Patrick held his hands about two feet apart. ‘Like this.’
The man slowly stood up, rubbing at his whiskery chin. ‘By the saints. It could have been that big old bandit come looking for a kitten dinner,’ he said quietly.
‘What bandit?’ asked Patrick, not understanding why anyone would wish to eat kittens.
The man’s attention returned from his musing. ‘Why, he’s a racoon. An old tyrant of a ’coon who lives in the woods to the east of here. He’s been killing chickens and ducks for a month or so and occasionally chews up cats and dogs.’ Almost to himself, he added, ‘Though if it were himself, mama cat here would have been raising a right royal fuss.’
Sean nodded, and Patrick said, ‘Jack said he lived under a bridge.’
‘He did, did he now? Jack Cole is a fine enough lad, but he’s a foreigner, hailing from North Carolina as he does. Still, grown-ups always have to come up with an answer, even if they’re wrong.’ The boys agreed to that. ‘If the farmers knew where the bandit hid out, they’d have had him out weeks ago.
‘Now, lads, I don’t think Miss Grant will take kindly to the news a bull ’coon’s poking about her barn and menacing her barn cat’s brood. Are we agreed?’
The boys shrugged and said yes. The man rubbed his chin again. ‘Well, we have your word. So there’s an end to it.’ Changing the subject, he said, ‘Now, what are you boys doing in Miss Agatha’s barn?’
‘She said we could play with the kittens.’
‘Well then,’ offered the man, ‘if she did, she did. But they’re tiny ones and like all babies need their rest. Why don’t we go outside and see the new lambs in the meadow.’ He gently but firmly ushered them outside. ‘And who might you boys be?’
The boys offered their names, and the man said, ‘Patrick and Sean? Sure and those are fine Irish names.’
Patrick grinned. ‘Our mother’s Irish. Her name was O’Brien.’
‘O’Brien!’ the man exclaimed. ‘She wouldn’t be an O’Brien from Ballyhack, now would she?’
‘She’s from Glendale,’ observed Sean.
‘Sure, there’s a fair number of O’Briens about and that’s a fact.’ He halted outside the barn. ‘Well, Sean and Patrick, they call me Barney Doyle, which is as it should be, for that’s my name. Pleased to make your acquaintance.’ He shook hands solemnly with the boys. ‘Now let’s go and look at lambs.’
As they made their way across the backyard, the screen door opened and Agatha Grant looked out. ‘Barney Doyle! Where are you going with those boys?’
‘To show the lads the new lambs, Miss Agatha.’
‘And what about my pump? I need water for dinner.’
‘All fixed and working like new, which, had you turned the faucet, you would have known. I was, this very moment, going to stop off on our way and tell you just that.’
Her expression indicated a limited willingness for belief, but she only nodded. ‘Dinner will be in an hour, so have them back in time to clean up.’
‘Yes, Miss Agatha.’
After she returned inside, Barney said, ‘A fine lady, even if she isn’t Irish. Come now and we can see the lambs.’
As they walked down the path towards the meadow south of the house, a car turned up the drive from the road and headed towards the house. The boys ran ahead and Barney reached up to scratch his head. That there was something in the barn two feet long and with big teeth he doubted, for the barn cat would have been hauling her kittens out if a predator had lurked nearby. But that something had frightened the boys there was no doubt. He offered a short prayer to St Patrick and St Jude that it was only noises and shadows that had frightened the boys and not what he feared, then hurried after the boys.
• Chapter Eleven • (#ulink_60636f80-a9ae-5570-9c37-5677bda16766)
Two men got out of the car as Agatha watched from her porch. Philip stood beside her, observing the pair. The driver was a tall man, his stride quick and purposeful. His hair was black save for streaks of grey at the temples, combed straight back from a high forehead, but his closecut beard was black. His age was indeterminate: somewhere between thirty and fifty. He wore a white turtleneck and brown corduroy jacket, despite the warm weather, above brown slacks. As he came up the steps, smiling in greeting at Agatha, Philip noted his eyes were so dark as to be close to black.
‘Mark, this is Philip Hastings.’
The man shook hands and said, ‘I’ve read your books, Mr Hastings. I’m something of a fan.’
‘Phil, please.’
‘And this is Gary Thieus,’ said Agatha. Philip extended his hand.
‘Call me Gary,’ offered the man with a wide grin that revealed an improbable amount of teeth. His hair was cut very short, nearly a crew cut, and his ears stuck out and were almost pointed.
Mark said, ‘He’s my assistant and is the best cook around – present company excluded.’
‘Come inside and have a drink. Dinner is cooking and we can all get acquainted.’ Agatha allowed Philip to hold open the door as she led the others inside.
Philip followed last, behind Gary. Blackman’s assistant moved with a loose-gaited walk that suggested a basketball player to Philip, or at least some sort of athletic background.
Jack offered drinks to Mark and Gary, while Agatha removed herself to the kitchen to finish dinner. Jack returned to Gabbie’s side; Gloria was smiling at Mark’s comment that he had seen her once in a play. When he commented upon a small problem during the second act, she grinned. ‘You did see the play!’ She reached out and squeezed his hand. ‘In my former calling, you hear a lot of empty flattery.’
‘No, I did see the play and remember your performance quite well.’
Gary said, ‘Jack, how about a game of tennis tomorrow?’
Jack groaned. ‘You mean how about you administering another thrashing?’ He said to Gabbie, ‘He knows I’ve a gimpy leg and delights in embarrassing me.’
‘Do you play?’ Gary inquired of Gabbie.
‘A little,’ the girl answered.
‘Good, I’ll call Ellen and we can play some doubles.’
Gabbie shrugged. Jack said, ‘At least we’ll go down together. Gary’s girlfriend is as good a tennis player as he is – which is very good. I hope you can cover a lot of court.’
Gabbie smiled slightly, and Gloria grinned behind her glass as she sipped her drink. Mark leaned close and said, ‘She plays well?’
‘Gabbie plays tennis like it’s war,’ whispered Gloria.
‘Gary’s pretty good; so is Ellen.’
‘It should be a good match,’ offered Phil, coming over to sit beside his wife.
‘You’ve purchased the Old Kessler Place,’ commented Mark. ‘That’s one of the most interesting pieces of land around here. I tried to rent it myself when I first moved here.’
Gloria and Phil exchanged glances and Phil said, ‘It was just a matter of luck I inquired the week it came on the market. It was a steal at the price. But Kessler died only a month before I called the broker. So you must have tried to rent it from the old man himself.’
‘Not really. When I came to this area, Kessler was in Germany and the house empty for almost a year, but I couldn’t find anyone who could tell me how to reach him. Perhaps he was visiting relatives, or friends of his father. That’s where he died, you know.’
Phil nodded. ‘That was mentioned. Why’d you want to rent the farm?’
Mark smiled. ‘There’s a lot of history about that place.’ He paused, then said, ‘I’m working on a new book myself, and while I’m reluctant to discuss it, let’s say that the history of the Kessler family has no small bearing upon the subject matter. Herman’s father, Fredrick Kessler, was something of a mystery man. He arrived from somewhere in the south of Germany, or perhaps Austria, in 1905, with a lot of money. It appears that when the First World War broke out there was some minor problem with his citizenship, but other than that he was a model member of the community. He married a girl named Helga Dorfmann and had one son. He built a furniture factory, competing with the larger manufacturers over in Jamestown. His furniture was sturdy and cheap, and he made a lot of money. One of the more interesting stories is that he had a fortune in gold buried somewhere on the property.’
