Death at Balfefield Abbey

Chapter 25, Cashelreo, 1904

Sullivan was alone in the trap as the pony trotted along the winding country roads back to Balfefield Abbey. She wore heavy woolen tweeds edged with fur, bracing against the chill wind. The leafless trees lined the road, and apart from a huddled flock of sheep with their newborn lambs, there was little sign spring had arrived. The landscape appeared desolate compared to her memories of the previous summer's vibrant days.

Even the town had felt lifeless; the holiday crowds had returned to the city, and the locals spent as much time indoors as possible. Where there had once been colorful bustle, there was now only frosty vigilance.

Her mood remained heavy as she entered the grounds of the big house. The lake's waters were cold and still, mirroring the gray sky above. The evergreen forest behind the house now took on a foreboding aspect in the dull light. The ancient Abbey ruins high on the hill were unaffected by the change of season, standing as a brooding sentinel over the house's transient occupants.

A wonderful antidote to the dreariness outside was Mrs. O'Brien's kitchen. A fire in the hearth filled the room with cheerful brightness and cozy warmth.

On seeing Sullivan tap upon the kitchen window, the cook waved her in and poured tea into a cup from her ever-replenished pot without bothering to ask if she wanted any. The room was enveloped in the wonderful aroma of a beef and stout stew bubbling on the range.

"Well, what brings you back here, my dear?" asked Mrs. O'Brien, as Sullivan took a seat at the big table.

"I've letters from Miss Darley for you and Kate."

"You've been to see her up in the gaol, have you?"

"Yes, for my newspaper. She knew I was coming to Cashelroe to follow up on a few matters, so she asked me to act as postmistress."

"It was good of her to think of us."

"Where's everyone?"

"There's only me and Kate in the house now. Albert packed it in a while ago and took himself back to England."

"Is there much work to be done about the place?"

"Not much, most of the rooms have been shut up and the furniture draped with dustcovers. We keep to the kitchen and the staff quarters now."

Footsteps echoed on the stairs, and Kate appeared, still in her nightshirt with a shawl draped over her shoulders, clumps of red hair escaping from beneath her nightcap. It was past eleven o'clock, but Sullivan figured the girl had little reason to rise any earlier.

"Here she comes, little Miss Lazarus," said Mrs. O'Brien winking at Sullivan.

"Hello," said Kate to Sullivan through a half-yawn. "Thought I heard voices. At first, I reckoned the old biddy here was muttering to herself again. It's only a matter of time before she goes completely doolally and starts talking in voices."

"The cheek of that young one," said Mrs. O'Brien smiling.

The cook and the maid set aside their letters, eager to ask about Miranda Darley. How was she coping with imprisonment? Did she know about the terrible things being said in the newspapers? Sullivan told them Miranda seemed calmer now that a trial date had been set and she was focused on working with her barrister on her defense.

It had come to light that Captain Darley's only will and testament was an old one, made during his time in Africa and before he married his wife and inherited her fortune. In it, he named his stepsister, Miranda, as his sole heir. It was the prospect of this inheritance that allowed her to afford such an esteemed London barrister to defend her.

Sullivan reassured them not to worry about the newspapers, explaining that the jury would be instructed to ignore such reports and rely solely on the evidence presented in court. But deep down, this was more to ease their concerns than out of any real belief in the jury's impartiality.