Free The Death of an Irish Lass by Bartholomew Gill

reporter for a big New York daily?”
    He nodded. “The biggest. The Daily News . Hard-hatnewspaper. The sort of newspaper an I.R.A. gunman would read.”
    “And you read what when you were there?”
    “The Times , of course.”
    “The university man’s newspaper. The sort a bright young medical student, who wanted to help his people in a way different from that of a May Quirk, would read, eh?”
    Again the doctor looked at McGarr. “Exactly.”
    “It doesn’t seem to bother you very much that she’s been murdered.”
    “No more than when any of my patients dies. No less.”
    “What did you treat her for, Dr….” The young man had not given McGarr his name.
    “Fleming. She had missed her period. She wanted to know if she was pregnant.”
    “And?”
    “She was.”
    “Do you know who the father was?”
    He shook his head. “Could be about anybody.” He smiled slightly, then added, “Although that’s not fair. I know nothing about May Quirk’s sexual indiscretions. And don’t want to know, either. Now that she’s a historical figure, as it were, I’m sure the countryside will be crawling with types just like she was, all of them trying to dig up any squalid rumor about her past. I’m sure it’ll all make interesting reading for some.”
    McGarr didn’t care for this nasty young man. He doubted that Fleming was as disinterested in May Quirk’s past and her untoward fate as he claimed. “Where were you last night, may I ask?”
    “You may. I suppose it’s the price I must pay forhaving been candid with you. I treated a local man for gout.”
    “Who is he, and what time was that?”
    “Daniel Quirk.” Fleming smiled wanly at McGarr. “He lives in the village. He was May’s uncle.”
    “Yes; I know the man.”
    “Then I stopped in Griffin’s, which is the pub on the corner across from the traffic standard.”
    McGarr raised an eyebrow. “So you drink?”
    “I returned to Ireland, remember? It’s my right, wouldn’t you say? Anyhow, May was there with her following.”
    “Drinking?”
    “Not really. She never ever really drank liquor. She’d buy one for herself as a prop, and she’d buy for anybody else who wanted one too.”
    “And her following?”
    He shook his head. “As I just explained to you, Inspector. They’re the kids who want to get out of Lahinch and Clare and maybe Ireland itself. They don’t drink, on principle.”
    “Doesn’t sound like much of a pub crowd.”
    “May made up for it. She made everybody merry with her banter and jokes. She had a tongue in her.”
    McGarr wondered if that was a wistful thought. His tone was unchanged, however. “Were you a part of May Quirk’s ‘following’?”
    “Me?”
    “For a different reason.”
    “And what would that be?”
    “Love. Hate. Maybe you liked to look at a pretty girl.”
    Suddenly his delicate features froze. He looked McGarr right in the eye. “Let me tell you something, McGarr. If May Quirk was pretty, it was only skin deep. To me she had lost her looks. She wasn’t very pretty. Not very pretty at all.” He turned and walked back to the ambulance van. He jumped in and the driver backed them out onto the road, where they drove toward Lahinch.
    “What do you make of him?” McGarr asked O’Malley, meaning Fleming.
    “Just a daft farmer. A loner. Probably got himself a proper snootful last night. A couple of days in hospital, a bath, and a few good meals and he’ll be on the mend. I’ll get a social worker to look in on him from now on. Maybe the priest can organize a work crew to come out here and clean up the house a bit. The kids in town will do that now, you know. Sure, there’s not much work for them lately.” O’Malley looked at the house and shuddered, then walked over and shut the kitchen door.
    When he returned, he realized McGarr had meant Dr. Fleming. “Oh—he’s a fine doctor. Wonderful training. They say he’s not just a G. P. but a surgeon, too. They offered him a fine post in