“You could check his clothes yourself,” I said. “It’s hard to get bloodstains completely out.”

“He wouldn’t necessarily have got any blood on his clothing,” Darcy said. “One clean blow. The skull is stove in and the man pitches forward. He drops the club and flees.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Maybe because he hears someone coming. Maybe because he is horrified with what he has just done.”

“Then why not take the club with you when you flee? Bury it. Throw it in a pond. Burn it.”

“I agree,” he said. “It makes little sense. We should go back.”

“It’s a pity we can’t get into the castle, now we’re here.” I stared up at the great gray shape looming above us. “I’d dearly like to see the scene of the crime for myself.”

“We can’t while that man’s valet is still in residence.” Darcy shook his head.

“We could keep watch to see if he ever goes out.”

“And we don’t know there aren’t any Garda stationed in the castle still,” Darcy said.

“It’s your house. You should know how to creep around without being seen,” I said. “I bet you did as a child.” Now that we were this close, I was itching to see for myself. “Why don’t we give it a try?”

Darcy looked wary. “All right,” he said.

We had taken two steps out of the woods and across the kitchen garden when a voice yelled, “Hey, you. What are you doing here?”

Chapter 18

TUESDAY, DECEMBER 4

A FRIGHT AT KILHENNY CASTLE.

I wasn’t sure whether to run or to freeze. If it was a policeman I certainly didn’t want to look guilty, and running away would certainly convey that impression. Then a man stepped out from behind the nearest outbuilding. He was youngish, skinny, pale and wearing a dark suit. He had black hair slicked down and parted in the middle and a neat little line of a mustache.

“It’s him,” Darcy whispered. “The manservant. Great chance to question him.”

The man strode toward us, waving a fist in a menacing manner. “What are you doing? This is private property.” This speech was marred only by his tripping over a clod of earth and almost pitching forward onto his face. He regained his feet, flushing angrily. “If you’re reporters, you’d better beat it before I call the cops. There’s one stationed at the front door, you know.”

We pretended not to have noticed his undignified stumble.

“We’re not reporters,” Darcy said. “I’m Darcy O’Mara. This used to be my family home until recently. I only wanted to show it to my friend from London.”

“O’Mara?” The man turned up his lip. “The killer’s kid? I’m surprised you have the nerve to be hanging around here.”