"I don't blame you, Deirdre," I said. "I'd want to leave too. But what about the police? Do they know you're leaving? You know there's an investigation going on." I avoided the word murder in connection with the investigation. Deirdre looked rather skittish, and I wasn't sure she was up for it.
"I've told Ban Garda Minogue," she said. "She knows where she can find me."
"What time is your bus, Deirdre?" I asked, as we pulled into Dingle Town.
"Twenty of four," she replied.
"That's over an hour. Why don't we leave your bag in the car and have a nice cup of tea somewhere?"
She hesitated for a moment. She was quite obviously very nervous with anyone associated with the Byrne family in any way. "I suppose it wouldn't hurt," she said at last. "There's a lovely cream tea down the street."
The place was charming, a tearoom on one side of the entrance, a pub on the other. In the tearoom, the tables were set with Irish linen, china in a pretty green and cream pattern, and silver spoons, real silver, with a crest of some kind on the handle. Nicely executed watercolors of the surrounding countryside and harbor graced the walls. A pleasant-looking woman bustled about, with help from a young man I took to be her teenaged son, bringing large pots of tea, and plates of scones, with jam and thick cream. A lovely cream tea it was, and all terribly, well, English, although it would probably be worth my life to say so in such an Irish town. We took our place in a table by the window where we could watch the life on the street through lace curtains.
"Deirdre," I said, as she poured milk into her teacup and carefully buttered herself a scone. "A few days ago, when Alex Stewart and I were out at Second Chance, you were good enough to warn us to stay away from the place." I waited for a second or two, but she did not acknowledge that I'd said anything. A meticulous person was Deirdre. She made sure the butter covered every last bit of the surface of the scone.
"I know they aren't very nice people there, some of them, but what was it that you wanted to warn us about, Deirdre?" I went on.
"Just as you said. They aren't very nice people."
"But you said the place was cursed, Deirdre. That's quite a different thing from unpleasant people." She did not reply. "Please," I said. "Alex Stewart is a really good friend of mine, and although he never expected anything from Eamon Byrne, he got Rose Cottage. And now Michael's dead, and so is John Herlihy, and if Alex is in some danger, then I need to know what it is."
"I'm not entirely certain," she said reluctantly. "Maybe something happened a long time ago, before I gained employment there."
"How long ago was that?"
"Going on five years," she replied. "Since the last maid retired."
"So what do you think it was that happened?"
"Something bad," she said. "Somebody died, you'd have to tink, and since then, the place is cursed. You should stay away like I told you." "Who would know about this, Deirdre? Are there other people who worked there who would remember? You mentioned a cook, the other maid."
"The cooks don't last long in that place," Deirdre snorted. "Not with that family! Never satisfied. Mrs. O'Shea stayed a year or more. That was the longest."
"But you stayed nearly five years, Deirdre. How was that?"
"I needed the money, why else? Kitty, the maid before me, she stayed a long, long time. And despite what they say, Mr. Byrne was not a bad employer. There was always a touch of sadness about him, but he was a generous man, giving me extra money at Christmas and my birthday, and telling me not to tell that woman, Mrs. Byrne. John, too, he liked. John had been there forever. They had the odd drop of drink together after the others had gone to bed."
"Where's Kitty now?" I asked.
"Don't know," she replied. "I never met her."
"And Michael? Did he get along well with Mr. Byrne?" I asked.
"Michael," her voice caught, and she paused for a minute before continuing. "Yes, Michael and Mr. Byrne got on too. When he was really ill, dying, he liked to watch Michael work out in the garden. Michael was sweet on Breeta, you know. Perhaps you noticed. He was not so good at hiding it. He was heartbroken when she left. She was a mere slip of a thing then, not fat at all, and really lovely. She looked so bad at the funeral," Deirdre said. "Very bad. Michael stayed because he liked Mr. Byrne, and because he was waiting for Breeta, hoping she'd come back. Do you think she'll recover? She looked-at the burial-a wee bit strange."
"Why did she leave, do you know?"
"It was over a young man. Breeta was seeing someone in the village, and her father didn't like it. They had a terrible row, Mr. Byrne ranting, and Breeta yelling. Terrible, it was. Breeta left and wouldn't come back. I heard she'd broken up with her young man not long ago, but she didn't come back."
"Do you know who the young man was?"
"Paddy Gilhooly," she said. Funny how that name kept coming up again and again. Eamon Byrne had apparently liked him well enough to give him a boat, but not enough to let him date his daughter.
"Did you see Michael that night? The night he… " My voice trailed off at the sight of Deirdre's stricken face.
"I did not," she replied. "Why would I? He was off for the night. And he lives in the staff quarters down the road. I lived in the big house," she added. "On the top floor. Snug little spot. Mr. Byrne had it fixed up for me."
"I just wondered if he had gone back to the house for some reason. He was found in the garden, nearer the main house than his flat, so I thought he must have gone to the house." Of course he had, I thought. He'd promised Breeta he'd go right back for Vigs, and he was a man of his word.
"Not that I am aware," she said.
"Would he have a key to the main house, do you think? I mean, could he get in without waking anyone?"
"I suppose he must," she replied. "All the staff had keys. Not to the front door, mind you, but the service entrance around the back. But what are you getting at?"
"Nothing," I said. "It's just that I saw Michael at the pub before he died, and I got the impression he was going back to the house." Deirdre looked at her watch. "It's time I was going," she said.
"I'll walk you back to the car for your bag. Where are you going? Have you some place to stay?"
She looked at me suspiciously. "It's okay, Deirdre," I said. "I'm not going to follow you, and you don't have to answer the question. I just wanted to know that you'll be all right."
"I'll be staying with my nephew in Dublin until I can find another position," she replied, finally. "I'll manage."
"I'm sure you'll do just fine," I said soothingly. She was rather prickly, and there was more I wanted to know. "Do they all live in that house? The daughters and their husbands, I mean?"
"Eithne and Mr. McHugh live in the house. Fionuala and Mr. O'Connor used to live there too-there's plenty of space in that big house-but they had a falling out with the rest of the family, at least Mr. McHugh and Mr. O'Connor seemed not to get along, and they moved to a smaller house, still on the property, but down the road a bit, not too far from the staff cottages. Well, she lives there still. Mr. O'Connor, I hear he's getting a flat in town now," she said, reaching for her handbag.
"I'd like to treat you to tea, Deirdre," I said, gesturing for her to put down her purse. "What did the family have a falling out over, do you know?"
Deirdre shrugged. "I didn't hear. Money, I expect, and the business. Mr. McHugh and Mr. O'Connor were running Byrne Enterprises between them while Mr. Ea-mon Byrne was ill, and they didn't get on too well. It was all right while Mr. Byrne was in charge: he made them work together, but after…" Her voice trailed off.