Haunted Ground Part 11

Devaney shook his head vehemently. He wasn't even supposed to be here. And this wasn't the sort of thing he'd want his comrades in the Guards to know about. He went back to the open door of the confessional. He didn't go in this time, but crouched to look under the armrest on the prie-dieu. What he had felt seemed to be letters--initials, perhaps--crudely cut into the wood, probably with a penknife. He had to crawl part-way into the confessional to see. He pulled a small torch from his breast pocket and shone it on the obscure spot. It wasn't just initials, but a whole string of letters--H E K N O W S W H E R E T H E Y A R E. It took him a few more seconds to make out the separate words: He...knows...where...they...are. Devaney felt his breathing become shallow once again.

"That's all for now, Father," he said, rising from his hands and knees, and replacing the torch in his jacket pocket. "But do me a favor, will you? Don't let anyone in. Get everyone out of the church and keep it locked up until I get back."

4.

It was nearly two-thirty when Nora pulled up at the Drumcleggan Priory. She could hear flute music, and the noise of a pickaxe hitting damp soil. All the way out here she had argued with herself about whether to tell anyone about the phone call. In the end, she decided to keep mum unless something else happened. She just wasn't sure what "something else" entailed. Nora grabbed the file containing photographs of the ring, and made her way to where Cormac was working. His back was to her, so she walked closer, admiring the way he swung the heavy pick. She waited until the sharp point was in the ground before speaking.

"I'm back. I brought the things you asked for." Upon hearing her voice, Cormac dropped the wooden handle and turned, wiping his palms on his dusty trouser legs.

"Oh, h.e.l.lo," he said. "Thanks." They stood awkwardly for a moment, looking at one another. The day was overcast but warm, and a mist of sweat covered his face.

"I'm making some progress," he finally said, gesturing to the second set of test trenches, which he'd already excavated down to a depth of about three feet. He must have been working pretty steadily while she'd been away.

"So I see. Anything turn up?"

"Just a few bits of crockery. I'm not very far along with this area."

There was a pause before they both began speaking at once.

"Sorry," Nora said. "You first."

"No, I insist," Cormac said.

"All right. That piece of metal inside the girl's mouth--you'll never guess what it turned out to be." She extended the folder, which he opened to a glossy photo of a gold ring, shown at about five times its actual size, the red stone looking slightly washed out by the flash.

"There's an inscription," she said. "You can see it in the next couple of pictures, I think."

Cormac sat down on the lip of the trench to look through the photos more carefully. "It's a pretty astonis.h.i.+ng find, but what does it tell us? That she wasn't likely in the bog before 1652--but it could have been any time after that. It's possible that the ring was inscribed in 1652 but not buried with her until years later." He sounded disappointed.

"At least it's something," Nora said. She felt slightly perturbed that he wasn't more excited.

"What did Robbie make of all this? I a.s.sume you told him."

"He isn't too hopeful, but he agreed to press on, looking for trial or marriage records. It occurred to me on the way out here that OF could stand for O'Flaherty."

"Surely. But it could just as easily be O'Farrell, O'Flynn, or O'Fallon as well. We'll never find out conclusively, and we'll just end up running in circles and going mad over all the possibilities."

"I know we can find out who she was," Nora said. "I don't know why I believe it so strongly, I just do. Go ahead and laugh, but I think the ring is some sort of a message. I think it was the only way she could think of to tell us who she was."

"Anyone could have put that ring in her mouth, even after she was dead. We've nothing to go on either way. You see, we're going mad already, arguing about it. But what if we go and speak to Ned Raftery, the schoolteacher?"

She could tell he was trying to make peace. "All right," she said. "What was it you were going to tell me?" She listened intently as Cormac told about what had happened in her absence: the light in the woods, his late-night chat with Hugh Osborne, and his visit this morning to the tower house.

She said, "I hope you notice that I'm not in the least bothered by the fact that you went there without me. You're turning into a regular gum-shoe."

His look was slightly sheepish. "G.o.d help us."

"I think it's time I got my hands dirty," she said. "Back in a bit."

Nora drove rapidly to Bracklyn House, first dropping off Cormac's case in his room, then returning down the broad, carpeted hallway to her own. The house was quiet, but something in the stillness made her uneasy. There wasn't enough life in this place; things got done silently, by unseen hands, and it could unnerve a person. In her own room, she slipped off her shoes and crossed to the bathroom. Before she stepped over the threshold, something caught her eye, and she stopped short. Shards of broken gla.s.s lay scattered across the floor. She checked the shelf above the sink. The drinking gla.s.s was gone. And yet the jagged shards seemed to add up to more than a single water gla.s.s. She looked down at her stocking feet. Stepping into the room would have been disastrous. Was this really an accident, or some sort of warning? Nora felt a sudden p.r.i.c.k of fear as she remembered the whispering voice on the phone: Leave it alone. This place was making her paranoid. She should just carry on, and a.s.sume it was an accident unless something else happened. She'd seen where Hugh Osborne put the broom after Jeremy's encounter with her winegla.s.s, so she put her shoes back on and ventured downstairs toward the kitchen.

She heard the sound of scrubbing coming from the doorway under the main stairs, and saw a figure in old clothes, down on hands and knees, scouring the stone floor with a hard-bristled brush. The woman's dark hair was caught up in a scarf, but a few stray wisps moved as she worked the brush with one gloved hand in a vigorous circular motion.

"Excuse me," Nora said. The woman dropped the brush in her bucket with a splash and started to her feet, removing her bandanna in one sweeping motion. It was Lucy Osborne. They stood for an instant in silence. Lucy's humiliation was evident from the rising tide of crimson on her neck, until Nora managed to stammer, "I'm sorry, I thought you were--"

"Yes. Well." Lucy Osborne was beginning to regain her composure, smoothing the stray hairs back into place. "My cleaner, Mrs. Hernan, is down with a flu, and these stairs were in sore need of attention, with all the extra traffic through the house."

"I apologize if I startled you," Nora said. "I was just getting a broom--there's a broken gla.s.s in my bathroom."

"Oh dear. I'll be right up to see to it."

"There's no need. I know where to find the broom."

Nora left Lucy Osborne standing in the doorway at the top of the kitchen stairs, with the bandanna still clutched behind her back. But when she came back up the stairs a moment later, there was no sign of Lucy or her brush and bucket, except for the faint damp spot on the stone floor.

5.

After returning to the church and swearing Father Kinsella to silence about this latest development, Devaney shot some pictures of the letters carved in the wood of the confessional and dusted the area for prints. There were no clear fingerprints; plenty of smudgy partials, but nothing of any real use.

When he'd finished at the church, Devaney drove to a spot just outside the gates to Bracklyn House and waited. He saw Dr. Gavin's car pull out of the drive, presumably headed toward the priory. About twenty minutes later, he spotted Osborne's black Volvo. He counted out ten seconds, then pulled out of the blind approach and followed.

Teatime came and went as he followed Hugh Osborne to Shannon Airport, but Devaney found he wasn't even hungry. Now he watched through the gla.s.s of the departures lounge as...o...b..rne boarded a British Airways flight to London. When the last pa.s.senger was gone, Devaney approached the counter where the uniformed reservation agent stood.

"What time does this flight arrive in London?" he asked.

"There's no stopover in Dublin," the young woman said, "so it should arrive in Gatwick at nine-fifty."

Nine-fifty. It might not be too late to call the Badger. Jimmy Deasey, an old friend from his early days in the Guards, had been called "the Badger" as long as Devaney had known him, which must be going on twenty years, although it was doubtful whether anyone at all remembered why. Deasey had emigrated to England five years ago, taking up a cushy post as head of security for some high-tech company outside London, but they had kept in touch. Devaney located the nearest coin phone, looked up Jimmy's entry in the tiny book he kept in his breast pocket, and dialed the number.

"Hullo," said a deep voice, which, despite the loud, thumping music in the background, he thought he recognized as the Badger's.

"Jimmy, it's Garrett Devaney--"

"Hang on. I think you want my da." The sound of a hand over the receiver m.u.f.fled the boy's voice as he called, and Devaney could just make out the Badger saying, "Ciaran, would you ever turn that down? How do you expect to hear anyone over the phone?" The music subsided, and he heard the Badger's voice, but with an unfamiliar, businesslike tone. "Seamus Deasey here."

"Jaysus, Jimmy, the lad must be as tall as yourself. It's Garrett Devaney."

Instantly, the Anglicized inflection disappeared from Deasey's voice, replaced by his own musical Cork accent. "Ah, Devaney, beG.o.d, how are ye getting on? It's been f.u.c.kin' ages."

"Ah indeed, don't remind me."

There was a pause. "I heard about your trouble, Gar. I'm sorry. It could have happened to any one of us."

"Thanks, Jimmy," Devaney said. Another brief silence. "I'm actually ringing for a favor. I'd never ask, but there's n.o.body else who can help me out on this thing, only yourself."

"Not in trouble with another superintendent, are you?"

"Not yet. Although if that f.u.c.kin' magpie mentions his spotless divisional record to me one more time...I've actually just followed a suspect out to Shannon Airport. He caught a flight to Gatwick, should be arriving there at nine-fifty tonight. I was wondering--I mean, if you've nothing on--if you'd be up for a small bit of--"

"Surveillance?" Devaney could hear the surprise in his friend's voice, and waited uneasily as Jimmy considered the proposal. It was a lot to ask.

"Just see where he goes from Gatwick?" Deasey asked. Devaney had him.

"That's it, just tell me where he goes, who he talks to. Nothing strenuous."

"What have you got on him?"

"f.u.c.k-all, that's the trouble. But his wife and kid have gone missing, and I can't convince myself that he wasn't somehow involved."

"Could be interesting," Deasey said. "Better give me the lowdown." Devaney pa.s.sed along the pertinent information: Osborne's description and flight number. He could hear Deasey scribbling them down.

"Ring me at home, will you, Jimmy?" he said. "I'm heading there now. I'll be up late."

As he went home, Devaney timed the drive from Shannon to Dunbeg. It was no more than thirty miles as the crow flies, but there was no direct route, only branching secondary roads up through Sixmilebridge and then east on the Ennis road to Scarriff and Mountshannon. Couldn't have taken Osborne less than an hour and forty-five minutes, providing that he drove without trying to attract attention. Including the walk from the plane, and out to the car park, that would have put him outside Dunbeg at 2:15 P.M. at the very earliest. So, if he had met his wife and son outside the town, taken them somewhere, and still returned to Bracklyn by 6 P.M., as Lucy Osborne reported, they'd have to be somewhere within a two-hour radius. Jesus. That was half of Clare and East Galway. He studied his road map, mentally drawing a circle around Dunbeg. That area included the lake, but it also included some remote and heavily forested mountains along the border. No f.u.c.king wonder they hadn't been found. He'd see what the Badger came up with on Osborne's trip to London, then suss him out about checking into that conference Osborne had attended at Oxford. If he was telling the truth about having to stop for a kip on the way home from the airport, who or what had kept him up so late the night before?

Deasey's call came at a few minutes past eleven. "Well, that was a dead-easy job," he said. "Your client left the airport, took a cab straight to a house in Christ Church. I've got him under obso now. Posh sort of a house for the area; he's standing outside the door. I'll check on the address for you in the morning. These f.u.c.kin' mobile phones are great, aren't they? What did we ever do before?"

"Is he letting himself in, Jimmy, or is somebody answering?"

"Hang on, let me get the specs on him. There's a woman answering the door. Looks Pakistani, short hair, about thirty. Seems like he was expected. Big hug; she's kissing him on the cheek." Devaney felt a surge of adrenaline, as he had in the old days, chasing down a hooligan on foot. When he spoke, however, his voice was calm. "Are they alone?"

"Yeah," said Deasey. "No--now it looks like he's talking to somebody else." There was a pause.

"What's he doing now, Jimmy?"

"He's just leaned over and picked up a kid."

6.

Una McGann had to use all her strength to knead the huge ball of brown bread dough on her kitchen table. The house seemed peaceful at the moment, with the occasional ray of early morning sun coming in, and the wireless tuned to Radio na Gaeltachta, the rhythmic waves of traditional music occasionally interrupted by the faint drone of the news in Irish. But it was a false tranquillity. Since Monday night the atmosphere in the house had been poisonous. Brendan and Fintan went about their work on the farm without uttering so much as a word to each other, and neither would speak more than two words to her. When they got home, each retreated to his room, venturing into the kitchen only when the other was safely out of the way. Brendan was still angry at both of them, and Fintan was furious with her for not leaving immediately--and for forcing him to stay, since he felt he couldn't leave her and Aoife alone with Brendan after what had happened.

Una looked over at her daughter, who'd crept downstairs early and was now slumbering again on the sofa. The sun was beginning to cross Aoife's bright hair, her face so smooth and relaxed in the oblivion of sleep. She was going to be tall, Una thought--unlike her mother. No doubt about that. She felt a surge of anger at Brendan. How dare he request a copy of Aoife's birth certificate behind her back? She'd have shown him the b.l.o.o.d.y thing herself if he'd bothered to ask. And how dare he think it any of his business who Aoife's father was? That's what he'd been after, she was sure. There was only one person besides herself whose business it was, and that person was Aoife. She would be told when the time came. So far, it hadn't been a problem, but Aoife was getting to the age where such things did matter. In a place like Dunbeg, the label of b.a.s.t.a.r.d still carried a lot of weight, far more than it had in Dublin, where half the children in their street had no known fathers at all. She'd better start working out what she would say to her daughter and to the world. Una had once half thought of making up some foreign student--a German, or a Swede, perhaps--who'd been at university when she was there, a short-lived romance with someone now totally out of the picture. There was no danger that such a man would ever resurface, since he was fictional.

That would be the simplest story to tell the outside world, but what about Aoife? She doubted that she could tell her daughter such a lie, but to tell her the truth meant telling everyone, since you couldn't expect a child to keep that kind of confidence under pressure. And pressure there would be; no one could find the weakness in a person's armor like a malicious eight-year-old in a schoolyard.

Brendan's outburst had convinced her that she and Aoife must not be dependent on anyone. That's what had prompted this flurry of activity, in preparation for the market day. Two hand-knitted jumpers and as much brown bread and seed cake as she could turn out in three days wouldn't bring much, but Una knew she had to begin setting aside something so that she and her daughter could strike out on their own. It would be another year at least until the priory workshops were finished, and that was only working s.p.a.ce, no living quarters, as far as she knew. Perhaps she could clean or cook in exchange for a little house or an apartment. She had rejected Fintan's offer to bring them to America with him, knowing that it wasn't what he really wanted, or what she and Aoife wanted either. The few years she'd spent in Dublin had given her a glimpse of a kind of desperation she did not want to see again. At least here you could grow your own vegetables, and the shops in the village, some of them, anyway, would keep a running total of your purchases that you could pay off as you were able. There was slightly more mercy here than in the city, she thought--about some things, not others. She knew people in the village remembered how she'd run away, shamed her family, and shamed them once again when she'd come back with a child in tow. Some still clucked over the fact that she'd only come home for her mother's funeral, though it was more than three years past. There was no way not to be talked about. People in Dunbeg had nothing else of importance to occupy their minds. She could see it in their faces when she entered a shop, hear it in the polite conversation when they asked after Aoife, or remarked on how tall she was getting. People in Dunbeg seemed to have her whole life neatly summed, but sometimes she wanted to ask what they'd b.l.o.o.d.y well figured out, because it wasn't at all clear to her.

She had two large rounds of brown bread and four half-sized loaves ready to go into the oven. Una took the bread knife and deftly cut a cross in the top of each one, just as her mother had shown her how to do, then quickly shoved the pan into the hot oven. She turned and regarded the mess in the kitchen, the large crockery bowl and table covered with the sticky remains of the brown bread and spilled b.u.t.termilk, the open bags of flour and wheatmeal, and she sat down wearily at the table and rested her head on her arms. A few hot tears trickled off the end of her nose and splashed in the flour left over from where she'd kneaded the bread. The world had fallen asunder, and she had no idea how to put it right again.

7.

The phone beside his head roused Devaney out of a deep sleep. He rolled over and grabbed the receiver. "Devaney here."

"Still in bed. Christ, how I miss dear auld Ireland," Deasey said. "I'm calling with news. The least you could do is act surprised, if you can't manage to be pleased this time of the morning."

"I'm f.u.c.king delighted," Devaney said, sitting on the edge of the bed and squinting. "What time is it, anyway, Jimmy?"

"Nearly half-nine, ye lazy sod." f.u.c.k it; nine-thirty, Devaney thought, and n.o.body had bothered to wake him. That meant he'd already completely missed the station meeting this morning.

"Thanks for ringing, Jimmy. What have you got?"

"Your man's gone into a bank. The receptionist turned out to be a girl from Cavan, so I turned on the auld charm and actually got her to cough up a small bit of information. Seems he was at school with one of the top men there, and you know what chummy b.a.s.t.a.r.ds old school boys are. No word on what the meeting was about, but n.o.body goes to a bank unless he's got plenty of money, am I right?"

"Or needs money." Devaney was completely awake now, struggling to put an arm through his s.h.i.+rtsleeve while keeping the phone to his ear. "Anything on the address from last night?"

"Oh, yeah. Bad news, I'm afraid. Or mebbe I should say no great mystery. Your man's not a bigamist after all. The house belongs to a doctor named DeSouza. Well respected, good clientele. The woman and child were evidently his daughter and granddaughter, friends of Osborne's wife. He always stays with them when he goes to London. Sorry."

As he hung up the phone, Devaney knew he should have asked the Badger to follow up on Osborne's movements in the days before the disappearance. Why hadn't he just come out with it? The image of the carved letters in the church floated in his groggy head: He knows where they are. If somebody knew something, why wouldn't he just come forward? The usual reason was that he'd have to put himself--or someone else--in a compromising position. Who among Osborne's family, neighbors, and business a.s.sociates might have something to hide? He already knew the answer: everyone.

8.

Ned Raftery's house was set at a right angle to the road, so that the gable end faced out, and the front of the house faced a walled garden. Nora pulled up in the gravel drive, and Cormac followed as she entered through the black iron gate. Inside, a chest-high boxwood hedge defined the margin of the garden, and against its tiny, dark green leaves grew hundreds of rosebushes. Most were just beginning to bud, but a salmon-colored climbing rose and several sprays of white shrub roses were already in bloom and gave off the most marvelous scent. Nora leaned in to the nearest open flowers to inhale their sweet, heady perfume, and let out a small, wordless exclamation.

"I'm glad you like them," a man's voice said. She turned and saw the man she presumed to be Ned Raftery rising from his knees, closing the lock on his pruning shears, and moving toward the sound of her voice. His clouded eyes seemed to look straight ahead.

"They're wonderful," Nora said. "I'm drunk on that fragrance, I swear."

"And people wonder why a blind man bothers growing flowers at all," Raftery said, smiling.