bridge over the river. The ruins of a sixteenth-century castle occupied the highest ground, and there was even the outline of a motte—an ancient earthen fort—from pre-Christian days when the river had been the main thoroughfare of the Irish Midlands.
Lined with narrow vintage dwellings, Leixleap’s old main street traced the river with tour and fishing boats tied along a diked wall. There was even a riverside park—courtesy of an EU grant, McGarr would bet—jutting out into the stream. At the bridge, the old cobbled street formed a T with a newer road that was lined with shops that were busy on this, a Saturday.
“It’s there you’ll find me,” the voice had said to McGarr on the phone. “Mine is the biggest, prettiest, and surely the most valuable edifice in town. And it’s that that bothers me, Peter.”
Sitting in his office in Dublin Castle, where he had been completing paperwork of a quiet Saturday afternoon, McGarr had waited.
Finally, the man had added, “It was done, I’m sure,
to finish me. And it will, without your help. You’re my only hope.”
McGarr had turned in his chair and looked out the grimy window into Dame Street, which was choked with shoppers and traffic, now as Christmas approached. The…hubris of the man is what he remembered of Tim Tallon, who had been a schoolyard bully.
Son of a powerful and wealthy judge, he had thumped and punished every smaller boy at the prestigious Christian Brothers Academy in Synge Street. Until he stole from one, who had the courage to tell. And the good brothers had promptly expelled the hulking lad.
That one had been McGarr, a much younger scholarship student who found Tallon waiting for him after school when McGarr set off for his working-class home in Inchicore. Across Dublin the larger boy had gone at McGarr repeatedly, with the fight broken up mercifully by a publican on one corner, a butcher on another.
That man had whispered in McGarr’s ear before releasing him, “Now, Red—I’ll give you a running start. If you don’t think you can get clear, you’re to lay for him with something solid. Go for the knees. Then, stay out of reach.”
Good advice and well taken. In an alley off Davit Street, McGarr had surprised Tallon with a length of lumber—a low blow to the side of one knee. And then, nipping in with short, sharp punches, he had drubbed the larger, slower boy, until yet another charitable adult had finally intervened. On Tallon’s behalf.
At home that evening, McGarr’s father—smoking a
pipe in his easy chair in their diminutive sitting room—had glanced over his newspaper, taking in McGarr’s broken nose and black eyes, his torn and bloody school-uniform jacket and trousers, and finally his bruised and scraped knuckles. “Something to say?” he had asked.
McGarr had not.
“Are you right, lad?”
McGarr had nodded.
“And you’ll find the money for new gear?” he asked, there being eight others at the time in the family.
Again McGarr had nodded.
“So—is there anything that needs attending?” He meant, at school.
McGarr shook his head.
Regarding him, his father had smiled, which was a sign of approbation from the unassuming good man who very well understood what growing up in Dublin could be like. “Go in to your mother now. Maybe she can patch that nose.”
McGarr had neither seen nor heard from Tim Tallon until the phone call now some forty years later. And with what? Only the report of a double murder, if Tallon could be believed.
“Sure, Peter—we’ve been following you and your career in the papers and on the telly for…how long has it been? Decades. And when we found them dead only a minute or two ago after the maid opened the door to make up the room, well then I says to meself, says I, I’ll call Peter. He’s an old friend and mighty. He’ll handle this thing the way it should be handled. Hush-hush, like.
“Tell you true, we’ve scrimped and scraped, worked and saved to build this business and—Christ—some
thing like this could ruin us surely. You know how things go.”
McGarr did indeed, if there were in fact two naked corpses lying in the bed, as Tallon had reported. Chief Superintendent of the Central Detective Unit of the Garda Siochana, the Irish Police, McGarr was the country’s chief homicide cop, head of what the newspapers called the “Murder Squad.” And there was no way Tallon’s wish could be met ultimately; sooner or later tragedy of that sort would have to be made public, with the media making the most of it.
But in the near while, at least, McGarr would see for himself. “And you’ve told this to nobody else?”
“Nary a soul.”
“The local guard.”
“The sergeant? Janie, I wouldn’t think of it. He’s a bastard, that one. A regular town crier, if you know what I mean. He’d have it on every tongue in no time, and only I’d be the loser. It’s why I called you, Peter. Tell me you’re coming down, tell me you can keep this quiet. I’m beside myself with worry.”
McGarr said he would be there.
“In, like…a patrol car?”
“I’ll drive my own, if you prefer.” McGarr’s modus operandi was to accommodate people whenever he could. Often their wishes were revealing.
“I’d like that, I would. And no need to park in the street. Pull right through the arch that joins the buildings—you can’t miss it—and park ’round back. I’ll be waiting. When do you think you’ll be getting here?”
“Presently.”
Slipping the receiver into its yoke, McGarr decided that Tim Tallon had changed little from their
schoolyard days. No mention had he made of who had been killed—their names, their families—only how the deaths would affect him personally. And his pocket.
McGarr reached for his hat.
Before pulling through the archway, McGarr stopped his car and glanced up.
THE LEIXLEAP INN
, a large painted sign proclaimed.
It pictured wigged and powdered gentry debouching from a gilded coach before which hounds and footmen milled. Girded by a bib apron and with lackeys in train, the proprietor could be seen approaching the coach, golden brimming flagons in hand.
A fire blazed beyond the open door of the inn, and a long table groaned with provender. In the street a rural idyll was being played out, mainly by handsome swains, busty lasses, and towheaded children. Of course, there was a blacksmith present, shoeing a horse.
That had been the ideal…when? Perhaps in the eighteenth century, but more probably never.
And yet the reality at the end of the twentieth was little different, at least in regard to the building, which
was really two large gray-stone structures that shared one roofline. They were joined in the middle by an archway. What looked like a pub stood to the left and the inn proper to the right.
With large and rounded Georgian windows and a patterned slate roof in three colors—salmon, teal, and gray—the twin buildings were surely handsome. And each had two fronts, McGarr discovered when he drove through the arch into a wide fan-shaped courtyard that was the car park of the inn.
When first constructed, the complex had faced the river, not the street, and the remains of a formal garden led down to a stone wharf where a rather large speedboat was docked.
Outbuildings, once stables, lined the cobblestone courtyard, which was packed with cars. McGarr parked his Mini Cooper in the last slot remaining and got out.
A short stocky man in his mid-fifties McGarr had a long face and an aquiline nose that was bent to one side. His eyes were gray, and the hair that could be seen tufting from under a twill cap was red and curly.
McGarr’s overcoat was twill as well. And with a brown knit tie on a patterned beige dress shirt, neatly pressed brown trousers, and shell cordovan brogues, he looked rather more like a successful countryman than a confirmed Dubliner and the nation’s top criminal detective.
Locking the car, he turned toward the building.
“Is that a toy car?” a young voice asked. He had not noticed the girl who was sitting in the sun against a wall. She was pointing to his low-slung and boxy Cooper, which was something of an antique, although well preserved.
Combining a powerful engine with catlike cornering, the hybrid design was perhaps the ideal vehicle for the narrow city laneways and winding country roads of Ireland.
“No more than what you’re holding is a toy,” he said jocularly. “Where’d you get that? Does your mammy call you on it?”
With both hands the girl was grasping a beeper, as though attempting to divine its secret with a prayer. There was a pause before she looked back up at McGarr, hopefully it seemed. “Do you think she can?”
“Certainly, if arrangements are made.”
No more than seven or eight, the girl lowered her tangle of blond curls to the device. “What arrangements? When? Could you do it?”
It was then they heard a door open, and a gruff voice bellowed, “Out! Get out! How many times do I tell you this isn’t a play yard. If your father’s in the bar, go to him now. If he’s not, get yourself home. I’ll not have you begging from my guests.”
Jumping up, the girl said, “I wasn’t begging,” and scampered across the cobblestones toward the archway.
“Bloody imp. No mother at home, her father and uncle up in the pub. I suppose you can’t expect more from her. But I’ll not have her here under foot or tire.”
Big as a boy, Tim Tallon had become a large man with a span of shoulders and narrow hips. But he had acquired a sizable paunch, and—both pigeon-toed and bowlegged—his gait seemed less of a stride than a sideways shamble, belly first.
Unlike McGarr, who was nearly bald beneath the cap, Tallon had kept a thick shock of dark hair that was only now graying along the sides, and his face was handsome in a pugged way, apart from a double chin.
McGarr took in the rest of Tallon, as he approached:
Beneath a pricey Barbour fishing jacket, the man was wearing a Prussian blue shirt and puce-colored knit tie. Casually, the top button was left undone. Blue jeans and a pair of leather half-Wellies—polished to a mirror sheen—completed his garb. And in all he looked sportingly stylish and very much the proprietor of the hostelry behind him.
Tallon held out his hand. “Good to see yeh, lad, although we get a glimpse of you from time to time.”
With his other hand Tallon also seized McGarr’s shoulder. “They don’t make ’em big in Inchicore, do they? Only tough. What’s it been like all these years, Peter, kickin’ arse and takin’ names?”
Which, McGarr supposed, was a rhetorical question, the…humor aside. Freeing his hand, McGarr asked, “You mentioned two bodies. Are they about for the viewing?”
Tallon’s features glowered. “Of course. A horrible matter. An outrage and a tragedy. They’re up over the pub. This way.”
Yet the large man turned toward the doorway he had come out of, the one that led up a graceful flight of Georgian stairs to what was obviously the inn, explaining, “Now, Peter—I want you to do me a favor for old time’s sake, and indulge me a wee moment, please. You’ve got to see what I have here, before we go over to them. Just so you know.”
In gilded script across the pale blue Georgian door was written,
“Mon vere n’est pas grand, mais je bois dans mon vere,”
or, “My glass is not large, but I drink from my glass.”
Before joining the Garda nearly a score of years earlier, McGarr—like so many of his generation—could
not find work in Ireland and had been forced to seek employment abroad, first with Criminal Justice in Paris and later for Interpol, mainly in Marseilles. And he was fond of things French. “De Musset, isn’t it?” he asked, pointing to the inscription.
“What? Oh, that—it’s something Sylvie put up for all the French and Belgians we get. Makes ’em feel at home. She’s one of them herself—Belgian I mean. They’re all right, I guess.” Tallon lowered his voice. “For frogs.”
Opening the door, he led McGarr into a vast and well-proportioned hall filled with furniture. McGarr counted four settees, twelve chairs and a table, two screens and some potted palms. The quality of everything bespoke money, and plenty of it.
Pausing before a pair of rosewood coffered doors, Tallon slid them open dramatically and swept McGarr into a drawing room that was also overfurnished with heavily draped windows and another mass of velvet chairs. The walls were hanging with as many paintings and pictures as the plaster could support, McGarr judged. The bar, while small, was comprehensively stocked nearly to the tall ceiling.
“Will you take something, Peter?”
McGarr only glanced at Tallon.
Next came two conservatories and a vast and elegant dining room with the very same groaning board that was pictured on the sign out front. But real. And it held every manner of roast meat, fowl and fish, along with other gourmet preparations, Tallon assured McGarr. Three cooks in high hats were attending a good crowd of maybe thirty.
“Transient trade?” McGarr asked to assess the success of Tallon’s operation.
“No. Never. We only accept nonguests by reservation at least a week in advance. But, may I say, we have
plenty
of those.”
And said with all humility, thought McGarr.
“My head chef studied with Dionne Lucas,” Tallon continued, chin now raised. “And I’ve got the best ghillie on the river. These chaps here”—Tallon spread his arms—“are mainly French and German and from the Low Countries. They’re mad for pike. And, of course…” He paused briefly. “The eel are running.”
McGarr turned to the taller man. “Why?”
“Why what—the eels?”
“Why are you showing me this? Where are the bodies?”
“Like I said on the phone—I’m showing you this, so you’ll know.”
McGarr studied the man’s face, which was, like his own, lined and creased in middle age. Whether from outdoor sport—as Tallon’s clothes suggested—or some health problem, the man’s color was high. Yet his muddled dark eyes held McGarr’s gaze. “So I’ll know exactly what?”
“What I have on the table. The ante. What I can lose here.”
Curious now, McGarr asked, “Why do you think you’ll lose anything at all?”
Tallon’s eyes shied, darting toward the tables and back. “You know how people are, Peter—well-off people, people like these who can fly over here and fish for a couple of weeks on a lark. And think nothing of it. The people who can afford this place.
“It was different when Syl and meself started out six years ago. But now? There’re scads of other more modern resort hotels with every convenience, not an
old refurbished place, like this, in the middle of a cow town. Any hint…”
Tallon broke off. Again his eyes surveyed the guests before returning to McGarr’s. “You don’t know what it’s cost me and Syl to do up this place—piped heat, new plumbing, double-glazed windows. The bloody roof?
“The whole thing had to be restructured and the patterned slates cut by hand. It took three effing years! We’ve got our last farthing wrapped up in this place, every last one. This thing could ruin us altogether, it could.”
McGarr had heard pleas for discretion and confidentiality in the past, but seldom before had he actually viewed the corpse and crime scene. He pointed to the door. “Please.”
And yet as they climbed a galleried stairwell with a great mounted prize pike at the top, Tallon wore on about how the house had been the fishing retreat of the Dukes of Leinster and how Syl—his wife, McGarr supposed—had come upon it as a ruin, after he had retired from the Tourist Board after twenty-five years, and she had sold the family business in Belgium.
Tallon even stopped twice at bedrooms that maids were cleaning. “So you can see the details, how Syl has insisted that everything be just so.”
Which was overdone, McGarr could see without having to step in. Like the old saw about nature, the Tallons appeared to abhor vacant space. Even the archway joining the two buildings was filled with furniture, paintings, a bronze of Pan. Or was it a gelded Bacchus sans horns? Other accoutrements of what McGarr thought of disparagingly as “gracious living” were
sprinkled about with the abandon of a television program about privileged domesticity.
Tallon had to use keys to open the two stout doors at either end of the archway. And once into the pub side of the double buildings, the questionable elegance ceased.