Death at Balfefield Abbey

Chapter 23, Cashelroe, 1903

Sullivan remained in the kitchen for some time. She began to notice Albert's initially cheerful disposition faded, replaced by a concerned countenance and a prolonged silence. It was as if shadows of doubt about his offer of a position in London or perhaps the guilt of appearing dismissive of his employer's death had encroached upon his earlier optimism.

A chime rang out and they both looked up to the servants' bell board on the wall.

"It's the drawing room, I'd better go," he said without enthusiasm.

"Let me accompany you; save me getting lost again," said Sullivan, then added, "It's time I caught up with the inspector." In truth, she knew that, despite its unpretentious atmosphere of domestic amenity, she would soon feel like a trespasser if left sitting in the large kitchen on her own.

When they stepped into the drawing room, Sullivan was surprised by the scene that greeted them. Mrs. O'Brien sat on a couch, visibly upset, her hands together on her lap holding a handkerchief, fingers intertwined, as if in silent prayer. She was not crying audibly, but moisture welled up in her eyes and threatened to spill. Keating strutted ineffectually back and forth before her in obvious discomfort at the situation, and on seeing Sullivan, with his eyes, he made a silent appeal for her help.

Had his questioning been too hard and ruthless? she thought. If so, it was not a behavior she would have expected from Keating. He was interviewing a kindly, middle-aged domestic, after all, not some hardened criminal. And what information could the woman possibly have that compelled him to act in a way that was aggressive or so obviously upsetting?

Sullivan sat beside Mrs. O'Brien, placed an arm around her shoulders, and drew her close, while she looked up at Keating inquiringly.

"He told me in confidence," said the cook, with a slight tremble in her voice. "I swore to him I wouldn't tell anyone; I've kept my promise until now."

"This is something you should have disclosed at the very beginning to Sergeant Ryan," said Keating curtly. "Or to me when I spoke to you some days ago."

"I didn't think it was important," she replied stubbornly.

"That is not for you to decide," he said, before turning to the footman, "Albert, please take Mrs. O'Brien up to her room in the servant's quarters."

The footman helped the cook to her feet, saying: "C'mon, me old duck, let's get you going. You shouldn't take it to heart, coppers are not known for their social graces, now are they?" He gave Keating an accusing, defiant look.

"Where's Kate?" asked Sullivan when she and Keating were alone.

"I finished with her some time ago. She said it was her intention to find Mrs. Bennett and comfort her."

"What was all that about? What did you say to upset Mrs. O'Brien?"

"The silly woman has been withholding information that could prove useful. Then he added: "I confess, I may have let my frustrations get the better of me."

Not for the first time that day, Sullivan wondered if the events of the previous night were impacting on the man's behavior and blunting what would normally be an acute sensitivity to the breaking point of others.

"Well, what now, Inspector?"

"Based on what the cook told me, I must pay a visit to the stables."

"Then let me accompany you. In case you need someone to curb your excesses."

Keating looked like he was about to say something. Probably to order her to remain at the house, but in the end, he gathered his hat and coat and walked out of the room and did not object when she followed.