BY NOON THE sky had turned a deep blue, and the sun emerged for the first time in a week as Maeve and I made our way up the long steps to St Peter and Paul’s parish church in Glendara. It felt like a strange day for a funeral. In Donegal funerals usually take place under gray skies and involve much standing about in the rain in a cold and windy graveyard. But the weather today seemed strangely unsympathetic. Even the seagulls appeared more active than usual, swooping and diving and calling out to each other high above us.
The huge church looked almost empty as we walked up the aisle, Hal McKinney standing to one side in his undertaker’s black suit, hands clasped formally in front of him. Only the front three pews on either side were occupied. And they weren’t full. Simon Howard and Phyllis were there, and I recognized one or two of the women from Marguerite’s yoga class. I was glad too to see that Iggy McDaid, the man who had found her body, had also come to pay his respects.
One person I hadn’t expected to see was Molloy. But there he was, sitting on the aisle side of the last pew to be occupied. He looked up as Maeve and I slipped in beside him and gave me a smile. I must be forgiven, I thought.
Sitting alone on the right at the front of the church was a slim, dark young woman I didn’t recognize.
“Who’s that?” I asked Molloy, behind my hand.
“The daughter,” he whispered back. “We found an address for her in the house. She flew over this morning.”
“Oh, right.”
“Are you okay? I heard you had a bit of a fright last night.” His eyes, when they met mine, were full of concern, and my stomach did a weird little flip.
I looked down. “Fine, yeah. It was nothing really.”
The church fell silent as the service began, and I looked around me. There couldn’t have been more than twelve people in the church. If a person’s funeral was a reflection of how they had lived, then it was hard not to conclude that Marguerite had led a very lonely life. Had she really touched so few lives in the two years she had lived in Inishowen, her death largely unnoticed by the people she had lived amongst every day? Was that the inevitable fate of a blow-in who didn’t have family in the area?
Later, standing with the little group around the grave as Marguerite’s coffin was lowered in, it struck me as odd that Marguerite should be buried here, in the Catholic graveyard in Glendara. Her connection to Inishowen didn’t seem that strong. Had she even been Catholic? I presumed she must have been if she was being buried here. Maybe she had returned to Catholicism after she left the Damascans.
I wondered who had arranged the funeral. Her daughter? But then why would she not want to take her mother’s body back to Norway with her? Marguerite’s daughter certainly wasn’t a Catholic; that was one thing I did know.
When the rosary ended, I joined the little queue of people waiting to sympathise with her at the graveside.
“I’m so sorry about your mother, Adeline.” I held out my hand to the elegant figure in the expensive black suit. Physically, she was her mother’s daughter. The same striking coloring, smooth skin, black hair, dark eyes. She was exceptionally thin, immaculately turned out, formally polite. But her eyes were torpid, her expression ice cold.
“My name is Abra, but thank you,” she replied, accepting my handshake unsmilingly.
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“Excuse me, but I don’t know your name either. I don’t know anyone here.” Her English was good, but her accent was stronger than Marguerite’s. It was different too, not so obviously French.
I introduced myself. “I’m Ben O’Keeffe. I was your mother’s solicitor. If there’s anything I can do …”
A cold interruption cut me off mid-sentence. “Thank you. You’re very kind. But we have our own solicitors.”
I flushed. She thought I was touting for business. Before I had a chance to clarify what I meant, she moved on to Phyllis and shook her hand. It couldn’t have been clearer that I had been dismissed.
I walked over to stand beside Molloy while I waited for Maeve, who was still in the little queue.
“Not what you’d call warm, is she?” I muttered.
“No. But then, I’m sure this is all a bit weird for her. Being summoned to the funeral of a mother she hasn’t seen for twenty years who has committed suicide.”
“Suicide?” It was all I could do to keep my voice from being heard by everyone in the graveyard.
Molloy shepherded me towards the footpath leading back to the square. “Sorry. I meant to tell you before now, although the final decision was really only made this morning. We’ve closed our investigation.”
“What?”
He sighed. “I knew you wouldn’t be pleased. Look, Ben, as I told you on Thursday, the pathologist indicated that it’s very difficult to distinguish between ante- and post-mortem injuries in drowning. It’s because the blood is washed away. So the injury to her head could have happened before or after she died. The only reason we opened an investigation at all was because it wasn’t clear cut; the pathologist could not be sure that the death was a suicide.”
“So, what’s changed?”
“A number of things. Firstly, there was no sign of an intruder or a struggle when we searched her house. Or on the beach where we found her clothes.”
“That doesn’t mean anything. It could have been someone she knew. She could have let them into her house, and they could have gone down to the beach together. Or she could have been taken by surprise on the beach.”
Molloy disagreed. “Her clothes and shoes were on the shore with her house keys in the pocket of her jacket. And then, when we talked to the police in Norway to get help to track down the daughter, they filled us in on that strange sect she is a part of. I presume you knew all about that.”
“I didn’t, actually. Not till yesterday. Anyway, what did that have to do with your decision to give up the investigation?”
“Nothing directly. But when we discovered that Miss Etienne was also part of that cult when she was younger, I had a chat with a psychologist who does some work for the National Bureau of Criminal Investigation. Just to get his view on it. And according to him, suicide rates amongst ex-cult members are very high. Even years after leaving the cult.”
I frowned. “It wasn’t Brendan Quinn, was it?”
“No. Why?”
“No reason. But what about the will?”
“Okay, that is a bit odd,” Molloy conceded. “But it’s not unheard of to have a suicide victim with unfinished business. Maybe it wasn’t something she planned. Maybe she did it on impulse. She could also have thought her instructions to you were sufficient; she might not have realized she had to come back to sign something.”
“No,” I insisted. “She knew she wasn’t finished with it. I told you that. She was coming back in the next day. We talked about it. I told you she was frightened, for God’s sake. Doesn’t that count for anything?”
Molloy looked exasperated. “There were a number of other reasons why we decided to close the file, most of which I can’t tell you. The pathologist came back to us on one or two things I can’t go into that also point towards suicide.”
I shook my head in disbelief.
“We have nowhere else to go, Ben. We spoke to everyone in the area who knew her, and no one seemed to know anything. As a matter of fact, no one really seemed to know her very well at all.”
“Oh come on, someone must know something.”
“Not necessarily. We are aware that she kept to herself. She often walked on Lagg, apparently, and it seems this time she intended not to come back. Overall, there’s no reason to doubt that it was anything other than suicide.”
I was dumbfounded. So that’s why Molloy had forgiven me. The guards didn’t need me anymore. As far as they were concerned, the case was solved.
“So that’s it. Case closed?”
“Well, yes. Insofar as there ever was a case. It was always far more likely to be suicide. But with the post-mortem results being inconclusive, we had to keep an open mind for a bit, see if anyone came forward.”
“Four days? You kept it open for four days? You broke your hearts,” I snapped.
“We just don’t have the resources to pursue something like this, Ben. I can understand why you’re upset. I know she was a client of yours but I’m afraid that’s the way it is. It’s a suicide.”
“Tom. She was frightened.”
Molloy sighed. “You’re the only one pushing for this. I spoke to her daughter this morning, and she has no difficulty with the investigation being closed. She accepts what has happened. She told us that she was aware her mother was always a bit fragile.”
Now I saw red. “Of course no one’s pushing for it! Sure the woman was a blow-in, and nobody cares about a blow-in. And her daughter hardly knew her. If she was a local, you’d—”
Molloy interrupted me. “That’s not fair, Ben.”
Before I could argue further, Maeve and Simon Howard appeared suddenly together, and Molloy leaped at the opportunity to escape.
“I have to go. I need to get back to the garda station.”
I glared at his departing back as he strode off towards the town, not realizing that Maeve was trying to get my attention. When I finally tore my eyes away from Molloy, she and Simon Howard were back chatting.
I forced a smile. “So you two know each other?”
“I look after Sable,” Maeve said.
“Sable?” I queried.
“My son David’s Great Dane,” Simon said with a grin.
“Simon’s just suggested lunch,” Maeve said. “What do you think? There’s not much point in me going back to the clinic now. It’s nearly one. The Oak?”
“Okay,” I replied. “Should we ask Phyllis to join us?”
Maeve glanced in the direction of the bookseller’s large figure disappearing down the pathway to the square. “I did, but she didn’t want to. She’s pretty down. Said she’d rather be on her own.”
“Okay. Order me something, would you – anything at all – and I’ll follow you down in a minute. There’s something I have to do first.”
The graveyard was deserted by the time I made it back there so I headed into the church. It felt a little eerie. I’m not a fan of empty churches. My experiences with them to date haven’t been exactly positive.
The priest was alone at the altar doing something with communion cups and a napkin. He looked up when I entered. “Can I help you?”
“I’m sorry to bother you but I was just wondering … the funeral that’s just finished? I was Miss Etienne’s solicitor and I really need to contact her daughter. I forgot to get her details before she left, and well … I wondered if you might know where she was staying?”
“Of course. I think it’s the Atlantic Hotel in Ballyliffin.”
“That’s great, thanks. How long is she staying, do you know?”
He smiled. “I’ve no idea, I’m afraid. A few days, I presume. I imagine she’ll have to wrap up her mother’s affairs.”
As I turned to leave, a thought occurred and I turned back. “You did very well arranging it all so quickly, Father.” I decided I’d go with the title to see if it eased the flow of information.
It seemed to. He smiled again.
“I was glad to be able to help. Miss Etienne’s daughter asked the sergeant how she should go about arranging things, and he put her in touch with me. I spoke to her on the phone; she told me to organise everything and said she would be happy with whatever I decided. It was a bit unusual but it made everything very straightforward. Hal did the rest.”
“You knew Miss Etienne?”
“Not well. But she did come in here sometimes; she just used to sit here quietly. She told me once that she’d been born a Catholic but had lapsed a bit.”
“She wasn’t unusual in that.”
“True.” This time his smile was sad. “No. I suppose I was just glad we could give her some comfort.”
By the time I got to the Oak, Maeve had settled herself at the table closest to the fire, while Simon was leaning on the bar chatting to Carole.
I joined Maeve and she shoved a plate across the table at me. “I got you a cheese sandwich.”
“Thanks.”
“Bit cold, wasn’t it?” I knew Maeve wasn’t referring to the weather, which had kept up its treacherous show of sunshine the whole way through the burial. “I think that must be the smallest funeral I’ve ever seen here.”
“I suppose she didn’t know very many people.”
“Usually pretty large then, are they?” Simon appeared behind us with a tray of soup and bread, and Maeve moved to one side to allow him in.
“You’ve seen the church. You should see the size of the weddings.” Maeve turned towards me. “What was that big confab with your sergeant about?”
Simon grinned. “Your sergeant?”
“They’ve decided Marguerite’s death was suicide,” I said. “They’ve closed the investigation.”
Maeve’s face fell. “God. That’s really sad. Simon, you lived next to her, didn’t you?”
Simon nodded, spoon halfway to his mouth.
“Was she depressed, do you think?”
“No idea, to be honest,” he said. “She was a little bit odd, but no, I wouldn’t have thought she was depressed.”
I joined in the interrogation. “What do you mean odd?”
“A little strange sometimes. Almost other-worldly for want of a better way of putting it. Erratic.”
“How, exactly?” I leaned forward on one elbow.
Maeve raised an eyebrow, but I pretended I didn’t see it.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Simon said. “It was just an impression I formed. As I said, I didn’t know her very well. It is bloody tragic though, what happened.”
“It’s a wee bit better than the alternative, I suppose,” Maeve said with a sigh. “It would be horrible to think that someone had something to do with her death. But God, the suicide rates up here are too high.”
“The less said about life’s sores the better,” Simon said.
“Oscar Wilde?” I guessed.
“The Picture of Dorian Gray,” he confirmed, bowing in my direction.
“Very impressive,” Maeve said. “What was all that about the name, by the way? Did I hear the daughter tell you her name was Abra? I thought her name was Adeline. I’m sure someone told me that.”
I nodded. “She did say Abra. Do you know her?” I asked Simon.
“Didn’t even know she existed.” He flashed Carole a smile as she delivered his coffee to the table. “Striking-looking girl though.”
The barmaid flashed him an equally broad one and sashayed back to the bar.
Maeve grinned. “You’re not having much bother settling in by the looks of things. I’ve never had anything delivered to me in my life here.”
“I think you might be the wrong gender,” Simon told her.
“Clearly. So how did you end up here, as a matter of interest?”
“What artist wouldn’t want to work here? It’s one of the most beautiful places in the world.”
“Okay, that’s fair enough. We’ll accept that, won’t we, Ben?” Maeve said.
Simon looked apologetic. “Actually it’s a bit like Scotland, which is the most beautiful place in the world, I’m afraid. No, the truth is I needed a change of scenery for a while. And my son, he …” He stopped suddenly.
“The son I’ve met?” I prompted.
He looked at me as if confused for a second and then seemed to re-focus. “Yes. I only have the one, thank God. What I was going to say was that it was he who suggested we come here. He said he thought the place was beautiful. I was surprised by that: David doesn’t like color; he cannot usually see beyond the gray. Not exactly painting with the full palette, the poor boy.”
Simon bowed his head. “You’re right. I’m being harsh. I actually thought it might be good for us to live together again. But it hasn’t really worked out that way. Instead I’ve ended up having a Great Dane dumped on me, and David’s away more than he’s here.” He smiled ruefully. “Anyway, more coffees?”
The next half hour passed with ease and Simon turned out to be engaging company. I was desperate to pursue the subject of Marguerite a bit further but I wasn’t sure how, especially with Maeve’s eyes boring into me every time I mentioned it. Instead, Simon talked about his own work, asked interested questions about Maeve’s and my choice of career and what it was like to live and work in such a small town. And he managed to raise our spirits in a way we wouldn’t have managed alone.
As we were getting up to leave, the door of the pub opened and David Howard stuck his head in. He nodded wordlessly at his father and closed the door again.
“Ah, the Prodigal Son.” Simon pulled on his jacket. “By the way, I’m having an exhibition in the Beacon Hall and the opening is tomorrow night. Would either of you be interested in coming?”
“I can’t, I’m afraid. I’m on call as usual,” Maeve sighed.
“Benedicta?”
“Call me Ben.”
“I thought Benedicta was the name on your brass plate?”
“It is, but …”
He shot me another one of his wolfish grins. “I like Benedicta. It’s kind of prim.”