Murder at Silver Point

Tommy Mulhern’s Audi cruises the 30 minutes from Cork to East Ferry by way of Midleton. He reminisces the lazy afternoons spent in the swimming pool at Silver Point, June sunshine’s warmth juxtaposed with the cool breezes from the harbour. It was twenty years ago, or it was yesterday. The brain plays tricks with time. As he speeds south from Ballinacurra to Saleen, Tommy muses at how little has changed, a patchwork of farmettes and postage stamp lots with comfortable houses for Ireland’s prospering middle class. He makes the turn west. It is all nostalgia. He remembers the smell of her hair, that bed of seductive black curls that owned him for a summer. Likely, the scents he recalls are the sweet roses and bluebells peppered with the fresh saltwater air. But again, the brain has its own way of sorting. The gates with the oversized S and P are already open, he speculates, in anticipation of his arrival. He drives through and heads towards the Main House. The entire plot is less than five acres crowded against the water to maximize shoreline. Where there are not dwellings, there are lawns, the cabana, and that pool where, bikini-shod, she had, in not-so-subtle fashion, seduced his eighteen-year-old self. Today, all the activity is at the pool. As he approaches, there she is, still beautiful, sunlight glistening on the droplets in her black hair. It seems she is alight. She is much as he remembers her, floating on her back, eyes closed, ruminating some rumination. The too-tight bright orange bikini is iridescent against her alabaster skin. He would be transported back to those unhurried days if not for the man, face down in the water. Tommy, deep in his remembrances is brought back to the present by Philip Montclair. Philip yells, shaking his fists in Tommy’s face, “Who would do such a thing? Who would want to hurt my angel, my Fiona?” Then, just as quickly as the rage flares, it subsides. Philip queries, “Don’t I know you? Sorry, can’t put a name to the face.”

“Tommy Mulhern, Mr. Montclair. I knew Fiona at Midleton Prep. She would invite me over from time to time.” This is the zenith of understatement. That summer, she was his everything. Tommy continues, pulling out his shield, “I am a Detective Inspector with the Garda NBCI. I work homicides. Who found Fiona? Who is the gentleman? What time were the bodies discovered?”

Philip is taken aback and catches himself in a stumble. “Beth found her about two hours ago. She is up at the house, inconsolable.” Philip starts in again, his face rage-contorted, his voice in a crescendo as he moves from “Why are you doing nothing? Why are you wasting your time with us? The killer is getting away while you shuffle papers and scribble notes.”

The Montclair’s have been in County Cork for centuries. Until the Great Depression, the family owned most of the warehouses on the harbour’s waterfront. Much of their wealth has been squandered, yet Philip carefully maintains his aristocratic disdain for all the “lesser common folk”. “It is very British of him.”, Tommy reflects. He didn’t like Mr. Montclair when he was dating Fiona. He has little fondness for this man standing in front of him now.

The lab techs are in the pool, carefully containing the area, judicious for anything out of the ordinary. They are preparing the bodies for removal and examination by the coroner. “Mr. Montclair, I understand you are incensed. You have my personal commitment that what can be done, will be done. If you will excuse me, I need to have a conversation with Mrs. Montclair.”

Elizabeth Collins Montclair grew up in West Cork, Clonakilty to be exact, five kilometers from the birthplace of her famous great-great uncle, Michael Collins, hero, martyr, and general in the War for Independence. Two score ago, fresh from nine months in Paris, her Cordon Bleu Grand Diplôme in hand, Beth left Clonakilty and headed to Cork. She had fallen in love with the simpler side of French cuisine. Rather than pursue a Michelin star she opened a small French-style bistro near the English Market, assuring a genuine farm-to-table experience.

As Tommy approaches the portico with its huge antique carved doors, he makes out sobbing, then inaudible consolation. His knocks are answered by Meg, the same housekeeper he had known as a kid. She recognizes him and he acknowledges her with a genuine, “You look the same as I remember you. You have not aged a day. I need to have a discussion with Mrs. Montclair.” The housekeeper ushers him to the conservatory. It offers a panoramic view of the harbour. There is a pleasant-looking young lady, her tailored garda uniform neatly pressed. Beth, her raven hair starting to gray, is sitting next to the officer on the settee. Her tear-stained cheeks accent the years passed since he has last seen her. Tommy and Fiona were always a study in contrasts. She was like her mother, black hair, seductive brown eyes, pure white unblemished skin. Tommy is blond, blue-eyed, and freckled. Beth calls out to Meg, “Bring Tommy a dram. I know I could use one.” Tommy defers with a “Mrs. Montclair, thank you, but I am on duty.” Beth gives him a queer look. Tommy forgets that his plainclothes would provide little clue to his identity. “Mrs. Montclair, I am here in an official capacity. Mr. Montclair suggested that you found the bodies. What did you see?” Beth starts in, tentatively, “I called out to her, but she didn’t answer. I thought she might be sleeping or deep in thought.” Tommy remembered Fiona in exactly that pose, often. “But then I saw Elouan, face down, floating. I screamed, but Philip could not hear me, so I ran, as best I can, to the house. Philip struggled to understand the crisis. I suppose I was hysterical. I really don’t remember much. When we got back to the pool, we were certain she was dead. It was clear that Elouan was.”

“Did either of you attempt CPR?” Beth responds, embarrassed, “Neither of us know how, or Philip might have known once, but did not try to revive her. We just stood at the side of the pool, gazing in. We could hear the garda sirens approaching so we thought it best to leave it to them.” With that, Beth broke down again.

Philip Montclair was a mediocre student. However, he was a Montclair so his admission to University College Cork was assured. His widowed father aspired Cambridge or Oxford for his only son. Philip’s athleticism and good looks belied his unexceptional self, so father and son begrudgingly conceded to UCC. Philip shared a flat near the university with two other equally unmotivated, well-to-do chaps. Generous allowances in hand, they would spend most evenings at one pub or another, coursing, rarely catching their prey. One evening, pre-pub crawl, they saw the sign for La Petite Café. The boys sauntered in for some victuals. To this day, Philip remembers nothing of what he ate, what was said, or where they might have gone afterwards. There she was - a couple of years younger, but much more worldly. She was beautiful, confident, talented. Philip, usually so sure of himself with the opposite sex found himself tongue-tied, like a stammering adolescent. Despite his awkwardness fueling her qualms, the romance between Beth Collins and Philip Montclair blossomed.

While Philip and Beth were courting in Cork, Abran DuBlew boarded the steamer in Roscoff, Brittany with his son, Elouan. Each had a bicycle. In the cargo-hold were some personal items and crates upon crates of onions. For years, Abran had made the trip from Brittany to Plymouth, making his way to London. Abran had been living the life of his father, his grandfather, and ancestors back to the early 1800’s. He wanted to pass on the family traditions to Elouan. Abran’s dulling eyes showed his age and a certain sadness. The automobile, suburbs, supermarkets conspired to make his ilk an endangered species. He was among the last of the Onion Johnnies, those bicycle-riding Bretons hawking the sweet iodine-tinged bulb of culinary perfection found only in Roscoff. Abran can remember when every restauranteur in London eagerly awaited his arrival. For Elouan, this trip had a very different purpose. Elouan's father was ill. It would be Abran’s last voyage. The sojourn was a working vacation, a bonding for father and son. Upon their return to Roscoff, Elouan was off to the engineering school at Saclay. In the meantime, he would keep an eye on his papa and have an adventure. Abran imagined that the Irish Riviera would be more lucrative than London. The Cork restaurant scene was flourishing. Their kitchens were run by chefs like Beth trained in French cuisine who would not compromise on ingredients. Roscoff onions were an essential foodstuff.

Tommy waits patiently, compassionately for Beth Montclair to regain her composure. “Mrs. Montclair, you identified the man as ‘Elouan’?”

Beth hesitates, “Yes, Elouan DuBlew. He is a Breton friend of Philip and me for forty years. He is visiting Cork on holiday. He arrived yesterday. Philip picked him up at the ferry terminal. He invited him to stay in the bedroom at the cabana for a couple of days. Then, Elouan would be off to Dublin.”

“Mrs. Montclair, can you think of anyone who might want to harm Fiona?”

“Tommy, everyone loves Fiona. Her divorce from Patrick was untidy, but I cannot imagine him doing her any physical harm.”

“What about Mr. DuBlew? Did he have any enemies?”

“He is an engineer from Brittany. Besides Philip and me, he has very few acquaintances in Ireland. No obvious suspects come to mind. Was he just in the wrong place at the wrong time?”

Tommy is back in his office when the coroner calls. Detective Mulhern makes his way to the basement and its morgue. Fiona and Elouan are sheet-shroud, looking so much like ghosts in repose. This is Tommy’s first opportunity to study Elouan’s face. “Handsome man, full head of silver hair, slight build”, he observes to himself.

The coroner starts in, “They did not drown. No water in their lungs. They were killed elsewhere and moved to the pool. The woman was strangled, probable cause of death. The man appears to have suffered blunt force trauma to the side of his head. Again, the likely cause of his demise. We are awaiting results from a few tests. This was no accident. Safe to assume for today that it is a double homicide. Strangulation is a very intimate method of murder. Suggests that it may not have been premeditated, but rather a crime of passion. The older gentleman might have surprised the killer in the act. Pure conjecture on my part. Nevertheless, I wonder if the perp intended to kill anyone this morning. I put the time of death after 6AM.”

Tommy mulls over the new facts. A crime of passion against Fiona combined with the strength required to lift dead weight suggests the perpetrator is a man. “Is there any evidence of rape or sexual assault?”, Tommy queries.

“No, she tested negative for the presence of semen. None of the telltale genital bruising consistent with an attack.”

Fiona and Patrick O’Clery’s marriage started out all excitement and romance. Alcohol, infidelity, and jealousies took their toll. They had both wanted to start a family, but it was not in the cards. The O’Clery’s, like the Montclair’s, is a prominent Cork family. Cork’s daily newspaper led the media frenzy. Every sordid detail was played out in public. It was a who’s cheating with whom extravaganza resulting in a few more divorce filings. When the smoke cleared, Fiona ended up with half of Patrick’s property and a €5,000 monthly allowance until her 65th birthday. Fiona got custody of the few friends who remained. Tommy thinks that Patrick certainly has passion and motive. Tommy is doubting opportunity. Silver Point is well secured. It is not so large an estate that someone as unwelcome as Patrick could traipse in, commit murder, move bodies (from where?), and sneak out in broad daylight.

In the afternoon, Tommy retraces his morning drive. Once through the gate, he parks by the pool. He makes his way to the cabana. Tommy hypothesizes that Elouan would still have been in bed sleeping in the early morning hours. The malefactor, Patrick, as an example, would not have expected anyone to be in the cabana. He may have coaxed Fiona there. Maybe, he just wanted to talk. Talking escalated to argument and then something more violent. Elouan could have heard the ruckus and came out of the bedroom to investigate. Did Patrick hit him with whatever heavy object was available and then strangle Fiona to cover his tracks? Or was Fiona already unconscious or even dead, then Elouan surprised him, so Patrick killed him? If not Patrick, who? The cabana is comprised of a party room as one walks in. Behind the party room is the bedroom. To the right and left are changing rooms. Tommy observes the party room is very clean, recently vacuumed. Likewise, the bedroom is clean, fresh sheets on the bed. Tommy picks up his iPhone, launches his browser, logs on to the garda virtual evidence room. He scans through the photographs the techs took this morning. The pictures are identical to the scene before him. Everything is spic and span. Had Elouan even slept here? If not, where? Thus, where is the scene of the crime?

Tommy’s thoughts are interrupted by commotion outside. Philip Montclair is yelling and shoving a burly worker who looks to be a gardener. The worker, calm at first, is now shouting back with what Tommy deciphers are Polish expletives. To prevent further escalation, Tommy steps in between the two men. “All I am asking is that when he finishes using equipment, he puts it back. He is hired to make the grounds look better not cluttered. I am tired of his excuses. Who else is leaving rakes, shovels, wheelbarrows, and lawn carts about?” Tommy gets another glimpse of that disproportionate and uncontrolled rage he witnessed from Philip this morning. Tommy writes it off to the stress of the day’s events. “Mr. Montclair, what piece of equipment is out of place today?” Philip pauses as if gathering his thoughts or self-control, mutters something indecipherable. Finally, with a look of confoundment, blurts out, “The bloody wheelbarrow.” The groundskeeper responds in broken English, “I not use bloody wheelbarrow.” And walks off in a huff.

The garda techs carefully package up the wheelbarrow. They head back to the lab for its closer examination. In the meantime, Tommy tracks down Beth Montclair, carefully deadheading roses. “Mrs. Montclair, is your husband suffering any ailment? His behaviour seems erratic. I have witnessed him lose his temper several times, disproportionate to the provocation. Mostly, he seems unsteady, frustrated and confused.” Beth starts slowly, “You cannot tell him that I said anything. He has Huntington’s Disease, which is a degenerative disease of the brain. His mother succumbed when he was a young boy. He is fortunate to be symptom-free for as long as he has. Recently, I noticed consistent memory lapses, increased irritability, long periods of depression. No one had ever told him how his mother died. There was a 50/50 chance he would not contract the disease. Perhaps, his father felt it best not to weigh him down.”

“Could Huntington’s provoke him to kill someone? I watched him with the groundskeeper just now. He seemed very aggressive.” Beth merely shrugs her shoulders. Tommy continues, “Did Fiona carry the mutant gene?”

Beth replies, “No, thank God. We had her tested and she is fine.” At which point, Beth breaks down crying. Tommy observes this denial so often. “No,” he thinks to himself, “Fiona is not fine, she is on a slab in a downtown Cork basement.”

Sure enough, the wheelbarrow has traces of skin and hair that match Fiona and Elouan’s. It is looking more to Tommy the murderer is someone who either lives or works at Silver Point. Tommy is back at the station getting a closer look at the photos from the estate. He looks at the cabana party room again. He sees something he missed previously. One corner of the room has been set aside for exercise equipment – treadmill, Peloton, rowing machine, universal weight machine. On the wall is a rack of dumbbells lined up in pairs left to right. At the far right of the rack, closest to the wall, is an empty spot leaving the weight next to it without its mate. His iPhone rings, interrupting his ponderings. “Tommy”, Mulhern recognizes the coroner’s voice, “I could not get your rape question out of my head. There is a test, recently developed, for cases when there is no trace of semen. During the sex act, the assailant’s skin particles are left behind. By testing for the y chromosome, it can be proven that male penetration occurred. It does not prove rape. The lack of bruising suggests this encounter might have been consensual. We tried to analyse for DNA, but to no avail. However, separately, our DNA analysis came back from the two victims. You sitting down? It appears that the dead woman is the daughter of the male victim.” Tommy relates the story of the dumbbell. “Could it be the murder weapon?” “Yes, that would be consistent with the injury. A small dumbbell would make sense.”

Tommy has been narrowing his list of prime suspects. Philip is at the top of that list. Does he know about Fiona’s paternity? If so, he has motive for both murders. He has plenty of opportunity. He also has little to lose facing his final years with Huntington’s. His behaviour is erratic, his moods bordering on violent. Tommy’s next thought, “Was it premeditated? Did he invite Elouan to Silver Point to kill the man?”

The drive to Silver Point the next morning passes in an instant, Tommy’s mind elsewhere. He is sorting through what he knows, bothered by what he does not. Philip is outside, staring into the pool, crying. Tommy walks up quietly. Philip, startled, loses his balance and Tommy steadies him. “Mr. Montclair, I need clarification on a couple of items. What was your relationship with Mr. DuBrew and why did you invite him to your home?”

Philip sniffles, wipes at his eyes, “Elouan was Beth’s friend from back in her café days, I hardly knew him. I did not invite him, Beth did.”

“Then, you did not offer the cabana bedroom for his use before he moved on to Dublin.”

Philip replies with some irritation, “As I said, I did not invite him. Beth made the arrangements. He confirmed on the ride from the ferry terminal he was heading back to Roscoff day after tomorrow. If there is nothing else, good day.”

Tommy is walking slowly to the house, in no hurry to confront Beth. He loathes his bubbling instincts. He held off pursuing the paternity line of questioning with Philip until he gets an unfettered understanding of Beth’s and Elouan’s relationship. He makes a few telephone calls.

“Mrs. Montclair, I need to review a couple of details you shared earlier. How exactly did it come to be that Elouan DuBrew was at Silver Point?”

Her terse reply, “We invited him. He was coming over to Ireland. We wanted to share our hospitality with an old friend.”

Tommy presses, “When you say ‘we’, who exactly extended the invitation.”

Now annoyed, her response, “I don’t recall. Why does it matter?”

Tommy ignores her question and continues, “How did you know he was coming to Ireland?”

“We correspond from time to time, mostly by email. He must have written it to me.”

Tommy sees her shifting in the chair, uneasily. “Does Mr. DuBrew correspond with you, Philip, or both?”

“Mostly me.”

“Mrs. Montclair, if I asked Philip that same question, how do you think he would respond?”

She stammers, “He would probably say he has rarely emailed Elouan.”

“So, is it likely that you extended the invitation?” Tommy does not wait for her answer. “You mentioned that Mr. DuBrew was heading to Dublin after his stay in East Ferry, yes?” She gives him an affirmative nod with more chair squirming. “Would it surprise you to know he has no rental car reservation, airline ticket, or hotel accommodation arrangements in Dublin?” She doesn't look surprised and says nothing. Tommy changes course, “Mrs. Montclair, did Mr. DuBrew know that Fiona was his daughter?” This inquiry does not surprise her, either.

“No, he did not. I always had my suspicions. They were confirmed only recently. It was a long time ago. I loved them both. Elouan was an exciting vagabond, beautiful, so much like the men I dated in Paris. He showed up one day, jaunty, a string of onions on his arm. It was all fantasy transporting me to a simpler era. By contrast, Philip was certainty and security. We were all just kids, but it was time for me to grow up. Elouan still had much maturing left to do.”

Tommy knows the questioning is going to take a more difficult turn. The tone of his voice changes and by rote says, “You are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so but anything you say may be taken down in writing and may be used in evidence”. Her face goes ashen.

She whimpers, stifling a tear. “It was an accident. Well not exactly an accident, but rather a moment of insanity.” All at once, she blurts out the story, almost relieved in its telling.

“Fiona’s test for the Huntington’s gene came by post. I opened the letter. Cutting to the chase, it stated she was negative because she and Philip are not related. I burned the letter. I invited Elouan to Cork to tell him the truth. I imagined we might tell Fiona together, 'one big happy family'.”, said with a sarcastic snigger. “There had been no opportunity to talk with Elouan alone the night before. I got up early, 5:30, the break of dawn. I walked down to the cabana. In the party room, I heard distant grunts from the bedroom. It was déjà vu. Forty years later, Elouan was still that teenage boy. I grabbed a dumbbell off the rack. Two seconds later, I opened the bedroom door. I saw what I had heard. Fiona had taken my place. I lost my mind. He was lying on top of her. I hit him as hard as I could. He fell off the bed and on to the floor. I jumped on her and dementedly clenched Fiona’s throat until she went limp. The sunrise was peeking through the window. Philip would be asleep for at least two hours. Meg comes at 9, so I had plenty of time. I stripped and remade the bed. I vacuumed the party room and the bedroom. I threw the dumbbell from the dock into the harbour. I dressed the bodies in bathing suits I found in the changing rooms. It wasn’t easy but I loaded Fiona and wheeled her to the pool. I repeated the chore with Elouan. I was putting the finishing touches on my handiwork when the groundskeeper’s truck pulled through the gate. I ran to the side of the pool and screamed.”

As a serene Beth drives away in the back of the patrol car, Tommy looks over at a confused Philip standing on the driveway’s asphalt. Considering Fiona’s unlikely complicity in her own murder, Tommy wonders if Beth had planned some version. Her best outcome was Philip takes the fall. Either way, she is free of his Huntington’s and him.