Death at Balfefield Abbey

Chapter 3, Dublin, 1903

Inspector Reginald Keating of the Dublin Metropolitan Police sat alone in a first-class compartment as the train trundled out of Kingsbridge Station. He settled back into his portly frame and watched the cobbles and grime of the tenements, made more dilapidated by unflinching sunshine, eventually give way to the rich, green pastures of farmland.

Earlier, just before the train grunted into motion, Keating had noticed an attractive young woman on the busy platform, vigorously waving a white handkerchief in farewell until clouds of steam partially obscured her. He tried to remember if there had ever been a time when his wife, Agnes, had felt his departures so keenly. It seemed doubtful.

That morning, as he left the house, she had sat rigidly, eyes fixed on her embroidery frame, her gaze determined and downcast. He felt an obligation to say something—anything—but the right words, ones she couldn't twist into bitter accusations or tearful recriminations, eluded him. Instead, he closed the door softly behind him.

At Newbridge Station, Keating's solitude was interrupted when the compartment door opened and a flustered, matronly woman entered with two well-dressed children. She placed her hand luggage in the overhead rack and sat the boy and girl by the window, sternly warning them to behave. The boy, absorbed in play, marched a little soldier in a red tunic along the windowsill to his own improvised bugle call. The girl gave Keating a candid, searching look, but when he smiled, she quickly buried her face in the matron's coat.

By then, the train was moving again, and Keating turned his gaze back to the passing scenery.

Earlier in the day, shortly after he arrived for work at Dublin Castle, he was surprised by a summons to the Assistant Commissioner's office.

Douglas Fraser was a wiry old Glaswegian with a fiery temperament and bulging eyes that tended to fix unblinkingly when he emphasized a point. His office was large, with dark wooden paneling and several bookcases. While Keating was invited to sit in a leather armchair and pour himself some tea.

Fraser stood at the window, cup and saucer in hand, his other hand clenched into a fist behind his back as he gazed out into the courtyard.

"How is Agnes?" asked Fraser. Their conversations always began with pleasantries about the well-being of their respective wives.

"She's very well, thank you. And Mrs. Fraser?"

"Bonny, so far as I can tell from her letters," said Fraser, after a brief pause spent slowly stirring the milky clouds out of his tea before walking from the window to occupy a chair across from Keating.

Keating knew that Fraser's wife preferred to spend the summer months away from the city, but with nowhere safe outside Dublin, she traveled each year to Inverness, in Scotland, where she had family. Their conversation soon shifted to the Gardiner Street gang and Keating's role in capturing their ringleaders. Fraser was complimentary—overly so—and Keating recognized it for the preamble it was.

After a protracted pause, Fraser asked: "Are you aware of this mess in Cashelroe?"

"Only what I've read in the newspapers. A young woman murdered."

"Bloody newspapers. Sensationalizing everything. Doing their utmost to make us appear stupid and incompetent." Fraser's accent was always more pronounced when he was agitated. "It's even worse than the Wilson case, and I don't have to remind you, of all people, how damaging that was for everybody involved."

Keating chose to ignore the barb and instead asked, "Do the constabulary have a suspect?"

"No. They haven't a bloody clue, literally or figuratively. To make matters worse the inspector for that district recently retired for health reasons and hasn't been replaced. The case is being handled by the local sergeant. Name of Ryan.

"Mind you, a bloody mess is only to be expected. Outside of Dublin and a couple of other areas, we're not a police force as the term is generally understood by the great unwashed. The Royal Irish Constabulary, after all, is modeled after a colonial force and our primary function is to root out Fenian agitators in the hinterlands. If the crime is more serious than the theft of a bicycle, it's beyond the ken of the local constabulary. They may as well be investigating the loss of the Franklin Expedition."

Their conversation paused again until Fraser ended the silence, "Have you heard of Sir Trevor Balfe?"

"No. Should I?"

"He's a Tory backbencher. Anglo-Irish, but hates the Irish Parliamentarians. Anyway, the victim was his niece and he's rattling some powerful cages to get attention."

Fraser put down his cup and leaned forward, eyes now bulging. Keating, uncomfortable with the intrusion into his personal space, sat back in his chair, removed his spectacles, and began to clean the glass with a pocket handkerchief.

"Damn it, Keating, we're getting it from all sides, press, and politicians, not to mention his Holiness upstairs," said Fraser referring to the newly appointed Commissioner. "I need somebody with your experience to go down there, get a grasp on the situation and see if you can't put irons on the culprit."

"It's been what, four weeks since the murder? What if I can't identify the guilty party or it's too late and they have absconded?"

"Don't give me 'what ifs', man. I need you to put an end to this. Sir Trevor thinks it was the husband. Married her for the money and then had enough of her."

"Does he, Sir Trevor that is, have any evidence to support this accusation?"

"None that I'm aware of. There may be nothing more to it than he detests the fellow, Captain Darley, but it's still worth investigating. The local police could only tiptoe around the possibility. Kowtowing to the local gentry and all that."

"And if I come to the conclusion it wasn't the husband?"

"Bloody hell! It certainly wasn't suicide. Somebody murdered that unfortunate woman."

Keating replaced his spectacles on his nose and pocketed his handkerchief.

Fraser sat back. "See here, Keating, I don't need to tell you your business. Just go down there, review any evidence Sergeant Ryan and his plods managed to gather, talk to witnesses, and see what you can shake out of them. If at the end of the day, it's a busted flush, we'll point our finger at the Fenians. We'll say it was an anti-landlord act of anarchism and round up as many of the treasonous beggars as we can get our hands on."