Death at Balfefield Abbey

Chapter 2, Cashelroe, 1903

Sullivan traveled from the town of Cashelroe to Balfefield Abbey by pony and trap. A journey of around four miles through verdant countryside made more pleasant by a light cooling breeze that countered the heat of the noonday sun.

The livery stable owner raised an unkempt eyebrow when she mentioned traveling outside town alone. He even offered one of his stable hands to accompany her, a gesture born from the local unease over a murderer on the loose. If a madman could strike down the mistress of the Abbey on her own estate, no woman was safe.

Men patrolled the streets at night, and women were urged to stay indoors rather than venture out alone. Despite the growing panic, Sullivan dismissed it as overblown and politely declined the offer of a companion.

Still, as she rode along the winding country roads, she kept her handbag resting on her knees—the Remington inside, just in case.

A large stone archway stood at the entrance to the estate. Its ornate wrought-iron gate was manned by two stout men not caring to hide their heavy cudgels from sight. Sullivan supposed the security was necessary given the number of journalists who tried to trespass on the grounds, all desperately vying to uncover something novel about the people or the place for their publication.

As Edward had anticipated, Arabella Darley's murder quickly became big news—not only in the region, but also on the front pages of English papers. Two weeks had passed since the body was discovered, and the public's interest showed no signs of waning.

At first, she and the other newspapermen were kept busy reporting the known details: the death, the police investigation, the Coroner's Inquiry, and the burial of the unfortunate woman. But once the facts had been exhausted, the media's attention began to shift.

Newspaper editors despise a vacuum, and they were all too eager to fill their pages with speculation, gossip, and sensationalism. Criticism soon turned toward the police, who had yet to make an arrest. Worse still, from what anyone could tell, they didn't even have a suspect.

Once she told the men guarding the entrance her name and that she was expected at the house, they pulled open the gates and let her through.

As the pony cantered up the gravel path, she was greeted by the sight of a large Georgian mansion, its design nodding to the classical style. The structure was simple and geometric, with a triangular pediment dominating the façade, while Doric columns supported the porch leading to the front door.

The house sat in a three-hundred-acre park, mostly forested. In the distance, high on a hill, she could make out the ruins of the ancient abbey that gave the estate its name.

The original Balfe had commissioned a famous English architect to design the mansion and grounds in the 1770s. He had, according to Reverend Everett—an Anglican priest and self-styled local historian—begun life as a struggling law clerk from a modest family, before making his fortune in the sugar islands. Reverend Everett conveniently omitted the fact that the sugar industry, at the time, relied heavily on slavery to minimize costs and maximize profits, sparing his listeners that indelicacy.

All the best family fortunes have tainted origins. It was ever thus, as Edward might have said.

"You must be Eileen Blair of the Recorder." said the woman who opened the door. She was tall, slim, and dark-haired. Sullivan guessed she was in her mid-thirties, just a couple of years younger than herself. She spoke with an English accent but, to Sullivan's ear, without a hint of regional inflection.

"And you must be Mrs. Bennett, the housekeeper."

The woman looked at Sullivan in a way that made her feel as if she were being assessed from her straw boater down to her black, ankle boots. Mrs. Bennett smiled and said: "Please come in. The stable boy will take care of your pony."