Was that why Miss McAlister hadn't mentioned any ties to Adare? She had come to visit secretly and it could only be for one reason: blackmail. She knew something and was being paid to keep quiet about it. Was it about one of Bamey Flynn’s underhand deals, information which wouldn't look good if it came out during an election year? Or could it be about the kidnapping? Was it possible that someone still in the house had been involved in the kidnapping? Then I remembered Desmond O'Mara, hurrying across the lawn toward the cliff path. Desmond—the bright but penniless young man who certainly had the brain to hatch such a daring plot and who had stayed on in a menial situation for some reason. Was it because someone had a hold over him?
I walked back to the house deep in thought. I didn't know what to do next. I couldn't tell Barney, when everything was such pure conjecture. After all, it was possible that Bamey was the one she had come to blackmail, but I had to admit that he had seemed genuinely shocked when I divulged her name and hadn't recognized her until that moment.
There was little point in mentioning it to the local constable, who seemed a nice enough fellow, but a little on the slow side. My only hope was to tell Daniel and let him take it from here. And risk another lecture on poking my nose into affairs that were none of my business, I thought. Daniel might decide that I was overreacting and jumping to wrong conclusions again. Margie McAlister’s death could have been nothing more than a horrible and unfortu-nate accident and her reasons for visiting Adare nothing more than wanting another glimpse of the house of which she had fond memories.
As I returned to the house I encountered Bamey, coming down from the carriage house. “Where have you been, Molly?” he asked.
“I wanted to see for myself where shefell,”I said. “Morbid curiosity, I suppose. My mother always told me I was too curious by half.”
“A tragic business,” Bamey said, falling into step beside me. “I can't think what she was doing here, and least of all why she was attempting to come along that cliff path. You saw yourself how narrow and dangerous it is.”
“Maybe she just wanted another glimpse of the house and didn't want to disturb anyone at the main gate,” I said. “It could have been the most innocent of reasons—maybe she wanted to take a snapshot to show her friends where she once worked.”
I saw relief flood across his face. “Yes, maybe that was it.” He shook his head, smiling sadly. “What a waste of a life for nothing.” He leaned close to me. “Look, Molly, I'd be grateful if you didn't mention anything of this to my wife. You know how frail her health is. I don't want her upset again.” We climbed the front steps together. “The way servants gossip she'll probably hear that there was an accident on the cliff path, but she doesn't have to know the identity of the victim.”
“Of course not,” I said. “You can rely on me.”
He took my arm and squeezed it. “I knew I could,” he said. “And now I must telephone for a doctor to come and sign the death certificate.”
I opened my mouth to say something but thought better of it. Maybe I would have a chance to speak with the doctor when he arrived.
As Barney went into his study and closed the door behind him, I had another change of mind. I left the house again, heading up the driveway to the carriage house. The police constable had taken up a position outside the carriage house door. Presumably the body now lay somewhere inside. There was no sign of the gardeners.
“What a terribly sad affair, isn't it?” I said, going up to the police constable. “It gave me quite a shock when I realized that I had spoken with her only two days ago.”
“I'm sure it would have done, miss. A delicate young lady like yourself.”
Nobody could describe me as delicate with any stretch of the imagination, but I tried to look suitably pale and wan. “It can't be easy for you, either. Even though you must come across such things as part of your job.”
“No, death is never easy,” he said. “But it’s not like we get murders out here every day, like the police do in New York City. That must be a terrible place with killings going on all the time.”
“It must indeed,” I said. “But I bet you've seen some excitement during your time on the force, haven't you?” I gave him what I hoped was an adoring look. “Were you involved when the kidnapping happened here?”
“I most certainly was,” he said. “I was the one who got the first call that the child was missing. I helped them search the grounds all afternoon and then I was actually with them when the ransom note arrived.”
“Really?”
“Oh yes. I was the one who handed it to the Senator. His poor hands were shaking so hard he could scarcely read the words.”
“What exactly did the note say?”
“I can't remember the exact words now,” he said, “but it was awful chilling stuff—all about the child being buried alive and how they'd never see him again if they didn't obey exactly what the note told them. Of course, one of the things it said was, Don't go to the police,' and I was standing right there.”
“And of course he didn't obey, did he?” I said. “I understood that the police were there when the kidnapper came to pick up the ransom. Wasn't he killed by a police sharpshooter?”
“He was. And I was one of those policemen. But it was one of the federal marshals who did the shooting. Those guys always were trigger-happy, from what I heard.”
In Like Flynn (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #4)
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