Free In Like Flynn by Rhys Bowen

grunting with the pull of the oars.
    “And I came as apprentice about five years ago.“
    “Was that before the tragedy with the Senator’s son?” I asked.
    “A few months before,” he said. So it was indeed the same man.
    “That must have been so terrible for everyone at the house,” I said. “His family in Ireland certainly felt it hard enough. My poor mother never stopped crying.”
    Adam nodded. “It was bad,” he said. “A bad time. If you ask me they've never really gotten over it.”
    Tom glared at him. 'You keep your mind on the rowing and forget about the gossiping. It was none of our business then and it still ain't now.”
    “You two must have been lucky or particularly good workers,” I pressed on. “1 heard that Cousin Flynn fired all his employees after the tragedy.”
    “Most of them, yes,” Tom said. “But it just happened that Adam and I were away when it took place. I was laid up with pneumonia and Adam was visiting his sick mother, who lives on the other side of the river. So the master figured we could have had nothing to do with the crime and he kept us on.”
    I nodded. The western bank was fast approaching, but as yet I saw no sign of a house. A great hill rose up, clad in a shaggy coat of trees, with the occasional boulder showing through—as wild as anything I'd seen in Connemara at home.
    “So from what we heard, it was the chauffeur did it?” I ventured as the two rowers negotiated us past a clump of swirling vegetation brought down from upstream. “He must have been a smart one to have planned something as cunning as that.”
    Adam looked up now. “Bertie? He never struck me as another Thomas Edison, nor as having an evil nature either. We often went for a pint at the tavern and—”
    “Watch your oar, boy” old Tom snapped. 'You'll run us aground and the little lady will be feeding the fishes.”
    They rowed in silence past some frightening-looking rocks. Then I looked up and gasped. The trees had parted. In front of me were green lawns and behind them a sprawling, gray stone house, rising three stories high amid the trees. It had a romantic look to it, with a round tower on the far right and painted shutters at the windows.
    “Here we are,” old Tom said, and took over both oars as Adam leaped nimbly onto a small wooden jetty. My bags were handed up, then Tom took me by the hand.
    “You're a very curious young lady, by the sound of it,” he said. “Let me give you a word of advice. It don't pay to ask too many questions around here.”
    Then he handed me up to Adam and I was ashore.

Seven
    I had no time for thought as Adam picked up my bags and set off at a lively pace across the lawn. As I approached the house, I had a chance to study it more closely. I couldn't say I found Adare elegant. Solid. Imposing. Powerful—that was the word for it. The exterior was rough-cut granite. The style was definitely a mixture—a Southern type of veranda running along the side of the house that faced the river, but with that very Italian-looking round tower at the right, French shutters at the windows and a roof that looked more Dutch than anything. I wondered if the first owner had designed it himself and what had attracted Barney Flynn to buy it.
    As we approached the veranda, I heard voices and noticed figures sitting in the shade at white-clothed tables. It was four o'clock. Obviously tea was being served. We came closer, unnoticed, until a servant tapped one of the women on the shoulder and pointed to me. Then all heads turned in our direction and a young woman rose to her feet.
    “Molly, you're here at last,” she exclaimed, coming to greet me with open arms. “We've been waiting impatiently all day. You must be exhausted, poor lamb. All that tiring travel. Do come and have a cup of tea before you drop.”
    “I've only come by train from New York today, not all the way from Ireland,” I said, returning her smile. “And forgive me for asking, but you must be Cousin