Death at Balfefield Abbey

Chapter 20, Cashelroe, 1903

Keating maintained a dour silence for most of their journey to Balfefield Abbey, despite Sullivan's best efforts to engage him. Given his humor, Sullivan found it surprising he had hired such a small governess cart, its blue upholstered interior forcing them to sit almost knee to knee. Perhaps, she mused aloud, it was the only one available at the livery yard. Keating, however, turned forward, gripped the reins, and stared fixedly at the pony's head.

The previous night, after the shootings and questioning by Sergeant Ryan, she phoned the newspaper office in Dublin and dictated her story of the brutal murders by Fenian gunmen. Exhausted, she retired to her room, but her head barely touched the pillow when a torrent of rain lashed against her window, heralding a fierce electrical storm. She had feared lightning and thunder since childhood—no comfort, not even from her mother, could ease her terror. The storm raged until dawn, leaving her sleepless until the first light finally brought some peace.

The oppressive, summer heat, that had lasted for so long, was gone. The countryside was wet and fresh, and the wheels of the cart flung mud up to the guards. The sky was blue, but only in places where the heavy, murky, clouds allowed it to appear. There would be more rain today, but Sullivan hoped it would hold until they had arrived at their destination.

Earlier that morning, Keating knocked urgently on her door. Still in a state of undress, she could only open it a few inches, and they spoke through the narrow gap. He told her only that he was heading to Balfefield Abbey and it would be to her advantage to accompany him. However, to get ready, he only allowed her the time it took him to hire a pony and cart and bring it to the front of the hotel.

Her stomach acutely felt the absence of breakfast as the little, black pony pulled them along narrow country lanes while heavy droplets of rain fell down on the cart, delayed in their descent by lush overhead branches.

"Ask me a question, Inspector," she said brightly. "I promise to answer any that are reasonable."

Keating turned towards her with that quizzical look of his.

"I'm tired of this long silence," she continued. "If you insist on refusing to answer any of my questions as to why we're traveling to the Abbey and, indeed, why you've granted me the singular honor of accompanying you, then, if only to have some form of conversation, I'm prepared to answer any question you might have of me."

"I asked you to come along," said Keating, "because I felt I owed you something for the information you gave me regarding Mrs. Bennett and I don't like to feel obligated, especially not to journalists."

The policeman returned his gaze back to the pony.

Sullivan could tell by the redness of his eyes and his unshaven chin that Keating had slept less than she. It was hardly surprising given the events in the dining room. She wondered why he hadn't taken the morning to rest before diving back into the investigation of Arabella Darley's murder. Perhaps he feared that letting the trauma take hold would be too debilitating, and so he sought any activity to deflect it.

"I spent much of the night reliving the murder of those two men in my mind," Sullivan said. This was the truth, but the purpose of her disclosure was to draw the inspector into discussing the matter rather than let him brood silently upon it, as men were foolishly apt to do. "I imagine it must have been the same for you, Inspector."

"How did you become a journalist," asked Keating. His question was clearly a ploy to deflect from hers, but Sullivan welcomed any engagement from Keating rather than to see him ruminate so darkly.

"I find the manner in which you have asked that question very interesting."

"What do you mean?"

"You asked me 'how I became a journalist'. I suspect if I were a man you would have simply asked me why."