Snow Page 5

  ‘Was the light on?’ Strafford asked. Osborne looked at him, not understanding. ‘In the library,’ Strafford said, ‘was the light switched on?’

  ‘Can’t say. Must have been – I remember being able to see clearly what was what – a shock, I can tell you. But maybe I switched it on myself, I don’t know. Why do you ask?’

  ‘No reason. I’m just trying to picture the scene – it helps.’

  ‘Well, there was blood all over the place, of course – huge pool of it on the floor underneath him.’

  ‘What way was he lying?’ Sergeant Jenkins asked. ‘I mean, was he lying on his back?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And did you – did you interfere with his clothing in any way?’

  Osborne glowered at him, and addressed Strafford. ‘Of course I did. I had to have a look, to see what had happened to him. Then I spotted the blood on his trousers, and the – the wound, there.’ He stopped for a moment, then went on. ‘I was in the war, I’m no stranger to violence, but I can tell you I damn near vomited at the sight of what they’d done to him.’ He again made that angry, sideways chewing motion with his lower jaw. ‘Bastards – forgive my French.’

  Strafford picked over the mess of food before him, pretending to be eating it but in reality distributing it around the plate, as he had learned to do as a child. The dish itself he had always found peculiarly disgusting, but somehow the pullets’ eggs, hardly bigger than marbles, added to the awfulness.

  ‘Did you call the Guards right away?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, I phoned the barracks in Ballyglass, looking for Radford – Garda Sergeant Radford. He has the ’flu.’

  Strafford stared. ‘The ’flu?’

  ‘Yes. His wife came to the phone, said he was very sick and that she had no intention of getting him out of bed in this weather – I thought her tone distinctly rude, I must say. Mind you, they lost a son not long ago. If it hadn’t been for that I’d have given her a proper wigging, I can tell you. She spoke to Radford, and came back and said he’d told her to tell me to get on to the Garda barracks in Wexford. I called 999 instead and they put me on to your people.’

  ‘My people? In Pearse Street?’

  ‘I suppose it was Pearse Street. Somewhere in Dublin, anyway.’

  ‘And who did you speak to there?’

  ‘Some desk-wallah or other.’ Osborne, suddenly angry, threw down his knife, which skittered off the table and fell to the flagstone floor with a jarring clatter. ‘For God’s sake, what does it matter who I spoke to?’

  ‘Colonel Osborne, a murder has taken place in your house,’ Strafford said, keeping his voice low and his tone mild. ‘It’s my task to investigate the crime, and to find out who committed it. As you’ll understand, that means I need to know everything that’s knowable about the events of last night.’ He paused. ‘Can you remember anything of what your wife said when you found her in the hall, after she had discovered Father Lawless’s body?’

  The housekeeper, having heard the knife falling on the flagstone floor, came hurrying from the pantry with a replacement. Colonel Osborne snatched it out of her hand, without giving her a glance, and banged it down on the table beside his plate. Mrs Duffy sniffed, and went back to the pantry.

  ‘I told you,’ the Colonel said to Strafford, ‘she wasn’t making sense – she was hysterical. What would you expect?’

  ‘I shall have to speak to her, of course,’ Strafford said. ‘Indeed, I’ll have to speak to everyone who was in the house last night. Perhaps I should start with Mrs Osborne?’ The Colonel, whose forehead had turned dark red under his leathery tan, was struggling to rein in his temper.

  ‘You’ll understand, Colonel, as a former officer, the importance of detail, of thoroughness. Often people have seen or heard things they don’t realise the significance of – that’s where I come in. It’s part of my training to hear the – the nuances, shall we say.’

  He could feel Jenkins’s eye fixed on him incredulously. No doubt he was reflecting on the fact that the training he himself had received had been of a more rudimentary variety, from people who probably wouldn’t know the meaning of the word nuance.

  Colonel Osborne was attacking his food again, vexedly, jabbing with his knife and fork as if they had once been weapons. Strafford assumed the man had things he would rather not disclose – hadn’t everyone? – and that it would be no easy job to prise them out of him.

  The doorbell rang again. Colonel Osborne leaned far back on his chair, craning to see out of the window above the sink. ‘It’s the second ambulance,’ he said.

  Jenkins put down his cutlery. Unlike his boss, he was partial to steak-and-kidney pie – his mother used to make it for him when he was a boy – pullets’ eggs or no pullets’ eggs. He rose from the table, with the pained look of a man sorely put upon.

  Strafford laid a hand on his arm. ‘Tell those two rookies they can go, will you, Sergeant? There’s no point in keeping them hanging around here.’

  When Jenkins had gone, Strafford leaned forward and set his elbows on the table.

  ‘Now, Colonel,’ he said, ‘let’s go over it once more, shall we?’

  7

  ‘You must be the brother-in-law,’ the man said, stopping in the hallway, and added jovially, ‘I thought you weren’t allowed in the house.’

  He was a big, florid-faced fellow in his thirties, with wavy fair hair and strikingly large dark eyes. He wore a three-piece tweed suit, the colour and texture of porridge, with brown suede shoes, and sported a red silk handkerchief in his breast pocket. He was carrying a camel-hair overcoat and a brown felt hat. He had come in from outside but his shoes were dry, Strafford noted, so he must have worn galoshes.

  Strafford, exiting the kitchen and still holding a napkin, had recognised at once yet another type familiar to him from of old. Here, to the life, was the very model of a rural professional – solicitor? doctor? successful vet? – breezy, off-hand, self-consciously charming, proud of his reputation but a bit of a rake, and behind it all as watchful as a weasel. He smelled strongly of expensive hair oil.

  ‘Name’s Hafner, by the way,’ the large man said, ‘Doctor Hafner. Also known as the Kraut, especially if you’ve been listening to Lettie.’

  ‘I’m Inspector Strafford.’

  ‘Are you, now,’ Hafner said, lifting an eyebrow. ‘Sorry. I took you for the other fellow.’

  For the moment, Strafford put aside the question of the precise identity of the ‘other fellow’. Brother-in-law, the man had said, so the Colonel’s brother, then, it must be, or Mrs Osborne’s.

  The light in Hafner’s dark eyes grew more intense. They hadn’t shaken hands. ‘And what are you an inspector of, may one ask?’

  ‘I’m a detective.’

  ‘Oh? What’s up? Someone steal the silver?’

  ‘There’s been an incident,’ Strafford answered. He looked at the black bag at the doctor’s feet. ‘Are you making a house call, or just visiting?’

  ‘Bit of both. What sort of incident?’

  ‘Fatal.’

  ‘Someone’s dead? Good Christ – not the old boy?’

  ‘Colonel Osborne? No. A priest, name of Lawless.’

  This time, both of Hafner’s eyebrows shot so high they almost touched his hairline. ‘Father Tom? No!’

  ‘Well, yes, I’m afraid so.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Maybe you should see Colonel Osborne. Will you follow me?’

  ‘Jesus,’ Hafner said under his breath. ‘So they did for the padre at last.’

  ‘Do you look after the health of all the family?’ Strafford asked the doctor.

  ‘I suppose I do,’ Hafner said, ‘though I never thought of it in those terms.’ He brought out a packet of Gold Flake and a Zippo lighter. ‘Care for a fag?’

  ‘No, thanks,’ Strafford said. ‘I don’t smoke.’

  ‘Wise man.’

  Strafford opened the drawing-room door.

  ‘Good, she’s gone,’ he sai
d.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Lettice.’

  ‘Lettice? You mean Lettie? Is that her name, Lettice? I never knew.’ He laughed. ‘Imagine calling a child Lettice!’

  ‘Yes, that’s what she said.’

  The fire had died down, and the room was appreciably chillier than it had been earlier. Strafford took the poker to the embers and placed two logs on top of them. A swirl of smoke filled his nostrils, making him cough.

  ‘So what happened to Tom the Boy?’ Hafner asked. ‘Father Lawless, that is – I suppose I’d better start showing a bit of respect.’

  Strafford didn’t answer directly. He was watching the smoking logs, his eyes still watering a little. ‘It struck me, what you said in the hall.’

  ‘What did I say?’ Hafner enquired.

  ‘“So they did for him at last.” What did you mean?’

  ‘Nothing. It was a joke – poor taste, I’ll grant you, in the circumstances.’

  ‘You must have meant something. Wasn’t Father Lawless popular in the house? He was a frequent visitor, I know that. Kept his horse stabled here, even stayed over, sometimes – he stayed last night, in fact, because of the snow.’

  Hafner came to the fireplace and he too stood looking at the logs in the hearth, which by now had begun to flame, unwillingly, as it seemed, giving off as yet no perceptible heat.

  ‘Oh, he was always welcome here, right enough. You know how the Prods like to keep a tame priest about the place—’ He stopped, and glanced quickly sideways at Strafford. ‘Oh, God, I suppose you’re one, are you?’

  ‘Yes, I’m Protestant, if that’s what you mean. Church of Ireland, that is.’

  ‘Put my foot in it again, so. Will it do any good if I say I’m sorry?’

  ‘No need to apologise at all,’ Strafford said. ‘I don’t mind.’ He gave one of the logs a push with the toe of his shoe. ‘You said you were “supposed to be” the family doctor here. Care to elaborate?’

  Hafner produced a throaty little laugh. ‘I can see a fellow would want to watch his words around you,’ he said. ‘What I meant is that I mainly look after Mrs O.’

  ‘Why? – is she ill?’

  Hafner drew deep on his cigarette. ‘No, no. Only delicate, you know – highly strung. Her nerves—’ He let his voice trail off.

  ‘She’s quite a bit younger than Colonel Osborne.’

  ‘She is that, yes.’

  They were silent. The matter of the Osbornes’ marriage and its likely intricacies hung in the chill air between them, though closed for the moment to further interrogation.

  ‘Tell me about Father Lawless,’ Strafford said.

  ‘I will, if you tell me first what happened to him. That damned horse of his throw him? It’s a mad brute.’

  One of the burning logs crackled and spat.

  ‘Your patient, Mrs Osborne, found him this morning, in the library.’

  ‘Heart? He was a terrible man for the bottle, and’ – he held up his cigarette – ‘the fags.’

  ‘More a – a haemorrhage, you might say. The body has been taken to Dublin, where they’ll do a post-mortem first thing in the morning.’

  Sergeant Jenkins had gone off in the ambulance, sitting in front, wedged in the bench seat with the driver and his assistant, having baulked at travelling in the back with the corpse. Strafford had conferred with him on what to report to Chief Superintendent Hackett when he got to Dublin, and had told him to come back first thing tomorrow with the Chief’s instructions.

  By rights, Hackett should have come down to Ballyglass himself, but he had let it be known that he had no intention of doing so, using the weather, of all implausible things, as an excuse. Strafford knew perfectly well that his wily boss’s real reason for staying away was a prudent determination not to put himself directly on the scene of a scandalous and potentially explosive case. Strafford didn’t mind being left to get on with things on his own. On the contrary, he was quietly gratified to find himself in sole charge, at least for the present.

  ‘It was bound to be something like that, sooner or later,’ Hafner said, with professional cheeriness. ‘Father Tom lived hard, despite the dog collar. He was always being hauled up in front of the Hierarchy and ordered to mend his ways. I believe the Archbishop himself had to speak to him more than once – he has a house down here, you know, over on the coast.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The Archbishop.’

  ‘Doctor McQuaid, you mean?’

  Hafner chuckled. ‘There’s only one Archbishop – only one that counts, at any rate. Dirty your bib and he’ll be down on you like a ton of bricks, whether you’re Catholic, Protestant, Gentile or Jew. Runs a tight outfit, does His Grace, without regard for creed, race or colour – no matter who you are, you’re still liable to get it in the neck.’

  ‘So I’m told.’

  ‘Your crowd have it easy, believe me. He’s wary of the Prods, but if you’re a Catholic and in a position of any consequence, the reverend Doctor only has to lift his little finger and your career goes up in smoke – or into the flames of hellfire, and then up in smoke. And it doesn’t just apply to priests. Anyone who gets a belt of the crozier is done for, as far as holy Ireland is concerned. This can’t be news to you, even if you are a swaddler.’

  It was a long time, as long ago as his schooldays, since Strafford had heard himself and his co-religionists referred to by that derogatory term, the origin of which he had never been able to discover.

  ‘You sound as if you’re speaking from experience,’ he said.

  Hafner shook his head, with a sort of scowling smile. ‘I’ve always minded my Ps and Qs. The Church keeps a sharp eye on the medical profession – the mother and her child and all that, you know, the basis of the Christian family. Have to look after that, above all.’ He was silent for a moment, brooding. ‘I met him one time, the Archbishop.’ He turned to Strafford. ‘Frosty bugger, I can tell you. Ever see him in the flesh? Has this long thin face, bloodless and white, as if he’d been living in the dark for years. And the eyes! “I hear you are a regular visitor over at Ballyglass House, Doctor,” he says to me, in that slow soft voice he has. “And are there not enough Catholic families in the parish for you to be attending to, at all?” Believe me, I wondered on the spot if I should start packing my medical bag and looking for a practice over the water. Not that I’ve done a damn thing to merit his ire, other than my job.’

  Strafford nodded. He didn’t care for this fellow, with his gruff jollity and his man-of-the-world patter. But then, there weren’t a great many people whom Strafford did care for.

  ‘You said you thought I might be someone’s brother-in-law,’ he murmured. ‘Who is that?’

  Hafner pursed his lips and whistled silently, to show how impressed he was. ‘You don’t forget a thing, do you. What did you say your name was?’

  ‘Strafford.’

  ‘Stafford?’

  ‘No – Strafford.’

  ‘Ah, sorry. Well, I thought you might be the infamous Freddie Harbison, her ladyship’s brother, whose name is never mentioned within these walls. He’s always broke, and hangs around looking for whatever there is to be picked up. He’s the black sheep of the Harbisons of Harbison Hall – every family has one.’

  ‘What did he do, to earn such a bad reputation?’

  ‘Oh, there are all kinds of stories about him. Dodgy business ventures, a little light pilfering, the darling daughter of this or that Big House put in the family way – you know the kind of thing. It could all be just tittle-tattle, of course. One of the chief pleasures of rural life is denigrating your neighbours and stabbing your betters in the back.’

  Strafford took down from the mantelpiece a framed photograph, somewhat faded, showing a younger and sleeker Colonel Osborne, wearing baggy linen slacks and a cricket jumper, standing on the lawn in front of Ballyglass House, smiling down, with somewhat stiff parental fondness, at a boy of twelve or so and a younger girl, playing together, the girl sprawled in a min
iature wheelbarrow that the boy was pushing over the grass. Behind them, on the steps of the house, there was visible a vague, dim female figure. She was dressed in a pale calf-length summer gown. Her left hand was lifted, not in greeting, it seemed, but rather in warning, and although her face was blurred by the shadow of a beech tree, her stance made her seem alarmed, or angry, or both. It was a strange scene, Strafford thought. It looked staged, somehow, a tableau, the significance and meaning of which had faded, just as had the photograph itself. Only one of the woman’s feet was visible, in an old-fashioned shoe with a sharply pointed toe, resting so lightly on the step that she seemed about to launch herself out upon the air, like a gossamer-gowned figure in a Pre-Raphaelite painting.

  ‘The first Mrs Osborne?’ Strafford asked, turning the photograph for Hafner to see.

  ‘I suppose so,’ the doctor said, peering at the woman’s shadowy form. ‘She was a bit before my time.’

  ‘She died, I take it?’

  ‘Yes, she died. Fell down the stairs out there, broke her back.’ He saw Strafford’s look of surprise. ‘Didn’t you know? Tragic thing. She survived for a few days, I believe, then gave up the ghost.’ He peered more closely at the photograph, frowning. ‘By the way she’s standing there, posed like that, she does look breakable, doesn’t she.’

  8

  Doctor Hafner shared a few more scraps of general gossip – Strafford knew the man would be far too careful to give away family secrets, if he were privy to them, which, being a doctor, he surely was – and went off into the house in search of his patient.

  Strafford remained by the fireplace. He had a way, when he was trying to sort out the facts of a case, of lapsing into a sort of dull half-trance. Afterwards, when he had come back to himself, he would hardly be able to remember what direction his thoughts had taken, or what the result of them had been. All that was left behind was a vague, fizzing glow, like that of a light bulb that’s about to burn out. He had to suppose that, when he was lost to himself in this way, he must have got somewhere, must have made some sort of progress, even if he didn’t know where the somewhere was, or even what progress would consist in. It was as if he had fallen briefly asleep and dropped at once into the midst of a powerful and deeply revelatory dream, all the details of which turned transparent the instant he woke up, though the sense, the afterglow, of their significance remained.