Authors: John McEvoy
They were on the way out of Bray to Highway M4 shortly after noon on Friday, armed with a large thermos of coffee, pair of plastic cups, and half a loaf of sliced soda bread. Their journey to the western edge of Ireland was estimated by Nora to take “between three and a half, maybe four hours.”
Nora started out behind her wheel, got them well past Athlone, where Jack took over. The first two hours were marked by long stretches of sunshine flattering the bright, green fields, twice sharply interspersed by quick showers of what Nora said was “lashing rain. It won't last.” They chatted about Nora's free-lance reporting work which she said was “beginning to pick up quite a bit. At least the decline of our economy seems to have slowed somewhat, so some opportunities are opening up. I'm having a decent year so far.”
Doyle asked about Nora's siblings. Both jockeys were also having “good seasons. Brother Kieran is second in the money-won standings. And Mickey ranks sixth in races won. I try to go racing at least once every couple of weeks to watch them. Mickey and I have dinner twice a week.”
“Any socialization with âClever Kieran'?”
“Only a very occasional phone call. He continues to pretty much go his own way. Like always. Listen, Jack, enough about the Sheehans. What's currently leading your life list?”
Doyle described his efforts, unsuccessful thus far, to find the “mercy horse killer,” and the recent developing problem involving Ralph Tenuta and “this rich prick Wendell Pilling, who kept pestering people named Burkhardt, clients of Ralph. But I understand that problem's been solved. Or, so I am reliably told. You ever hear of Pilling?”
“Are you serious? Anybody involved in the computer world knows about that man.”
The other side of Galway on R336, heading toward Connemara, Nora warned, “We're out here in the country now, Jack. Keep in mind there are only two roads in Ireland where sheep have the right of way on the road. We happen to be on one of them.”
“Sheep in the street, eh? They better hope a New York City cab driver never decides to vacation around here. There'd be mutton chopped onto the pavement.”
***
Nearly four hours after leaving Bray, they arrived late Friday afternoon at Lough Inagh Lodge near the westernmost edge of the island country and overlooking the sprawling lough, or lake. Built in the 1880s as an estate home, it now was a four-star modern “boutique lodge” according to the Internet research Nora had done. Doyle parked around the side of the impressive, two-story structure that sat in isolation with a wonderful view of Ireland's famous Twelve Bens, a range of small mountains. Doyle opened the car windows and they sat quietly before getting out, breathing in the country air, listening to birdsong emanating from nearby trees. Finally, they got their luggage from the boot and went inside to register.
During their drive, Nora had informed Jack that the Lodge contained just “twelve rooms. Breakfast and dinner are served. The food is reputed to be excellent. There's a library and a well-stocked bar.”
“Music to my ears,” Doyle responded, “especially the latter item.”
Walking to the inn's entrance this late afternoon, Nora said, “There is supposed to be excellent fishing in this area. And four golf courses aren't far away.”
“There is little attraction in these pastimes for me,” Doyle laughed. He told Nora that all but one of the rooms had been reserved by Hanratty for his contingent of employees and, if they chose, their spouses or mates. “You'll like Niall and his wife Sheila,” he said. “The only other Shamrock people I know are Barry Hoy and Tony Rourke. Hoy is Niall's bodyguard and driver. Big, tough-looking guy, used to box, very quiet, but friendly. Rourke is older, quiet little fellow, looks like the accountant he is.”
Fiona, the friendly clerk at the front desk, signed them in as “guests of Mr. Hanratty.” After handing Jack the room key, Fiona asked if they would like “complimentary tea and homemade scones. Standard practice here and available right now,” she smiled. They declined. When they looked into the nearby library, the Hanrattys rose to greet them. Doyle introduced Nora. Sheila said, “Oh, Nora Sheehan. I've read many of your stories. How lovely to meet you. Niall, you know who this is?”
Hanratty smiled as he reached for Nora's hand. “Of course I do. The talented writer woman from the family of talented jockeys. My pleasure, Nora.” He turned to Jack. “Why don't you two get settled in,” Niall said, “then come down and join us for a drink before dinner?”
***
Showered and changed out of their traveling clothes, Nora and Jack were prepared for the first social event of the Hanratty weekend, the cocktail reception. Before leaving their large, attractive bedroom with its commodious bath, large flat-screen television, plus a desk on which Nora could position her laptop, they stood at one of the large windows that looked out toward the lough. Dusk was advancing and swirls of fog encircled the tops of the tall pine trees bordering the property. They were silent. Jack reached down and took Nora's hand. It was a stunning view enhanced by the quiet of the advancing evening. They stood for a minute or two before Jack said, “Well, my dear, time to go. Up and at 'em.”
***
Some of the Shamrock crew at the cocktail reception recognized Nora's name when she was introduced. “Oh, the writer.”
“Journalist,” she politely corrected. Two of the couples were spurred on by that admission to corner her. Doyle sidled away and came up next to Niall.
“Well, you've done yourself proud here, my man,” Jack said. Hanratty smiled briefly. “It hope it all goes well, Jack. These good people of mine deserve a great old time even if it's only for a weekend. And, certainly, my Sheila does.”
Before Doyle could respond, he and Hanratty turned toward the sound of a loud voice at the doorway to the reception room. “
Hello,
you Irish,” said an overweight, middle-aged man standing next to a small, embarrassed looking woman of about his age. He looked around as if expecting to be recognized, this florid-faced figure with the booming baritone voice. “Are we Yanks invited in?” Without waiting for an answer, he advanced.
“Who the hell is that?” Doyle said.
Hanratty started toward the man, then stopped. “He and his little wife must be the only other guests here. I took eleven of the twelve rooms for our group. Well, I guess I'd better go over and greet what looks to me like an Ugly American. Pardon the expression, Jack.”
Jack followed Niall, who shook the man's hand, introduced himself, and didn't have long to wait for a reply from “Dr. Herbert Whitesell. From Ann Arbor, the great state of Michigan. Ann Arbor, the university town. My practice is there. This is my wife, Alice. We're first time in Ireland. Strange little country, isn't it? Not this place, of course,” he added, patting Hanratty's arm.
Doyle took a glass of champagne off the waiter's tray for Nora and asked the server for “another Jameson's when you've got the chance.” Nora was chatting with Sheila Hanratty near the fireplace that was lit with a small peat fire. He could hear Dr. Whitesell's braying even from yards off. Jack watched as Niall turned away from the Michigan physician and signaled the attentive Fiona to ring the Lough Inagh's little bronze bell marking the end of cocktail hour, the start of dinnertime.
Nora and Jack shared a dinner table with the Hanrattys. Talk was of Irish politics and racing, American racing and politics as well. Jack deferred the few questions about his current FBI-aiding project back home. Overlaying their conversation was the aggravating noise emanating from a nearby two-person table occupied by the irritating Dr. Whitesell and his mousy spouse. Even trying to tune Dr. Whitesell out, Jack could not completely escape the loudmouth's stated views on the vicissitudes of current air travel, the irritating drivers on Irish roads, the disappointing salmon fishing he'd experienced the previous day, and the horrible deficiencies of the current U.S. presidential administration. At one point Jack started to rise and have a word with the doctor, but Nora held his arm. “No, Jack. That's what that idiot is looking for. Attention.”
They concentrated on the meal. A starter of filo pastry containing goat cheese preceded a hearty vegetable soup. Broiled salmon surrounded by duchess potatoes and fresh asparagus followed. A lavish cheese plate was offered, as well as a lovely cherry trifle. Nora pronounced the entire meal “brilliant,” Doyle and the Hanrattys heartily concurring.
Niall suggested an after-dinner drink in the library, but Jack and Nora declined, “too tired, but thank you.” Sheila said “I'm with you on that, come on Niall,” and gave them a goodnight wave.
Nora started up the stairs with Jack preparing to follow when he felt Niall tap him on the shoulder. The handsome bookmaker's happy expression from the previous several hours had been replaced by a serious look.
“Jack. Can we go for a walk early tomorrow? We need to talk.”
Doyle said, “Sure, Niall. What time?”
“Let's make it seven. I'll meet you out front.”
Doyle was up at six, ignoring the effects of jet lag and Friday's long drive through the Irish countryside. He smiled appreciatively at the deeply asleep Nora who lay on the other side of their large, comfortable bed, and looked out one of the large windows. Through the early morning mists, he was able to discern the humpy shapes of the famed Twelve Bens, the renowned range of Irish mountains that in the geography of Montana, say, or Colorado, probably would be dismissed as relative hillocks.
He quickly showered, dressed, quietly closed the suite door behind him, and trotted down the carpeted stairs to the first floor. They creaked a bit, which was not surprising since the impressive building had been constructed as an estate home in the late nineteenth century and not revived and renovated until many years later.
After a quick peek into the dining room, its tables already set for the breakfast crowd, Jack pushed open the heavy front door and paused on the top step to take deep breaths of the cool air. In sweatshirt and pants, he'd started some of his usual early morning, pre-jogging stretches, when he heard a familiar deep voice behind him at the door's entrance.
“Morning to you, Jack. Ready for a bit of a ramble?” Niall said.
“You bet. You look like you're dressed for a long, slow hike. Is that what you have in mind?”
Hanratty zipped up his windproof jacket. He wore a sweater underneath it, corduroy trousers, walking shoes. “I'm not about to trot along beside you. It's a nice, cool morning, as usual in these parts. A brisk walk will do for me. If you feel the need to gallop ahead, just come back to me for a chat, all right?”
Doyle pulled his sweatshirt hood up as the morning mist suddenly shifted into a weak stint of raining. “I just saw the sun a minute ago,” he said to Niall as they walked down the drive to the road.
Hanratty laughed. “No surprise there. And this bit of moisture will soon be gone. Jack, you might not be aware of it, but we can have several interesting elements of weather in a single hour here in this grand county. A soft little rain, like this one, which could get you wet enough given enough minutes. Maybe a pounding burst of it. Then a bit of clearing so as to showcase some big, beautiful, fluffy, floating white clouds, followed by a darkening sky, soft rain, and the wind coming into play. It can all happen in the time it takes to run the opening race at the Curragh. But, not today. We're in for a nice, clear sky later on. The sun will make a comeback before too long.”
At the roadway, Jack looked right and left. Niall poked his elbow. “Not much need of such caution out here, my friend. You can hear traffic coming for a good distance, autos or the occasional horse-cart Let's go left. There's a path that leads down to the lake.”
They made their way past trees and grass still carrying dew, chatting about the previous night's dinner. “A good group, Niall, you have working for you. They were enjoying themselves. And your hospitality, of course,” Doyle added, with a mocking bow.
“Most of them were. Though I thought Tony Rourke was kind of quiet, even for him. And Barry didn't appear all that delighted to be there either. Maybe they've been to too many of these gatherings. And then, there was your fellow Yank, Dr. Whitesell, making his presence felt. What an obnoxious arshole, if you don't mind me describing one of your countrymen. Must admit I was glad you were seated slightly closer to him than I was. Some of the guff he was spouting, I would have had to shut that off in a hurry.”
Doyle said, “I can offer no defense of Dr. Blowhard.”
They came to the end of the wide dirt path and took it to the shore. The dark green waters of Lough Inagh were rippling. Far out they could see three boats of sportsmen with their rods and reels. The sun had begun to probe the dark, heavy-looking western clouds that were retreating. Doyle bent to pick up a skinny flat stone and effortlessly skipped it across the water. “Four jumps with that one,” he grinned, looking back at Hanratty, adding, “do people swim in here?”
“Sure. This lake water isn't that terrible cold. Not as bad as the sea near me.”
Doyle said, “Is that why you have a swimming pool at your house next to the sea? I really didn't understand the thinking behind that, you know.”
“Have you ever tried to backstroke through fifty-two-degree waves, Jack? I didn't think so. That's why I put in my pool. It gives us a nice look at the sea from the water where we'd rather be.”
Niall stopped walking, hands on hips, looking out at Lough Inagh. “The waves this morning here are not quite what they were back home last week. When I was almost shot to death.”
“
What?”
Doyle stopped and turned to face his host. “Say that again?”
“You heard me right the first time, Jack. And that's what I've brought you out here this morning to tell you about.”