The Anglo-Irish Murders The Anglo-Irish Murders Ruth Dudley Edwards www.ruthdudleyedwards.com POISONED PEN PRESS Copyright © 2000, 2008 by Ruth Dudley Edwards Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2008923141 ISBN: 9781590584385 Trade Paperback ISBN: 9781615950553 epub All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book. Poisoned Pen Press 6962 E. First Ave., Ste. 103 Scottsdale, AZ 85251 www.poisonedpenpress.com [email protected] Disclaimer: This is a farce, so while I have drawn inspiration from conferences and people on the Anglo-Irish circuit, if anyone thinks they recognize themselves among my characters, they are in a bad way. D EDICATION To Carol, who endures the Irish without complaint, and to John, who doesn’t. And with thanks to Sean O’Callaghan, who suggested the idea, to Liam Kennedy, who identified and named the ‘MOPE’syndrome, to Colm and Alva de Barra, Máirín Carter, Nina Clarke, Eoghan Harris, Gordon and Ken Lee, Kathryn Kennison, Robin Little, James McGuire, John and Una O’Donoghue and Henry Reid, all of whom helped with information and advice, to Georgina Hawtrey-Woore, a sensitive and tolerant copy editor and, of course, to her wee boss, the exquisite, brilliant and ruthless Julia Wisdom. C ONTENTS Dedication Prologue Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Epilogue Notes More from this Author Contact Us P ROLOGUE Amiss put yet another question mark beside yet another name on his long list and groaned. He picked up the receiver and dialled a Dublin number. ‘Robert Amiss here. May I speak to Mr McCorley?’ ‘’Fraid not, Robert. You’re after missing Roddy. He’s just this minute stepped out to church.’ ‘Will he be long?’ ‘You wouldn’t know. It depends on if they’re doing the works.’ ‘Sorry?’ ‘Loads of priests and communion and all.’ Amiss found it odd that a senior civil servant should absent himself from his desk in the middle of a weekday morning to pursue his religious duties. But then, he was finding much that was strange in his new-found incursion into AngloIrish relations. ‘Ah, I see. He’s gone to mass.’ ‘A funeral.’ ‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’ Amiss retreated into shambling English embarrassment. ‘How terrible. Was it someone very close?’ ‘Oh, not at all. ’Twas only the Minister’s granny. But you know how it is.’ Though Amiss didn’t, he said, ‘I see. Could you put me through then to Mr McGarrity?’ ‘Sure isn’t Joe after going to the same funeral?’ ‘Mr Devoy?’ ‘Johnny’s gone an’ all. There’s no one in this division this morning only me, ’cause you see what with the Dublin Castle reception last night, they all had to miss the removal.’ ‘The removal?’ ‘The removal of the remains.’ ‘The remains?’ ‘The remains of the Minister’s granny. Do ye not bury people in England?’ ‘We do. But clearly we don’t take funerals as seriously as you do. Well then, in their absence, do you think you could help me, Miss…?’ ‘God, you’re terrible formal. I’m Maureen. But I’d say I couldn’t help you. Amn’t I only the temp?’ Amiss’ other phone rang. ‘Just a moment please, Maureen, till I answer that.’ He leaned over and pressed the speaker button. ‘Hello. Robert Amiss.’ ‘We’ll go a couple of days early,’ boomed Baroness Troutbeck. ‘I’ll show you Ireland.’ ‘What are you talking about? I’m up to my eyes as it is. I can’t possibly take any time off before the conference.’ ‘Balls. You’re getting your knickers in a twist over nothing. You should have it all done by now.’ ‘Shut up a minute, Jack. I’m on the other line. Call me back in a few minutes, will you?’ He winced at the hopeless tone in which he made his plea. This would hardly impress Maureen. ‘Can’t. Going into a meeting. Anyway someone’s already booking our tickets.’ ‘Jack, the arrangements are very complicated. Not to say sensitive. I can’t abandon ship.’ She cut in. ‘Never heard anyone make so much fuss about pulling a gaggle of Paddies together. Read them the riot act and tell them to get a grip. Like we should have done years ago.’ The phone went dead. Amiss returned to Maureen. ‘I heard,’ she said. ‘Tactful, isn’t he, whoever he is. Didn’t think anyone called us Paddies any more. Who is he anyway?’ ‘She,’ said Amiss grimly, ‘is for the present moment my boss. Her name is Baroness Troutbeck. She is the key player in a conference intended to resolve some of the sensitive cultural issues in AngloIrish relations.’ There was a brief pause at the other end of the line. ‘Well, shite and onions,’ giggled Maureen. ‘That should make for great gas.’