I found what I took to be his study, and it was heavy with the smell of pipe tobacco. I had to open a window-the stench was overwhelming-though I only opened it a little lest he return prematurely. Heavy drapes on the windows were half closed, and I pulled them back to have some light.
And gasped.
Wall-to-wall books. That was the other smell, the nectar of old volumes. There was even one of those movable ladders beloved of your true bibliophile. Four shelves devoted to Synge, and they looked like first editions. Though well used, they were in good condition, lovingly cared for. A computer on the desk, an old Macintosh. I turned to the sideboard and saw heavy silver-framed photos. The dead wife in two and then a young man I recognised. I felt dizzy, tried to get my mind in gear. I knew him. Niall O’Shea, who’d been horseplaying outside my childhood home; my father had broken his jaw. Niall O’Shea who had climbed the crane at the docks, sailed off.
Jesus.
I sat at the professor’s desk and opened the drawers. A sheet of paper with the lines from Deirdre of the Sorrows I’d memorised, that began:
“It’s you three will not see age or death coming.”
Fuck.
Opened the bottom drawer and found a green folder with bold black letters on the front:
THE DRAMATIST
My mind was reeling. Here I was solving a case, piece by piece, actually doing decent investigative work, and I felt wretched. In the folder were three photos. The first two I recognised:
Sarah Bradley
Karen Lowe
On the backs, in the same bold print, was,
AT PEACE
The third, I didn’t know, and with a sense of dread I looked at the back:
SOON
I nearly had it all. She was next, to be the third that wouldn’t “see age or death coming”.
I stood up and paced, opened a press. It held bottles of Glenfiddich, Glenlivet, Jameson, Black Bushmills. Ah.
I shut the press quickly. On the table was a pipe rack, with well-used briars and a dúidín holding centre stage. Used for years by the peasants on Aran and a great favourite with tourists. They’d been remaking them for the Americans. Word was that heads were very partial for their use with weed. This one was an old, clay tube, and bore in tiny letters along the stem:
j.m.s.
Was it possible?
I went into the kitchen, spent the next half hour grinding coffee beans, getting the brew just so. Set it to go. Few aromas match the real scent of genuine coffee. It almost comforted me. I never take sugar but searched for some now. I was feeling weak and definitely needed the rush. Ceramic mugs, by Don Knox, hand crafted. What they were was dirty, so I rinsed and scrubbed one diligently. Poured the brew and put heaped spoonfuls of sugar in. Didn’t bother seeking milk. Black was how I was. Drank it off, sweet and scalding, and sure enough, the jolt hit me fast. Not so much energised as focused. I half filled the mug again and went to the garage. Sipping the liquid, I studied the roof. A thick beam of wood ran end to end. I put the mug down, got the rope, and it took three attempts to get it over the beam.
Then I pulled up a stool and began to fasten the noose.
I returned to the study, closed the window and refixed the heavy drape. Then I sat in the professor’s chair, settled to wait. The light was fading when I heard the key in the door. Then wheezing and laboured breathing and the sound of a heavy briefcase hitting the floor. He came into the study and hit the light switch. His first response was shock, but he collected himself rapidly, gave a knowing smile, said,
“Jack Taylor, I presume.”
He was a big man, wearing a wool suit that had been expensive once. Now, it was merely shabby. He’d an off-white shirt with a tie askew, and his long white hair was rumpled, with dandruff on his shoulders. He wasn’t unlike the English actor Brian Cox, who’d played the first Hannibal Lector in the underrated Manhunter. A contained strength, rugged face, pitted skin and bloodshot eyes. They were vibrant though, revealing a fierce intelligence. He was carrying a brown bag with “McCambridge’s” on the side. From their deli I’d guess. As I said, old Galway.
He put the bag down, said,
“I’m going to have a drink, care to join me?…Or are you continuing your fragile sobriety?”
I stared at him and he said,
“I’ll take that as a no.”
He moved to the press, took out a heavy Galway Crystal tumbler and splashed in a generous amount of Glenlivet, held it up to the light, said,
“Go n-éiri an bóthar leat.”
And knocked it back, refilled. I said,
“Slow down, Prof, I want you reasonably coherent.”
He gave a short laugh.
“There is no coherence. Haven’t you been listening to the news?”
I placed the girls’ photos on the desk, said,
“You decided to spare these poor creatures all that?”
He nodded, pleased.
“My students, creatures of innocence the world wanted to ruin and corrupt, but not now. I knew about the drug dealer, that scum, Stewart; it was fitting that his sister be selected. The second girl, she smoked pot. Bet you didn’t know that, did you?”
He sat in the chair opposite, no tension in his body, relaxed, as if dealing with a not too bright student. I said,
“You decided to involve me because of your brother…what, you think my father’s punch led him to suicide, all those years later?”
He reached for one of his pipes, a worn briar, took a leather pouch from his jacket, began to fill the bowl, said,
“Clan! Leaves a most fragrant aroma. How simplistic you are. Yes, my brother was shamed by your father’s action. Did it lead to his suicide? Perhaps. As you know, some hurts can never be wiped away. It did lead me to take an active interest in your family. I have followed your precarious career with…how shall I say…bemusement. I learnt of your visiting that dregs of humanity, the drug dealer, from Superintendent Clancy; the guards at Mountjoy were enraged that you’d visited him.”
I stood up, walked over to the window. His eyes were too intense, too penetrating. I said,
“Rationalise all you like, you murdered two girls.”
His voice rose, just a timbre, but I got a sense of how fine a lecturer he was. He said,
“Spared, I spared them.”
I turned, picked up the dúidín, and alarm lit his face. He shouted,
“Be careful, you imbecile, that’s priceless!”
I snapped the stem, let the pieces fall, asked,
“And the fucking with me, the wreath, the mass card?”
He was staring at the ruined pieces, his eyes wet, said,
“An error of judgement, a momentary lapse of concentration, a frivolity that is alien to me; plus, I’d been tippling, a little too much of the Glenlivet. I apologise but then I felt you might be a worthy opponent.”