Page 4 of Death at Inishmore Castle

“Maximillian Herbert, the O’Sullivans’ accountant,” he said.

“Oh?” Lolly seemed surprised.

“I thought it best I see how they are spending the allocated funds for the opening, so I can advise them.” He seemed a bit self-important and spoke with a posh English, rather than Irish, accent.

Nora joined us and sat down at the head of the table. “I hope our estate is living up to your expectations,” she said.

“Far surpassing it, to be honest,” I said. “We’ve visited a few castles in Ireland and most of them are derelict or much smaller than one might imagine.”

Our home in Shamrock Cove was in the bailey of a castle that sat up on the hill. That castle had been refurbished, but was a third of the size of Inishmore, and not nearly as grand on the inside.

A fork clattered onto a plate, and we all glanced down at the other end of the table. The priest was wagging a finger in the face of the nun, which didn’t seem very priest-like. Her face was twisted in anger.

I wondered what that was about.

Lolly cleared her throat. “Nora, you should tell these youngsters some of the stories associated with the castle. Like the one about the buried treasure.”

Nora smiled, seemingly grateful to Lolly for pulling the focus away from the pair at the other end of the table.

“As you might imagine, we have many stories about treasure and marauders who have been on the hunt for it. The rumors began in the late seventeen hundreds.” She went on to tell us a couple of fascinating stories about the lords who lived in the castle and some of their not-so-happy arranged marriages.

“According to legend, there is a treasure stashed somewhere in the castle. One of the former lords hid it from his wife and her family, thinking he would be safer from their murdering ways if they couldn’t find it. He was wrong.”

We all smiled.

While she spoke, I chanced a glance down to the priest and nun. They had stopped arguing to listen.

“We have a full weekend for you of whiskey tasting, cooking classes, art history lessons, gardening and so much more,” Nora said. “You are, of course, welcome to attend everything, or whatever seems most interesting to you.”

After lunch, we followed Nora out the back of the castle, through a rose garden, and down the hill to a large stone building shaped like a barn. The rain had paused, but she gave us umbrellas just in case. We’d also donned wellies in various colors to combat the muddy ground.

In Ireland, the constant rain was one of the reasons the place was so lush. We had the most beautiful garden around our home to prove it. Though, it was my sister who took care of most of it. I had a black thumb, and she was afraid for me to touch anything, lest I kill it.

Inside, the place was pristine. There were four huge copper stills wrapped in pipes and machinery. There were steps leading to walkways near the top of the stills.

“The distillery has been in the family since the seventeen hundreds,” Nora said, “and has been in continuous productionsince then. Initially, the whiskey was only for the family. In the late nineteenth century, my husband’s great-grandfather began distributing it locally, and we now sell it in the UK too.

“We’re hoping to take the brand worldwide over the next five years as a way to help us preserve the estate and castle. As you might imagine, the upkeep here at Inishmore is quite expensive. We hope to open to tourists a few times a year and increase the distribution to help cover those costs. This is our first soft-open weekend. So, please let us know if there is anything we can do to make your stay better.”

A man with gray hair, a white beard, and a handlebar mustache approached us.

“This is my husband, Gordon, the lead distiller, to take you through the tasting and tell you more about our Inishmore whiskey.”

He smiled and shook our hands. When he went over to the priest and stuck out his hand, the priest didn’t do the same. Gordon stared at him with a surprised look on his face.

Weird.

The nun kept her arms crossed but nodded at him. Her large black glasses covered most of her face.

Maybe they were afraid of germs.

“Follow me, and I’ll show you where the fermenting process begins. We use malted and unmalted barley,” he said. He pointed to machines that looked like giant bowls with lids. “Yeast converts to sugars and then become a liquid we call wash. This is when the alcohol is produced…”

An hour and a half later, I had the beginnings of a new book in mind. One that included a whiskey distillery and an angry priest. Throughout the tasting, Gordon and the priest kept glaring at each other as if they knew one another and it wasn’t a pleasantreunion. Or perhaps because the priest seemed to be tasting more than his fair share of whiskey.

“I had no idea how difficult it was to make whiskey,” Lizzie said on our way back to the castle. The rain had returned, and I could barely hear her over the thunder. “Also, I have a buzz.”

“Me too,” I said. Unlike wine tastings, where you sometimes spit it out after swishing it around in your mouth, part of the process with whiskey was the smoothness as it trickled down one’s throat.

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