In Like Flynn (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #4)

“Sorry to disturb you, Senator,” one of the men said, scrambling to take off his cap, “but we were out fishing and we spotted what looks like a body lying at the bottom of the cliffs on your estate.”


“Because of the rocks we couldn't get near enough to see exacdy, but it looked like a person lying there, sure enough,” a second man added.

I didn't waste another second. I scrambled into the bloomers I had worn on the bicycle and put on my most sensible shoes. By the time I came downstairs Bamey had assembled the estate workers and was in the process of sending the chauffeur into Jones: Point to fetch the nearest constable. Mr. Rimes, still bleary-eyed and only half awake, stood at the top of the stairs in a plaid dressing gown calling, “What the devil is going on?” at the top of his voice. There was no sign of Desmond O'Mara.

Bamey set off with the fishermen, along with Tom and Adam, plus two gardeners whose names I didn't know bringing up the rear. I gave them a head start, then followed. The river was hidden in a thick morning mist and strands of mist drifted across the lawns so that the men ahead of me disappeared and reappeared as they walked. We reached the wooded area beyond the lawns, where I had sat with Eileen that day and sensed somebody watching. The mist was thicker here and seemed to deaden all sound so that I felt as if I was all alone and miles from anywhere. I had no idea how far ahead of me the men were and hurried on, picking up the path beyond the clearing. It became ever more narrow and overgrown with brambles, making me glad I hadn't worn my usual skirts. At last it emerged from the undergrowth and I sensed rather than saw that we were high above the river. Then the mist parted, revealing a fearsome drop to the water that swirled and splashed over rocks below us. The path continued, hugging the very edge of the cliff, only wide enough for one pair of feet at a time as it skirted giant boulders. The mist had made the rocks slippery and I moved for-ward cautiously. Then I heard shouts ahead of me and tried to hurry.

“Go and get ropes and a board, Adam,” I heard Bamey commanding. “Well have to find a way to lower somebody down there.”

Through the mist I saw a pine tree, growing precariously at the very edge of the drop. I held onto this and peered down. The cliff was maybe a hundred feet high, with spray-drenched rocks at its base. On these rocks the figure of a woman now lay sprawled. I turned away, feeling sick. Bamey had warned me about the dangers of this path. Some poor woman had chosen to ignore them and plunged to an untimely death.

Adam returned with the ropes that he tied to a tree before old Tom made the tortuous climb down the cliff face.

“She’s dead right enough,” Tom called back.

“Do you recognize her?” Bamey shouted down. “Is she a local woman?”

“Hard to tell. The face is pretty bashed about.”

Then get a board under her and lash her down so that we can haul her up,” Bamey shouted.

I didn't think they should do anything before the constable arrived, but I could hardly give them instructions without revealing my presence. Besides, there was no way they'd listen to a slip of dr girl fresh from Ireland. I watched as the board was lowered down and the poor woman’s body dragged onto it. Then with shouts and encouragement she was hauled up the cliff, just in time for the arrival of the constable.

“Fell to her death, did she?” the constable asked, watching as hands reached out to grab the board with the woman on it and drag her the last few feet to the path. “Not the first time it’s happened and won't be the last. One false step on that path and over you go. I wonder what she was doing here? Not a local woman, is she? And on your property too, Senator.”

“Probably some tourist from the city out for a Sunday stroll,” one of the men commented. “These modem women are too adventurous by half. Likely as not she didn't realize she was on private property.”

“Even though there’s that big notice saying, 'Private, Keep Out'?” old Tom said.

“Let’s see if she has any identification on her.” The constable began going through her pockets but produced only a lace hand-kerchief.

“Why don't we carry her back to the house?” Bamey suggested. “Someone will have reported her missing.”

I ducked back behind the rock as the procession made its way past me. I tried not to look at her, but I had to. Her face was a horrible black and blue sticky mess, hardly identifiable as a human being. One arm trailed in a pathetic gesture. Her sodden skirts left a trail of drips on the sandy soil. Suddenly I gasped. On that skirt was a recognizable streak of oil where a bicycle had collided with it two days ago.





Twenty

Iran after them, my heart beating so fast that I found it hard to breathe.

“Wait,” I called.

The procession halted and turned to face me.

“I know who she is,” I said. “I had a slight accident when I was riding a bicycle two days ago. I knocked her down. There was oil from the chain on her skirt. Look—here it is. She didn't manage to clean it off.”