Colin opened the door of the keeping room and stuck his head in. “Any discoveries?”
“We just got started,” Grace said. “Come on in.”
“Patrick’s home,” he said, opening the door wide for his son.
Colin joined us for tea. Patrick declined the tea but sat down with us and ate a biscuit. The younger men and women of Ireland did not seem quite the tea-drinkers that their parents were. We put the copies of Mr. Sweeney’s notepad aside for a time. Patrick had spent the afternoon getting Bridget settled at the rehab center. He was anxious to report, and his parents were anxious to hear. “Bridget’s remembering things, a little at a time,” he said. “She’s saying the night she went to Dr. Malone’s, he had a call from someone, and he was very angry.”
“She told me that when I visited her—was it just yesterday? Hard to believe,” Grace said. “She remembered that she was very angry but didn’t remember why.”
I didn’t add to the conversation. Bridget had told me in confidence why she was furious, that she wanted money from Dr. Malone, Jimmie’s father, to take the baby and go away. She’d mentioned that Dr. Malone had been angry with the caller. I waited to see if Patrick knew any more about who the caller might have been or what the doctor had said.
“She says Dr. Malone was shouting, ‘No! No more!’ and telling whoever it was that he would not be there—he was leaving that very moment, like someone was wanting to come to the office. Bridget says she’s almost certain the doctor said he was going out to Red Stag Crossing and he may have even said her name.”
Colin slapped the table with his palm, making the teacups and items on the tray rattle.
“Colin! What is it?” Grace said.
“Don’t you see? Somebody wanted drugs. Dr. Malone was providing drugs for Bridget, wasn’t he? That’s surely the way it looks, with all those drugs she had in her. So maybe he was more of a drug dealer than a healer. Sounds like he was trying to cut somebody off who wanted more. Someone who might have come back the next morning to try again, and had to commit murder to get what he wanted. Wouldn’t that person—the one on the phone—be a good suspect? Bridget would be in the clear for sure.”
The kind of person he was describing didn’t sound like the kind of murderer who would be logical enough to take the body out to Red Stag Crossing. Wouldn’t he just murder, snatch the drugs, and flee? Maybe if it was someone who knew about Bridget, I considered—the only name that came to mind was Davin Callahan, and I just couldn’t see that young man as a drug addict.
“You have to understand, Dad, that Bridget’s memory is fuzzy,” Patrick said. “She has no real concrete details to offer, just impressions. And even though we may believe her—I do, for a fact—the Guard would have to take her compromised condition into account. It might sound as if she’s making it all up.”
“Patrick’s right,” Grace said. “Also, I think the word would have gotten around if drugs had been stolen from Dr. Malone’s office. The theory of the drug user has problems.”
A moment passed as everyone mulled this over. The only sounds were the clink of teacups and spoons, and a loud-ticking clock on the bookshelf.
“The way Bridget’s memory is coming back is promising,” I said. “She may eventually remember something that is concrete—something the Guard can use.”
“The good news is that she’s doing so much better,” Grace said.
“Much-needed good news,” Colin said. “After today—much needed.”
As if the thought had just occurred to her, Grace said to Patrick, “You heard about Mr. Sweeney at the Cliffs of Moher, didn’t you?”
“Dad just told me when I got home. Unbelievable! I suppose I should call Enya.” Patrick rubbed his temple, making slow circles, as if the very thought was stressful. Probably the thought of having to be the bearer of such horrible news, I told myself, rather than the thought of having to make any call to his wife. I couldn’t help remembering how Enya had flared when I’d started asking questions about Mr. Sweeney.
“Something else I found out when I spoke with Enya’s mother about Mr. Sweeney this morning,” Patrick said. “I was curious what she might remember about the man. Enya had said they lived on the same street with the Sweeneys until five years ago. She was sixteen when they left.”
So Enya was twenty-one now, just a little older than Bridget, several years younger than Patrick. Her age did explain some things about—the phrase that came to mind was her worldview.
“Ian Haverty taught Mr. Sweeney’s son in ninth grade—a year ago,” I calculated out loud, “so five years ago, that would have made him about eleven.”
Patrick nodded. “Enya’s mam said the same. She thought Tim Sweeney was eleven when they moved away and had no more contact with the Sweeney family. She said Mr. Sweeney was an excellent marksman, and he used to take Tim out to the shooting range with him. He was teaching him to shoot at that young age.”
“People do that,” Colin said. “Hunters, especially. Boys learn to use hunting rifles early.”
“I, for one, am glad you didn’t try to teach me to shoot when I was eleven,” Patrick said.
“Or any age,” Grace said.
Colin looked at me and explained, “I’ve never had the time to devote to hunting, which makes me a bit of an oddity here in Thurles, but that’s fine.”
“And it’s fine with me that you never introduced me to guns,” Patrick said.
“Imagine how it must have affected Mr. Sweeney, when his son shot himself,” I said.
“It affected him terribly, according to Enya’s mother,” Patrick said. “She never heard anything about it when it happened—about a year ago, I think it was—but a neighbor she’d known on the Sweeneys’ street called her when Mrs. Sweeney died and filled her in on everything the family had gone through. The boy’s suicide, Mrs. Sweeney’s kidney disease that she’d battled for a long time, apparently, and one more thing that fits into the equation. Mr. Sweeney spent several weeks in a psychiatric hospital after his son killed himself.”
For a minute, all of us seemed to hold a collective breath, taking it all in. This last piece of information did fit into the equation. Losing a child was the most horrible thing imaginable, under any circumstances. This case was compounded by suicide as the manner of death and again by the weapon that the boy’s father owned and had taught him to use. It was heartbreaking, too, to think of the dying woman, mourning her son’s death, and so alone during the time her husband was in the psychiatric hospital, even if friends or relatives had assisted her. Mr. Sweeney returned to their sad life and witnessed his wife’s slow decline and, finally, her death. And then he had nothing left but the fire in his belly that insisted, Someone must pay.
Colin whispered, “Mother of God,” and then he said, “I need to finish some things in the office. Let me know if you find anything else.” He nodded at the pages. Probably it was true that he needed to work. It was also a way of wrenching himself from this depressing conversation.
A minute later Patrick stood up to leave as well. Grace asked him about Enya, and he gave a shrug.
“She has to decide what she wants,” he said, his eyes turning hard as steel.
“And what do you want, Patrick?”
“I’d like to see her come back, of course,” he said, “but not if she’s bloody miserable—here—with me.”
Grace got up and went to her son. At about five foot two, she did not quite come up to his chin. She reached for his large hands and took them in her own small ones. “Here’s a thought, Patrick. Colin and I talked about it at length today. Bridget will get well and come home. I know it will happen. If Enya will come back—after a little time with her parents, sorting things out for herself—the two of you should look for some other place to live in Thurles. You could still help out at Shepherds with the computer work, if your work at the institute allows it, but Little Jimmie will have his mother. Enya won’t be bound to us the way she’s been.” Grace let go of her son’s hands. “Think about it, and talk to her. I believe you and Enya could make a go of it if you just didn’t live here at Shepherds.”
Patrick gave his mother a quick hug. “I’ll think about it, and I’ll talk to her,” he said, and he hurried out.
“Now, let’s get back to our work,” Grace said.
Knowing that Mr. Sweeney had been in psychiatric care at least once shed a certain light on what we read. Though much of the notepad was simply dates, times, and phrases like Booked 2 wks at Shepherds B&B, Thurles, there were passages that read like a therapy journal. From those entries, in particular, it was easy to construe that after his wife’s death, Mr. Sweeney had become obsessed with the man he believed had engaged his son in homosexual behavior. He had gone to Ian’s website and found photos, so he knew that Ian was an attractive schoolmaster. He mentioned the photo of Ian with several boys, sitting under a tree in what might have been a study group—the photo I had seen. Mr. Sweeney wrote: Tim, reading one of those damnable verses? His own? Or some other that corrupted his mind? Does I.H. lust after other boys or just Tim?
From the website, not only had Mr. Sweeney learned that Ian was going to Shepherds on holiday, but he’d read the two stories Ian had posted from his manuscript. In another entry, Mr. Sweeney had referred to the story where the owl came into play: Man guilty of murder but acquitted. Goes mad with guilt. Three times owl reminds him of his crime. Third time he takes his own life. Interesting that I.H. put up this story. Makes me think I.H. should be reminded of his own guilt. Maybe he would take the out that Tim did.
Each page that I read, I passed on to Grace. The clock’s ticking seemed to grow louder, as I read on, feeling Mr. Sweeney’s increasing obsession. After he’d come to Thurles, his entries were often brief: 5-10 12:05 a.m. I.H. walked home from pub, two nights now. Making my plan. And 5-11 12:40 a.m. Scared him good with hooting owl.
I took out my phone and accessed the calendar so I could follow the dates. The night Alex and I had arrived in Thurles, we’d gone to the pub and met Ian for the first time. Ian and the Quinn ladies had walked home. About that night, Mr. Sweeney had written: He knows. He is scared. Women paid no attention to owl, but I.H. did. Don’t think he saw me but must find better cover. Time to up the ante. Knowing what he had in mind made a chill seep into my bones, but it would be two more nights before he shot Ian. I read the entry written at 10:10 a.m. the next morning. Mr. Sweeney had gone out early to find another site where he could hide and frighten Ian again. The site he described was the turnoff to Red Stag Crossing.
“Grace! We may have something,” I said.
She and I began to read together about the morning Dr. Malone was killed.
We brought Colin in, to get his perspective on what we had read. “Is it enough to take to the Guard?” Grace asked. “Even though he didn’t name anyone.”
“The vehicle he described must have been the one the killer used to dispose of the body,” I said. Mr. Sweeney had also noted that it was too dark to get the number on the license plate.
“Black late-model SUV. That could be something,” Grace said, “even though there may be dozens of black SUVs in Thurles.”
“Wasn’t Norah Riordan—Malone—driving a black SUV when we saw her, the day we went to the tea house, and she came out of the doctor’s office?” I said.
“I think that was Dr. Malone’s car,” Grace said. Colin agreed that was what the doctor had driven.
“Maybe the murderer used Dr. Malone’s SUV to transport the body,” I suggested. “That way, if the police examined the tire tracks, they’d only find a connection back to Dr. Malone, not the killer.” Colin and Grace both gave me a look that reminded me of what Ian had said, that I watched too many crime shows. It was just a thought, though. As Grace had said, there were probably many black SUVs in Thurles.
“This should be enough to light a fire, get something going with the investigation.” Colin pulled out his phone. “I’ll call the Garda station.”
“But it’s after ten o’clock!” Grace said.
“The station won’t be closed. And considering that progress solving the murder has been next to naught, trust me, if anyone’s on duty that’s worth his wages, he’ll want the notepad.” Colin paused before he made the call. “The notepad. We’ll not say anything about these copies you made. You can say you went into Mr. Sweeney’s room to collect his things and clean up, knowing he’s not coming back here.”
As Colin punched in numbers, Grace said, “Maybe this will make it perfectly clear, once and for all, that Bridget had nothing to do with Dr. Malone’s death.”
I didn’t believe Bridget was in any danger of being accused, but I understood that Grace would continue to worry about her daughter until all the threads were tied up. I thought of the secret Bridget had shared with me about Dr. Malone. One more loose thread.
Colin was pleased that he’d reached Garda Mallory at the station. “Might’ve been anyone on duty, so this is good luck. Mallory seems like a reasonable sort. He was, anyway, when he dealt with Bridget,” Colin said. It took longer than he’d expected for Garda Mallory to arrive, and when he did, he was not alone. Inspector Perone, spiffy in his dress clothes, did not look happy when Colin brought the two men into the keeping room. Colin did not look happy, nor did Garda Mallory, whose expression wavered between sheepish and just plain annoyed.
It was apparent what had happened. Mallory had called his superior, who was not on duty but rather at a fancy function of some kind. Someone, maybe his Sergeant, had demanded that he do so. Perone had been having a good time—from the smell of alcohol and cigars, and a whiff of a nice scent that must have been aftershave or cologne applied at the onset of the evening. Whatever activity was interrupted, he wasn’t about to let his underling bring in important evidence in an important homicide—the murder of an important citizen in Thurles, the son-in-law of an even more important citizen in the town.
Colin reminded the men that they’d met me, “our friend from the States,” on their previous visit to Shepherds—“that morning you were here about Bridget,” he just couldn’t resist saying. Grace welcomed them before she went to the kitchen to bring in the tea she had already prepared. She had put away the copies we had finished reading, tucked them in a drawer. I was surprised that the Inspector didn’t demand to go to Mr. Sweeney’s room right away, but—there was the tea, of course.
“Now what’s this evidence you called about?” Perone sat in the comfy chair Colin offered but made no effort to get comfortable. He perched on the edge in what seemed an awkward position, his back straight, hands on his knees, his neck stiff, chin jutted out.
“I know you’ll be glad to solve the case on the shooting that injured Ian Haverty—a guest here at Shepherds—and the shooting out at the Curreeny Hedge School,” Colin began. “Seamus Sweeney, also a guest here, the man who shot himself today at the Cliffs of Moher, confesses to being the shooter in the notepad we found.”
What a shrewd tactic, to begin on this note, a case solved. Perone’s posture did not change, but the muscles in his face relaxed a little. “Go on,” he said.
“As for Dr. Malone’s murder, you’ll decide if anything is useful, but Mr. Sweeney was at Red Stag Crossing at 5:15 that morning, so you’ll be interested in his account,” Colin said.
“Now what was this Sweeney fellow doing out there at 5:15 a.m.?” Perone asked with a trace of skepticism. Had he concluded already that the contents of the notepad were probably not trustworthy? Colin gave a brief answer and promised the notepad would explain everything.
Grace set down the tray. Tea all around. Cream, sugar, spoons clinking on china, the ritual. The air felt a little less tense as we all sipped our tea.
“And how did you come to have this notepad?” Perone asked.
“I found it when I cleaned Mr. Sweeney’s room,” Grace said, “after we heard about—the tragic thing that happened at the Cliffs. I packed up his belongings—poor man, he didn’t have much—and changed the bed, and I found the notepad.” Grace was all innocence, a fine act, but I knew the underlying sadness about Mr. Sweeney was sincere.
“Where is it now?” Perone asked.
“I put it back where I found it, under the mattress.”
“But you read it?”
“Yes.”
“Would have been best if you’d left it where it was, for us to examine.”
Colin chimed in. “If you’ll pardon, Inspector, my wife wouldn’t have known it was anything for the Guard to see if she hadn’t read it. Could’ve been anything. A record of the man’s expenses. Could’ve been something pornographic.”
Inspector Perone took a long swallow of tea, and another. And then he finished it off, set his cup on the table, and forced a quick smile.
“I’ll need to see the notepad now,” he said.
“I’ll take you to Mr. Sweeney’s room,” Colin said.