We had stopped our car and were waiting on
the girl's answer, which she seemed in no hurry to give. At length
lifting a small stone she threw it on the road a car's length behind us,
answering in Irish that there was the spot where he was found. The
murderer was hidden in the field opposite. The road was bare of the
shelter of hedge or ditch, bush or tree. It was late; he was coming home
alone, his police escort for some reason were not with him that
particular night. Lord Mountmorris was murdered, and some one has a mark
on his hand that all the water of the Lough will not wash off.
We drove along the road, a bleak and bare road, with a hill on one side
of it and a steep slope down on the other, until we came to a small
plantation, a lodge gate, and drove up an avenue with small plantations
of young trees here and there, some grass lands, a few beasts grazing
about, some signs of where flower beds and flower borders had been
better cared for once on a time than now, and came to a comfortable,
roomy square house finished in plaster. This was castle something, the
residence of the late Lord Mountmorris. With a blessing, content and
three hundred a year one could fancy that person sung of by Moore, "With
the heart that is humble," being able to make out life nicely here.
Pages:
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340