Anglo-Irish Murders Read Online Free Page B

architecture?’
    ‘I’m hopeless at that. Normanish?’
    She snorted with derision. ‘Sixteenth-century tower house. Replaced a castle that had a bad run-in with some rebels during the Elizabethan wars. Georgian wings.’
    ‘Looks in pretty bad shape.’
    There was a loud sniff from his left, followed by a mighty blowing of the nose.
    ‘Jack, are you crying?’
    ‘Nothing wrong with crying. I loved Knocknasheen as a kid. Hate to see it like this. Remember those lines of Yeats?’
    I came on a great house in the middle of the night,
    Its open lighted doorway and its windows all alight,
    And all my friends were there and made me welcome too;
    But I woke in an old ruin that the winds howled through.
    ‘That’s what it feels like.’
    ‘What happened?’
    ‘That ruin on the left is the wing that had been partially burned down by rebels in 1920 and now seems to have collapsed. The rest is decay. Costs went up, money ran out and the family died off or left the country until the only ones left were Lavinia and Grace.’ She snuffled for a few seconds and then headed back towards the car. ‘That’s enough of that.’
    The handbell was rung several times before the peeling front door was opened a crack. ‘I’m sorry to have taken so long, Ida,’ said a commanding voice, whose owner was virtually invisible in the gloom. ‘We normally use the back. Come in.’
    The door being too stiff to open properly, they had some difficulty pushing their way through to the hall. ‘You are welcome, both of you,’ said the elderly woman, who though almost as tall as the baroness was fragile to the point of emaciation. She leaned forward and gave her cousin a chaste kiss on the right cheek. ‘I am pleased to see you after so long, Ida.’ She turned to Amiss and offered a cold, thin hand which he shook gingerly. ‘I am Lavinia FitzHugh. You are Mr Amiss, I believe?’
    As his eyes became accustomed to the dim light of the solitary bulb, he could see that the walls had the cracks and damp marks that along with the strong musty smell spoke of terminal decay. The only decorations were rows of riding boots hanging at eye-level.
    ‘I brought you a small present, Lavinia,’ said the baroness, handing over the large Fortnum & Mason bag she had rescued from the boot.
    ‘That is kind of you, Ida.’ Miss FitzHugh looked inside and smiled. ‘You always were generous. To a fault, indeed, as I remember. Now, follow me upstairs.’
    The bedrooms to which Miss FitzHugh showed them were at the top of the house and both austere and mouldering. ‘Reduced to servants’ bedrooms, now, Ida. Alas, the roof of the bedroom wing fell in last year. You will find a bathroom of sorts at the end of that corridor. I shall see you both downstairs in fifteen minutes for a glass of the madeira you have so thoughtfully provided.’
    ***
    ‘Thank you, Miss Grace.’ Amiss took the delicate crystal goblet from Miss FitzHugh’s smaller and even more fragile sister. When polite conversation about the journey and their route came to an end, he asked curiously: ‘Forgive me, Miss Fitzhugh, but do I gather from the dozens of pairs of riding boots that you or your sister used to give riding lessons?’
    ‘Certainly not. We wouldn’t have wanted snivelling adolescents with social pretensions near our horses. They’re family boots.’
    ‘Ah,’ he said and took another sip.
    The baroness took pity on him. ‘It’s a family tradition. When a member of the family dies, their boots are hung on the wall.’
    ‘Servants too,’ added Miss Fitzhugh.
    ‘When we had any,’ added Miss Grace.
    ‘And if they rode.’
    ‘When did the last boots go up, Lavinia?’ asked the baroness. ‘I’m afraid I’m sadly out of touch.’
    ‘Our nephew Jock. Remember him, Ida? Constance’s son. Killed ten years ago taking a six-foot hedge unwisely.’
    ‘I didn’t know. Tell us about the others. It’ll bring me up to date.’
    ‘Grace’ll do it. She’s the family