The Sin Eater(17)

‘Then by God, I’ll make you!’

‘Colm, no!’ Declan started forward, but Colm was already on his feet, his fists clenched, and Declan had the astonishing impression that the hissing anger had poured into Colm and glared from his eyes.

Sheehan threw up a hand to defend himself, backing away. In doing so, he stumbled against the chess table and fell. His head hit the stone floor with a sickening crunch and his neck lolled at a dreadful angle. There was a gasping exhalation of breath, then his eyes rolled upwards and he was still.

The scalding anger drained from the room as quickly as it had come, and Colm stood staring down at the prone figure, white-faced, his eyes no longer holding the terrible glare.

‘He’s dead,’ said Declan in panic. ‘Mother of God, he’s dead and it’s your fault, you bloody madman.’

‘He’s shamming,’ said Colm, but there was a note of uncertainty in his voice. ‘Feel for a heartbeat – it’ll be pounding away like a tinker’s drum. Well?’ he said, as Declan knelt down and thrust a hand inside Nicholas Sheehan’s jacket.

‘Nothing. Wait though – a mirror.’

‘What in God’s name . . . ?’

‘You put a mirror to somebody’s lips to see are they breathing. If they are, it mists the mirror. Fetch that glass from the wall there.’

‘I’m telling you he’ll sit up in a minute and laugh at us,’ said Colm, but he unhooked the small oval mirror from the wall and between them they lowered it over Sheehan’s face.

‘Nothing,’ said Declan presently. ‘He’s not breathing. He’s dead.’

‘It’s my fault,’ said Colm, staring at Sheehan’s body, in horror. ‘Only, I didn’t mean to kill him, I swear to all the saints. I didn’t so much as touch him, Declan, you know that.’

‘I do know. But would anyone else?’ said Declan.

‘They’ll hang me for a murderer.’

‘Of course they won’t.’

‘He’s a priest, for God’s sake! Of course they will! What do I do?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Well, think. Can we leave him here and not know anything? Will he be missed?’

‘He might be missed after a few days,’ said Declan, trying to think clearly. ‘He’s noticeable. If he’s around in Kilglenn or even Kilderry, people always remember seeing him because of the old story about the chessmen.’

The chessmen. They both glanced uneasily at the carved figures.

‘And,’ said Declan, speaking reluctantly, ‘for all he set himself up as a . . . a hermit, I think he has visitors here at times. People seek him out. My father once said some of the young men considering entering the Church come to talk to him. Colm, his body will be found, and people will know he was killed. There’s a socking great bruise on his head.’

‘Where he hit it on the ground.’

‘Yes, but would people think someone had hit him with a fist?’

‘Well, you had nothing to do with it,’ said Colm firmly.

‘Will you shut up? I’m as much a part of this as you. Let’s think what to do. Were we seen coming up here, d’you think?’


‘We might have been.’ Colm was still looking down at Sheehan’s body. It lay where it had fallen, the ocean light mingling eerily with the lamplight, casting strangely coloured shadows over it. ‘They’ll piece it together,’ he said. ‘Once the body’s found the garda will work it all out. Evidence. Clues.’

They both knew this was a real danger. Fintan’s Bar sometimes had a publication called Strand Magazine which they read after the others had finished with it, devouring the exploits of the Baker Street detective called Sherlock Holmes. Almost all of Mr Holmes’ crimes took place in England, but the methods employed by the English police to track down a murderer would not be much different from the ones the garda would use in Ireland.

‘You’re right,’ said Declan. ‘They’ll question everyone. They’ll know we were here.’

‘Not if we destroy the evidence,’ said Colm. ‘All of it – including Sheehan’s body.’

‘How?’

‘There’s only one way,’ said Colm.





SIX


Their minds had always fitted together so well that they scarcely needed to consult each other as they worked. Leaving Sheehan’s body where it was, they dragged a heavy oak chest out of the room. Then they closed the door on the room and pushed the chest hard against it.

‘That’s fine,’ said Colm, after they had tested it. ‘It’s wedging the door shut. No one will be able to get in there until it’s too late.’

They had left one oil lamp inside, but they carried the other two up the steps. In the tapestry-hung room where Sheehan had poured the wine, they tumbled books from the shelves, choosing them at random and using them to build a small bonfire at the centre of the room.

‘You realize we could be destroying valuable books?’ said Declan, hesitating.

‘If we don’t, something more precious and valuable than books might end in being destroyed,’ said Colm. ‘Me.’

‘True, O King.’

‘And don’t quote the Old Testament at me!’