He grinned. “That’s the one. Of course, after her there have been other daft Americans who don’t know our money and hand out big tips. Not that I’m complaining, mind you. It’s been like early Christmas with all the comings and goings. I just brought in another Yank now. From Chicago, of all places.” He paused, frowning. “Now, that’s interesting, isn’t it?” he said. “The lady was from Chicago too.”

“Well, that’s where Mr. Roach was from,” I said, “so I suppose it would be big news there.”

He laughed. “In Chicago? That’s where the gangsters are, isn’t it? Killing each other left and right every day.”

Then a thought crossed my mind. I went closer to the taxi. “Barney, are you the only taxi that comes out from Kildare?”

“For the most part, yes,” he said.

“Do you remember driving an American professor—a big man—called Professor Peabody?”

He screwed up his face in concentration. “I remember a big chap once,” he said. “That’s right. Had me drive him out here and then back again. He wanted to look at the digging that was going on. But that was a while ago now.”

“So you drove him back to Kildare and he hasn’t come back since?”

“Not to my knowledge,” he said.

“And you haven’t seen him around Kildare?”

“Oh, I’d have heard if a strange American was hanging around in Kildare,” he said.

So that put a damper on our theory that Professor Peabody was somehow involved in the murder, unless he hadn’t come through Kildare on a second occasion, which was quite possible. I thanked Barney and was hurrying back to the others in the Rolls when I saw a figure slink past me, heading for the pub. It was Mickey Riley.

Chapter 31

WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 5

A tragedy in Kilhenny. Or was it?

“Of course, Professor Peabody could have hired himself a car in Dublin,” Darcy said when I related the conversation as we drove off again. “And who was that blond woman you were talking to?”

“The American reporter I met when I first arrived,” I said. “She was trying to sweet-talk me into arranging an interview with your father. I gather the police have finally stopped reporters from bothering him.”

“Thank heavens for that,” Darcy said. “At least the Garda have done something useful.”

Zou Zou was now peering anxiously out of the car window. “Oh dear. My poor little aeroplane. Do you think we can find someone to move it before it gets too cold and wet?”

“I think planes are made to fly through the elements, aren’t they?” Darcy said. “And we did cover the cockpit.”

“But the wings . . . they are so delicate. They are not made to be buried in snowdrifts. We have to find some nice boys to move it into a barn or a stable.”