The Sons of the Fathers

By Michael B. Coyle

Blathers and Duff, private investigators, introduce their sons, amid political strife between England and the Irish people, in three related tales.
In the first, Blathers asks his former partner, Duff, to come to Ireland and help solve an apparent murder. During that visit, young Blathers is born. He grows up experiencing armed conflict and famine.
Secondly, Young Duff has been raised in America, where he was led to believe that his father is dead. He is told about his father by his mother on her deathbed. When he is sent to London on behalf of the Pinkerton Detective Agency, he finds his father and they track down an assassin together.
Finally, young Blathers and young Duff meet and get involved in solving several killings in Ireland.

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
• Release date: Dec 12, 2018
• ISBN: 9781509223718

Michael B. Coyle

I am retired from 45 years in business as an insurance underwriter, agent/broker, consultant and educator. Upon retirement, I took up writing. I have attended many courses and workshops including The Colgate writers Conference on four occasions. I have two adult daughters, and live with my wife of of 33 years, Kathe. No pets.

Book preview

Murder

Chapter 1

She wants to return to Ireland. I have ta go with her. She’s with child.

Does this mean our long-standing partnership is over?

I believe it does.

But why must you go to Ireland to have a baby? I don’t understand.

It’s a matter of marriage. We are not wed, as ya well know. She says if we go to Ireland and just tell folks we’re married, they won’t know the difference.

Why don’t you just get married?

I’m raised in the Established Church of Ireland, a Protestant. She’s a Catholic.

Well, now I understood Blathers’ predicament, and Daisy’s too. They wanted to be together. They wanted to raise their child. Of course there would be trouble over that. Would the child be Protestant or Catholic? In Ireland it would be Catholic, no doubt. It is a strange world where two people can worship God in their own way, love each other, and raise a family, but are unable to find a clergyman who will marry them.

We shook hands. I said, Good luck.

Thank ya, Duff. I’ll be in touch. We leave tomorrow on the morning tide.

That was the last I heard of the errant couple, but after they were gone for about four months I received a letter in the morning post. Blathers, in pursuit of his given work, was involved in a murder investigation, and, of course, he needed my help.

****

Blathers and I had been partners for years in London, first as Bow Street Runners, then on the Metropolitan Police, and finally as private inquiry agents. When he left, I thought I would never see him again. I considered if I should go. I had never been to Ireland, and I had no active case. This was a wonderful opportunity to visit my erstwhile partner. I hurried downstairs to the taproom of the Black Lion, where Clara sat enjoying a cup of tea. Since it was tea she was drinking, and not a pint of ale, it meant that Barkis, himself, was somewhere about. Clara’s imbibing was, quite fortunately, regulated by her loving husband.

Clara, I’ve had a letter from Blathers.

Clara tried to jump from her chair to take the letter from me, but as usual it required several maneuvers for her to extricate her oversized rear-end from the tight fit of the chair’s dimensions. She settled for remaining seated and said, Lord preserve us, he’s well, is he?

He’s fine. He’s involved in a murder investigation, and he’s asking for my help. I’ll be leaving for Dublin as soon as possible. I trust you’ll see to my room while I’m gone. I will, of course, continue to pay the rent, even though I may be gone for some time.

The room on the upper floor of the old inn was once occupied by overnight guests, but when the trains put the stagecoaches out of business, Blathers and I had rented the space for our office. It was directly across the hall from the room where Blathers and I once investigated a bloody murder. I wanted to be sure that Clara kept the room well locked, as there were papers there that could embarrass many of the most prominent people in London. Our first private assignment, obtained at the Black Lion, had involved service to a prominent politician and led to assignments from other important persons.

Now, you’re not to worry, Mr. Duff. Me and Barkis will guard your things with our lives. I was confident they would, perhaps not give up their lives for my records and personal belongings, but keep a watchful eye. That very day, after sending a cable to Blathers, I set out for Ireland.

Chapter 2

Blathers and Daisy met me in Dublin. Daisy had a glow that only appears on the face of a woman carrying a child. Her complexion added additional color to her blue eyes and red hair. When I knew her in London, I hadn’t fully realized how very Irish she looked. She gave me a welcoming hug.

Blathers was still on the, shall we say, robust side, but he looked more fit than I remembered. Married life, even though the marriage was not blessed by any religion, or for that matter, sanctioned by any government, seemed to be good for both of them. I was so full of joy at seeing them I wished somehow I had the power to legalize their union.

We gathered my cases and went to a nearby hotel. Tomorrow we take a train to Sligo. From there we travel by cart to Drumkeeran. Daisy and I have a lovely little house in the village. And remember, we’re Mister and Mistress Blathers. I nodded assent. That would not be hard to do.

****

The trip on the train was uncomfortable, but not nearly as bad as riding in the back of the cart from Sligo to the town where my former partner and his wife had settled. I must admit that I was surprised when I discovered they didn’t live in Dublin, but when we arrived at the charming little village, I understood their decision. There was smoke in the air from the fireplaces of various buildings, but it didn’t smell like coal or wood smoke. What is that I smell? I asked.

That’s the smoke from a peat fire. In Ireland we don’t have much coal or trees ta burn. But we do have plenty of peat bogs. Blocks of dried peat make a wonderful fire.

Their home was a semidetached two-bedroom place with a welcoming hearth. It was also within walking distance of several pubs. I deposited my belongings in the second bedroom while Blathers built a glowing turf fire. Daisy and I had tea at fireside, and Blathers had a whiskey.

I started the conversation. I cannot believe there has been a murder in this quiet little place.

The murder happened in Carrick-on-Shannon, somewhat south of here, but the whole countryside is involved. The victim was the Protestant bishop. There’s been some troubles of late, and the natural tendency is to blame the Catholics. But I have it on good authority—he glanced at Daisy—the Catholics didn’t do it. Things are heating up over the matter, and the only way to keep the peace is to find out who really did it.

****

The next morning, after a good night’s sleep, I found Blathers already at the breakfast table. I didn’t see Daisy. Is Daisy not yet up?

She’s off to Mass. The Catholics are now able to have their services, ya know, although they haven’t got up the cash to build a church yet. She’ll be along in a minute.

He was right. Daisy danced through the door that very instant. Top o’ the morning, Duff.

I knew there was some ritual answer to Daisy’s wish, but I didn’t know what it was, so I simply said, Good morning, Daisy.

She went to Blathers and kissed him on the cheek. Now, gents, how about some bacon, tea, toast, and duck eggs?

While the woman of the house cooked, Blathers and I sat with our mugs of tea, enjoying the scent of bacon sizzling in the cast iron pan, and began to discuss the case. How far is Carrick-on-Shannon?

It’s a good two hours by gig. We can rent one here in town, but seeing ’tis Sunday, I think we should put off going until tomorrow.

I remembered the cart ride from Sligo. I rubbed my aching back and said, I very much agree. You can fill me in on the details of the crime, and perhaps we’ll make a list of important facts.

Make a list, is it. What a wonderful idea. Ya love your lists, don’t ya?

Now, don’t start. You know my methods, and you invited me to come and help. By the way, who’s your client?

Well, that’s just it, ya see. I don’t really have a client. Some people that Daisy knows are aware of me background, and they asked her if I would look into the matter. I don’t even know who the people are. All I know is I have assurances of the highest nature the Catholics are being falsely accused. If we don’t straighten this out soon, there will be blood shed by both Catholics and Protestants.

If there’s no client, who is going to pay your fee?

There won’t be a fee. I haven’t earned a fee since we moved here. We have a small interest in the pub down the block. Daisy’s uncle owns it. He is on in years, and Daisy and I are helping him run it. That’s how we live.

All I could say was, What should we call our first list? Do you have something we can write on? Blathers produced some brown wrapping paper and a grease pencil. Well, what should I write?

Blathers said, How about Possible Motives? What I can’t figure out is, if the Catholics didn’t do it, why would someone want to kill the bishop?

Daisy called us to breakfast, and we put our work aside and ate our toast and eggs and bacon. There is nothing like fresh, large, rich, duck eggs basted with bacon grease. When we finished, with the mugs of tea refilled, we returned to our task. Daisy completed the washing up and joined us. At this point the only entry on our list was Robbery.

Daisy said, Well, isn’t that a fine bit of nonsense. They say nothing was taken. Why would a robber kill someone and then not steal a thing?

I said, That certainly is a good point, Daisy. On the other hand, perhaps there was something taken that no one knew was there. Then no one would know it was missing.

And what in the world would that be, now?

Maybe the bishop had a hidden stash of money he was saving for his old age.

And where in the world would he be getting that?

People give money to clergymen. I suppose they intend it to be used to help needy parishioners, but I wouldn’t be surprised if that didn’t always happen.

Blathers said, Let’s just list all the motives that usually result in murder and see if they might make any sense. How about blackmail? I wrote Blackmail on the brown paper.

Daisy said, Now, there’s another that’s hard to ken.

Blathers said, Priests hear a lot about plenty of folks. People confess things to them to try and stay out of hell. Maybe he knew something about someone, and the killer was afraid he’d tell.

Daisy said, A Catholic priest would never tell, now, would he.

I saw the look in Blathers’ eyes and changed the subject. I’m going to write ‘Love and Jealousy.’ Anglican bishops can have wives. Was this bishop married?

Blathers said, I don’t know. We can ask tomorrow when we go to see the constable.

The afternoon went on. The turf fire glowed, and the list grew:

Robbery

Blackmail

Love and Jealousy

Revenge

Personal vendetta, Hate

Religious disagreement, not Catholic

Mistake

Crazy Killer

Commercial disagreement

We discussed each of these possibilities as we added them to the list. For example, when we added the last item, Blathers said, Maybe someone wants to put a dust pile next to some church, and the bishop stopped him.

I added, There are a lot of factories starting up. Maybe a factory owner and the bishop had a disagreement about some Church property.

Daisy asked, Would someone murder a bishop just for the fact he couldn’t build a factory?

Where there is a lot of money involved, anything is possible.

Finally I said, Maybe someone just wanted to stir up trouble. Some folks benefit from wars, in one way or another.

Isn’t that right, Daisy said. Sure, what would soldiers do if’n there weren’t any wars? Do ya think they could become doctors?

Chapter 3

At this time of year, in the west of Ireland, the sun shines for about seventeen hours each day. I rose at six on Monday, and the room was full of brightness. Because of the early dawn, Blathers and I dressed, ate another full Irish breakfast, and were well on our way to Carrick-on-Shannon before nine. Once again the rigors of rural travel were trying, but we finally arrived at our destination. Blathers drove the gig up a cobblestone-paved road to the barracks of the local constabulary.

This is Constable John Barsard. Constable, this here is me former partner from London. As ya know, I have taken an interest in the murder of the bishop. Duff here has come to help in the inquiry.

Good day, Mr. Duff. I welcome your assistance. There is a great deal of unrest in the district over this matter, and anything that can be done to quell it will save lives.

Blathers said, I notice you’ve added some manpower.

We have. There’s been reports of gatherings where people have guns. The uncertainty about the bishop’s killing could lead to a great deal more killing. The powers that be in Dublin sent us some more fellas in case trouble breaks out.

Right, if ya start arresting Catholics for the crime, the first thing the Catholics will do is try to murder you.

I sure don’t like that idea, and I don’t like the idea of having ta kill Catholics, either. Mr. Duff, how can you help us avoid more bloodshed?

Blathers answered for me, Well, John, there’s two things Duff does special. First, he has a grand talent for making lists of things to help organize our investigation. We already have one lovely list for us to work with. But his other great gift is his mind’s eye. When he looks at a scene of a crime, he can place a picture of all he sees in his head for future use. So I suggest we go and see the murder place.

We’ll go right now. A new bishop could be here any day. When that happens, it’ll be difficult to get into the place. Right now I have the only key.

****

The bishop’s house was a stately stone building connected to the church by a covered walkway. It was at one time part of a monastery. John Barsard said the bishop was found in his study, shot through the throat, sitting at his desk. We went directly to the study. Little has been touched in here since the killing, except, of course, the bishop has been buried.

I looked around a bit. The desk was along the back wall of the office, with only room for the bishop’s chair behind it. It faced the front of the study. The entry door was in the middle of the front wall. A person entering would stand directly in front of His Excellency. Two chairs faced the desk, set at a slant, at what would be the bishop’s left. The bishop would turn slightly to his left to talk with his visitors. Shelves filled the wall to the right of the desk. Several held books, but the two shelves at eye level, to someone sitting in one of the chairs, held a collection of trophies.

I asked, Was the victim facing forward when found? I see a bloodstain to the right of his chair, but there doesn’t seem to be any stain on the desk.

Barsard said, His chair was turned to his right, just as it is now. It seems that His Excellency was about to rise to greet someone.

And that gun, on the floor there, was that the weapon used? A pistol lay about three feet from the chair, facing toward the back of the room.

We think it is, but we can’t be sure. Our guess is the killer shot the bishop and, for some reason, tossed the pistol there on the floor.

What’s all this? I asked, waving my hand along the display of trophies.

Ah, well, the man was a great cricket player in his day, wasn’t he. He was very proud of his career. He was a renowned batsman.

I said, Some of these seem quite old. They have dents everywhere.

The bishop’s sporting days ended some time ago. I expect movers aren’t always careful with things like this.

Blathers said, They must get damaged in the dusting, too. Look, this plate has what looks like a pretty bad dent. The way it shines, it looks to be recent. I examined the silver plate Blathers was holding.

Blathers turned to the door. "Have ya seen all ya need here then, Duff? Speaking of dusting is making me think we should