The Irish Manor House Murder Read Free Page A

standing there told Torrey that she wasn’t hearing. She was in some other place, some far-off dimension from which she now said, so low that Torrey barely heard, “It would be a crime to let this baby be born.”
    Torrey felt a chill. She looked at Rowena, who now lifted her gaze. Her green eyes stared at Torrey from that other place, wherever it was. “Forget it, Torrey. Don’t try to help me.”
    “But — the baby’s father! What about him? Doesn’t he have any say?”
    “The father.” Rowena stared at her. “The father? No. No say at all. Torrey, please! Have done with it! I’m going.”
    “Rowena, wait! Let me help.”
    “ Stop it!” Rowena said fiercely. “Don’t!” And more quietly, “Do me a favor. Forget all this.”
    But it was too late to forget. It had been too late from the moment Torrey had guessed so wildly and accurately as Rowena had walked toward the open door of the cottage.
    “All right,” Torrey said, “not another word. I promise. It’s not my business. But … just one quick question?” She didn’t wait. “How many months pregnant are you?”
    Rowena gave an exasperated laugh, “You are a bulldog, aren’t you, Torrey? You never give up. Is it too late for an abortion? Still not the second trimester. I have about three weeks left before it’ll be too risky.”
    “I see. I was just asking.” Risky. A better word was dangerous. And in any case, not legal in Ireland. Rowena would have to go to England or elsewhere.
    “So I have to hurry.”
    “Yes,” Torrey said. “Before it’s too late.”

5
    At ten minutes past eight that Saturday morning, Inspector O’Hare abruptly jerked his hand holding the coffee mug. Coffee spilled across his desktop. “Turn it off! Turn the damned thing off!” he said, and Sergeant Jimmy Bryson turned off the radio on top of the Coke machine. The news commentator’s last words still hung in the air. “A speedy recovery to you, Dr. Ashenden.”
    Inspector O’Hare, jaw tense, blotted up coffee with a paper napkin. “The Ashenden family’s making us look like fools, Sergeant.” He looked at the wall clock. “I give it ten minutes.”
    They waited. Sergeant Bryson meantime put vinegar on a bit of a rag and wiped the front windows of the police station. Inspector O’Hare drew triangles. Nelson lay just inside the front door, nose between his paws. The morning sun shone on the still-empty street.
    Twelve minutes. The phone rang. O’Hare picked it up. “Inspector O’Hare here.”
    “Good morning, Inspector. Hold for Chief Superintendent O’Reilly, please,” Chief O’Reilly of the Murder Squad at Dublin Castle. The Dublin Metropolitan Area comprised Dublin city and the greater part of the country and portions of County Kildare and Wicklow.
    “Good morning, Egan,” came the cultivated voice of Chief O’Reilly, “This about your report. Attack on Dr. Ashenden by his granddaughter? And your detaining of the young woman? What’s going on, Egan?” The chief superintendent’s ordinarily pleasant voice was somewhat less than pleasant.
    Five minutes later, Inspector O’Hare hung up, a taste in his mouth bitter as an unripe orange. He looked over at Sergeant Bryson. “Dr. Ashenden is not happy at Inspector O’Hare’s action in imprisoning his granddaughter on suspicion of attempted murder.”
    “Isn’t he, now!” Sergeant Bryson said. “He’s not happy? Doesn’t like what’s going on here? What went on there was attempted murder! And them all buttoned up about it, Including her. That’s the crux, Inspector. Ms. Torrey Tunet! Collusion! Snake in the grass! Lying for her friend, Rowena, swearing she saw nothing!”
    “Collusion,” O’Hare repeated; he was making more triangles.
    “She and Rowena Keegan! From the time Ms. Tunet found that dog the gypsies left and brought it to Rowena Keegan, you’d’ve thought they exchanged blood.”
    Inspector O’Hare made another triangle.
    “Not that they’re lesbians, mind you,”