Chapter Eleven #2
curled around the back of the nearest chair for support, she discovered. Unobtrusively, she hoped, she took her hand away.
“I’m not supposed to tell you anything. Just bring you in. Please, Miss Carmichael.”
Granny picked up the knife Rynn had put down. With the intention of chasing O’Shea from her kitchen and her house, Rynn had
not a doubt.
The situation could only go from bad to worse.
“It’s all right,” she said to Granny and Glenna. Then, to O’Shea: “I’ll come.”
“I’m coming with you.” Glenna followed Rynn as she went for her coat.
“I’ve only room for the one.” O’Shea sounded almost apologetic. To Rynn he added, “Bundle up. It’s a sidecar, you know.”
“You best be bringing her back here safe and sound if you know what’s good for you, Titus O’Shea,” Granny warned. She still
held the knife, which O’Shea eyed askance.
“It’s only for questioning. I doubt that they’ll keep her,” O’Shea replied.
“They best not.” Granny’s voice was full of meaning. Looking alarmed, O’Shea took a sidling step toward the door and, where
Granny couldn’t see, made the sign for warding off the Evil Eye.
“If I’m not back by nightfall, tell Lord Thomas what’s happened,” Rynn whispered to Glenna under cover of this exchange as
she put on her coat and wrapped a wool scarf tight around her head. He was, she thought, the only one who might be able to
help her if help was needed. Glenna, who’d met Lord Thomas more than once and heard all about him from Rynn, nodded. Rynn
said to her grandmother, “It will be all right, you’ll see,” and walked out of the kitchen and out of the house with O’Shea
behind her.
It was no great distance to the Garda station, which was very near to the Church of Our Lady Star of the Sea, but by the time
the motorbike jolted to a stop in front of the two-story brick structure Rynn was sick with fear.
She did her best not to let it show, keeping her shoulders back and her head high as O’Shea, taking her arm, walked her through the busy main room with its glass-fronted reception area where Gillie Johnson, a sharp-featured spinster who—like nearly everyone in the village—Rynn had known from childhood, reigned supreme.
There was no sign of Cara O’Reilly, but there were several closed doors that led off the main room and Rynn supposed she must be behind one of them.
Or perhaps she’d already been released. Perhaps this would be a few simple questions and over quickly and no need at all for her to be quaking like a jelly inside.
“They’re waiting for you in the back,” Gillie called to O’Shea as they passed, lowering her spectacles to look Rynn over with
interest. He lifted a hand in acknowledgment. Then they were at a heavy paneled door in the far corner of the room and he
knocked. Upon being bade to enter, he opened the door.
Preceding him into the room, which was small, unadorned and, with its shades drawn, nerve-rackingly dim, Rynn immediately
found herself under inspection. Behind her, the door closed again. She realized that O’Shea had not followed her inside but
had rather left her to deal with the three men awaiting her on her own.
“Thank you for coming, Miss Carmichael. Please join us.” Colonel Pelly’s greeting was polite enough. He and Chief Inspector
Fallon stood together beside the sturdy-looking table that took up most of the far end of the room. In response to a gesture
from Pelly, she walked over to stand in front of the table. The man sitting behind it did not, as good manners dictated, get
to his feet upon her approach. Instead, he steepled his hands in front of him and regarded her unblinkingly over them. The
single tall lamp was positioned behind him, casting his face in shadow. It gave him a sinister aspect that made her stomach
knot.
“This is Detective Major Charles Kenney, from Crime Special Branch. He’s been sent down from London to lead this investigation,” Pelly said.
Crime Special Branch? It was a division of MI5. Rynn’s stomach sank. A thin-faced man of about forty with slicked-back dark hair and hooded eyes,
Kenney continued to simply look at her, unsmiling.
“The investigation into Molly Kincaid’s death? Good. I’m glad to hear it,” Rynn said, rallying. She knew it wasn’t likely
even as she said it but mustered the courage to take the first thrust in what she could only think of as the coming duel as
a way, hopefully, to keep them from realizing how guilty she felt and how frightened she was.
“No. Miss Kincaid’s unfortunate death is of interest to local law enforcement only, not His Majesty’s government. This is
about another matter. Chief Inspector Fallon, if you’ll take Miss Carmichael’s coat and scarf.” Kenney’s accent was not the
plummy one of a public school boy like Lord Thomas. It had the shorter vowels and rougher intonation of working-class London.
Looking none too pleased with the assignment, which he no doubt felt was beneath him, Fallon did as he was told. He was hanging
the garments on the coatrack by the door when Kenney said, “No doubt you have other matters to attend to, Chief Inspector.
You may leave us. You, too, Colonel Pelly. Miss Carmichael and I will deal better on our own.”
A tiny pause was followed by Pelly turning on his heel and walking away. Swept by a thrill of unease, Rynn kept her eyes on
the man in front of her rather than watch him go, but a moment later the door opened and she heard two pairs of footsteps
walking out before the door closed again.
Rynn went cold with dread as she realized she and Kenney were now alone.