Free Long Goodbyes by Scott Hunter Page B

yards from the gates by a young farmer on his way to the market. It was fortunate for me that he was passing - he would not normally have taken such a detour, but he had felt impelled to catch a glimpse of the grand house for himself, such was its reputation.
     
    And that, Inspector Keefe, is a true account of my experiences in the spring of nineteen hundred and seventeen.

    Inspector Diarmuid Keefe laid down his notebook. ‘It’s a very persuasive story you tell, right enough, Mrs MacLennan - that’s not to say an inventive one.’
    ‘It is no invention, Inspector.’
    Keefe scratched his forehead with his pencil. ‘Jenny - may I call you by your first name? We’ve known each other long enough, have we not?’
    ‘It will be six years this summer, Inspector.’
    ‘Six years.’ Keefe paused and tapped his pencil thoughtfully against his cheek. ‘Now that’s a long time to put up with living in a place like this.’
    ‘I am managing sufficiently well.’
    Keefe nodded. ‘Yes, I can see that you are relatively comfortable. You have your own room, at least, unlike many.’
    ‘Poor souls,’ Jenny MacLennan said. ‘I fear that they would not know - nor care - where they laid their heads.’
    ‘Perhaps not,’ Keefe agreed. During his earlier journey through the sanatorium he had encountered a group of inmates, eyes full of emptiness and shoulders slumped as they were herded from one bleak corner of the institution to another. ‘And how is your health, generally, Jenny?’
    ‘I have experienced no further trouble, Inspector. The doctors have been most thorough in both observation and treatment.’
    Keefe grunted. He recalled that immediately after her arrest MacLennan had been rushed to hospital with stomach pains. They had operated without delay, and according to the medical records, they had eventually been obliged to perform an hysterectomy for a severely infected womb. She had been readmitted on one occasion for a suspected secondary infection, from which, despite the onset of septic shock, she had made a remarkably good recovery, this despite the doctors’ frankly gloomy prognosis. Jenny MacLennan’s immune system was, it seemed, nothing if not robust. Notwithstanding, Keefe had remained oddly troubled by the conviction that, for whatever reason, certain information regarding MacLennan’s medical history had been withheld. However, gentle pressure having been applied, he had been assured that all pertinent facts had been disclosed, and he was therefore obliged - albeit grudgingly - to accept that, on this occasion, his usually reliable intuition had misdirected him .
    The physical side of her health dealt with, Keefe moved on. ‘Jenny, both you and I know full well that you are as sane as the next woman, so let me ask directly: why do you persist with this nonsensical account?’
    ‘I have told you the truth, Inspector. Just as I told it to you after my arrest.’
    Keefe leaned forward suddenly. ‘Orla Benjamin was bludgeoned to death by a heavy cane handle which was found to be covered in your fingerprints. No one else was seen in the vicinity on the night of the murder. No one.’
    ‘I am aware of the so-called evidence, Inspector. And not a day goes by that I do not mourn the loss of my friend.’
    ‘You never argued? Never had a disagreement?’
    ‘Never.’
    ‘The tone and content of the various conversations you enjoyed with Mrs Benjamin seem - how shall I put it? - too good to be true. Trite, even.’
    ‘Indeed? You are clearly not accustomed to the manner in which women conduct their friendships, Inspector. The interaction of you menfolk with one another is quite a different thing.’
    ‘Is that so?’ Keefe pressed on. ‘You alluded to Mrs Benjamin’s concern for your husband on more than one occasion. Were you jealous of the attention she paid him?’
    ‘Why should I have been? Her intentions were both platonic and honourable.’
    Keefe sat back in the uncomfortable wooden chair with