“Where does this Ciara live?”
“Down in the pink cottage overlooking the bay, opposite the coastguard’s house. A chilling view for her, you might say. Well now, would you like to pop along the road and have a look through the records my father has?”
“Yes, if it’s convenient for you?”
“ ’Tis fine. No rush.” Fergal indicated Joanna’s stout. “We’ll go when you’re ready.”
The small office that had recorded every birth and death in the village of Rosscarbery for the past 150 years did not seem to have changed much in that time, apart from the harsh strip light illuminating the bog-oak desk.
Fergal busied himself in the back room, searching for the records from the turn of the century. “Right now, you take the births, I’ll take the deaths.”
“Okay.”
They sat on each side of the desk, silently going through each entry. Joanna found a Fionnuala and a Kathleen O’Connell, but not a single boy born of that surname between 1897 and 1905.
“Anything?” she asked.
“No, not a thing. I have found Niamh Deasy—the girl that died—though. She was registered as dead on the second of January 1927. But there’s no note that her baby died with her, so let’s see if someone else registered the baby’s birth.”
Fergal went to fetch another ancient, leather-bound book and they both pored over the yellowing pages of births together.
“Nothing.” Fergal shut the book and a fug of dust flew into the air, making Joanna sneeze violently. “Maybe the baby was a myth after all. Are you sure now that Michael O’Connell was born here in Rosscarbery? Each townland or district kept their own records, you see. He could have been born a few miles up the road, in Clonakilty for example, or Skibbereen, and his birth would be registered there.”
Joanna rubbed her forehead. “To be honest, Fergal, I know nothing.”
“Well now, it might be worth checking the records in both those towns. I’ll just close up here, then I’ll walk you back to the hotel.”
The bar was fuller than it had been the previous night. Another Murphy’s arrived in front of Joanna and she was drawn into a group that Fergal was talking to.
“Go and see Ciara Deasy, just for the craic!” laughed a young woman with dancing eyes and a mane of red hair, upon hearing of Joanna’s fascination with the coastguard’s house. “She terrified all of us kids with her talk. I’d say she was a witch.”
“Stop that now, Eileen. We’re no longer peasants believing in such fantasy,” admonished Fergal.
“Doesn’t every land have its fables?” Eileen asked, fluttering her eyelashes at Fergal. “And its eccentrics? Even the EU can’t ban those, you know.”
There then ensued a heated debate between the pro- and anti-EU supporters.
Joanna yawned surreptitiously. “It’s great to meet you all and thanks for your help. I’m going to go to bed now.”
“A young London thing like you? I thought ’twas dawn before you all crawled to your beds,” said one of the men.
“It’s all your clean fresh air. My lungs can’t get over the shock. Night, everyone.” She headed off in the direction of the stairs but was halted by a tap on the shoulder.
“I’m free tomorrow morning until twelve,” said Fergal. “I could take you to the public records office in Clonakilty. It’s larger than the one here and they’ll probably have a record of who owns the coastguard’s house. We could pop in to the church as well, see if that throws anything up. I’ll come by at nine tomorrow.”
Joanna smiled at him. “Yes, thank you. That would be great. Night.”
* * *
At nine the next morning, Fergal was waiting for her in the deserted bar. Twenty minutes later, they were in a large, newly built council office. Fergal seemed to know the woman behind the counter and he indicated to Joanna that she should follow him and the woman into a storeroom.
“Right, that’s all the Rosscarbery plans over there.” The woman pointed to a shelf loaded with files. She walked to the door. “If you need anything else, Fergal, just you call me, okay?”
“Sure, Ginny. Thanks.”
As Joanna followed Fergal over to the shelf, she got the feeling that this young man was the stuff of every local girl’s dreams.
“Right. You take that pile, I’ll take this. The house is bound to be here somewhere.”
For an hour they went through pages of yellowing, dusty files, until at last Fergal gave a whoop of triumph. “Got the bugger! Come here and look.”
Inside the file was the plan of the coastguard’s house in Rosscarbery.
“Drawn for a Mr. H. O. Bentinck, Drumnogue House, Rosscarbery, 1869,” Fergal read out. “That was a local Englishman living here at the time. He left during the Troubles. A lot of the English did.”
“But surely that doesn’t mean he still owns it? I mean, it’s over one hundred and twenty years ago.”
“Well, his great-great-granddaughter, Emily Bentinck, still lives at Ardfield, along between here and Ross. She’s turned the estate into a business venture and trains racehorses there. Go and ask her if she knows any more, so you should.” Fergal was looking at his watch. “I’ll have to go in half an hour. Let’s get these plans photocopied and run to the church, okay?”
Once Fergal had greeted the priest and done some fast talking, the old records of baptism were unlocked from their cupboard and opened for them.
Joanna scanned her finger quickly down the register. “Look here!” Her eyes lit up with excitement. “Michael James O’Connell. Baptized the tenth of April 1900. It has to be him!”
“There you go now, Joanna,” said Fergal with a broad smile. He looked at his watch. “I’ll have to go back to Ross now. I can’t be late for my class. I’ll write you down some directions to the Bentinck estate on the way.”
* * *
“So, where do you go from here, now you’ve found your man?” he asked as Joanna drove out of Clonakilty toward Rosscarbery.
“I don’t know. But at least I feel I haven’t been on a completely wild goose chase.”
Having dropped Fergal at his school, Joanna followed his directions to Ardfield, and after a frustrating twenty minutes of narrow country roads, turned in to the gate of Drumnogue House. As she bumped along the potholed drive, a large white house appeared in front of her. She parked next to a muddy Land Rover and got out of the car. The house had a stunning view of the Atlantic, stretching out into the distance beyond it.
Joanna began to hunt for signs of life, but there were none behind the tall Georgian windows. Ionic columns framed the front door, and as she approached, she could see it was slightly ajar. Knocking and receiving no reply, she pushed it gently. “Hello?” she called, her voice echoing in the cavernous hallway. Not feeling she should go any further, Joanna retreated and walked around to the back, where she saw a stable block. A woman in an ancient anorak and a pair of jodhpurs was grooming a horse.
“Hello, sorry to bother you, but I’m looking for Emily Bentinck.”
“You found her,” the woman said in a clipped English accent. “Can I help you?”
“Yes. My name’s Joanna Haslam. I’m over here doing some research on my family. I was wondering whether you could tell me if your family still owns the coastguard’s house down in Rosscarbery?”
“Interested in buying it, are you?”
“No, sadly I couldn’t afford it,” Joanna said with a smile. “I’m more interested in the history of it.”
“I see.” Emily continued to brush down the horse with firm strokes. “Don’t really know that much about it, apart from the fact my great-great-grandfather commissioned its construction in the late nineteen hundreds on behalf of the British government. They wanted an outpost in the bay to try and stem the smuggling that was going on down there. I don’t believe our family ever actually owned it.”
“I see. Do you know how I might be able to find out who did?”
“There you go, Sergeant, good boy.” Emily patted
the horse on its rump and led it back into one of the stables. She came out and looked at her watch. “Come inside and have a cup of tea. I was just going to brew up anyway.”
Joanna sat in the huge, untidy kitchen as Emily put a kettle on the range to boil. Every available wall was covered with hundreds of rosettes won in competitions both in Ireland and abroad.
“Must admit I’ve been a little tardy in tracing the family history. So damned busy with the nags outside and putting this place back on its feet.” Emily poured Joanna a cup of tea from a large stainless-steel pot. “Granny lived here until her death, using just two rooms downstairs. The place was going to rack and ruin when I came here ten years ago. Sadly, some things are lost forever. The dampness in the air rots everything it gets into.”
“It’s a beautiful old house, though.”
“Oh yes. In its heyday it was extremely well regarded. The balls, parties, and hunts were legendary. My great-grandfather entertained the great and the good from all over Europe, including English royalty. Apparently we even had the Prince of Wales here for a tryst with his mistress. It was a perfect hideaway, you see. The cotton boats used to sail regularly from England to Clonakilty and you could pop on a boat from there and sail round the coast without anyone knowing of your arrival.”
“Are you restoring it?”
“I’m certainly trying to. Need the horses to come back with a few wins at Cheltenham next week and that’ll help us on our way. The house is too big for just me. When more of it’s habitable I intend to make it pay its own way and open it to tourists as an upmarket B & B. Could be way past the millennium before that happens, mind you. So”—Emily’s bright eyes studied Joanna—“what do you do?”
“I’m a journalist, actually, but I’m not here on official business. I’m looking for a relative. Before he died, he mentioned Rosscarbery, and a house that stuck out into the bay.”
“Was he Irish?”
“Yes. I found a record of his baptism in the church at Clonakilty.”
“What was his name?”
“Michael O’Connell.”
“Right. Where are you staying?”
“The Ross Hotel.”
“Well, I’ll have a hunt through the old deeds and documents in the library later today and see if I can dig anything up for you on the place. Now, I’m afraid I need to get back to the stables.”
“Thank you, Emily.” Joanna drained her teacup, stood up, and they walked out of the kitchen together.
“Do you ride?”
“Oh yes. I was brought up in Yorkshire, and I had four legs under me for most of my childhood.”
“If you want a mount while you’re staying here, you’re welcome to one. Bye now.” Emily waved her off.
* * *
Later that evening, Joanna was sitting in her usual place in the bar by the fire when the landlord called to her.
“Telephone for you, Joanna. It’s Emily from up at Drumnogue.”
“Thanks.” She stood up and walked round the bar to take the receiver.
“Hello?”
“Emily here, Joanna. I dug up some interesting stuff while I was in the process of looking for your information. Seems our neighbor has managed to siphon off at least ten acres and fence them with trees while dear old Granny wasn’t looking.”
“I’m sorry. Can you get them back?”
“No. Round here, after seven years of fencing off land, if no one has claimed it back, it’s yours. Explains why our next-door neighbor runs away in fright every time I approach him. Never mind, got a few hundred acres left, but I should think about fencing them off in the near future.”
“Oh dear. Did you manage to find any documents relating to the coastguard’s house?”
“I’m afraid not. I found a couple of title deeds to hovels that probably are no more than ruins now, but none relating to the coastguard’s house. You should look up the title deeds at the Land Registry office in Dublin.”
“How long does that take?”
“Oh, a week, two weeks maybe.”
“Could I do it myself?”
“I suppose so, yes, as long as you took the planning map with you. It’s a bit of a hack to Dublin, though; a good four hours by car. Take the express train from Cork, it’s faster.”
“Then I might go tomorrow. I’ve never been to Dublin and I’d like to see it. Thanks for your help anyway, Emily. I do appreciate it.”
“Hold your horses, Joanna. I said I didn’t find any title deeds, but I did find a couple of other things you might be interested in. Firstly, and it might be coincidence, I found an old ledger used to keep a record of staff wages in 1919. A man by the name of Michael O’Connell is listed on it.”
“I see. So he may have worked up at your house many years ago?”
“Yes, it would seem so.”
“Doing what?”
“The ledger doesn’t say, I’m afraid. But in 1922, his name vanishes from the list, so I presume he must have left.”
“Thank you, Emily. That’s really helpful.”
“Secondly, I found a letter. It was written to my great-grandfather in 1925. Do you want to pop over tomorrow and see it?”
“Could you read it to me now? I’ll just get a pen and paper out to make notes.” Joanna signaled to Margaret for some paper and a pen.
“Righto, here goes. It’s dated the eleventh of November 1925. ‘Dear Stanley’—that’s my great-grandfather—‘I hope this letter finds you well. I am asked by Lord Ashley to write to inform you of the arrival to your shores of a gentleman, guest of HM Government. He will be staying for the present at the coastguard’s house and will be taking up residence on the second of January 1926. If possible, we would like you to meet him off the boat, which will dock in Clonakilty harbor at approximately zero one hundred hours, then see him safely to his new lodgings. Would you please arrange for a woman to come in from the village and clean the house up before his arrival? Such a woman might wish to work for the gentleman on a regular basis, keeping house and cooking for him.
“ ‘The situation with this gentleman is highly delicate. We would prefer his presence at the coastguard’s house to be kept quiet. Lord Ashley has indicated that he will be in touch with further details regarding this. All expenses taken care of by HM Government, of course. Do invoice me with the bills. Lastly, love to Amelia and the children. I am yours very faithfully, Lt. John Moore.’
“There you go, dear,” said Emily. “Did you get the gist of all that?”
“Yep.” Joanna skimmed the shorthand notes she had taken. “I suppose you didn’t find any correspondence indicating who this gentleman might actually be?”
“None, I’m afraid. Anyway, hope it helps you on your way. Good luck in Dublin. Night, Joanna.”
28
Zoe opened the shutters and walked out onto the wide terrace. The Mediterranean Sea sparkled beneath her. The sky was a cloudless blue, the sun already beating down. It could have been a July day in England; even the maid had commented how unusually hot it was for late February in Menorca.
The villa she and Art were staying in was simply beautiful. Owned by one of the king of Spain’s brothers, its whitewashed, turreted outer shell was nestled in forty acres of lush grounds. Inside the villa, the warm breeze blew in gently through the floor-to-ceiling windows, and the vast tiled floors were kept sparkling by invisible hands. It was built high up, overlooking the sea, so unless the paparazzi were prepared to scale sixty feet of rock face, or dodge the Rottweilers that patrolled the high walls topped by lethal electrified wire, Zoe and Art had the comfort of knowing they could enjoy each other’s company undisturbed.
Zoe sat down on a lounger and gazed into the distance. Art was still asleep inside and she had no wish to wake him. To all intents and purposes, the past week had been blissful. For the first time, there was nothing and no one to drag them apart. The world was going on somewhere else, managing to turn without either of them.
Night and day, Art had sworn undying love to
her, promised that he’d let nothing stand in his way. He loved her, he wanted to be with her, and if others wouldn’t accept it, then he was prepared to take drastic action.
It was a scenario she’d dreamed of for years. And Zoe could not understand why she didn’t feel ecstatic with happiness.
Maybe it was simply the stress of the past few weeks catching up with her; people often said that their honeymoons were less than perfect—the reality being less than the expectation. Or maybe Zoe had come to realize that she and Art hardly knew each other on a day-to-day basis. Their brief affair years ago had been as immature and vulnerable human beings, blindly seeking their way toward adulthood. And, in the past few weeks, they’d spent no more than three or four days together, and still fewer nights.
“Snatched moments . . . ,” Zoe muttered to herself. Yet here they were, and rather than feeling relaxed, she was undeniably tense. Yesterday evening, the chef had cooked them a wonderful paella. When it was served, Art had pouted and suggested that next time the chef consult him on the menu before he presented it to them. Apparently, he loathed shellfish of any kind. Zoe had tucked in to the paella with gusto and praised the chef fulsomely on the recipe, which had sent Art into a sulk. He’d also accused her of being “too friendly” with the staff.
There had been numerous other small things over the past few days that had irritated rather than angered Zoe. It seemed they always did what he wanted. Not that he wouldn’t ask her opinion first, but then he would talk her out of her ideas and she’d end up agreeing to his plans for the sake of a quiet life. She’d also discovered that they had very little in common, which was not surprising, given that their worlds had been so vastly different. For all Art’s fine private school and university education, his broad cultural knowledge and his grasp of politics, he had little idea of the kind of routine staples that filled the average person’s day. Like cooking, watching soaps on TV, shopping . . . just normal, pleasurable activities. She’d realized how difficult he found it to relax, how he was full of nervous energy. And even if he had agreed to watch a film with her, she doubted they’d have been able to reach a consensus on which one to choose.
The Royal Secret Page 30
