After a long silence, Mick said quietly, “A doctor might’ve said different.”

Bernard turned to face him. “Yeh’re a local man, are yeh not? Yeh’d know how long it would’ve been to get a doctor here. Or to take him to hospital. Part of the man’s head was bashed in like an egg—yeh could see it easy. He fell hard.”

“Yeh could have tried,” Mick said, “and explained what happened. It was an accident, right?”

Bernard straightened up to face Mick squarely. “I might’ve hit the man if I could, fer that’s what I was thinkin’ to do, and he saw that. But I never had the chance.”

Mick was right, Maura knew. If Bernard had only left things alone after checking on John’s condition and reported it immediately, there would have been no problem. A tragic fall, poor John, end of story. An accident. But Bernard had done his best to cover it all up, and then he’d lied. Why?

“So why didn’t you call the gardaí and tell them what happened?” Maura demanded.

Bernard looked down at his feet. “Do yeh know, I really can’t say. I knew I hadn’t laid a hand on him. But he was rich and important, and I was the old gardener. Why would anyone believe me?” He looked up at Maura then. “And then I started thinkin’. There’s plenty of people who had reason to do him harm if their secrets came out. Mebbe the world has changed, but there’s still those who would think that Siobhan should have given her baby away and gone away herself. Could be Ellen wouldn’t mind everyone knowin’ how she came into the world, but it would still hurt her ma. I couldn’t have that. Me job’s not important, but Siobhan’s is to her. I could’ve taken the man up on his offer and never told her, but I wouldn’t want to lie to her. I was afraid she’d take my side and quit, and where would we have been then?”

“You told the gardaí you found John’s body the next morning halfway down the hill. You moved him?” Mick pressed.

Bernard nodded. “I looked about and didn’t see anyone—it was dark anyways, and there were few guests stayin’ at the hotel, so none could see us in the back. I had the wheelbarrow close by, so I picked the man up and dumped him in it, then covered him with a canvas and shoved it in a corner where no one would look. I figgered I’d best wait until it was full dark to move him. I wanted folk to think he was alone.”

“What about his phone?” Maura asked.

“Flew out of his hand when he fell and hit a rock. It was broken, so I pitched it down the hill after him. That’s the truth. Figgered when he was found, people would think it had fallen out of his pocket when he went down the hill and might not even bother lookin’ fer it.”

“How long did yeh wait?” Mick asked.

“It was gone midnight when I shuffled him down the path and over the edge. Siobhan was coverin’ the desk that night, so she didn’t notice how late I was. It were early the next mornin’ I called the gardaí, said I come upon Byrne at the bottom of the hill, and it was clear he were dead.”

“Did you clean up the wheelbarrow?” Maura asked suddenly. There might still be evidence there, like John’s blood. But did she want the gardaí to find evidence that pointed to Bernard? Or did she want to spare him?

She felt lost. Murder was a crime—but this wasn’t a murder, exactly. Bernard might have wanted to hit him, but he’d never gotten close enough, if what Bernard had told them was the truth. Was he lying to her? He’d only wanted to spare his beloved wife pain. Damn this love stuff. What exactly was Bernard guilty of? Threatening John? Concealing evidence? Were those crimes in Ireland?

What if John Byrne’s death was officially declared an accident rather than a murder? It would be kinder to John’s family back in the States. It would save Siobhan and Ellen possible embarrassment. Bernard would be in the clear, on record as the person who found the body. It might make a difference to the remaining members of JBCo—an accident on the grounds would be less damaging to its reputation than a murder.

But she would have to lie to Detective Hurley and Sean Murphy, or at least shade the truth, for the sake of someone she barely knew. And that would be wrong. The gardaí trusted her, and that mattered too.

What would Mick think? He’d heard what Bernard had said, and he knew Siobhan’s and Ellen’s stories. Would the idea that Bernard had wanted only to protect the wife he adored be enough to convince Mick to keep quiet? And did she have the right to ask him to do that?

Mick seemed to be watching her, waiting. Maura turned to face Bernard. “Bernard, I want to think over what you’ve told me and how it all fits together. You may not like it, but I think I need to tell the gardaí about what you’ve just told me. I believe that it was an accident, but that’s not my decision to make.”

Bernard’s expression was grave. “I can respect that. I may not have liked John Byrne, but I never would’ve killed the man or let him die in front of me because I stood by and did nothing. I’d swear that on any Bible.”

After a long moment, Maura said, “I believe you.” She turned to Mick. “Let’s go.”

Mick didn’t protest but followed her silently. Did that mean he agreed with her? Or that he was mad at her? How much did his opinion matter to her? How much was she willing to risk based on what was no more than her gut feeling?

When they reached Maura’s car in front of the hotel, another car was pulling in—a garda car driven by Sergeant Ryan. Maura felt a chill in the pit of her stomach. Did he know something? Or was he just checking out anything and everything? He’d seen them, so they couldn’t jump in the car and disappear in a hurry. So she and Mick waited in silence as the sergeant got out of his car and sauntered over to them. “Would yeh know where I can find the groundskeeper?”

Maura bit back a flippant answer—she didn’t want to annoy him. “I believe he’s usually in the garden out back. Any progress on Byrne’s death?”

“We’re still making our inquiries.” He turned without saying anything more and headed around the building the way she and Mick had done.

For a moment, everything whirled around in Maura’s head. Bernard would think she had called the cops on him, which wasn’t good. The sergeant was a no-nonsense guy and could be likely to jump to conclusions. The end result might be him dragging Bernard back to the Skibbereen station and accusing him of murder. She didn’t want that, not without having a chance to explain. Which meant she had to talk to Detective Hurley before Sergeant Ryan did anything stupid. Would the detective accept her version, or would he have to side with his own garda?

“Get in,” she ordered Mick. “We’re going to the garda station.” Mick complied.

It wasn’t until they had pulled out of the Crann Mor driveway that Mick spoke. “Did yeh get what you hoped from the man?”

“Yes. Look, Mick, I’ve talked with Siobhan and with Ellen and asked them questions I had no right to ask and no right to expect them to answer. I don’t believe either of them knew what Bernard did—or almost did. John died because he confronted Bernard and more or less fired him. That’s a motive for Bernard, for sure. Would Bernard have fought with him, beaten him up, maybe killed him? I can’t answer that. But my gut tells me I have to tell Detective Hurley what I know now. And I have to do it before Sergeant Ryan mucks it up.” Maura tried to read Mick’s expression, but he was good at hiding what he really thought. “Look, you’re in this now—what are you going to do? You’ve every right to go to the gardaí yourself and tell them what you know. Or you can step back, Mick, and do nothing. This isn’t your fight. I’ll take it to the gardaí and leave you out of it.”

He looked at her then. “And why should you do that? Yeh think I’d side with the gardaí?”

“You have no connection with the hotel, you don’t know anybody there, and you spent the same amount of time with John Byrne as I did, which is not much. Why should his death matter to you?”

“Because yeh’re involved,” he said. “And because it’s the right thing to do.”

“Is it?” Maura asked, hating the desperation in her voice.

“Do yeh doubt that? Maura, no one meant fer John Byrne to die. I don’t trust the new sergeant any more than you do—he’s looking fer a quick answer. He doesn’t know the people here.”

“I don’t want Bernard to be hurt by this, but I still feel it would be wrong to say nothing. The gardaí need to know what happened.”

“Look, Maura, yeh’ve got kind of a special relationship with the gardaí, even with the detective inspector. He’s a fair man. Tell him what you know and let him decide. There may be charges filed, but I doubt he’d think first of murder. You trust him, do you not?”

“I do.” Maura felt like a weight was lifted off her shoulders. How simple: let Detective Hurley make the decision. She knew from her own experience that he was a good man, and she did trust his judgment. “All right, I’ll tell him. But we’ve got to give him our version before the sergeant drags Bernard in in chains. Or would you rather stay out of it?”

“I’m going in with yeh,” he said and fell silent. And Maura was grateful.

Maura drove back into the town and parked, then marched to the garda station with Mick at her back. Inside she asked the person behind the desk, who she didn’t recognize, “Is the detective inspector in?”

“He’s here, but he’s in a meeting. Would someone else do?”

Maura considered asking for Sean, but she needed a higher authority to handle this, and she didn’t want to put Sean in a difficult position. “I don’t think so. I can wait until he’s free.”

“Yeh’re Maura Donovan, aren’t yeh?” the young officer asked.

“Yes, I am.”

“Why don’t I let him know yeh’re out here?” He got up and disappeared into the main room of the station, leaving Maura wondering what kind of a reputation she had here. At least the staff knew she wouldn’t be here unless it was important.

Patrick Hurley arrived after another five minutes had passed. “Maura,” he said. “Mick.” Mick nodded his greeting. “Does this have to do with John Byrne’s death?”

“It does.”

The detective stepped back and ushered them through the door, then followed, directing them to the conference room. When he’d shut the door and they were seated, he said, “Tell me.” Luckily, he looked concerned rather than annoyed that he’d been interrupted.

Maura swallowed. “I—we have some new information about John Byrne’s death, but I’m not sure what laws might be involved, and I don’t want to get anyone in trouble.”

“Why don’t you just tell me what you’ve found, and I’ll tell you what I think?” he said gently.

So Maura launched into what she had learned from Siobhan and Ellen and Bernard. It took some time to present the bald facts, and she was careful not to reveal that Sean had heard any of it. Mick added no more than an occasional word. She felt drained by the time she was through. “So you see my problem? Bernard might have threatened the man, but I don’t think he meant John any harm. The whole thing was no more than a stupid accident because of John’s fancy shoes. I felt I couldn’t tell you before because there were other people involved and I’d made promises to them, but when Bernard told me what had happened and the fact that he had tried to cover it up for what he thought were good reasons . . .”

Inspector Hurley held up a hand. “Please, Maura, take a breath. You should know as well as anyone that the gardaí are not ogres, and we do respect other people’s confidences when we can. As you’ve said, it would have been better all around if O’Mahoney had told us right away rather than sending us off in the wrong direction, but he seems to have acted not in his own interests but to protect his wife. An understandable response.”

“But isn’t there some kind of law around here about concealing evidence or withholding evidence or something like that?” Maura asked anxiously.

“There is, and I think Bernard should be held accountable for that. But that’s far better than accusing him of killing the man. What came after—the moving of the body—was poor judgment on his part.”

More or less what she had hoped. Maura slumped in her chair and closed her eyes for a moment, then looked at the detective. “So what are you going to do about Bernard?”

“I’ll have to think about the lesser charge, so I won’t promise anything. I doubt he’s going anywhere.”

“Fair enough. I can live with that,” Maura said firmly. “Did you already know all this stuff about John Byrne and his dad in New York and all that?”

“Sean Murphy pointed us in the right direction. It’s an interesting tale, but as far as we’ve seen, Byrne moved beyond his past and did well for himself—there’s no evidence of involvement in any sort of criminal activity later in his life. It’s a shame his homecoming turned out as it did. Have you had any word about the fate of the hotel now?”

“No, but I’ll ask . . . my mother. Are we finished here?”

Detective Hurley stood up. “I believe we are. Thank you for coming in, Maura. I’d like to think we would have arrived at much the same conclusions once we’d persuaded Bernard to tell us the facts, but you’ve saved us a bit of time.”

They were on the verge of leaving when there was a commotion at the front entrance of the station. Maura froze, and Detective Hurley stepped forward. Then Sergeant Ryan came storming in, wrangling Bernard O’Mahoney in front of him. Both looked the worse for wear.

“Yeh need to arrest this man for murder,” Ryan bellowed.

“Let him go, Ryan,” Detective Hurley said in a quiet voice.

“What?” Sergeant Ryan protested.

“I said, release him. I understand what you’re thinking, but I don’t believe an arrest is warranted at this time. Mr. O’Mahoney, you won’t be going anywhere, now, will you?”

“No, sir. I know I’ve done wrong and that you need to know about it, but I’d not leave my wife and my home. You may trust me on that, sir.”

Sergeant Ryan spent a long moment looking incredulously from one face to another. In the end, he spat out something inarticulate and let go of Bernard before stalking out of the building. Maura let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. “Bernard, I didn’t tell the sergeant anything.”

Bernard nodded to her. “Ah, it would have come out in the end. Are yeh sayin’ I’m free to go, Detective?”

“Give your story to Garda Murphy out there, and then you may leave. Just know that this isn’t over yet.”

“I hear what yeh’re sayin.’ I won’t let you down.” Bernard straightened his clothes, then turned and walked out of the room with slow dignity.

“Can we go now?” Maura asked.

Detective Hurley couldn’t hide his smile. “You may. Though a word about Sergeant Ryan. He is a good and honest garda, but he’s had a rough time. Be patient with him and he’ll come around.”

Outside, Maura took a deep breath. Doing the right thing felt good, especially when things worked out. “That went better than I expected,” she told Mick as they strolled back toward her car. “At least until the end.”

“I’d agree. And I’d trust the man to do right by Bernard. Let’s hope the sergeant can come to terms with a different style.”

“Not to mention the fact that a couple of amateurs like us figured out how and why John died simply by talking to people?” She grinned at him.

“Let’s not rub his face in it if we happen to cross paths with him again.”

They had reached Maura’s car, but Maura didn’t feel in any hurry to get back to work. She leaned back against the car, stretched her neck, and loosened her shoulders.

They’d done it: they’d figured it out. Let the gardaí clean it all up. She could finally relax and talk to Helen without the uncertainty of John’s death hanging over her.

“We should be gettin’ back to Sullivan’s, if Jimmy hasn’t run it into the ground.” Mick nudged her. “What’re yeh gonna tell Seamus and the lads?”

“Oh, shoot, I hadn’t thought that far. Was accident on their list?”

“Not that I recall—I think he tossed that idea early on. Does that mean yeh win the pot?”

“Let’s hope so—I have a plan for my winnings.”

“And that’d be?” Mick said.

“You’ll see.” Maura paused, struggling to go on. “Mick, thank you for backing me up, and thank you for giving me space, if that makes any sense.”

Mick looked out the front window of the car. “It does. But it’s not all my doin’—I’ve had more experience with the second one. Mostly too much space.”

“I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to remind you.”

“It’s part of me life—I can’t undo what’s happened. But I’ve been bogged down in self-pity fer too long. Yeh’re a good example to me, yeh know. Life kicks yeh in the gut, time and again, and yeh just keep going. Yer mother vanishes, yer gran dies, yeh’ve no place to live, no job . . .”

“Jesus, Mick, next you’ll start passing a can around for contributions. I don’t want anybody’s pity. And you forgot to mention the last part, when I showed up here and someone I never met handed me a pub and a house. Problems solved. Did I deserve it? I don’t think it’s about that—it’s just one of those weird things that happens. That doesn’t make me a role model, just lucky.”

Mick looked as serious as Maura had ever seen him. “But yeh don’t quit, Maura. Yeh know what’s right, and yeh can’t seem to rest until yeh’ve fixed things. But on that subject, I don’t expect yeh to try to fix me.”

“And I don’t plan to,” Maura countered. “I’m still working on me. Now can we go back to Leap?”

“Yeh never said—what’re yeh telling the lads?”

“Part of the truth: the case is closed.”