Death at Balfefield Abbey

Chapter 15, Cashelroe, 1903

It had been a long day and Keating was tired. So much so, that as he lumbered up the hotel stairway, he resented the anticipated necessity to undress and prepare for bed. He allowed himself to indulge in the notion of only removing his shoes before lying down and curling into sleep. He turned the key to his room and found the door already unlocked.

His senses crashed into full alertness.

Keating stepped sideways, leaned back against the wall, and pushed the door open. He was not sure of what, if anything to expect, but, in any case, nothing happened. He peered inside the room. The curtains had been drawn, there was only darkness.

"Please come in, Inspector Keating," said a male voice.

Inside the room, a match was struck, briefly illuminating the face of an elderly man seated in the room's only chair. Without a word, he removed the glass chimney from an oil lamp on a small table, lit the wick, and replaced the chimney. His actions were calm and assured, as if he were the one who rented the room and the inspector merely a visitor. Due to the warmth of the evening, his jacket was slung over the back of the chair, and his collar and cuffs were casually unbuttoned.

"Please come in. We don't want to disturb any of the other guests, now do we?" His tone was soft, even friendly. Like a parent persuading a petulant child.

Keating stepped inside, checked to see that no one else was skulking in the shadows, then closed the door behind him.

"Who are you and what do you want?" said Keating. One notable difference between the Royal Irish Constabulary and the Dublin Metropolitan Police was the latter was an unarmed force. This was one of the few occasions when he felt the acuity of this disparity.

"I could give you a name, but it would, of necessity, be false, so I'd prefer not to do that if it's okay with you. It's probably of more value to our conversation to say I'm a representative of parties concerned with your presence in this locality."

"You're a Fenian? Is that it?"

"That's a little too precise. We're a broad church and not without our ideological factions, but, sure, Fenian will serve well enough for this exchange."

He was a small, skinny man with wispy grey hair and round spectacles. Akin to a monk or perhaps an academic scholar. His clothes were neat but well-worn and he smiled as he talked, a kindly, condescending smile.

"Well, what do you want, Fenian?"

"Inspector, you must be aware that as a member of one of the many branches of the Crown's Forces, you are in enemy territory here and, therefore, may be seen by many as a vulnerable and legitimate target."

"I'm here to investigate a murder. It has nothing to do with politics or republican anarchists."

"And I'm here to assure you that you're not in any immediate, personal danger, so long as your investigation is not exploited as some form of Trojan horse to justify the suppression of the local population, or as an excuse to root out those sympathetic to our cause."

Keating recalled his conversation with Assistant Commissioner Fraser, "If at the end of the day, it's a busted flush, we'll point the finger at the Fenians".

"I'm only here to find out who's responsible for the brutal killing of Arabella Darley. So far, I've seen or heard nothing to suggest Fenians were involved."

"I'm glad to hear it."

"If there's nothing else, I'd like to go to bed now."

"Of course, of course," said the old man, "but before I go let us have a drink to acknowledge our understanding. He removed a half-pint bottle of whiskey from his jacket pocket. "Slàinte," he said, taking a swig before offering the bottle.