A Carol for the Dead, page 15
Of course – Sister Roche! I had left her out of the picture altogether. Maybe she had pulled a fast one in the land deal to provide herself with some personal funds, and Frank Traynor, having found out about it, had been going to expose her. But how could she have described Mona’s injuries to the assassin? It kept coming back to that. Unless … who did Malcolm Sherry meet for lunch that day?
Whoa there, Illaun, take it easy.
My brain had become a runaway train, picking up speed as each new theory flashed in and out of view like another railway station on the route. Despite having had only half a glass of wine, I was thinking as if I were drunk, accusing ordinary, decent people of carrying out a particularly nasty murder. My efforts at crime investigation were liable to land me in jail before anyone else. Best to leave it to the experts. I leaned back in the couch and closed my eyes.
When Boo landed on my lap I knew I had been asleep, but for how long I couldn’t estimate – maybe seconds, maybe half an hour. At least the express train in my head had pulled into a siding. Outside, the wind had risen higher. I could hear it rattling the flap of the post-box.
The phone rang in the hall. It was Finian, a little tetchy with me for not ringing him back. I explained I’d wanted some time to myself.
‘Does that mean you’re not coming with me tomorrow night?’
Jocelyn Carew’s party! I’d completely forgotten to confirm it with him. I wondered briefly if my bad memory was a sign of early Alzheimer’s, part of my genetic inheritance. But I dismissed it just as fast: I mightn’t recall where I’d left my car keys a minute ago, but my long-term memory was like a vice – or so I told myself.
‘Sorry, Finian. Of course I’m going with you.’
‘Too late – the offer expired yesterday.’
I knew he was teasing. ‘It just went out of my head, with all the things that have happened. By the way, were you thinking of staying the night in Dublin?’ I bit my lip. Why had I blurted that out?
‘No …’ he said, sounding a bit puzzled. ‘Why would I want to?’
‘Oh, you know … drinking and driving, having to travel fifty kilometres home …’ I knew it sounded lame.
‘Would you like to stay in Dublin for the night?’
‘Eh …’ I knew there was some impediment. Or perhaps I was looking for one. ‘What date is tomorrow?’
‘The twentieth.’
‘Oops. Means it’s the eve of the solstice. I have to be at Newgrange early next morning, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.’
‘Well, let’s leave it at that. We just need to arrange what time we’re leaving at.’
We talked briefly and then said good night. I put down the phone wondering how I’d managed, in our short exchange, both to reveal more than I wanted him to know and to sabotage an opportunity for us to be together.
I threw back the wine in the glass and picked up my dinner tray. Leftover dinners and leftover wine – it sounded like a line from one of those country songs I pretended not to like.
And now all I’ve got in this sad life of mine
Is just leftover dinners and leftover wine …
And, in a way, Finian was a leftover man.
As I came into the kitchen, a gust of wind knocked a plastic plant pot off the windowsill outside and sent it skittering around the corner of the house. Horatio would usually be barking on a night like this, the wind skewing his ability to distinguish real threats from imagined ones. But he was with my mother in Aunt Betty’s.
Feeling isolated and vulnerable, I went around the house making sure the external doors were locked, the alarm set. As I stepped into the utility room to check that the patio door was bolted, something scraped against the windowpane.
I couldn’t move. Spicules of fear had entered my blood and were turning it to ice.
The door rattled; a gnarled silhouette appeared at the window, and the talon raked along the glass once more. I realised it was a branch of the overhanging wisteria that was being buffeted against the door by the wind.
I reached for the bolt and rammed it home, then stood with my back against the door as my heart worked overtime to send the blood flowing freely through my veins again.
December 20th
Chapter Fifteen
‘Morning, Illaun. Did you have a nice weekend?’ said Peggy brightly when I arrived in the office. She was leafing through the morning papers.
I sat down and attached my laptop to a large display screen. ‘Not exactly brilliant …’
But Peggy wasn’t really listening for an answer. ‘I see the bookies aren’t expecting a white Christmas. Someone could make a fortune if it snows.’ She brought me over the Times and the Independent. It seemed all the yearly clichés were being trotted out. ‘Prospect of White Christmas Fading’ … It had snowed once at Christmas in my lifetime, and maybe even that was a false memory. ‘Stores Expecting Bumper Week’ … I had never seen one that said, ‘Stores Expecting Poor Sales.’
The Times also carried a colour photo of a group of young carol singers: ‘Members of the Piccolo Lasso choir at their annual Christmas concert in the National Concert Hall last night.’
‘That would make such a nice Christmas card, don’t you think?’ said Peggy, going back to her desk. ‘I know you’re fussy about what you like.’ This arose from a comment I’d made on a card that had arrived the previous week: ‘Happy Holiday!’ accompanied by a photograph of the Dublin Spire. Peggy’s own preference was for jokey cards; her preferred newspapers were the red-top tabloids, one of which she had open on her desk.
Ignoring her reference, I scanned down the sidebar listing the main news items in the Times. There was nothing to suggest there had been any progress in the murder investigation.
‘I don’t believe it. You haven’t sent any cards yet, Illaun. You’re a disgrace.’ Peggy had taken my lack of response as an attempt to avoid the subject, which was partly true.
Let me describe Peggy. Plump, big-breasted, fifty – or, as she might put it, voluptuous, curvaceous and free. (The last referred to her having reached an age when childbearing was no longer an issue and she could indulge her voracious sexual appetite without chemical or prophylactic intervention. Not that she was promiscuous: Peggy’s husband Fred was the sole object of her desires, and those who knew this were inclined to snigger at the man’s beanpole appearance and perpetually harassed look.) She was constantly changing her hairstyle and its colour – at present it was a shiny jet-black helmet à la Louise Brooks, with kohl eye make-up to match. Peggy was a devotee of herbal remedies for every ailment, avidly followed all the TV soaps and was encyclopaedic in her knowledge of the lives and loves of ‘celebrities’. She was also the most organised human being I had ever encountered – exactly what I needed in a secretary.
‘I suppose you’ve forgotten our staff lunch is on Thursday, as well.’
‘Of course I haven’t.’ That was a lie. ‘We’d better book a table somewhere.’
‘Ah, Illaun. Do you really think there’s a restaurant in Castleboyne would have a table available in this of all weeks?’ She gave me a mischievous smile. ‘Don’t worry. I booked the Old Mill for the four of us a month ago.’
See what I mean?
‘I’ll get some cards for you this morning and print out the address labels. All you’ll have to do is sign the cards.’ She folded away her newspaper. ‘All right with you?’
‘Great. Any mention of the murder in the paper, by the way?’
She looked puzzled. ‘What murder?’
‘Sorry, I thought you knew.’ I’d wondered why it wasn’t the first topic of conversation.
It turned out Peggy hadn’t heard about Traynor’s death, despite the fact that it had been on every news bulletin on radio and TV over the weekend, not to speak of the tabloids of which she was so fond. But no doubt she had been finding better things to do with her time. I tried to give her as brief an account as possible of events since Friday – which wasn’t easy, given her numerous requests for gruesome detail.
‘… Which brings us to this morning,’ I said almost half an hour later, glancing at the office clock to indicate the subject was about to be closed. ‘As you can imagine, I’m trying to get back to some semblance of normality. But cast your mind back to last Thursday and Friday for a moment. Did anyone call the office looking for information on the find at Newgrange?’
‘No journalists, if that’s what you mean.’
‘I mean anyone. Particularly if they didn’t identify themselves.’
‘No. I’d remember a call like that. In fact, the only other person I spoke to about it was Keelan. That was Thursday, when I told him he was to go to the hospital next morning.’
‘OK. If you do get any calls from the media, just redirect them to Detective Inspector Matt Gallagher at Drogheda Garda station. Or, better still …’ I was thinking of how anything that would make Muriel Blunden’s life uncomfortable would greatly please me. And then I thought of her mourning her dead lover, and of how isolated she was probably feeling, as the mistress usually does on such occasions. ‘No, forget it,’ I said. ‘Now, let’s see what has to be done.’
I had to summarise the most recent data from the motorway interchange survey, include it in the report and write an introduction. I wanted to follow up on Mona’s X-rays, that of her clenched hand in particular. I also needed to load the digital images from the morgue and the abbey into my PowerBook. At some stage I would have to pick out what I was going to wear to Jocelyn Carew’s soirée. And, if there was time after all of that, I would try and put my mind to what I might say in the following day’s interview with Dig magazine.
Faced with this daunting list, I proposed that Peggy drive my car into Castleboyne; while the window was being replaced she could buy the cards and pick me up a new mobile phone. By the time she had opened the post and left, I was immersed in the motorway survey. The proposed interchange and the roads converging on it would be passing through a crowded archaeological landscape, the history of the county in microcosm. Among the features we had identified were a prehistoric stone circle; several raths or ring-forts, early medieval homesteads; the remains of an Anglo-Norman manor house including earthworks and enclosures; two cemeteries, one of which was a cillín, a burial ground for unbaptised children; and an area of farmland where a skirmish had occurred in advance of the Battle of the Boyne in 1690 – a test trench here had unearthed three pike-heads, a plug bayonet, musket and cannon balls, and a couple of intact mortar bombs. Finding evidence of this hitherto unknown encounter between the Williamite and Jacobite armies was a good example of how archaeology could help historians gain a more accurate picture of the past.
I had just started writing the introduction to the report when the phone rang. I let it ring out, but when I heard Malcolm Sherry’s voice leaving a message I grabbed the handset.
‘I’m here, Malcolm. Just trying to get a survey report written up before the Christmas spirit takes over.’
‘I understand, Illaun. Same goes for me. That’s why I want to put your bog lady to bed, so to speak. I’ve been looking at the X-rays. Nothing remarkable to report – no obvious pathology or skeletal deformity, no signs of injury to the skull. But she has something in her hand, all right. It looks man-made.’
‘Metal or stone?’ I held my breath. Mona’s age could be quickly determined by this artefact, if such it was.
‘Neither. I think it’s made of bone.’
‘Bone?’ Mona seemed determined to keep us guessing. A bone ornament could be from any period. ‘I’ve got to see it as soon as possible, Malcolm.’ I might be able to interpret its age from the way it was carved.
‘I’m shipping off the two sets of remains today. Chap called Ivers has arranged for them to be put in the climate-controlled unit at the National Museum for the time being …’
Ivers had managed to bypass the Director of Excavations. But Muriel was probably out of the office anyway.
‘And you should be hearing something back from the UCD radiocarbon lab by the end of the week. I’ve also been thinking about the cause of the deformities in the infant. Assuming the body isn’t from the modern era, we can rule out drugs and radiation; but perhaps inbreeding could be a factor.’
‘In that it increases the likelihood of severe malformations?’
‘Yes. And it would be taboo – within the immediate family, anyway – which might account for the killing of the mother. Maybe the birth was used as evidence to convict her of incest, and her brother or father, whichever was responsible, suffered the same fate.’
Which could account for the ‘Nubian’. But I knew that incest wasn’t always taboo in ancient cultures. Among ruling castes, if no female of suitable rank was available, a king might marry his sister rather than a woman of lower social status – an option institutionalised by the Egyptians of the New Kingdom.
‘It’s an interesting thought, Malcolm. I’ll bear it in mind.’ But I was more excited at the prospect of seeing the artefact Mona had been clutching in her hand. Where was Sherry, anyway? ‘You sound as if you’re still in Drogheda. How come?’
‘I decided to stay the weekend. Went on a little tour of Meath with a friend.’
The same friend he had met for lunch on Friday? Forget it. Stick to the subject.
‘Could I ask a favour, Malcolm?’
‘Go ahead.’
‘That piece of bone – I’d like you to remove it from her hand. I’ll have someone collect it and the thong from you within the hour, if you can hold on. It’ll be OK with Ivers.’
‘I’ll do it. But, as I said last week, one good turn deserves another. How about it?’
‘Em …’ Why was I nervous about this?
‘Illaun, are you still there?’
‘I’m here.’
‘The solstice event at Newgrange tomorrow morning. Can you get me in there … plus one?’
I was surprised. But then, what had I been expecting?
It wasn’t going to be easy. Sherry knew well that tickets for the day and the two days either side – a hundred passes in all, for the five days during which the light comes through the roof-box – were allocated by lottery in October, with a handful being reserved for VIPs. I had witnessed the solar phenomenon myself some years previously, but on this occasion I would be outside the chamber.
‘If I can’t do it, what about the following day, or Thursday?’
‘Won’t be around, I’m afraid. I’m going away for Christmas.’
That was really narrowing the odds. ‘I’ll do my best. Can’t promise anything.’
I put down the phone wondering why he had left it so late to ask me. I rang Keelan O’Rourke; his mobile responded with an agitated bleeping. Out of order? Keelan lived in Navan – also on the Boyne, but not as picturesque as my hometown. His landline was in our database, but, as he was scheduled to be out at the interchange site with Gayle and was utterly dependable, there was no point in trying it.
Gayle had neither a mobile phone nor her own transport. About the latter I could do little, as she didn’t know how to drive, but her refusal to accept a paid-for company phone was more frustrating; it made little sense in a working environment where the mobile phone was an extremely useful tool.
Irritated at not being able to reach the team, I redirected my stress into steeling my nerve to ring Con Purcell, Director of Newgrange Visitor Centre. I hated putting him on the spot, but he was my best hope for gaining admission for Malcolm Sherry.
Purcell was at his desk. I explained the situation briefly, adding that Sherry had been very helpful in connection with the find at Monashee.
‘Nothing I can do unless we get a cancellation, Illaun. And then officially we have to draw from our panel of applicants.’
‘I understand. Maybe if one of your VIPs bows out?’
‘Doubt it. But you never know.’
I had no sooner put down the phone than it rang again. An unfamiliar number came up on the screen.
I answered as Peggy would. ‘Illaun Bowe Consultancy, how can we help you?’
‘Keelan O’Rourke of the Away Team checking in, Captain. How is everything on board the Enterprise?’
‘Keelan! Am I glad you called. Where are you ringing from?’
‘Don’t tell the boss, eh? I’m in a pub down the road from where I’m meant to be working.’
I laughed. ‘So why are you there?’
‘Had my phone stolen on Friday night.’
‘That’s odd; so did I.’
‘How?’
‘My car was broken into.’
‘Sorry to hear that. In my case it was just stupidity – I left it behind on the counter in my local. When I went back on Saturday, they said it hadn’t been handed in.’
‘Well, look, get yourself a new one and bill the company. Ask Peggy later for an order number or whatever it’s called. In the meantime I want you to pick up something in Drogheda for me and bring it here.’
‘What is it?’
‘Remember that strip of leather? That and something else. From Dr Sherry. He’s waiting for you at the old morgue.’
‘Will do. How’s the report going?’
‘I’ve got it more or less laid out, and I’m doing the introduction as we speak. Let’s wrap up the survey now, and I’ll get the report to the NRA today. I’ll email it to you and Gayle, and you can both take a look at it over the holidays. We can always send them an addendum if it’s needed.’
‘When do I have to collect the stuff from Dr Sherry?’
‘Your little blue Micra should be halfway to Drogheda by now, that’s when.’
He chuckled and hung up.
I liked Keelan for many reasons, not least because he kept me on my toes. With renewed determination, I went at the report. I had spent no more than twenty minutes on it when Con Purcell rang back.
