Free Condemned to Death by Cora Harrison Page A

attack. He’d be sixty, I’d say. Could be more, could be less. He looked an old man when I came first to Galway, and that’s some time ago. He loaned me money for my first shop.’
    ‘What would have brought him to the Burren?’ queried Mara and Oisín hoisted his shoulders and pursed out his mouth. Mara did not press him. Oisín was a man who always liked to know everything – and to be known as the man who knew everything – and she didn’t want him inventing knowledge.
    ‘How would a man get from Galway City to Fanore?’ she asked. Of course, she thought, a search must be made for a stray horse, and it was possible that one was now quietly feeding from the sparse grass on the rocky fields that overlooked the sea.
    ‘Not by horse, anyway,’ said Oisín unexpectedly. ‘He didn’t ride. He told me once that horses frightened the life out of him. No need for a horse if you stick to the city streets; that’s what he used to say.’
    That was true; thought Mara. Galway was a small city. She thought about it for a moment. This goldsmith hated horses; so how had he got to the Burren?
    ‘So it has to be by boat,’ said Mara thoughtfully.
    ‘Someone must have brought him.’ Oisín sounded quite sure of that. ‘He didn’t have a boat of his own. I can’t imagine him managing one. He was quite a feeble old man. It will have been one of the fishermen from around here.’
    It was, of course, a possibility. It could have been anyone. All of the O’Connors had been involved in this great new enterprise of selling these carefully smoked fish to Galway inns and pie houses. Fernandez had explained to her that the brine-impregnated wood and the seaweed gave the fish a delicate flavour that was relished in a city famous for its places to eat.
    But there was one man from Fanore who was not involved in this enterprise, but this one man crossed and re-crossed Galway Bay almost every single day.
    ‘You’ve never traded in samphire, have you?’ She put the question idly to Oisín and was not surprised to see him shake his head.
    ‘No,’ he said decisively. ‘I trade in almost anything. In fact, I make money by combining loads, by sending heavy flagstones and light leather cloaks to Bordeaux and bringing back barrels of wine and parcels of French lace. Or it could be that I send hunting dogs and salted meat to Spain and bring back oranges, apricots and gold and silver bullion. I might do something with these smoked fish if they taste good, but I’d never touch anything like samphire – too short-lived – they say that it should be in the boiling water as soon as it’s taken from the sea. Now Brendan O’Connor knows that. He carries it in barrels filled with seawater right over to the quay in Galway. He tells me that for a special customer he sometimes even chips off pieces of the rock and brings it, still growing, into the kitchen. But in any case he’s got woven baskets to put it in when he fishes it out and he just carries it dripping down the street. The cooks like that; it shows the people in the street that they are using fresh ingredients,’ said Oisín with a nod of admiration towards another successful merchant.
    Mara listened with amusement. Her son-in-law had forgotten about the murder in his interest in how another man made money. She was not surprised when after a minute he burst out with: ‘I’ve just got such a good idea. I could sell him some of my worn-out half-barrels. I know a sign-writer – does some great pictures for the inns – he could paint a picture of the samphire on the barrels and Brendan’s name. It would look good and he’s getting more business as he goes along the streets. The inns and pie shops would like it, too. Regular customers could have their names painted on them as well. I must have a word with Brendan, see what he thinks. It could be the making of him.’
    ‘Well, you’ll see him tomorrow morning,’ said Mara rising to her feet. ‘I hope Brigid makes you