Death at Balfefield Abbey

Chapter 19, Cashelroe, 1903

Sullivan sat opposite Keating once again, at a table in the hotel's busy dining room. It was the evening following their return from Dublin.

Unease crept over her as she observed two men at a nearby table staring intently. She was accustomed to unwanted attention in Cashelroe, more so than in Dublin, but something about these two middle-aged men felt different. Were they newspaper reporters, jealous of her apparent inside track with the inspector? She recalled the swarm of correspondents that descended on the town after the murder, some from as far as London. These men didn't seem familiar, but with so many people milling around then, who could be sure?

Still, something was off about them. Could they really be journalists? And if so, why were they still here, lingering over a story that had started to fade from public interest? She had to convince her own editor that progress in the investigation was imminent, but she realized that was more hope than fact. And if these men were newsmen, did they know something she didn't?

The men must have noticed they had drawn her attention because they turned to each other and talked in hushed tones.

Sullivan looked across the table to Keating who was attacking a plate of stuffed steak and mushrooms with singular attention.

"You haven't been, have you?" she asked brightly, dismissing her nagging concerns regarding the two men.

"I'm afraid you're talking in riddles," responded Keating, but not without a hint of playfulness in his tone.

"You haven't been to the Abbey, yet. Despite what I told you on the train last night regarding Mrs. Bennett."

"What makes you say that?"

"It's easy to keep abreast of a person's movements in a small town like this. I know for a fact that today you spent time talking to the undertaker, the photographer, and the woman who operates the town's laundry. You didn't have enough time for a trip to Balfefield Abbey. Why was that? Why didn't you go straight to Mrs. Bennett and confront her?"

"Confront her, about what exactly?"

"Her failure to disclose to you, a senior investigating police officer, a material fact. Specifically, her name is Darley and she is the stepsister of the husband of the murdered woman."

"Do you believe that's material to the investigation?"

"Now you're teasing me, Inspector. Surely, it must be."

"It's not uncommon for spinsters to keep house for their male siblings. In the absence of a father, it is still the responsibility of the eldest brother to find a suitable husband for his sister, even in these modern times. I shouldn't have to remind you, of all people, that outside of marriage, the options for middle-class women are very limited. That's why so many become governesses or teachers, or indeed, housekeepers."

Sullivan recognized Keating's digression into women's limited job prospects as a simple ploy to change the subject. She was one of the few women in a male-dominated field and was often quick to rail against the injustices men disguised as the limitations of her sex. Keating knew she had strong opinions on this topic. Once again, she became aware of the clever subtlety hidden beneath the inspector's awkward, sometimes shy, demeanor.

However, she chose to refuse the bait: "The housekeeper lied to you by omission. I truly expected you to go up to the house at the earliest opportunity and confront her."

"We policemen don't operate in the same way as you journalists. Our priorities differ. You have a deadline to produce a story, any story. While we are tasked with gathering the truth."

She recognized his statement as another ploy to redirect their conversation.

"Now I understand," she said. "Instead of going straight to the Abbey, you spent the day verifying the statements she had already given you. Isn't that what you did?"