Chapter 25
Siobhán waited until the guards came to take the note and the gold coin before heading back to the inn. Danny or Sergeant Eegan wasn’t among them, and since Siobhán had no clue who could have left the note or what it meant, she wasn’t required to stay long. Ann and Ciarán, who were bouncing out of their seats an hour ago, seemed to be dragging. They would all have a rest and then Siobhán would schedule an appointment with Annabel. When they entered the lobby, they found Macdara checking in. “Dara.”
He turned and grinned. “You’re not the only one who can’t stay away.”
“You don’t think I know that?” She tilted her head at the clerk, who was dangling a room key in front of him.
“She booked your room this morning,” he announced with a sly grin.
Dara chuckled. “Of course she did.” He took the key and saluted her. “Thanks, boss.”
Ann and Ciarán headed up to the room for a rest, and Siobhán suspected, to watch telly and eat crisps in bed. Siobhán and Macdara convened by a love seat in the lobby. Sticking to her promise that she wasn’t going to leave him out again, she told him about the note someone anonymously slipped under the door of the coffee shop. He frowned. “Relationship with a guard. Were they talking about us?”
“I wondered the same. I don’t think so.”
“You said your friend Danny had a girlfriend. Who is she?”
“I don’t know. The subject hasn’t come up.” Had they been here under normal circumstances she would have thought to ask. They would have enjoyed a double date, and chatted away about Templemore, and hit the farmers’ market and driven home saying what a lovely village it was and how they had to do it again soon. But this visit had been anything but normal.
Macdara stood. “Looks like the subject is up now.”
“It might be nothing.” They ascended the oak staircase on the way to the room.
Macdara shook his head. “If his lover is one of our suspects, and he hasn’t disclosed that, it’s definitely not nothing.”
“Danny is an honest person.”
“The Danny you know.”
“Yes, the Danny I know.” The stairs were old and steep, and by the time they reached the upper floor she was nearly out of breath. She had missed several mornings of running, and it was starting to show.
“Love makes people do crazy things.” Macdara took her hand and squeezed as they headed down the hall.
“I don’t even know what this note is accusing him of doing.”
“He’s one of the lead guards. He could be hiding or changing evidence to protect the woman he’s dating. He needs to be taken off the case.”
“We don’t even know if what’s in this letter is true.”
“Fine. If it’s true—he needs to be taken off the case.”
“It’s not our decision to make.” She let go of his hand, worried that this conversation was about to go off the rails again.
“It wouldn’t be easy to hide a love affair in this village,” Macdara said as they stopped at their doors. Siobhán was in one room with Ciarán and Ann, and Macdara had the adjoining one.
“Yet multiple people seem to be doing it.” Like your aunt. And maybe your cousin . . . There were only two good reasons that Jane might be lying about her alibi. She was either the murderer, or she had snuck off with a man.
“If anyone would know how to hide it, it’s a guard.” He gave her a look.
“Everyone knows we’re dating and we tried to hide it.”
“Maybe he’s better at it.”
“What are you getting at? The guards have the note now. I’m sure they’ll be questioning everyone, even Danny.”
“Wouldn’t it be quicker if you just asked him?”
“I will, so.” She glanced at the door. They could hear the sound of the telly and bursts of laughter. She took a minute to enjoy it. When she spoke to Macdara again, her voice was a whisper. “There could be another explanation.”
“Go on.”
“This note is from the killer, and we’re getting too close so they’re starting a fire somewhere else.”
“Let’s just make sure we’re not the ones who get burned.”
* * *
While Macdara settled into his room, Siobhán left a message for Danny, asking if they could meet. She got his voice mail and left him a message. Macdara’s mission was to speak with Aiden Cunningham. Siobhán, who was determined to investigate and entertain her siblings, had another destination in mind. Annabel’s. Maybe she’d let Ann and Ciarán do a bit of painting while they chatted. Siobhán could pay for the impromptu lesson. And it just so happened that the art teacher lived in a town house not far from their inn.
Annabel was pretty and petite, much like Siobhán imagined a Disney fairy would look. She grinned when she saw the young ones, then ushered them in and through her living quarters. Landscape and portrait paintings hung on every surface. Hawthorn trees, and fairy rings, and rolling hills. “Are these yours?” Ann and Ciarán examined each one, praising and exclaiming over them, which made Annabel’s pixie face light up with joy.
“When I was younger I was embarrassed to hang my own work. Now that I’m older, they’ve become like old friends.”
“I’d hang every one of them in my room,” Ciarán said. His voice cracked again, a reminder to Siobhán that the little boy she knew was growing up.
Annabel’s laugh was like music. “You’re such a love.”
“They’re gorgeous,” Siobhán said, resisting a strong urge to ruffle Ciarán’s head. “You’re a believer then?”
She laughed. “I love the lore and the legends. I wanted to honor them.”
She had artfully dodged the question. “I’ll show you the studio.” She led them to a back room that seemed to be a recent addition to the older storefront. Easels and canvas and paints were set up, enough stations for ten students. “My partner built this for me when he realized I wasn’t going to give up on my little hobby.” Siobhán thought of Eoin and wondered how his life as an artist would progress. Annabel set Ann and Ciarán up with paints and canvases, then joined Siobhán at the other end of the studio.
“I’m assuming you want to see Ellen’s work.”
“Yes,” Siobhán said. “And anything you can tell me about your interactions with her.”
“I don’t normally judge students on their artwork. Expression should be free from labels. However . . .”
“Yes?”
“I’ll show you.” She headed to the corner of the room where a stack of paintings leaned against the wall. “See for yourself. They’re in order with the first painting she ever did on top. You’ll find nine of them.” She waited, as if expecting Siobhán to react to the number.
“Is that significant?”
Annabel nodded. “In class we’ve only done four. But Ellen started staying late, painting more. The last few were done feverishly. I thought she was just lonely, or working out her frustrations with the town. But now . . . I’m worried I should have seen the signs of her distress. I should have said something. Maybe . . . she would still be alive.” A tear came to Annabel’s eyes. “I’m sorry. It’s been eating me up.”
“I see.” Annabel, tears pooling in her eyes, waited expectantly for Siobhán to assure her that she wasn’t to blame. And Siobhán wanted to. Non-garda Siobhán would have consoled her. But Garda O’Sullivan had to keep a distance. The more freedom you allowed a suspect, the more they revealed. Anguish was an unfortunate side effect.
Annabel wiped her tears. “When you’re finished, I’ll be with my two bright, new students.” She bounded off to see to Ciarán and Ann. Siobhán turned her attention to the first painting.
As Jane had surmised, the first painting was of the cottage. It was simple but quietly beautiful. The white stone facade, the red door, a glistening meadow. The view was of the cottage from the front at sunrise. Siobhán tried to see if there was anything sinister in the picture, anything that would scream cursed, or fairies, or killer. But no. It was simply a modest painting of a sweet cottage, by a beginner.
The second painting was again of the cottage, this time from a side angle. She seemed to be playing with light and shadows, and once again, nothing stood out as alarming, or unusual, just the side of the cottage. Although, and it was very, very difficult to discern, looking at the cottage from this angle reminded Siobhán of the one patch of dirt she’d observed that seemed to be set up higher. The same patch where Geraldine’s dowsing sticks had reacted. Siobhán had yet to tell the Ballysiogdun guards about her suspicion about Geraldine’s walking stick. That was going to have to change today.
The third painting was the view from the back of the cottage, and included the lush garden. Siobhán peered closely. She’d included the patches of wolfsbane, the purple hoods appearing innocent of any evildoing. The fourth painting was of the herb garden, and this one put Siobhán on pause. Ellen seemed to be focusing on one particular section: POISON. The sign, skull and crossbones, were rendered in dark shades while the rest was muted by lighter strokes making the sign pop in a sinister way. Ellen was improving as an artist. But was she also painting a message? Could one of the other students have gleaned the idea of using wolfsbane or poison from her paintings?
The fifth and sixth paintings were of fairy trees and fairy rings. They appeared to be the ones on either side of the cottage. The paintings had an ethereal quality about them, as if you could sense the presence of fairies, without actually seeing any in the paintings. Maybe it was the play of light, how parts of the tree and ring seemed to gleam, or maybe it was the brush stokes, playful in some areas, stark in others. But it was the seventh painting that startled Siobhán. Gone were the light colors and idyllic settings. The cottage was dark, and a gnarled and blackened fairy tree hovered directly over it. Hanging from the branches were small but pinched and furious little faces, glaring down at the old stone cottage as if they were intent on causing trouble. In the distance, in the bushes, someone was crouched with binoculars.
Joe Madigan.
Ellen knew all about his “bird-watching”.
But that wasn’t the most startling bit. Standing in the doorway, in the direct path of the binoculars, her hair shining in the sun, her face turned up and smiling, was Jane. As if she was enjoying the attention from her not-so-secret admirer. Is that why Ellen didn’t want anyone to see her paintings? Was she setting out to reveal everyone’s dirty little secrets? Something else struck Siobhán. The look on Jane’s face in the painting. She was positively basking in the attention. Ellen must have described Joe’s actions to her. Of course she had. She’d confronted him at the farmers’ market. At the time, Siobhán hadn’t stopped to wonder how Jane knew. Partly because she kept forgetting about her disability. Ellen was clearly conveying that Jane liked the attention. Encouraged it even. Or was it Joe Madigan who Jane Delaney liked? Did this have anything to do with why Jane’s name was written in the sink?
Siobhán almost turned to the next painting, when she realized there was one more figure in the current painting. It was easy to miss if you didn’t look closely, but a female figure was standing behind Joe, hands on her hips, her face the epitome of the betrayed wife. Ellen was not a master painter, but there was no mistaking the figure was Mary Madigan.
Were Jane and Joe having a secret affair? Joe, Siobhán recalled, was also out of town for the weekend. To look at tractors, he said. Yet he did not buy a tractor. Jane was at a conference for which she’d offered no proof. And Mary Madigan pretended she was with her children and mother-in-law. What if instead she’d been stalking her husband and his lover? Ironically, this would clear all three of them of the murder. What a grave mistake to lie about alibis that could actually clear them.
The eighth painting was of an old hag. The tip of her crooked nose was red. In her hands she was clutching handfuls of gold coins, so many they were spilling out of her palms. Next to her was a colorful walking stick. Geraldine Madigan. That solidified it for Siobhán. Someone had found a hoard near the cottage. Most likely Ellen. Not only had she found it, she was teasing the Madigans with her discovery. Siobhán eagerly turned to the last painting.
Two men were portrayed in a seedy alley, one standing, one sitting. The first man lurked at the corner, dressed in a tattered cloak. It flew behind him as if lifted by a great wind. His hands were thrown out in a dramatic gesture. Eddie Doolan was well-rendered except for one thing: his face. It had been replaced by a giant gold coin. A guinea. Ellen’s skills had improved. Behind him, perched atop a pile of books, writing feverishly, sweat dripping from his large nose, was Dylan Kelly. Mouth open, flat pink tongue lolling out. A gold coin rested on top of his tongue, matching the gleam in the two gold coins he had for eyes.