"Do you think anything will come of all this?" said Adeline. "It seems to me he's more likely to have a series of doors slammed in his face. Nobody likes to talk about a suicide — least of all the family."
Kilmara nodded. "Well," he said, "ordinarily you'd be right, of course, but Fitzduane is a little different. He'd laugh if you mentioned them, but he's got some special qualities. People talk to him, and he feels things others do not. It's more than being simpatico. If I believed in such things, I'd call him fey."
"What is this word fey?" asked Adeline. Her English was excellent, and she sounded mildly indignant that Kilmara had come up with a word that she did not recognize. Her nose tilted at a pugnacious angle, and there was a glint of amusement in her eye. Kilmara thought she looked luscious. He laughed.
"Oh, it's a real word," he said, "and a good word to know if you are mixing with the Celts." He pulled a Chambers dictionary from the bookshelves behind the chair. He leafed through the pages and found the entry.
"‘Fey’," he read. "‘Doomed; fated to die; under the shadow of a sudden or violent death; foreseeing the future, especially a calamity; eccentric, slightly mad; supernatural.’"
Adeline shivered and looked into the firelight. "Does all of that apply, do you think?"
Kilmara smiled. He took her hands between his. "It isn't that terrible," he said. "The son of a bitch is also lucky."
Adeline smiled, and then she was silent for a while before she spoke. Now her voice was grave. "Shane, my love," she said, "you told me once about Hugo's wife: how she died; how she was killed; how he did nothing to save her."
"He couldn't," said Kilmara. "He had orders, and his men were grossly outnumbered, and frankly, there wasn't even the time. It was quite terrible for him — hell, I knew the girl and she was quite gorgeous — but there was nothing he could do."
Adeline looked at him. "I think Anne-Marie is the reason," she said. "She is the reason he can't let this thing go."
Kilmara kissed his wife's hand. He loved her greatly, and it was a growing love as the days passed and the children grew. He thought Adeline was almost certainly right about Fitzduane, and he worried for his friend.
5
Fitzduane drove and decided he'd better think about something more cheerful than conditions on the Dublin to Cork road, because the alternative was a heart attack. He decided to review the aftermath of the hanging.
The obvious place to start his quest was DrakerCollege — only it wasn't that simple. The impact of the tragedy of Rudolf von Graffenlaub's death on the small, isolated community of the college had been considerable. Immediately, it had been made quite, quite clear to Fitzduane that the sooner the whole episode was forgotten, the better. Nobody in the college wished to be reminded of Rudi's death. The attitude was that these things happen. It was pointed out, as if in defense, that suicide was the most common cause of death among young people. Fitzduane, who had never thought twice about the matter in the past, found this hard to believe, but investigation showed it to be true.
"Actually, statistically speaking, it's amazing that something like this didn't happen before," said Pierre Danelle, the principal of the college and a man Fitzduane found it hard to warm to.
"All the students at Draker are normally so happy," said the deputy principal. He was a Danelle clone.
The inquest took less than an hour. Sergeant Tommy Keane drove Fitzduane to the two-centuries-old granite courthouse where it was held. In the trunk of the sergeant's car was fishing tackle, a child's doll — and a length of thin blue rope culminating in a noose stained with brownish marks. Fitzduane found this juxtaposition of domesticity and death bizarre.
During the inquest Fitzduane was struck, by the one emotion that seemed to grip everyone present: the desire to get the whole wretched business over and done with.
Fitzduane gave his evidence. The pathologist gave his evidence. Tommy Keane gave and produced his evidence. The principal of the college and some students were called. One of the students, a pretty, chubby-faced blonde with a halo of golden curls, whose name was Toni Hoffman, had been particularly close to Rudi. She cried. No one, in Fitzduane's opinion, advanced any credible reason why Rudi had killed himself, and cross-examination was minimal. Fitzduane had the feeling they were in a race to beat the clock.
The coroner found that the hanged man had been properly identified and was indeed Rudolf von Graffenlaub. He had died as a result of hanging himself from a tree. It was known he was of a serious disposition, prone to be moody, and had been upset by ‘world problems.’ His parents, who were not present, were offered the condolences of the court. The word suicide — for legal reasons, Fitzduane gathered — was never mentioned.
As they drove back in the car, Sergeant Keane spoke. "You expected more, didn't you, Hugo?"
"I think I did," said Fitzduane. "It was all so rushed."
"That's the way these things normally are," said Keane. "It makes the whole affair easier for all concerned. A few little white lies like saying the lad died instantly do nobody any harm."
"Didn't he?"
"Lord, no," said the sergeant. "It wasn't read out in open court, of course, but the truth is the lad strangled to death. Dr. Buckley estimated it took at least four or five minutes, but it could have been longer — quite a bit longer."
They drove on in silence. Fitzduane wondered if the blue rope was still in the trunk.
* * * * *
The duty lieutenant came into Kilmara's office. He was looking, Kilmara thought, distinctly green about the gills.
"You asked to be informed of any developments on Fitzduane's Island, colonel?"
Kilmara nodded.
"We've had a call from the local police superintendent," said the lieutenant. "There's been another hanging at Draker." He looked down at his clipboard. "The victim was an eighteen-year-old Swiss female, one Toni Hoffman — apparently a close friend of Rudolf von Graffenlaub. No question of foul play. She left a note." He paused and swallowed.
Kilmara raised an eyebrow. "And?"
"It's sick, Colonel," said the lieutenant. "Apparently she did it in front of the whole school. They have an assembly hall. Just when all the faculty and students had gathered, there was a shout from the balcony at the back of the hall. When they turned, the girl was standing on the gallery rail with a rope around her neck. When she saw everyone was looking, she jumped. I gather it was very messy. Her head just about came off."
Did she say anything before she jumped?" said Kilmara.
"She shouted, ‘Remember Rudi,’" said the lieutenant.
Kilmara raised the other eyebrow. "I expect we shall," he said dryly. He dismissed the lieutenant. "Obviously a young lady with a theatrical bent," he said to Günther.
Günther shrugged. "Poor girl," he said. "What else can one say? It sounds like a classic copycat suicide. One suicide in a group has a tendency to spark off others. Many coroners think that's one good reason why suicides shouldn't be reported."
Kilmara gave a shudder. "Ugh," he said. "This is gloomy stuff. Until our green lieutenant came in with the tidings, I was geared to go home early and bathe the twins."