A Carol for the Dead, page 6
‘See here –’ Sherry outlined the openings in the sides of her head, the lipless, gurning mouth, the gaping eyeholes. ‘Come a bit closer, if you don’t mind.’
I moved along the table, forcing myself to examine the blackened Scream mask with its pathetic clump of ginger hair.
‘I assumed at first the eyelids and lips had been lost before preservation set in – something quite common in natural mummification. But cartilage would be slower to decay; in fact, it survives well in boggy conditions. So the missing ears were a mystery. And you’ll notice the tragus on each side is intact – that’s the little lobe in front of the auditory canal. That made me even more suspicious. Why had those bits of cartilage not shrivelled away as well? On closer inspection, I could see the wound margins where the auricle – the main part of the ear – had been severed from the face by a sharp instrument. Same with the lips, as you can see.’
There was no doubt that all the edges had an unnatural, carved appearance. I tried to catch the effect in a quick sketch.
Sherry ran his finger inside the rim of one of the eyeholes, which I noticed had a more ragged look. ‘But the wounds here are not as neat; there was some digging and gouging with the point of the blade before they succeeded in their objective. That’s how I realised they had gone for the eyeballs, not just the lids.’
‘Jesus, Malcolm … she had a horrific death.’
‘Yes, she died savagely – but not from any of those wounds.’ Sherry moved back to his position behind her head and lifted her chin to show me. Her throat had been slashed, practically separating her head from the rest of her body. ‘And she was strangled into the bargain. See here …’ He pointed out a groove in the skin just under the incision, below where her earlobe should have been. ‘This was made by some kind of ligature.’
I looked at him expectantly.
‘No, it’s not there any more. One thing’s sure: cutting her throat while she was being strangled would have been a bloody business.’
Oh, God. Why did it have to be such a fate? And what had she done to deserve it? What law had she broken, what taboo had she infringed? Mona’s end was looking more like punishment than sacrifice. So there was a real possibility – it made me grimace to think of it – that she been mutilated before being put to death, not after. It was all pointing towards the likelihood that she was from the Iron Age.
‘You’re probably wondering what anyone could have done to deserve to die like that.’ Sherry tilted his head in the direction of the other autopsy table. ‘I think the reason is over there.’
A chill not connected with the temperature in the morgue crept over my skin.
‘So let’s take a look, shall we?’ he said, drawing the sheet over Mona and moving to the other table. I placed my sketch-pad and pencil on the edge of Mona’s table and joined him.
He was about to remove the second sheet when there was a knock on the door. ‘Blast,’ he said under his breath; then, brightly, ‘Come in.’
A white-coated woman opened the door halfway and proffered a yellow envelope. ‘Dr Sherry, I have those results for you.’
‘Thank you,’ he said, looking at his watch. I checked the time on my mobile phone. It was 12.40. I had been meant to meet Seamus Crean ten minutes ago.
Sherry started to unroll his gloves. ‘Look, Illaun, if you don’t mind, we’ll leave this till later. I’ve arranged to meet someone for lunch.’
‘Me too. And I’m late.’
He smiled. ‘Same here. I also have to go to Drogheda Garda station to file an official report that will release them from having to carry out any further investigation, so see you back here at – what? four?’ He dropped the gloves into a plastic waste-disposal bin and took the key of the morgue from his pocket. ‘Or I could leave this with you in case you get back earlier and want to do some drawing?’
I took the key from him, but then I hit on a better idea. ‘Tell you what – I’ll leave the key with one of my team, and then whichever one of us is back first can collect it.’
‘Fine with me.’
As we left the morgue, my feelings about Traynor came to the surface again. But there was no point in getting angry at him – better to mount an effective legal challenge to his plans. The one I should really be outraged at was Muriel Blunden, a public servant who, instead of defending the people’s heritage, was facilitating a threat to it. But why had she taken such a perverse stance on the issue?
Chapter Six
Seamus Crean had suggested we meet at St Peter’s Church in the main street. Drogheda was not a town with which I was well acquainted, and the church was a highly visible landmark.
There was a sleety drizzle falling, and I wandered up the steps and into the porch to see if he was sheltering from the weather. Not seeing him there, I pushed through the brass-handled swing doors and found myself in a vaguely familiar interior. It was a good example of Gothic Revival, and it had been recently restored, which perhaps was why I wasn’t sure whether I had been there before. To satisfy my curiosity I walked down a side aisle; approaching the altar, I saw that my memory was accurate. Inside a glass reliquary surmounted by a gilt latticework cone was a man’s head, his roasted skin like blotched yellow-brown suede, his closed eyelids giving him a serene appearance that belied his violent end.
This was the preserved head of the martyr St Oliver Plunkett, which I had not seen since childhood when we were taken to see it as part of a school excursion. The tour had also included a visit to Newgrange, and I wondered if our teachers had ever noticed the odd parallel between the church that housed a charred skull, and the tomb that had once contained a collection of cremated bones.
To the left of the saint’s shrine, an area of the church had been devoted to him; it featured another reliquary containing parts of his skeleton, the door of his prison cell, various plaques and paintings and a selection of booklets, one of which I picked up and began browsing through. I soon came across the chilling words of his death sentence for treason:
And from Newgate prison you shall be drawn by sledge through the City of London to Tyburn; there you shall be hanged by the neck but cut down before you are dead, your bowels taken out and burnt before your face, your head shall be cut off, and your body divided into four quarters to be disposed of as his Majesty pleases. And I pray God to have mercy on your soul.
Overkill. Just like Mona. Had she too been the victim of religious persecution?
I was standing a few metres from a row of red-cushioned pews set in front of the main shrine. On the far side of the seats was an offering stand with rows of smoking prayer-candles, and silhouetted in the glow was a figure. There was a man kneeling in the pew nearest the shrine, shoulders hunched, head bent. I had been unaware there was anyone else in the church.
The man lifted his head, blessed himself and rose to leave, but only after he had genuflected and turned around did I see it was Seamus Crean. I followed him out and caught up with him in the porch.
‘Seamus, I thought I’d missed you.’
‘Sorry about that, Missus; I was just lighting a candle. My mother has great faith in St Oliver.’
‘I see.’
‘He might help me get another job before Christmas, she said.’
We walked down the steps. I noticed Crean had washed his hair; it was lighter by several shades, and most of it stood above his head in a frizzy column.
‘Have you had any lunch?’ I asked him.
‘Well, no …’
‘Let’s go somewhere and have a bite to eat, then. And it’s on me.’
He hesitated for a moment when we reached the street.
‘Is there a problem?’
‘Nothing fancy, if that’s all right with you.’
I smiled. ‘No problem. You pick a place. Whatever suits you suits me.’
We crossed the street in a grey drizzle, beneath cheerful Christmas lights; they were doing little to lift the spirits of sullen-faced drivers caught up in barely moving traffic, no doubt exacerbated by the weather and the onset of the seasonal shopping rush. Crean brought me to a spacious pub where the lunch was buffet-style, served onto trays from brightly lit hot plates and bains-marie offering roast beef, fried fish, boiled ham, cabbage and potatoes. It was just what was required on a miserable December day, and we both tucked into beef smothered with gravy, our plates piled high with vegetables. I was drinking water, he had a pint glass of milk.
‘So what happened this morning?’ I asked, after we had eaten a forkful or two each.
‘It was a bit of crack, to be honest, Missus. I got off the bike down the road a bit, saw the squad car arriving at the field and the boys in blue getting out. A minute or so later, the lads working the diggers is standing talking to the Gardaí on the side of the road. The work had stopped at this stage, so I cycled up to the squad car. “What’s the matter, lads?” says I to the workmen. “Do you want Mr Traynor to come and sort this out?” One of them says, “Yeah, but we can’t get him on the phone.” Then one of the Gardaí asked me if I knew where Mr Traynor was. “I do,” says I, getting back up on the bike, “and there’s no chance of getting him down here. He’s gone to Dublin for the day.”’
I laughed at Crean’s audacity, something I hadn’t thought was in him. ‘And what’s happening there now, do you know?’
‘Some people came to survey the place just as the work was starting up again – said they had to measure it or something, waved some kind of legal papers at the digger lads. They said work would have to stop until they were finished.’
This was good news. Ivers must have persuaded the judge to give WET access to the whole site. Traynor wasn’t having it all his own way, despite having Muriel Blunden on his side. But why was he so anxious to have the place torn up immediately? Had it something to do with avoiding the planning process?
‘What’s the opinion locally about this hotel of Traynor’s? How did he get planning permission?’
Crean checked to see who was sitting near us. Satisfied we could not be overheard, he nevertheless leaned towards me and lowered his voice conspiratorially. ‘Seems he bought different plots of land from Grange Abbey.’
‘So?’
‘Well, they’re a nursing order of nuns that’s been in the area from way back. Came in with the Normans, they say. All their land has ancient rights attached to it.’
‘What kind of rights?
‘Rights to do anything with the property, build or whatever. That’s why Traynor thinks the planning laws don’t apply to him.’
‘But those rights wouldn’t hold up in law today.’
Crean leaned closer. ‘No matter. Traynor has the County Council and the Minister for Tourism and Heritage behind him.’
‘Derek Ward?’
Crean nodded.
Of course. Minister Ward was a Dáil member for the constituency, and the party he served had a history of riding roughshod over environmental planning laws. That was where Traynor evidently got his political clout.
‘There’s also a rumour,’ Crean whispered, ‘that the deal with the nuns will give the order a share in the profits from the hotel.’
I knew that religious orders had been selling off property all over Ireland in recent years, but profit-sharing in hotels was a new one on me. ‘Are they a Catholic order?’
Crean nodded. ‘The abbey is some kind of retreat house. I don’t even know what the order is called; even though it’s near Donore, they never had much to do with the community. All you ever hear is rumours about them.’
‘What kind of rumours?’
‘Well, there’s been a lot of workmen coming and going up at the abbey in the past while. All foreign. It’s not that I have anything against them as such, it’s just you’d wonder why no locals are getting work. My father thinks the nuns have something to hide.’
A waitress asked if we wanted dessert, which apparently was served at the tables. I declined and asked for more water; Crean ordered apple pie and cream and a cup of tea.
‘Seamus, this idea that Monashee is haunted …’ I looked him squarely in the eyes. ‘You don’t really believe it, do you?’
He sat back, less concerned about eavesdroppers now. ‘I do and I don’t. All I know is what I told you. It’s always in shadow in the day, people don’t like passing it at night, there’s strange lights seen over it from time to time.’
Always in shadow in the day? Odd place to build a hotel … ‘Anything else you can remember?’
‘Some say you’ll see the souls of the dead in white grave-clothes rising up out of the field, hear them moaning and groaning.’
‘When are these apparitions seen?’
‘Mainly this time of year. My father knows all about it. I could ask him for you.’
‘That would be great, Seamus.’ There might be something in it for Finian to add to his collection of folklore.
‘Time to be off, so.’
I put my hand up to hold him a moment. ‘Look, Seamus … I feel bad about you losing your job. If we get the go-ahead to excavate at Monashee, I could have some work for you.’
‘It wasn’t your fault, Missus. But thanks.’
Outside, the sleet had stopped but the traffic was still heavy. We were about to part when I saw a silver Mercedes nudging its way out of a parking bay on the far side of the street. There was a woman in the passenger seat. I grabbed Crean by the arm and nodded in the direction of the car.
He dipped his head down, the better to see the driver. ‘It’s Traynor, all right,’ he said, ‘and some woman I don’t know – maybe a solicitor on the way out to Monashee with him …’
It took a few seconds before I realised Crean was staring at me. ‘Talking about ghosts, Missus, you look like you’ve just seen one yourself.’
I was fairly certain the woman in the car was Muriel Blunden, Director of Excavations at the National Museum.
‘Hold on for a second, Seamus.’
I took out my mobile phone and rang Terence Ivers at his office. ‘Terence, I’ve just seen Frank Traynor in Drogheda with Muriel Blunden – at least, I’m nearly sure that’s who it was.’
‘It wouldn’t surprise me. Traynor is a sharp operator. We stymied him today for a while, but he’s outmanoeuvred us again. He managed to get a request into the High Court in Dublin this morning to have the injunction lifted. Decision in the morning. I think he’ll win it.’
The High Court could overrule a District Court decision. I put away the phone and told Crean about our reversal of fortune. I didn’t want him going away with false hopes of a job.
Chapter Seven
Following the meeting with Crean, I sat in my car in Drogheda reading through the latest survey data that Gayle had given me earlier. These findings would form the basis of my company’s input into the Environmental Impact Assessment commissioned by the National Roads Authority. And I intended to have the report written before the Christmas break.
Between reading and making notes, I spent nearly an hour in the car park, so before leaving for the hospital I rang Malcolm Sherry to tell him I was running late – only to discover he was in the same situation and would probably get there after me.
When I arrived at the bicycle shed, Gayle and Keelan were still working away but the original block of peat had been greatly reduced.
‘Looks like you won’t be here much longer,’ I said.
‘No. We’re expecting someone from WET to arrive soon to collect this lot,’ Gayle said, handing me the key to the morgue and pointing to the stack of numbered packages.
‘Don’t know if we should give them this as well,’ said Keelan, picking up one of the Ziplocs and handing it to me. I noticed he was wearing fingerless woollen gloves over a pair of latex ones. ‘Found it close to where those seeds were.’
Inside the transparent bag was a thin coil of leather tapering to a point at each end, like stretched licorice.
I knew immediately what it was. ‘I’ll hold onto this for now,’ I said, starting to walk away.
‘Hey …!’
‘Gotta go, Keelan,’ I said, quickening my pace.
‘At least tell us what it is,’ he called after me.
‘Can’t explain now. Later.’
‘And what about the EIA?’ added Gayle.
‘I’ll call you,’ I shouted, and rounded the corner of the shed.
The first thing that struck me when I got back into the morgue was that the smell of the place had changed – or, to be more precise, something had been added. It was sweet, familiar and yet disturbing for some reason. The harder I tried to identify it, the more evasive it became.
I looked around to see if anything had been touched. Both tables were still covered by sheets. Nothing seemed out of place. The sketch-pad and pencil I had left on the table beside Mona were undisturbed … And then I saw it. The sheet on the other table had slipped further down towards the floor on the side nearest me. It looked as if someone had lifted it off and spread it unevenly when replacing it. It could have moved of its own accord, but it added to my suspicion that someone had been in the morgue. Archaeologists are used to making sizeable deductions from fragments of evidence.
I dug out my mobile and rang Keelan.
‘What’s up, Illaun?’
‘Were you guys in the morgue while I was away?’
‘Us? No way.’
‘Did you let anyone into it?’
‘Not to my knowledge. Hold on and I’ll ask Gayle …’ I heard him repeat the question. ‘No.’
‘And no one asked you for the key?’
‘No one asked us for the key,’ he said slowly, for Gayle’s benefit. ‘Gayle’s shaking her head, so that goes for the two of us. And now that we’ve cleared that up, what’s the significance of the piece of leather?’
‘I’m about to find out,’ I said, and pressed the End button.
I was gingerly folding back Mona’s sheet when Sherry came through the door, reading the contents of the yellow envelope he had been handed earlier. ‘No question,’ he said, continuing the conversation as though we had never left the place, ‘the tannin did its job thoroughly …’ He came over to the table and looked at Mona admiringly. ‘This lady’s skin is all leather.’
