A Carol for the Dead, page 21
Muriel shifted around to address him face-to-face. ‘Derek, Frank Traynor more or less told me he had you in his pocket.’
‘That was a lie.’
‘Well, he had some means of controlling you.’
‘For Jaysus’ sake, Muriel, shut the fuck up.’ Ward was becoming incensed. He was certainly not going to divulge anything while I was listening.
‘Hold on, hold on. You can have it out between you when I’m gone. I just think the Gardaí should be told that Traynor was more than likely murdered by someone he was blackmailing; and it will have to come from a credible source.’
I got out of the car, put my head in the window and addressed Muriel. ‘I’ll contact you after Christmas to talk about Monashee. And – you’ll love me for this – I’ve asked UCD to carbon-date the bodies, on your behalf.’
Muriel waved me away impatiently. She had bigger fish to fry right now.
Walking towards my car, I reflected that Derek Ward, freed of Traynor’s yoke, was not going to reveal what it had been – not even to his lover – for fear he might be burdened with it again. I sensed that a relationship already in crisis was about to take a nose-dive.
Chapter Twenty
I checked the time as I left the car park and saw I had well over an hour to spare. There was another relationship that needed thinking about, and for that hour or so I was going to squeeze everything else out of my mind.
At the party the previous night, Finian and I could have passed for a long-married couple. And that worried me. It was as if the thrill of the chase, the ups and downs of courtship, the novelty of spending time together, the frisson of sexual anticipation, were all behind us – except that we had never experienced them in the first place.
Focused on these thoughts, I inadvertently travelled out of Drogheda along the Dublin road; I didn’t realise it until I saw a sign for Bettystown. On the spur of the moment, I turned left towards the seaside village. A walk along the beach would clear my head. By the sea thoughts become clearer, the universe more explicable.
I turned off the road and parked behind the sand dunes for which this stretch of coast is famous. I grabbed my parka from the boot and zipped it up as I climbed the first ridge. The sea was still invisible from the summit, so I slid down the other side and began my ascent of the next ridge, skirting a deep hollow surrounded by marram grass.
The sheltered hollow in the dunes reminded me of a rainy summer’s day when Tim Kennedy and I had taken a detour to this same place on our way to Carlingford Bay, further north, where we were spending the weekend. The sun had been making one of its brief appearances as we strolled hand in hand across the dunes, and the only other people in sight were some golfers on the nearby links.
We began to kiss, hungry for each other. While wondering how to escape the curious gaze of the golfers, we came upon a similar grass-fringed depression punched into one of the peaks of sand. With lustful urgency spiced by the risk of being discovered, we stripped off our clothes; and with them strewn under us and our bodies partly hidden by the grass, we made love, Tim lying on his back, the heat of the sun on my shoulders, pleasure rippling through me like the waves I could see running towards the shore. Even now I felt a quickening as I remembered it.
Would Finian ever be so uninhibited? He had the capacity to love intensely; that I knew. What most people – my friend Fran included – were unaware of was that the break-up of a passionate affair when Finian was still a teacher had been one of the factors in his decision to give up his career and devote himself full-time to his garden. It was something he hadn’t shared with me until after I had graduated, but even then his pain was still acute. It was only as time passed and the garden took shape that it had eased. And, as that process continued, the relationship between Finian and me had deepened into something more than friendship.
I would be meeting him shortly, and then probably on only one other occasion before Christmas. Was the deadline I had set in my mind for a quantum leap in our relationship unrealistic? Probably. But I knew that if, between now and then, he treated me more like a sister than a lover, then my New Year’s resolution would be to end it.
I reached the summit of the second ridge and found myself looking out on several kilometres of flat sand stretching to my right and left. Even in front of me, the tide was so far out that there was only a slim blue ribbon of sea along the horizon. It wasn’t the thought-clarifying watery expanse I had been expecting, but it was still the sea. And, anyway, I’d done enough reflecting. I wanted to zone out completely for a while.
I descended to the base of the dunes and onto the upper shore, which was coated in crushed seashells. I picked up a bleached branch of wood and walked parallel to the dunes for a while, occasionally turning over an intact shell that caught my attention. Further out, a line of curlews were making their plaintive penny-whistle calls.
When the sun dropped lower in the sky and glared into my eyes, I turned away from the dunes in the direction of the sea, across an expanse of corrugated flats topped by thousands of spirals of sand ejected by burrowing lugworms. The curlews had no doubt been probing for them with their long, curved beaks. I reached a tidal stream and walked back along it in the direction from which I had come. I stopped to poke at one of the lugworm casts with my stick. The plump worms, used as bait by sea anglers, occupy vertical U-shaped tubes under the sand; one end is marked by the cast, the other – the entrance – by a depression in the sand about a hand’s length away.
Something began to take shape in my head – or, more accurately, tried to find three-dimensional expression. From the edge of the tidal flow I carved a semi-circular furrow in the sand, looping it around the cast and back to the stream again. It filled with water, which encircled the mound of ejected sand like a moat. Just by my foot, on the near side of the furrow, was a barely detectable depression, the entrance to the lugworm’s lair. The entrance and exit were on opposite sides of my moat, the tube underneath it.
Feeling a bit like Richard Dreyfuss in Close Encounters of the Third Kind, I knelt on one knee and stared hard at the marooned coil of sand, just as he stared at the mountain of mashed potatoes on his plate. Dreyfuss eventually went on to sculpt the Devil’s Tower in Wyoming – which must make mine a subterranean structure of some kind … Well done, Illaun. But a bit obvious, what with you being an archaeologist.
So much for the sea making the universe more explicable. I looked at my watch. It was time to go.
Before climbing the dunes, I whirled the stick over my head and flung it into the distance. It startled the curlews, who rose up and headed further down the beach. I followed their flight until their silhouettes were consumed by the sun’s glare.
But my thoughts had gone back underground, to Monashee and what lay beneath it. In his encounter with Muriel, Traynor had raised the subject of trafficking in artefacts. Maybe it wasn’t evidence of a crime he had dug up, but something extremely valuable in a different way – a treasure hoard, perhaps. On his own land. How convenient.
That’s a rubbish idea, Illaun, and you know it. Yes, I knew. In my heart of hearts I knew that what had changed Traynor’s mind that day was something he had seen shortly before meeting Muriel Blunden: the remains of the infant in the morgue.
As I drove towards Donore village, the sharp-etched shadows cast by the bright sun grew longer. I switched on the radio to get the three o’clock news headlines. The second item was terse in the way that initial reports about a murder usually are.
‘The body of a man believed to be a Garda sergeant has been found in a field behind the prehistoric monument of Newgrange in County Meath. Detectives from Drogheda have launched a murder inquiry.’
I knew it was O’Hagan.
Mick Doran’s bar seemed to be empty when I arrived. There was a coin-phone on the wall near the door; I found some change in my purse and asked an operator to put me through to Drogheda Garda station. Gallagher wasn’t there, so I left a message for him to ring me at the number printed above the phone.
Next I rang Peggy, who was quite agitated when she answered. ‘Oh, Illaun, I was going out of my mind wondering how to contact you. Inspector Gallagher called, left a strange message for you: don’t arrange to meet anyone you don’t know or are in any way suspicious of. He said you’d know what he was talking about. Are you in some kind of danger?’
Out of the corner of my eye I saw a movement. Then I realised I wasn’t alone after all: on the far side of the oval bar, a man whom I took to be the proprietor was leaning on the counter. He had his back to me and had just turned a page of the newspaper he was reading.
‘I can’t talk now, Peggy, but if Gallagher rings again tell him I’m at this number.’ I asked her for Gallagher’s mobile number, and then I told her to let Terence Ivers at WET know that Muriel Blunden was giving us the go-ahead for Monashee. I wondered vaguely why he hadn’t been in touch with me since Friday, but I let it pass. I finished by asking her to pick up my new phone – the shop hadn’t been open at the early hour I’d left Castleboyne. As I should have guessed, Peggy had already collected it.
I found some more coins and got through to Gallagher’s voicemail, on which I left a message including Finian’s mobile phone number. Then I sat on a stool at the horseshoe-shaped bar. Gallagher’s warning worried me, and I was glad that I’d invited Finian to come to Donore on our way home the previous night. I even wondered if I should cancel the meeting with Jack Crean, which, by Gallagher’s criteria, I shouldn’t be having. But that would be taking caution to an extreme, I thought.
I tapped on the counter to get the proprietor’s attention.
‘I’m here. What do you want?’ Doran said without raising his head. His tone was sharp, almost aggressive.
‘What do you have in the line of food?’
‘Soup, sandwiches, toasted sandwiches,’ he said brusquely, still keeping his back to me. Finian wouldn’t be greatly impressed with our lunch venue, but I hadn’t promised him more than a snack.
‘There’s someone joining me shortly; I’ll wait until he arrives.’
Doran grunted something in reply and disappeared from sight. I surmised that he had known Sergeant O’Hagan and that his mood was a response to the news of his murder, which would have spread quickly through the village.
There wasn’t a sound. Old-fashioned paper garlands hung in loops from the ceiling. They reminded me of the ones we had at Christmas when I was a child. Taking them down afterwards with my father, I would stand on a chair, hold one end of the decoration above my head while the other dropped to the floor, and then let it concertina downwards until it was a flat slab of paper.
Minutes dragged past. At last I heard an engine idling outside, followed by a car door opening and closing. Finian came in, strode across to the bar and embraced me. ‘Sorry I’m late. I got Hugo to drop me over.’ Hugo was an odd-job man at Brookfield Gardens. ‘Hey …’ He was still holding my shoulders. ‘You’re trembling, Illaun. What’s up?’
‘I’m a bit scared. There’s been another killing, and I’m sure it was Sergeant O’Hagan. I’m just waiting –’
‘’Twas O’Hagan, all right.’ Neither of us had noticed Doran standing behind the bar. ‘They found him over the far side of the river, in a field behind Newgrange. Word has it he was butchered the same way as his brother-in-law.’
I started to tremble so hard I had to lean my hand on the counter to steady myself. It came to me that I hadn’t paid full attention to the news bulletin earlier. In my mind I’d made Monashee the scene of the crime, but O’Hagan had been found not only across the river but fifteen kilometres away by road, a fact that seemed significant for some reason that eluded me.
Finian put his arms around me. ‘Let’s go sit somewhere else,’ he said, and led me gently over to an alcove. We didn’t talk, just held hands while the last light of the fiery afternoon came through a window behind us. In my mind I said a prayer for O’Hagan’s wife and family.
Eventually Finian looked around the pub, still empty apart from ourselves, the owner nowhere to be seen. ‘There was no need to book out the entire place for us, you know,’ he said in an obvious effort to raise my spirits.
I went along with it. ‘No problem. Just wait until you hear what’s on the menu.’
‘Let me guess. For starters, a choice of oysters, foie gras or caviar.’
‘Close,’ I said. ‘How do you like them done, plain or toasted?’
Finian sighed. ‘And it’s ham or cheese, I suppose.’
‘We have chicken,’ muttered Doran, who had magically appeared behind the bar again.
‘Just what I was hoping for,’ said Finian. I couldn’t tell if he was joking. ‘From the toasted menu, if you please. And a pint of Guinness. You, Illaun?’
I didn’t feel like eating.
‘Go on, it will do you good.’ Finian was determined to get me back in full working order.
‘All right. Toasted cheese for me, please. And I’ll have tea.’
Doran vanished.
I asked Finian for his mobile phone, explaining that Gallagher might be ringing me at any time. He handed me the phone and then removed his coat, slipping a slim, gift-wrapped parcel from an inside pocket as he did so. ‘This is a sort of pre-Christmas present,’ he said. ‘I think you’ll like it.’
I blushed. ‘Why, thank you. Should I open it now?’
‘Yes, that’s why I said it was a pre-Christmas gift. You’re allowed.’
At that moment, the sun blazing through the glass, the rural stillness all about, Finian beside me, I felt a million miles away from the scary place where my head had been over the past hour.
‘Thanks again,’ I said, kissing him on the cheek.
‘You still haven’t opened it,’ he said.
I rested it on my lap. ‘There’s no need to,’ I said. I knew my eyes were glistening, but I didn’t care; I was happy.
Doran arrived in the alcove with our sandwiches and drinks on a tray. The moment had passed. But I would treasure it.
Finian thanked the proprietor as he distributed the contents of the tray. ‘What’s the name, by the way?’
‘Mick.’
Finian introduced us both. Doran grunted and went off again.
‘Grand man,’ said Finian. Then he pointed at the parcel still in my lap. ‘For God’s sake, open that!’
I undid the gold foil wrapping. A newspaper column under glass in a black frame: the Meath Chronicle, dated December 1898.
CHRISTMAS IN THE INDUSTRIAL SCHOOL FOR BOYS, CASTLEBOYNE
Once again, when mirth and good cheer are prevalent all over the land, the inmates of the above institution lacked none of the good things which are associated with the festive season of Christmas. At dinner, roast beef and plum pudding were provided, such as everyone, both rich and poor, partakes of at this time. After dinner the master distributed apples and oranges to the boys.
Then the boys were agreeably surprised by a performance for their benefit ably carried out by the members of Castleboyne Amateur Musical Society. The string overture was splendidly played by Messrs M. Maguire, P. Hunt, W. Dalton, J. Olohan, J. Nugent, T. Butler and V. Kitts.
I read on down the column, which listed the various compositions played and sung on the occasion; they included ‘Kitty of Coleraine’ and ‘The Banks of the Nile’. These were interspersed with hornpipes danced by members of the company, and there were ‘jokes and conundrums’ which the children ‘loudly applauded’. The final song, performed by all members of the Society, was ‘Let Erin Remember the Days of Old’, following which:
An encore was called for, and Mr Hunt, accompanied by Miss Maguire, outdid himself in his rendition of ‘Mona’, which was the song of the night. It was also notable that under the Castleboyne man’s tutelage Miss Maguire’s playing has reached a standard of excellence rarely heard on the amateur stage.
So was the season of Xmas spent in Castleboyne Industrial School, and if it were as pleasantly spent everywhere else, Christmas should have been a very happy one indeed all through the world.
Mona. I smiled at Finian. ‘You spotted the song title, I take it?’
He nodded. ‘I found that piece on Friday, so the name was fresh in my mind from the night before. I thought it was worth getting framed.’
‘It’s such an odd little coincidence,’ I said. ‘I’ll have to track down the song someday and learn it.’
‘Interesting, too, that not only was Miss Maguire from Celbridge, but your great-grandfather – if it was he – seems to have been her tutor.’ Finian was hinting that there was a parallel between them and us.
‘I really must ask my mother about them.’
We finished our sandwiches and sat for a while in a comfortable silence as the descending sun got caught in the hooks of a blackthorn tree outside the window. Then we heard the door of the bar squeak open, and a man whom I took to be Jack Crean ambled up to the bar.
He was of similar build to his son and had the same ruddy complexion, but his had a more purplish hue. He was wearing a flat cap and a sports jacket that was several sizes too small, so that he seemed to be stuck inside it.
I went across to the bar and introduced myself.
‘Hello, Missus,’ said Jack, extending a hand with jumbo-sized fingers.
‘And that’s a friend of mine,’ I said as he pumped my hand, ‘Finian Shaw.’
Finian saluted him. Jack released my hand on one of the upward movements, so that it flapped out like a butterfly.
Doran arrived behind the counter from wherever he had been. ‘Evening, Jack. Jemmy and red?’
Jack made the slightest movement of his head and Doran poured him a glass of Jameson, adding a splash of red lemonade from a plastic litre bottle.
‘There’ll be frost tonight,’ said Jack, putting a note on the counter. He sipped his drink, gathered his change and then came with me to the alcove. ‘I suppose you’ve heard about them finding the sergeant dead,’ he said as we sat down.
