It was bitterly cold that December afternoon, in 1953, with the threat of snow as I walked out of the cottage, my head bent low against the wind, and made my way towards Inspector Hennessy’s car. An early darkness had descended and enveloped the countryside but, despite all this, the air was crisp and clean. At the request, or perhaps I should more accurately say, the insistence, of the Inspector, Harris and I were about to embark on a journey to a remote golf club located near the village of Louisburgh in County Mayo.
Harris was leaning against the bonnet of the car, maintaining his balance with one hand while he deftly tapped his briar pipe against the heel of his shoe with the other. These duties at an end, he sat into the front seat and I watched him take the leather tobacco pouch from his overcoat pocket and set about filling his pipe. From experience, I knew this would be a lengthy process and at its conclusion a decision would be made as to whether or not to go to the next stage. I hoped he would not take that step as the prospect of a smoke -filled car was something I could definitely do without.
My great coat was buttoned up and I was flushed with anticipation at what lay ahead. I was like a schoolboy heading off on an outing. Never before had I seen Hennessy so determined and I could hardly wait for him to explain precisely what had happened at that remote golf club.
I wrapped the Foxford rug around my legs and settled myself in for the journey. Experience had taught me never to rely on the heating system of a motor car. Hennessy, in the driver’s seat, glanced back at me, checking perhaps to see if I was comfortable. He started the engine and the car drew slowly away from the cottage and headed in the direction of the village.
Harris was still occupied with his briar pipe and every now and then he would glance over at Hennessy with a questioning look. Finally, he could take no more and asked, ‘What is this great matter of urgency at Louisburgh that has everyone in a flap?’ I noticed the superior manner in which Hennessy looked at Harris. It was one of those I know something you don’t know looks. In such situations, one has to be careful not to antagonise the expectant listener.
For a moment, I thought the Inspector was not going to answer, and just when I was about to give up on him, he said, in a cool, steady voice, ‘A man was shot dead at the Western Golf Club near Louisburgh yesterday evening.’
It was the casual nature of his tone that gripped my attention. He said it in such a matter-of-fact way, as if he was used to imparting such news, but I knew that a shooting in the west of Ireland was a rare event and wondered if the Inspector was attempting to be nonchalant in front of Harris; trying to impress him, as it were.
‘What?’ exclaimed Harris, impressed and deeply shocked at what he had just heard.
I, too, was stunned by the statement, but managed to ask, ‘Was it accidental?’
‘Maybe, but I don’t think it was. The information I have is vague and incomplete but I do know a robbery was in progress at the time. There is a witness to the event, the caretaker of the golf club who resides in a small flat adjacent to the clubhouse. Apparently, he heard a noise during the night and went to investigate. When he entered the premises, he was confronted by two men, one carrying a rifle and the other a trophy that had been taken from the club’s trophy cabinet. I believe the trophy – a gold cup – is very valuable. A confrontation took place, and in the ensuing struggle, one of the intruders was shot dead. That is as much as I know, but I will be brought up to date when we get to Louisburgh. I have arranged to meet the forensic people at the clubhouse.’