Chapter 21
Two guards stood on the periphery of the garden watching as Jane began to walk through the delineated sections, Bridie following close behind. Since Bridie wasn’t a suspect, and she had two green thumbs, they could trust her to correctly identify the herbs. If any of the plants had been moved, or switched, or plucked, they would soon find out. Everyone near the garden wore gloves.
The sections were clearly developed. Each herb had a corresponding sign, painted in vibrant colors. Mint. Basil. Thyme. Cilantro. Parsley. Rosemary. They started with the kitchen herbs, and as Bridie called them out and examined them, she would mark the sheet in front of her. Thirty minutes later, Bridie had them all marked down.
“Everything is clearly marked apart from the wolfsbane,” she announced.
“Wolfsbane?” Jane said. “I didn’t plant wolfsbane. Where is it?”
Bridie scanned the garden. “They don’t quite fit into the grid.” She pointed. Siobhán followed Bridie’s finger as it outlined the garden.
“It’s at the far edge opposite of where you’re standing,” Siobhán relayed. There at the edge of the garden, clearly outside the delineated portions, grew the hardy perennial. They had dark glossy leaves and purple flowers shaped like a hood. Some called it friar’s cap.
“It must be growing wild,” Jane said. “I didn’t plant them.”
“Well, there’s wolfsbane here. And plenty of it.”
Siobhán joined Bridie and stared down at the plants. They looked innocent, not out to murder anyone. The same could be said for their human suspects. “They’re poisonous?”
“Very,” Jane said. “With no healing properties. That’s why I didn’t plant them.”
“Every part of the plant is poisonous,” Bridie said. “But the roots are the most deadly.”
“What did I tell you?” Jeanie Brady coached from the sidelines. “Carefully curated.”
“Do any of them seem missing?” Siobhán asked as she edged in to have a look.
“They’re thick in here,” Bridie said. “Several plants could have been pulled and we wouldn’t know it.”
“I’ll put in a rush on wolfsbane,” Jeanie said. “Looks like we have a winner.”
Jane sighed. “I didn’t plant them and neither did my mother.”
Siobhán left them to continue the discussion and motioned for Jeanie Brady to have a walk with her in private.
“Aconite,” Jeanie said as soon as they were alone. “The poison is derived from the roots.”
Not as simple as plucking off a few leaves and dropping it into liquid. This murder was premeditated. “Supposing someone knew how to extract the poison from the roots. Would that have done the job?”
“Done it? Half a teaspoon of a tincture of aconite root dropped in a bottle of whiskey would have been enough to kill a very large man.”
“And given we have a . . . woman on the heavier side—but it didn’t kill her?”
“They didn’t get the dose strong enough . . . although . . .”
“Yes?”
“Had she fallen asleep out there, the poison may have very well taken her by morning.”
“But because she got back to the cottage and hadn’t yet succumbed . . .”
“The killer finished the job with a pillow.” Which meant they were either in a hurry, impatient, or not sure if the poison would do the job.
“The tincture of an aconite root is an alcohol extract,” Jeanie said. “In whiskey it wouldn’t have been detected. They call it ‘the perfect poison to mask a murder.’ ”
“So,” Siobhán said, picking up on her train of thought. “Someone used the perfect poison, then ruined it by planting clues to it at the crime scene.”
“Good luck figuring out why!” Jeanie Brady gave a sarcastic laugh. “And people wonder how I do my job.” She stared at the cottage, then shuddered.
Siobhán sighed—she had no disagreement there. “How long will it take to test for wolfsbane?”
Jeanie shrugged. “The toxicology is sophisticated. It has to be sent to the best forensic lab. Patience is in order.”
Siobhán nodded. “The poison may be sophisticated. But I’m starting to wonder whether or not our killer is.”
* * *
Siobhán was dying to get inside the cottage again, but the village had placed new locks on the doors and boarded the windows. Jane was prepared to throw a fit, as well she should, but they hadn’t had time to fight it. The only window that wasn’t boarded was the one looking directly into Ellen’s bedroom, but the curtains were firmly closed. Siobhán stood in front of it, pondering. The curtains had been open when they found Ellen’s body. Standing here, one would have been able to see right into the bedroom. She was dying for another look inside. The sink . . . she’d almost forgotten. She’d waited long enough. Hopefully Danny was at the garda station and would be able to slip away to let Siobhán have a look. Part of her wondered if he had mentioned it to drive her mental, knowing that the anticipation was killing her. With Macdara back in Kilbane, and Bridie driving Jeanie back to Kilbane any minute now, this was the perfect chance to get back inside the cottage. She headed for the Ballysiogdun Garda Station, located just past the meadow where they held the Saturday farmers’ market. She loved that the village was walkable, but had to admit she missed zipping around on her scooter.
The garda station was housed in a small stone building, roughly half the size of the Kilbane Garda Station. Two guards stood outside, smoking and chatting. On her way in, she caught part of their conversation. “Oddest case I’ve ever worked. Still can’t believe what they found.” They clammed up when they saw her, and she could tell by the look on their faces that they hadn’t meant for her to hear that last bit. She simply nodded and headed inside.
Danny had let the clerk know that Siobhán was coming, so it wasn’t long before she was waiting in an interview room for him.
“How ya,” he said when he swept in with a stack of folders.
“Wolfsbane,” she said. “We believe it’s the poison that killed Ellen.”
“I thought you were here for me to brief you,” he said with a grin. “Let me write that down.”
“It’s not official, but we found it planted in the backyard of the cottage. Jane says that neither she nor her mother planted it. Half a teaspoon of the tincture dropped in a bottle of whiskey would have been enough to kill.”
Danny frowned. “Then why the pillow?”
“Either the killer didn’t use enough of the poison, or it wasn’t working fast enough.”
Danny nodded, and opened the folder on the top of his pile. “I can’t tell you much.”
“Give me a touch then.”
Danny shifted in his seat. “Why don’t you make some guesses, and I’ll see if I can confirm any of them.”
Siobhán understood where he was coming from. He wasn’t supposed to share this investigation with her. But he also knew she was a good guard, and this case needed as many cooks in the kitchen as possible. Her mind conjured up the cottage from the moment they entered. “If I were conducting this case, I’d definitely be interested in the stack of papers that was on Ellen’s counter.”
Danny nodded. “And why is that?”
He was encouraging the line of questioning. She was onto something. “Because. Given her tidiness, they didn’t seem the sort of thing that she would have out on her counter?” He nodded again. “And they didn’t belong to her.”
“Quite right.”
“But you do know who they belong to. . . .”
He grinned. “How could we not?”
“Because the party’s name was on it.”
“Indeed.”
“Do you have any idea why this person left his or her papers on Ellen’s counter?”
“Somebody must have wanted her to have an early read.”
He was choosing his words carefully. An early read. She gasped. “Professor Kelly’s manuscript.”
“Quite interesting,” he said. “Along with the letter.”
“Yes, the letter.” Shoot. “Why is the letter interesting?”
Danny shrugged. “I’m not a writer. But if I was a writer, I’d find that part of the process stressful.”
That part of the process. “Getting published you mean.”
“Indeed.”
“Yes, indeed.” There was a partial of his manuscript and a letter from a publishing company? “How do you think Professor Kelly felt after reading the letter?”
“I can imagine he was devastated.”
Devastated. “Rejection isn’t easy.”
“Exactly.”
Part of Dylan Kelly’s manuscript along with his rejection letter had been left on Ellen’s countertop. She wanted a time machine so she could go back and slap herself for not looking. Then again if she could go back she might as well just look and save herself the pain. Still. She really wanted to slap the version of herself who didn’t look at the papers. Or, presumably, the sink.
Focus. Hadn’t Dylan Kelly been crowing about a book deal? He lied. But why would he leave his rejection letter and manuscript with Ellen? Or had she stolen it? If she had suspected Professor Kelly was behind wanting the cottage bulldozed, maybe she was using it as leverage. And if she alone knew that his publishing deal had been rejected . . .
Had she threatened him? Back off the rumors of the cottage or I’ll tell everyone you don’t have a book deal?
“You’ll be bringing the good professor in for questioning?”
“Of course.”
“Have you identified the gold object under the bed?” He nodded. “And?” She was growing tired of the guessing games. Cases were so much easier when she had jurisdiction.
“It does appear to be from a hoard.”
“A hoard.”
“There have been a number of them found over the years in Ireland, England, Scotland, and Wales. You should look them up.”
“I will, of course. You’re sure the gold coin is from ancient times?”
“Just like the ones found in Tipperary,” he said. “Seventeenth century.”
“Those were found in what year?”
“Found in the floorboards of a pub in Carrick-on-Suir in 2013.”
“I’ll have to look that one up.”
“You should.”
“Did you find any more in the cottage?”
“We did not.”
“And you checked out the side of the cottage where the dirt was piled higher than the rest?”
“It does appear someone had been digging in that spot.”
“But there’s no longer anything buried there.”
“As you say.”
One gold coin. “Unusual, is it? To find just one?”
Danny nodded. “If it came from a hoard, then it would be unusual.”
“Did the owner of the pub in Carrick-on-Suir get to keep the gold coins he found?”
“No. They all went to the National Museum.”
As she thought. The Irish government claimed buried treasures as their own. “That means that anyone who found such treasures wouldn’t be able to cash in on them.”
“Not if they did their duty and reported them.”
“And if they didn’t?”
“Definitely wouldn’t be easy to find buyers.”
“And the coin you found is the exact coin found in Tipperary?”
“’Tis.” He closed his folder. Siobhán finished telling him everything she’d learned from their suspects so far. He leaned in. “Jane Delaney hasn’t submitted any proof that she was in Dublin this past week.”
Siobhán swallowed hard. Then nodded. “I will speak to Macdara.”
Danny stood. “You might want to check out the Ballysiogdun Charity Shop.”
Charity shop. Why did that sound familiar? She’d plucked the calling card from the local pub, then forgotten all about it. “I will do so.” She wasn’t sure why he was suggesting it, but there had to be a good reason. Maybe the owner could offer information about the gold coin. Luckily she had a photo of it on her mobile. Siobhán stood as Danny opened the door. Was he messing with her, dragging out the revelation as long as possible, or had he forgotten? “What did they find in her sink?”
His eyes danced. The game was afoot. “I have time for a break. You?”
* * *
Siobhán and Danny stood in Ellen’s kitchen staring into the sink. Written on the side of the sink in blood were two words: Jane. Tree.
Siobhán was at a loss. “What in the world?”
“Oh, there’s more.” Danny had dragged along his folder. He opened it and removed a printout of a crime scene photograph, and held it out for her to see. There was something gray and furry in the sink. She leaned in. “Is that a mouse?”
“Yep. A very dead mouse.”
If someone had offered her a million guesses she would have never thought for a second there would have been a dead mouse in the sink.
“My God.” Siobhán had no other words.
“Notice anything about the poor critter?”
She moved in on the photo. She didn’t mean to be cruel, but poor critter was hardly a fitting description. Deformed creature was more like it. Its enlarged face was hard to look away from, but when she did she spotted its stump of a tail with drops of red surrounding it. “Is that blood?” Danny shrugged. She wasn’t normally a fan of rodents but she couldn’t help but feel sorry for the poor wee thing. “I can’t make sense of it.”
“Can’t make heads or tails?” Danny laughed at his own joke. She didn’t blame him. Humor was a much-needed stress reliever when dealing with the macabre.
“Would Ellen kill a mouse and just leave it in her sink?”
“No clue.”
“I am at a complete loss.” Wasn’t she supposed to be a neat and orderly woman? Did she let loose when her daughter was away? Dead rodents in the sink weren’t just letting loose, it was darnright mental.
“The detective sergeant is thinking it was some kind of sacrifice.”
“You have to be joking me.”
“Did Jane ever mention that her mother believes in witches?”
“Witches?” Siobhán glanced around the simple cottage. “Do witches sacrifice mice?”
Danny shrugged and leaned in. “My first murder probe and it’s stranger than fiction.” He tapped on the specks of blood in the photograph. “Are there certain poisons that cause bleeding?”
Siobhán glanced away, she was already going to see that mouse in her dreams. “Did you find a bloody knife here?”
“No.”
“Then maybe poison does cause bleeding, or someone poked at this poor mouse somewhere else.”
“Possible.”
“Which means it was someone other than Ellen.”
“Jane?”
“Because her name is in the sink?”
“Yes. And. You know. She lives here.”
“What if someone was trying to send her a message?” Jane. Tree. Dead mouse. What kind of deranged message was that? Siobhán tried to work it out. If Jane messes with the tree she’s a dead mouse? Or was this more of a mobster warning? You dirty rat.
Danny folded his arms, looked away from her as he spoke. “Do you want to guess what killed the mouse?”
“Poison,” Siobhán said. “Wolfsbane.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Why do you think that?”
“If we confirm that Ellen was poisoned with wolfsbane. My guess? The killer was practicing.”
“But there’s blood evidence.” He pointed to the drops in the sink. “Do you think she cut into it?”
Siobhán’s stomach turned. “Why on earth would she cut into a dead mouse?”
“I’m still trying to account for the blood. Why is it there?”
Reluctantly, she glanced at the photo again and shrugged. “I would ask him but I don’t tink he’s going to answer.” Siobhán was convinced that Ellen did not leave this poor bloody mouse in her sink. Only one person would want to practice poisoning poor critters. The killer.
Was Ellen awake when her killer entered? She might have fought back. Thrown something through the window even. Siobhán headed for the window. It had been patched with boards. “Have you determined that the window was broken from inside the cottage?”
“What makes you think that?” There was a twinge of jealousy in his tone, and something else. Admiration. She was right. Ellen threw an object from inside the cottage, maybe aiming at her killer. But the poison was starting to take effect, or maybe the killer ducked.
“The witch,” the little Madigan girl had said. “Dancing.” Had she seen Ellen struggle with her attacker?
If someone poked at the mouse with a knife, and that caused the blood . . . wasn’t that overkill? Poison should have been enough. Had he or she planned on killing Ellen Delaney with a knife? But Ellen Delaney wasn’t killed with a knife.
Had the killer intended a stabbing versus a smothering? Did she pass out once the poison hit her system and the killer changed the weapon to suit the circumstances? Much neater to kill with a pillow than a knife . . .
Danny was watching Siobhán. “You get this look on your face when you’re concentrating,” he said. “Just like in college.”
“Joe Madigan mentioned something about dead mice at his farm.”
Danny perked up. “Were any of them deformed?”
Siobhán shook her head. “I didn’t think to ask, but he certainly didn’t mention it.”
Danny backed away from the sink. “I’ll check it out.”
“I’ll ask Macdara to press Jane on her alibi.”
“It won’t be good for her if she doesn’t offer proof soon,” Danny said. “Tickets, photos, witnesses. If she was in Dublin, it should be easy and quick to prove it. So why hasn’t she?”
Why indeed. “Tree,” Siobhán said. “Fairy tree?” Maybe someone was trying to frame Jane for her mother’s murder. “Do you mind if I have a quick look for Ellen’s camping outfit?”
“The scene has been processed. Feel free.”
Siobhán headed for Ellen’s bedroom, but a quick search did not find any dirty clothes. “What about her laptop. Anything come of it?”
“I really can’t say.” Danny meandered over to the boarded-up window.
“I understand.”
“But sometimes I talk out loud.”
“Do you?”
“Makes it easier to process.”
“I’ll just mosey over here.” Siobhán wandered to the far wall. Nothing hung on the simple wall, so Siobhán lost herself in the cracks, and lines, and dust. Was Ellen such a sparse decorator because she felt guilty that Jane couldn’t see? Or maybe decorating just wasn’t her thing. Siobhán loved the little touches that made a house a home. This cottage did not have that welcoming touch. She wondered what the fairies would think about that.
“Let’s see,” Danny said. “We need to bring Jane in for questioning, because her alibi hasn’t been verified, and as the closest kin to the deceased, she’d be very much on our radar as a suspect. We need to know why Dylan Kelly left his manuscript in the cottage. Or, if it wasn’t him, we need to know how and why the manuscript was on the counter. We’re waiting for the results of the footwear impression we found near the front door. We still don’t know how the window was broken, even though we know it was from the inside. Looking like wolfsbane in whiskey is the poison, but there’s no whiskey bottle. We’ve yet to locate Ellen’s truck, handbag, or mobile phone. Or the clothes she wore if indeed she was outside to spend the night near the fairy tree. We’ve requested her phone records—it’s unfortunate that everything takes so long. We ran with the recent tip that Ellen had secretly purchased the cottage, but we’ve verified with the village that she did not. It was never even up for sale.”
“She lied to her sister.” Siobhán was most definitely not going to be the eejit who delivered that bombshell.
“That makes me wonder why she needed to borrow fifteen thousand euro from her sister,” Danny added.
Siobhán began to follow a trail of dust on the wall, one that suddenly took shape as she stepped back. The dust marked a rectangle, as if a large frame had recently been hanging there.
“Danny, look.”
He ambled over as she pointed to the wall. “What am I looking at?”
“Doesn’t it look as if a painting once hung here?”
“Possibly,” Danny said. “Where are you going with this? Are you suggesting it was stolen?”
“No. Jane said she donated a painting—or tried to—for a showing Annabel was hosting at Molly’s Café. She said when Ellen found out she was livid.”
“Okay . . .”
“Ellen presumably got the painting back. So what did she do with it?”
Danny quickly took in the room. “The guards have been over the place several times. We didn’t find a large painting.”
“Interesting.”
Danny laughed. “I’ll let you follow that trail.”
“Thank you.” She smiled. It was great to work with her old friend. “For everything.”
“Don’t mention it,” he said with a grin. When she didn’t reply, his smile faded. “Seriously,” he said, as they exited the cottage. “Please don’t mention it.”