Death at Balfefield Abbey

Chapter 5, Cashelroe, 1903

The town of Cashelroe was larger than Keating had expected. He had read in an old travel handbook that its ancient history long preceded the Viking raiders who sailed up the nearby River Barrow, drawn by the treasures of the abbey. Yet its continued existence owed more to the mercantile class, who turned the small town into a retreat from Dublin, expanding it with their impressive Georgian houses.

First came the canal, then the railway, but, as the handbook noted: despite these badges of urbanity, the town remained firmly rooted in its rural environs. A large Celtic cross dominated the town center, and on market days, ageless donkeys, led by coarse, calloused men, pulled heavily laden carts along the wide thoroughfares.

Keating was shown to his room by a maid who introduced herself as Eileen.

"Are you another one of them journalists?" she asked brightly as she opened the windows and let in a soft, cooling evening breeze.

"No," said Keating.

"Rowdy lot, they are. Too fond of the drink. I thought us Irish were bad enough, but there's English staying here too and they're worse."

"Must keep you busy."

"Rushed off me feet, there's so many of them staying here. Mind you, for all his complaining, the boss is the happiest I've ever seen him.

Eileen turned down the bed and fluffed the pillows. "Well, I'll leave you in peace. The dinner service begins downstairs at eight o'clock."

Alone in the room, Keating removed his shoes, stretched out on the bed, and flexed his toes.

The local Constabulary sergeant had likely received a telegram from Dublin Castle about his arrival and was expecting him at the station that afternoon. But Keating, still irritated by how Fraser had forced this case on him, decided it could all wait until the morning.

Before he slipped into a light sleep, he let his thoughts drift to Sarah. He remembered an image of lace curtains billowing gently in the breeze of an open bedroom window.

That evening he chose to eat in a quiet corner of the hotel's busy dining room. Beef stew with dumplings was the only meal on offer. Keating had never acquired a taste for wine, so he opted to wash it down with a jug of ale, the pride of the local brewery. His afternoon nap had sharpened his appetite and it promised to be good fare. He intended to eat and drink heartily.

"Excuse me." said a female's voice.

Keating looked up to find a woman of perhaps his own age, standing next to his table. She had blue eyes set in a handsome face dominated by a strong nose.

"Would you mind if I joined you?." she asked.

Keating, caught off guard, was unable to speak with a full mouth.

"You'll have to forgive my forwardness." the woman continued, "but I see that you're also on your own and I'm tired of being the object of everyone's scrutiny. Around here an unaccompanied woman in a dining room seems to attract as much attention as a two-headed heifer."

Keating, the corner of his napkin stuffed into his collar and his mouth still full, stood up as manners dictated, and waved his hand by way of invitation to the chair opposite him.

"Thank you," she said, offering her hand. "My name is Clara Sullivan." She was fashionably attired in a pale blue, velvet dress with a bustle at the back, a matching hat covered her neatly tied-back, black hair.

"Keating" reciprocated the detective, finally, and they both sat down.

The waiter quickly brought her a plate of stew with dumplings and a glass of birch wine. They ate in silence, she picked at her meal, he self-consciously eating slower than before. When Sullivan gave up on the food, with most left uneaten, she sat back and lit a cigarette.