Death at Balfefield Abbey

Chapter 24, Dublin, 1904

It was a cold, bright February morning when Sullivan stepped through the gates of Kilmainham Gaol. She paused, taking in the five intertwined serpents carved in relief above the door and the two small stones marking where the public gallows once stood. These features weren't new to her, but today, she needed a moment to steel herself against the dread of entering such a place of concentrated misery and misfortune.

Women prisoners were kept in the older, west wing. She was escorted to Miranda Darley's cell on the ground floor, along a flag-stoned corridor of cold, white-washed walls and heavy, black, iron doors. The prison guard stopped in front of one door, indistinguishable from the rest, and looked through the spy hole before unlocking and sliding open the heavy bolt.

As Sullivan entered, Miranda Darley sat on a small, wooden stool beside her cot. She was holding a needle and embroidery hoop. The cell's only light came through a small window placed high on the narrow wall.

"My dear Miss Sullivan," Darley said, taking to her feet and offering her hand. "I'm so grateful to you for coming."

********

Almost seven months had passed since Miranda Darley's arrest for murder.

Sullivan recalled the crowd that gathered outside the police station the next morning. Some locals, driven by curiosity, mingled with newspaper correspondents who had rushed down from Dublin on the first train. They bombarded anyone entering or leaving the building with questions but gained nothing new.

The Independent Recorder was the only publication with the story of Matthew Darley's death and his stepsister's arrest, thanks to Sullivan dictating her exclusive piece over the hotel phone the night before. That morning, paperboys on city streets shouted in their rough, sing-song fashion: Independent Recorder! Captain Darley Dead! Arabella's Murderer Arrested! Read all about it!

Outside the police station, newspapermen came to her for the information they couldn't obtain elsewhere, but she remained tightlipped, partly because it appeared pokerfaced and wise to do so, but also because she did not know much, if anything, beyond what she had already written.

She went to the station late the previous night, only to find that Keating had left word at the front desk barring anyone from entry. Undeterred, she stayed up in the hotel's small hallway, waiting for his return. In the early hours, he finally arrived, but instead of answering her questions, he reverted to his official stance. "Miss Sullivan, I will not discuss police business with the press. Official communications will be issued in due course," he said brusquely, before heading up the stairs to his room without wishing her good night.

In the following days and weeks, she realized the inspector had withdrawn any favoritism he once showed her. Whatever obligation he'd felt toward her seemed to have been fulfilled when he brought her to Balfefield Abbey—not just to the scene of Darley's suicide, but with his clear intention to arrest Miranda Darley that same day.

Sullivan was surprised by her feelings. As a correspondent, she lamented the loss of an important source of information, but as a person, the deeper loss was his companionship—sometimes awkward, slyly intelligent, often humorous, but always comforting.

In the early afternoon of the day following the arrest, Keating stood on the steps of the station and read a prepared statement. Sullivan was probably alone in appreciating the physical effort it must have taken for him to maintain a clear and even diction.

"Today, a woman has been charged that on the night of the 9th or early morning of the 10th of July of this year, she did murder Arabella Darley, acting with an accomplice."

The crowd, silent but eager, erupted into a volley of questions at the mention of an accomplice. Keating refused to say another word, standing with his hands clasped behind his back, making it clear he wouldn't continue until respectful quiet returned. After a few moments, it did.