Death at Balfefield Abbey

Chapter 17, Dublin, 1903

Keating awoke from a light but peaceful sleep when Sarah drew back the curtains and let the bedroom fill with bright sunshine. He sat up in the bed keeping his eyes closed as he listened to the familiar sounds coming up through the open window from Montgomery Street. Even this early in the day, the city was a cacophony. The incessant clop of hoofs, the rumble of the wheels from carts and carriages on cobblestones, the bells of the electric trams to warn people to get off the tracks, and the laughter of children playing. Cashelroe was less than a hundred miles from where he lay, but it may as well have been on another continent.

Sarah was in her early forties, a plump woman who carried it well and was blessed with a pretty face. Still wearing her dressing gown, she placed a tray containing a breakfast of eggs, bacon, tea, and toast over his lap and got onto the bed to sit beside him.

"You slept well," she said and took a rasher of bacon from his plate and dipped it into the yoke of an egg before nibbling on it.

"I did. I missed you."

"Are you home for good?"

"No, I have to go back, but I think the matter has almost run its course."

"Will you go and see her today?"

"No. I've things to do before I catch the train."

"You can't keep putting it off. She deserves to know where she stands. She is your wife after all is said and done."

"My wife and your sister. It'll just have to wait until I'm finished with this case."

********

Keating knew The Quay Public House well, as he did similar establishments throughout the city. In the evenings, its customers were made up of rough fraternities; sailors, dockworkers, prostitutes, flesh-peddlers, thieves, and others the newspapers were apt to refer to as the criminal classes. However, he chose to have the meeting there because he rationalized the snug would be empty in the middle of the afternoon, and if not, a flash of his warrant card would make it so.

That part of the pub was enclosed from the rest with its own door to the street. It was small, barely big enough for a couple of tables and some chairs. When he entered, he was gratified to see the sole occupant was a decently dressed, portly man, in his early forties but already balding. On the table before him were the remnants of a pint of Guinness and a glass of whiskey.

"Arnold Thompson?" he asked.

"At your service," was the reply. Thompson stood but Keating waved for him to return to his seat.

"Same again?" asked the inspector as he knocked on the hatch for service.

"Thank you, that's most generous." Thompsons spoke with a cultured, English accent, no doubt acquired through his line of work.

Keating ordered a pint of plain and a ball of malt for Thompson and a whiskey, single measure, for himself. The two men remained silent until the barman placed the drinks on the counter, took the money, and closed the hatch, leaving them alone.

On his return to Dublin the evening before, Keating went to Merrion Square and left a letter for Thompson at the tradesman's entrance of the house where he was now employed.

"I thought it would be easier for you if we met here rather than your place of work," said Keating. "Police calling to ask questions about your previous employment might give those you work for the wrong impression."

"Very much appreciated," said Thomson. He gulped half of his glass of whiskey and followed it with a long swig of Guinness. It was hard to tell if this was a case of nervous anxiety or just his habit.