Death at Balfefield Abbey

Chapter 22, Cashelroe, 1903

The spacious bedroom was too large to feel crowded, even after Albert brought up the doctor and the photographer with all his equipment. Still, Sullivan felt she was in the way of those with more important tasks. She slipped out and began wandering through the house.

She roamed freely, discovering a sequence of bedrooms, each decorated around a different color theme. There was a white room, where everything—from the furnishings to the adornments—was in shades of white, cream, and ivory. Further down the corridor, she found others devoted to blue, yellow, green, and pink.

On the ground floor, she encountered rooms still more ornate, lavishly furnished according to various themes. She recognized motifs inspired by romantic visions of the Orient, China, ancient Greece, and classical Rome. One room, the nature room, featured busts of ancient philosophers on plinths surrounded by wall frescoes of wooded landscapes.

At first, she hoped to find an African-themed room with some tokens of the Benin Kingdom. Something to add weight to the rumors of stolen tribal treasures. But it wasn't long before the endless succession of opulence became overwhelming. The designer, it seemed, hadn't known when enough was enough. What started as tasteful grandeur had turned into clutter. She grew weary and stopped opening new doors.

The scene of death and gore she had witnessed in the bathroom had made her queasy and grateful she had skipped breakfast, but now her hunger was back, so she wandered in a direction where she hoped to find the kitchen.

At the bottom of a staircase, she found what she was looking for. Seated at a large wooden table were a young maid and an older woman she took to be the cook. Both were drinking tea and eating slices from a large, sponge cake in the center of the table. On seeing Sullivan, the cook put down her cup and stood up, while the maid looked up from her reading of an old copy of The Strand Magazine.

"Can I help you, ma'am," asked the cook. Her accent was distinctly working-class Dublin.

"Please don't disturb yourself. I'm waiting for my lift back to the town and appear to have gotten lost. It's such a big house."

"Indeed, it is," the older woman replied with a friendly smile. "They'll come and find you when they're ready, no doubt. Would you care for a drop of tea and a slice of cake while you're waiting?"

"I don't wish to intrude."

"Don't be silly. Come, take a seat, ma'am."

"Please, call me Clara."

"Well, I'm Mrs. O'Brien and this here is Kate."

Kate gave a nod of her head, looked at Sullivan from head to footwear, then lowered her magazine.

"I saw you come in with that inspector fella. Do you work for the police?" asked Mrs. O'Brien as she poured from a teapot enclosed in a bright, woolen cozy.

"Good heavens, no. I'm a correspondent for The Independent Recorder. The inspector merely brought me along with him."

Mrs. O'Brien visibly stiffened upon receiving this information, she evidently did not trust journalists, and her smiling, friendly face suddenly hardened with suspicion.

"Don't worry, I'm not here to interview you," assured Sullivan. "Anything we might say here in this kitchen is strictly in confidence. To be honest, Mrs. O'Brien, I'm just grateful for the tea and a chance to settle my nerves. That's not a pleasant sight upstairs."

Mrs. O'Brien seemed to relax again. She cut a thick slice of cake and passed it on a plate to Sullivan. The cake had a clotted cream and strawberry jam center and tasted even better than it looked. The three women sat for a moment in silence.