Haunted Ground Part 9

"How should I know?" Dolphin said, contriving to look injured at the suggestion. "I don't go round opening up packages addressed to clients."

"Well, and what sort of a detective does that make you, Eddie? Of course, if I wanted to know the answer to that, all I'd have to do is get in touch with my friend Michael Noonan in the collator's office down at Mill Street Station. I'm sure he has a little card in his file with all sorts of information about you."

"I've done nothin' wrong. For f.u.c.k's sake, you can't just come barging in here--" Dolphin spluttered, glancing nervously at the open closet door.

"I've been meaning to give Michael a ring. Haven't seen him in ages. That fella has the most phenomenal memory--never forgets anything. He could give you chapter and verse about every sort of robbery, large and small, that's been perpetrated in these parts over the past five years. Isn't that amazing? You've never seen such a memory."

"All right, all right," Dolphin said. "It was just a f.u.c.kin' letter, all right? A couple of pages, handwritten. Going on about 'I know what ye're up to, ye b.a.s.t.a.r.d, and ye'll never get away with it,' and like that. There was something else as well, some sort of metal yoke, I don't know what it was. But he f.u.c.ked off out of here as soon as he read it. Forgot all about my retainer that was due."

"Never mind about the retainer, Eddie. Describe this metal yoke for me."

"It seemed like--I don't know, a brooch or something. Two elephants, like this," and he pushed his fists together, "b.u.t.tin' heads, like." Devaney froze. Mina Osborne's hair clip. What else could it be?

"How would anyone know to contact Osborne here?" Devaney asked.

"Must have seen one of my adverts. They're not cheap either, them, and it's all come out of my pocket so far."

Osborne's reaction to the body at the cutaway pushed its way to the front of Devaney's mind. If there was no way to search a whole bog, there had to be some way to force Osborne's hand. He'd put the pressure on around Bracklyn. Lucy Osborne knew more than she was willing to tell. And the lad--Devaney had seen him often enough at Lynch's--might speak out of turn if pressed.

"Look, I've got to get home," Dolphin said. "The wife was expecting me ages ago."

Wife. Jesus. Devaney checked his own watch. Nearly nine o'clock, and he was an hour away from home at least. "I'll be in touch," he said to Dolphin. He might be able to find a phone and try to patch things up at home.

He jammed the keys into the ignition. How had it gotten so late? He darted through the city traffic, keeping an eye out for a phone box, seeing none along his route. Finally, at the outskirts of the city he saw one standing alone at the roadside. He pulled up and leapt from the car, fumbling for coins in his pocket. He lifted the telephone and was greeted by silence in place of the usual buzz, and only then noticed that the cord had been severed. He slammed the receiver down, and trudged back to the car. When he lifted the handle, it took him a split second to realize what had happened. Of all the f.u.c.king stupid--the car's security system had locked the doors automatically. This whole adventure was turning into a colossal disaster. He landed a vicious kick on the nearest tire. Just then a fat droplet struck him in the left eye, then another, and another, and in the s.p.a.ce of a few seconds he was wet to the skin in the pelting rain.

It was close to midnight when he reached home. He'd been able to flag down a couple with a mobile within five or ten minutes, but waiting for the locksmith to open the car took a good hour and a half. He'd tried phoning home on the borrowed mobile as well, but no one answered. He was still soaking, and must have been a bedraggled-looking sight when he pushed open the kitchen door. Nuala was sitting at the table with a cup of tea. She gave him a reproachful look that had become all too familiar.

"I had to cancel the meeting. You know, Gar, I'm not angry for myself," she said wearily. "I'm really past that. But you completely forgot you were to take Roisin out to look at that fiddle tonight, didn't you?"

Christ. That's what had been niggling at him all day, the one thing he knew he was forgetting. He sat wearily in the chair opposite Nuala, but she rose from the table, and her look might as well have been a slap.

"She's in bed, but I don't think she's asleep. You might tell her you're sorry."

He kept silent, knowing any attempts to explain at this stage would only make matters that much worse. She left him sitting there, and each footstep that took her away from him was like a blow to his heart. No case was worth this. He had once felt that they moved in tandem, in everything they did. He remembered drinking in the scent of her as if it were nourishment. The feeling was still there, but it had been buried under the avalanche of practicalities that jobs and responsibilities and life with three children had brought. He felt like rus.h.i.+ng after her, tackling her to the ground if he had to, and burying his face in her softness. Instead he took a towel from the cupboard near the cooker, and began drying his hair as he climbed the stairs to speak to Roisin. She stirred when the light from the hall spilled into her room. He sat at the edge of her bed, looking into his daughter's solemn eyes, their pupils large in the murky darkness.

"I'm so sorry, Roisin," he said. "I got caught up in what I was doing, and the fiddle completely slipped my mind."

"It's all right, Daddy. I forgave you right away." She leaned forward and patted his arm in a gesture of comfort. "I don't think Mammy has. But don't worry, she will."

Devaney sat on the side of the bed, looking down at his shoes, trying to imagine how such a thing might come to pa.s.s.

17.

Nora thought she was dreaming when her phone began to ring in the middle of the night. She often had nightmares that ended with a telephone ringing, unanswered, somewhere in the distance, but she gradually realized that this wasn't a dream, and picked up the receiver beside the bed, feeling disoriented and panicky, and nearly deafened by the sound of her own heart clamoring in her chest.

"h.e.l.lo?" When there was no response, she said again: "h.e.l.lo?" She peered at the clock: 12:47. That meant that it was past six in the evening at home. She remembered the call she'd received from her father the night Triona's body was found, and felt a stab of apprehension. When there was still no response, she heard her own tentative question: "Daddy?"

The voice in the receiver was not her father, but a disembodied, breathy whisper that was neither male nor female: "Leave it alone."

"Leave what alone?" Nora demanded. "Who is this?" For a fragment of a second, her thoughts concentrated on Triona. She was sure she'd told no one here about her sister's death.

"They're better off."

"What do you mean? Who's better off?" Nora's brain pitched wildly in its half-conscious state, until she hit upon another possible meaning.

"Do you mean Mina and Christopher Osborne? What do you know about it?" The only response she received this time was the flat-line buzz of a dial tone.

Was it just a crank call, some bizarre accident? And if it was about Mina Osborne, why should anyone call her? Who knew she was even interested? Nora searched her memory, trying to figure out who knew she'd been out at Bracklyn House. She sat in the dark amid the rumpled bedclothes for several more minutes, trying to work out some answers to a relentless torrent of questions. Not least of all, she had to convince herself that the call had actually happened.

It was no use trying to sleep now. Her eyes traveled the room, and rested for a moment upon the laptop sitting on her desk. There was one simple way to find more about the basic facts of Mina Osborne's disappearance. She crossed to the desk and pressed the necessary keys to connect to the Internet. The Irish Times website came up before her, and she quickly went to its archive search. She typed in "Mina Osborne," but hesitated before pressing "Search." What was she prepared to find out? And what about the consequences? She and Cormac might find themselves in trouble if they knew any more. This was her own private compulsion; why drag him into it? And yet he was the one who had agreed to go back to Bracklyn. Perhaps his own curiosity was as great as her own. Nora hesitated a second longer, then pressed the b.u.t.ton. In an instant, a list of articles appeared. She scanned the headlines: Concern Grows for Missing Woman and Boy Search Is Widened for Missing Mother and Child Woman and Child Missing for over Nine Weeks Gardai to Resume Bogland Searches Today Search for Missing Mother and Child Cut Back Gardai Baffled by Disappearance Osborne Critical of Gardai over Handling of Case Women Who Are Dead or Missing Files on Missing Women Are Reopened Gardai to Examine Serial Killer Possibility She opened the first story, dated almost three years ago: Concern is growing for the safety of a mother and child who have been missing from their Co Galway home since Thursday. Mrs Mina Osborne and her son Christopher were last seen on Thursday afternoon walking along the Drumcleggan road on the outskirts of Dunbeg.

Garda divers have searched Lough Derg near their home, while 60 people, including neighbours, civil defence, and the Order of Malta have searched a five-mile radius around their home, including bogs and marl holes. Gardai have talked to a number of people to try to locate the missing mother and child.

Mrs...o...b..rne is of Indian descent. She is described as 5'5" in height, of slim build, with long black hair and brown eyes. She was wearing an Aran jumper, wine-colored pullover, purple scarf, blue jeans, and brown leather boots. Christopher Osborne is of mixed Indian and Irish parentage, and is described as 2'6" in height, with black/brown curly hair and brown eyes. He was last seen in his collapsible pushchair, wearing green corduroy overalls, a yellow-and-white-striped jersey, dark blue jacket, and red wellingtons.

Just before she disappeared Mrs...o...b..rne went to the local AIB branch at 1:27 p.m. where she was filmed on closed-circuit security cameras making a withdrawal. She also stopped at a local shop to purchase a new pair of wellingtons for her son.

Gardai do not think Mrs...o...b..rne would have accepted a lift from anyone along the walk home, and have no evidence that anyone picked her up. "She's not somebody who would go off," said Detective Sergeant Brian Boylan of Loughrea station. Mrs...o...b..rne's husband said she would never make plans without informing him of her whereabouts. Gardai say there was no sign of a struggle along the road, and that no one reported seeing or hearing anything unusual.

Anyone with information is asked to contact Loughrea Garda Station on (091) 841333 or the Garda confidential telephone number, 1-800-666222.

Nora devoured every sc.r.a.p of information, alert for any discrepancy, any fissure that might serve at least as a temporary foothold. Looking through the list again, another headline jumped out at her: Gardai to Examine Serial Killer Possibility The Garda commissioner, Mr Patrick Neary, has ordered the setting up of a special detective task force to examine cases of missing and murdered women, and to see if there is a serial killer in this State. The move was prompted by the disappearance on August 12th of Fidelma O'Connor (20), a student nurse last seen walking near her home in Abbeyleix, Co Laois. There are similarities between the disappearances, mainly that the women were last seen walking along or near busy rural roads.

What better way to avoid suspicion than to make your wife's disappearance look like the work of a serial killer? It could work, especially in the absence of any physical evidence. The next article gave a list of all seven disappearance cases that had been reopened. None of the seven women had ever been found. All had been alone when they disappeared. None had had a child with her, except Mina Osborne. Nora remembered Devaney's discomfort about this detail. There was something else as well, she learned from this newspaper account. The seven women were nineteen or twenty, and Mina Osborne was twenty-nine years old. Nora stared absently at the words glowing on her computer screen. It was nearly two o'clock in the morning. She remembered the look on Jeremy Osborne's face when she asked if he'd been watching that video. He hadn't been allowed to answer. If she played it right, maybe she could get the boy to talk.

18.

Cormac threw off the sheets and sat up on the edge of the high bed. It was no use trying to sleep; he'd be better off doing something else. He switched on the lamp and checked his wrist.w.a.tch on the bedside table. Twenty past two.

Perhaps he shouldn't have gone back to Kilgarvan. The visit had only dredged up the confusion he'd thought was long past. He'd come back last night, and flung himself into his solitary work at the priory all day long. He should be worn out, and yet his mind would not rest. He had lain in the bed in that hyperaware state that sometimes accompanies sleeplessness, eyes open, trying to make out the looming shapes in the unfamiliar darkness. The room felt airless, despite the window he'd cracked open.

He hoped Nora was getting on all right in Dublin. For a brief second, he allowed himself to imagine her pale neck and shoulders contrasted against the dark green sheets on the bed beside him. He put out a hand and felt the warmth of the place he had lain. Enough of that, he told himself. It wasn't that he was a monk. He'd been involved, at various times, with several intelligent, generous women he'd cared for deeply; every one had taught him a great deal. But in each relations.h.i.+p, he'd somehow felt more like an observer than a full partic.i.p.ant. He should have felt like a partic.i.p.ant, surely. And he knew they had perceived this lack in him, since each one had called it quits before he managed to figure out what wasn't quite right. Now Nora Gavin had managed to unsettle him in a way he'd never been unsettled before. He remembered the expression on her face as she sang, the way her smoky voice dipped and slid so easily through the notes, finding unexpected intervals that had pierced him through. But it wasn't just the beauty of her voice that struck him; he also marveled at her bravery. Singing unaccompanied must be the next thing to stripping off in a room full of people.

With a sigh, Cormac put on his gla.s.ses, and crossed to sit at the table in the tower alcove, where he'd laid out all his maps, notes, and photographs of the priory dig. He switched on the table lamp and opened the map book to the page where the village of Dunbeg appeared. Six inches to the mile. The purpose of these maps was to help pinpoint the location of archaeological activity; they showed the subtle curve of every road and stream, tiny lanes and byways that were invisible on any road map, all kinds of ruins and earthworks otherwise known only to farmers and their cattle. He looked at the thin black lines that represented features of the landscape, the built environment, and the empty white s.p.a.ces between. The excavation at the priory was in just such an empty s.p.a.ce. How often had he and his colleagues dug for days, even weeks or months on a site, only to end up filing a report that noted 'nothing of archaeological significance'? What if he and Nora helped Devaney delve into the lives of these people and it turned out there was no reason to do so? What if Mina Osborne had simply walked away? It could have happened that way. Any other possibility meant that someone at Bracklyn House could be involved in murder. Mrs. Pilkington said there were some in the village who'd already convicted Hugh Osborne.

Perhaps Brendan McGann was right, and he should just pack it in. But why was Brendan so anxious to get rid of him? Cormac thought of the man's face at the priory. There could be any number of reasons for such ill will, but he wondered whether Brendan could hate Hugh Osborne enough to harm his family.... Would you listen to yourself? Prattling on like some b.l.o.o.d.y policeman, he thought. No wonder he couldn't sleep. And they were no closer to solving the riddle of the cailin rua, which was the primary reason they'd come back here. Cormac took off his gla.s.ses and rubbed his eyes, then leaned forward and opened the window as far as it would go, and switched off the lamp at his elbow. The moon had set, so the darkness was almost palpable. Looking out into the blackness beyond his window, he tried to let a Zen-like feeling of nothingness replace the ticking of his thoughts. He would finish the dig as soon as possible, and be off, and worry no more about this. He pushed the thought away, focusing once more on the oblong darkness, trying to imagine himself floating in the center of that darkness, when he saw at its edge, and only for the briefest instant, a tiny speck of light. Cormac quickly put his gla.s.ses back on, and strained to make it out again, but no light flickered. The night was still. He waited, feeling his breath flowing in and out. Just as he decided that he must have imagined it, the light appeared again, this time approaching rapidly. The bright spot jogged up and down, like a torch being carried over rough terrain. Then the jogging motion stopped, and the light moved steadily closer, disappearing for a few seconds at a time. It seemed to be moving through the wood that lay to the southeast of Bracklyn House, flickering as it traveled through the trees, then becoming a steady beacon as it skirted the edge of the wood and drew nearer to the house. When it reached what Cormac judged to be a wall at the edge of the back lawn, the light abruptly vanished altogether.

What was it Devaney had said? Anything that seems out of the ordinary. But he couldn't be sure what this was, or even whether it had to do with someone belonging to this house. Leave it, the voice in his head urged. Get back into the bed and try to salvage a few hours' sleep. Instead Cormac switched the lamp on again, threw on a pullover and a pair of jeans, and stepped into his shoes. He picked up the small torch he kept in his site kit, testing the strength of its beam against the palm of his hand. Couldn't sleep, he'd say if he encountered anyone. Thought I'd help myself to a nightcap if that's all right. He checked the hallway outside his room. All was quiet. He stepped lightly down the carpeted stairway to the foyer and, seeing no one, continued down the stairs to the kitchen. Hugh had cooked them a small supper a few hours ago, and the scent of sauteed onions still hung faintly in the air. The kitchen, too, was dark and quiet, and Cormac began to feel as though he might have dreamt the whole thing. He stood still, listening, then shone his flashlight on the door that led outside. It was bolted shut. He opened the door and stepped outside to look along the back wall of the house. Someone could have entered, he supposed, but gone up by one of the side stairs; there was one set just outside his bedroom, and he guessed that another similar communicating stairwell ran between floors at the opposite end of the house. He felt suddenly foolish at his curiosity, and annoyed with himself for giving in to it so easily. He closed and bolted the door again, and was just turning to go up the stairs to the foyer when he heard the sound of a wooden chair skidding across a stone floor. The noise came from behind a door just to his left, opposite the kitchen at the foot of the stairs. The door was slightly ajar, so he gave it a tentative push, and found himself in a whitewashed stone hallway with several open doorways. A gash of light fell from one.

Hugh Osborne was sitting at a table, one eye closed in concentration as he threaded a large needle with st.u.r.dy white cord. The single lamp on the table cast a warm yellow glow. At his elbow on a workbench were the guts of a book, signatures neatly stacked, and an empty leather-clad cover. A series of different-size tools, including a variety of awls, presses, and clamps, hung on a wooden rack within arm's reach. The ceiling in the room was quite low, and s.h.i.+ny black paneling reached halfway up the walls; the rest was whitewashed like the hallway, hung with antique maps in plain black frames. To the left of the doorway was built-in shelving, painted glossy black like the paneling, and containing many leather-bound books, which gave the small s.p.a.ce the familiar musty smell of a library.

Cormac cleared his throat in greeting. "Evening."

Osborne turned on his stool, peering over a pair of magnifying gla.s.ses that had slid down his nose. He looked worn, the lines in his face exaggerated by the light of his work lamp.

"Ah, Cormac." He seemed neither surprised, nor particularly displeased, to see his guest wandering about this time of night. "Don't tell me that sleep has escaped you as well."

"It has. I just came down to get something to drink and heard a noise. What's that you're working at?"

"Just putting a st.u.r.dier binding on my old copy of Tom Jones. There's some single-malt in the cupboard there to your left; if you'd have a drop, I'll join you."

Cormac moved to pour them each a measure of whiskey in the pair of tumblers he found beside the bottle. If Osborne had been outside, he'd made a smooth transition. He wore a dark blue sweater and gray wool dress trousers, not the usual kit for knocking about in the woods.

"Oh, by the way," Osborne said, "I meant to mention to you this evening that I have to go to London tomorrow on some business. Just for a few days. I hope you and Dr. Gavin will be all right here on your own."

"No bother, I'm sure we'll be fine." As he poured the whiskey, Cormac found himself checking Osborne's footwear for any traces of mud or dew, but the man's feet were ensconced in a pair of worn leather bedroom slippers. Cormac capped the bottle and held out a drink to Hugh Osborne. "To books with backbone."

"Indeed," Osborne said. "Where would literature be without a spine?"

Cormac sat on a cot against the wall and let his eyes travel around the room. Three b.u.t.terfly nets, each one larger than the last, stood in one corner. The cot made up one side of a sitting area in front of the small fireplace, along with a slipcovered armchair and a threadbare Oriental rug on the stone floor. A meager turf fire helped dispel the evening's chill. Despite the few attempts to make it cozy, the room was bare as a monk's cell compared with the heavy opulence of the upstairs rooms. Osborne saw his appraising look.

"I come here often," he said. "It helps to have something to do." He spoke simply, without self-pity. Osborne looked away, and Cormac made no attempt to reply. What could one say to a man preparing to live the rest of his life in uncertainty? Instead, he sat on the cot, gla.s.s in hand, and let the silence rest between them for a moment. It was curious that no matter how objectively he might consider the possible role Osborne played in his wife's disappearance, all suspicion immediately vanished when he was in a room with the man. Cormac supposed he'd never make a good policeman for just that reason. When he finally did speak, it was to change the subject, for which Osborne was apparently grateful.

"I've been admiring your maps," he said. "They look authentic."

Osborne nodded. "That one"--he gestured to the frame hanging above the fireplace--"was the first comprehensive map of this area, drawn up by Hugo Osborne, the chap in the portrait I showed you upstairs. I think I mentioned he was one of William Petty's men. The story is that he surveyed everything himself." Cormac stood to peruse the map. According to this drawing, the estate consisted of a large area around the house, and various other small pockets and parcels of land scattered throughout the parish. There was a crude, three-dimensional view of Bracklyn House itself, and the nearby priory, the tower, heavily wooded areas, small cl.u.s.ters of houses, the lake and surrounding bogland, and in the lower right corner, a computation of all the estate's arable lands.

"No mention of Drumcleggan here at all," Cormac said.

"That's what I first noticed about it as well. Says something about the att.i.tude of the conqueror, doesn't it? Fortunately, the visual detail is spot-on. When you think about it, our vocations aren't all that different. When you excavate a site, you're cutting down through the actual physical evidence of human activity that took place there; in studying place-names, I dig through layers as well, but they're usually layers of maps and papers, all jumbled up with Irish names, English, Danish, Norman names, some altered beyond all recognition. Bad translations are my greatest challenge."

"Are all those tapes?" Cormac asked, indicating the rows of white reel-to-reel tape boxes he'd just noticed lining the shelves behind the door.

Osborne was warming to his subject now. "Yes, my own project. Interviews with old people from the area, on the subject of place-names. It's amazing what some of them can recall, from years and years ago, if only one thinks to ask. And how place-names in particular have a tendency to stick where they've been put down. I'm afraid I've let the project slide recently, but there's a whole lot of valuable doc.u.mentation there; I'm thinking I should resurrect it one day. You should see some of the blunders being perpetuated on the maps and road signs. If you're going to return to the old names, isn't it important that they be correct, and not just quasi-Gaelic versions of bad translations? At some point it does get down to academic hair-splitting, I grant you, but there is principle involved." He gave a wry smile. "Regretting now you ever got me started?"

"Ah--actually, I did mean to ask how you became interested in bookbinding," Cormac said, consciously playing into Hugh Osborne's self-deprecation. Osborne drained his gla.s.s and rose briefly to pour them each another tott. Cormac was relieved that his remark had been received in the spirit in which it was intended.

"At university, actually. I read history as an undergraduate, and was amazed that they'd actually let us handle all those rare papers and ma.n.u.scripts. The conservator at the library used to let me lend a hand now and again. I set up this workshop a few years ago. Bookbinding is only a sideline, really; maps and doc.u.ments are my speciality. I do a bit of work for libraries and collectors, partly because it brings in a few s.h.i.+llings, but mostly because I enjoy it. We've a whole lot of old family papers about the place, deeds and records of births, letters from a few historical figures that I think are worth preserving for the stories they tell." His voice softened slightly, and Cormac felt he was about to receive a confidence that might not have been shared, if it weren't for the hour and their mutual malady. "All things I'd hoped to pa.s.s along to my son, as they'd been pa.s.sed to me." Osborne raised his face slightly, and the two men regarded one another for a moment.

Cormac got the sense that he could change the subject a hundred times, but the conversation would turn back to this place time and time again. He regretted harboring suspicion against this man. He pictured Hugh Osborne as a sea captain lashed to his wheel, staying his course through gales, high seas, and necromancers' spells. After a moment, Osborne returned to his work, and Cormac's eyes came to rest on a large pair of black wellingtons that stood in the shadow of the workbench. Was it his imagination, or perhaps a trick of the light, he wondered, or was their dark surface glistening with wetness?

Book Three.

Beasts and Birds of Prey.

...great mult.i.tude of poor swarming in all parts of the nation...frequently some are found feeding on carrion and weeds and some starved in the highways, and many times poor children who have lost their parents, or who have been deserted by them, are found exposed to, and some of them fed upon, by ravening wolves and other beasts and birds of prey.

--The Commissioners' Report on the State of Ireland, May 12, 1653.

1.

Distances could be deceiving at night, but looking out from the kitchen window in the light of morning, Cormac could see the edge of the lawn against which the light had seemed to travel last night--or rather, earlier this morning--and he felt he'd judged the path of the light fairly accurately. A small flock of sheep grazed near the lakesh.o.r.e, some standing, some lying as though their spindly legs had been cut out from under them. He looked farther, past the perimeter of the lawn, to the Bracklyn woods. Rising up out of the branches only a few hundred yards from the house was O'Flaherty's Tower, its ivied walls a shade of green subtly different from that of the surrounding leaves. From this angle he could see a few wooden roof beams still intact, their slate covering long since robbed to patch holes elsewhere, probably on Bracklyn House itself.

After he'd had his breakfast, Cormac headed to the jeep parked in the drive and deposited the books and tools he needed for the day's work. But the furtive movement of the torch beam--not to mention Hugh Osborne's dew-covered wellingtons--had p.r.i.c.ked his curiosity. Instead of climbing in and driving off, he rounded the corner of the house, past the stable that now served as shed and garage, and followed the tumble-down bawn wall that formed the first defensive barrier around Bracklyn House. He tried to imagine living in such a circ.u.mspect state of mind, as generations of landowners in these parts must have done, ever watchful for some enemy to come and batter down their doors. Not all that different, he supposed, from the Dublin pensioners shut up in their tiny flats, windows barred and doors bolted with sixteen locks.

He followed the wall, now up to his ankles in thick gra.s.s. This patch was one of several to which the sheep had yet to turn their attention. About thirty yards from the lake, the wall came to a crumbling end, no doubt toppled by time and the thick, ropelike vines that snaked over it from the wild wood. He hadn't been careful to make sure no one saw him, but he could just claim that this exploration was somehow related to his business at the priory.

The woods were thick, and the light that filtered through the leaves felt cool and indistinct. It struck him how quickly rampant vegetation could take over any place abandoned or neglected by humankind. The sounds of the wider world were m.u.f.fled here, soaked up by moss and loamy soil, the carpet of ivy and the green canopy above. What a riot of shapes and textures existed in this monochromatic world. Cormac thought of Una and Fintan playing here as children, of the treasure Aoife McGann had brought home, and understood the attraction a place like this would hold for any child with a vivid imagination. It was the very sort of place that would make you believe in ancestor spirits. How often at the site of some primitive settlement had he tried to conjure up an image of Ireland before it was cultivated--a wild green expanse of forest, lake, and bog, when the people dressed in the skins of animals and plaited their hair and wors.h.i.+pped the sun and the spirits of trees and water?

There was no apparent footpath here, and the thin, th.o.r.n.y branches that stuck out from the confusion of undergrowth caught at his clothing. He pressed on, and eventually found a narrow trail, or, rather, a place where the ferns did not grow quite as thick. He stepped over a fallen tree, its bark and fleshy wood being slowly subsumed by a radiantly pale green moss, and as he did so, he heard the distinct snap of a branch. Cormac whirled to see who might be following, but the wood seemed to have closed up behind him. Perhaps it was just paranoia. He turned back toward the tower, listening carefully for any movement besides his own footsteps. The path began to wind this way and that, and Cormac began to understand the reason: he nearly lost his balance when his foot struck a jagged stone embedded in the earth. He knelt and parted the underbrush in several places, finding a handful of similar rocky points within arm's reach. It might be part of a chevaux-de-frise, an ancient defensive tactic used around ringforts to prevent easy a.s.sault by enemies on horseback. There was the tower, dead ahead, the dark gray stone of its base-batter blooming with lichen and moss. He picked his way carefully through the ankle-breaking stones, then climbed across an overgrown earthwork ditch that might be the remains of a medieval motte. The tower was about four stories tall; the only windows were arrow loops several feet long but only a few inches across. How dismal it must have been to live in such a place; how like a prison it must have seemed. Above him jutted a square garderobe that flanked a corner, and above that he could see stone corbels made to support some wooden structure long since destroyed. No sign of crows today. Cormac skirted the base of the tower, looking for the entrance doorway, which he discovered on the far side from his approach. The doorway was a simple pointed Gothic arch, above it a carved stone that might have been a family escutcheon, but it was too damaged to make out. The fact that there was a wooden door at all was curious, because the tower looked to be long abandoned. More curious still was the stout, s.h.i.+ny new padlock that hung from a latch firmly anch.o.r.ed to the wall. He lifted the lock and examined the keyhole at its base. Newly made scratches shone where someone had tried to insert the key and missed the mark. Once the door was locked, there was no way into or out of this tower short of scaling the walls.

Why would Osborne want to keep this building locked? The place was in ruins. Probably something to do with liability, preventing local hooligans larking about and getting themselves killed. But why would someone be out here in the middle of the night? If it were some sort of trysting place, that would explain the secrecy. But a trysting place for whom? Maybe he was wrong about Hugh Osborne and Una McGann. If they were involved, they certainly had reason not to be seen together in public. He couldn't imagine Lucy Osborne in a place like this, but what about Jeremy? It could also be someone completely unconnected to this house, some local lothario who could have claimed this abandoned fortress as a meeting place. If that were the case, however, the whole village would know about it. Dolly Pilkington would certainly know who had purchased such a whacking great padlock, and might even have divined its purpose. Here he was again, acting the policeman.

As he stood at the door, Cormac heard the croaking call of a crow. He turned and saw nothing but leafy greenness all around, heard nothing but the distant shout of a corncrake. Was someone out there, watching him? The teeming silence of the wood gave no answer.

2.

Nora overslept the morning after the mysterious phone call. She was hurriedly repacking her case for the return trip to Bracklyn when she remembered to check her mobile phone for messages. There was only one, from Cormac, wondering if she would mind picking up a few items for him while she was in Dublin. Robbie McSweeney had a key to the house, and was going to gather up the stuff; she could just collect the bag from him. She erased the message and punched in Robbie's office number. They arranged to meet at Cormac's house.

Coming from the city center, Nora crossed over the Grand Ca.n.a.l at Charlemont Street and found herself immediately in the heart of Ranelagh. If the daylight seemed a bit harsh this morning, it was probably because the leaves on the trees were still small, still a fresh shade of pale green against the sky. Cormac's street, Highfield Crescent, turned out to be one of those gracefully curved and chestnut-lined Dublin avenues that seemed miles from the cacophonous bottlenecks of the main roads. Robbie hadn't arrived yet, but he was coming all the way from the Belfield campus. Nora studied the face of Number 43, a tidily terraced red-brick row house, with an arched entrance trimmed in leaded gla.s.s, one of the thousands of nearly identical Victorian doorways in Dublin. Why did it seem curious to her that Cormac's door was painted a bright, sunny yellow? The fenced front garden was a sharply edged patch of green turf so small that he might easily keep it trimmed year-round with a pair of embroidery scissors. Though she hadn't yet seen the inside, she knew it would be a s.p.a.ce very different from her airy, modern flat across the ca.n.a.l. She felt a twinge of uneasiness. It was strange coming here without Cormac's knowledge. Should she have arranged to meet Robbie at his office? She hadn't time to answer her own question when Robbie tapped at the driver's-side window.

"You can wait out here if you like," he said as she rolled down the window, "but I was hoping you might come in for just half a minute. I'm dyin' for a mug of tea. And your reward would be the small bit of news I have for you."

Nora found herself following reluctantly as Robbie pushed open the front door, careful not to knock down the old-fas.h.i.+oned black bicycle that stood in the narrow front hall. "I'll round up the things he's asked for, shall I, and you can get started on the tea." After pointing her in the direction of the kitchen, at the back of the house, Robbie disappeared up the stairs, half lilting, half humming a faintly familiar tune. Nora entered the clean black-and-white-tiled kitchen; a table and two chairs stood in the small conservatory that jutted off the back of the house into the walled garden, giving the room a bright aspect, even on this slightly overcast day. She filled the electric kettle, found tea in a tin beside the stove, and prepared two mugs, then checked the fridge for milk. Plenty for tea; she held the bottle to her nose to make sure it hadn't turned. The kettle boiled quickly, and while the tea was steeping, she ventured into the dining room, or what would normally have been used as a dining room, for this place was set up as a study: bookshelves lined the walls and a large table in front of the window was piled high with books and manila folders that almost obscured the view of the garden. Through an open set of double doors was a sitting room, with a deep leather sofa in front of a fireplace, and a couple of chairs upholstered in Turkish-looking geometric tapestry. The walls of both rooms were painted a ruddy ochre, and at the front of the house was a broad window seat flanked by two bookcases that reached to the ceiling. The atmosphere was orderly, unfussy, much like the man himself, and yet there were a couple of pieces that didn't seem to fit, like the pillow-covered chaise in the corner at the far side of the fireplace. She tried to imagine Cormac at home here. The stereo cabinet in the near corner was piled high with homemade tapes. Nora scanned them, recognizing the names of some older traditional musicians. She approached the bookcases in the living room. The archaeology t.i.tles were no surprise, but Cormac also had quite a collection of books on art history, world religions, architecture, and language. There was a whole section of books on Irish place-names. What was it he'd said to Hugh Osborne? "Interested, but not very knowledgeable." Right. She moved to the other set of bookcases, running her fingers along the spines of old editions in Irish, antique collections of d.i.c.kens, Shakespeare, and Jane Austen, newer translations of Dostoevsky and Tolstoy, a pile of Graham Greene novels, books of poetry by Seamus Heaney and Patrick Kavanagh. Had Cormac read them all? She was suddenly seized with homesickness, remembering her own precious books, save for the few volumes she couldn't possibly live without, packed up in storage at home in Saint Paul. Seeing this wonderful collection only served as a reminder that nothing in her life was the same as it had been before. She sank down slowly on the window seat and closed her eyes, overcome by a terrible and familiar craving. And what if her need to scrabble through the evidence to find something, anything--what if it never satisfied her emptiness? Nora opened her eyes. She could still hear Robbie's absentminded lilting from upstairs.

A small framed photograph on the mantelpiece caught her gaze. It was Cormac and Gabriel McCrossan, looking up from an excavation pit and showing off a h.o.a.rd of artifacts they'd just uncovered, looking tired and dirty and immensely pleased with themselves. How was Cormac faring after losing this man he must have considered a second father? Maybe Robbie had some clue about how he was getting on. She set the picture back on the mantel as she heard footsteps on the stairs.

"Find everything all right?" Robbie asked. "For the tea, I mean," he added hastily, and from the look that came with it, she knew he was giving her a gentle ribbing for having a look around the place.

"Everything was exactly where it ought to be," she said. "Cormac is a very logical fella."