Ashes of Roses

by Melissa R. L. Simonin

  “What a colossal mess,” Miles shook his head. “That desire was stronger than her desire for a relationship with her son. Is it still?”

  “I don’t know,” I considered. “The Countess’ lack of social skills has certainly convinced her that the addition of a title and an influx of funds isn’t worth the promise of future embarrassment. Delacroix’s bizarre behavior may cement that change of heart. I’m not convinced she’s chalking it all up to the alcohol he over-imbibed in.”

  “Delacroix mentioned salvation, and said it wouldn’t come from our angle,” Miles recalled. “He didn’t say salvation from what.”

  “That tipped off her radar,” I remembered. “I doubt he’s supposed to realize how extensive the damage to the manor is.”

  “Does he?”

  “I don’t know if he does or not, but if we’re right and he’s involved, then yes.”

  “If he has knowledge he’s not supposed to have, that could prove useful in testing our theory that he’s behind it,” Miles remarked.

  “We may find out who was contracted to do the renovation without talking to Lady Carlisle, after all,” I said.

  “As long as he responds to the right questions,” Miles replied. “We want to prove to ourselves whether our theories are right or not, but we also have to bear in mind that we need hard evidence to back up the truths you uncover.”

  “Good point,” I considered. “There’s no darkness around Delacroix, though. He’s an unscrupulous opportunist, but he shows no signs of being a calculated killer.”

  “That, too, is a good point. He can still be held to account for the damages he’s inflicted, if our theories prove to be correct. Either way, by this time tomorrow… I feel confident we’ll have some, if not all of these loose ends tied up. As for now, I’m ready to call for Trix, and call it a night.”

  “Same,” I agreed with a sigh. Exhaustion was beginning to catch up with me. But I still wondered, “What’s on the agenda for tomorrow?”

  “Item number one, we travel to Ireland, and the address on the magazine we found in Finn’s cottage.”

  “I like that plan,” I approved. “What’s item number two?”

  “That, my dear Anika, will all depend on what we find when we get there.”

  Chapter 18

  A sickly sweet scent met me as I opened my eyes. If it came from the white flowers on the ridge of earth on either side of us, then… well, I knew what I would not be suggesting as an add-on at the estate! Although, as a deterrent to would-be trespassers, the thorns themselves would be enough to make one rethink his or her route.

  “Thanks, Trix,” Miles said quietly.

  She acknowledged his gratitude with a smile. She was in semi-transparent form, and would stay that way, until after transporting us back to our room at the manor.

  Probably. With her, who knew for certain what she’d do! But that was the plan. Don’t leave us without a ride, and don’t shock anyone by appearing out of nowhere.

  I looked around curiously, as we walked along the narrow dirt road. Daffodils grew thick on either side, along with some type of blue flower. As we continued on, a new shrub with dark wood, long thorns, and white flowers, but minus the green leaves and icky smell, took its place beside the first. Back and forth they alternated, weaving in and out along with a couple of other plants, to create a natural and virtually impenetrable fence.

  The wispy clouds, painted sparsely across the vivid blue of the sky, appeared non-threatening. We were prepared anyway, thanks to our overnight stay at the Lodge. Dressed in plenty of quick-dry layers, boots, and water-proof jackets, we wouldn’t need to rely on Miles’ abilities and the accompanying questions that might ensue, should we encounter rain. With the sun’s bright rays lighting the tops of the natural hedges on either side of us, it didn’t seem likely, but… as we were well aware, appearances could be deceiving. From all we read, the weather in Ireland was prone to be even less predictable than the Isle of Camden proved to be during the past couple of days.

  The breeze brought with it the smell of fresh grass, as well as a smoky sweet, pungent scent. It was unlike anything I ever encountered before.

  “What is that?” I wondered, as I sniffed the air.

  “If it comes from a wood burning fire, it’s not of a type I’m familiar with,” Miles replied. “Or… do you mean something else? You have been around horses and cows before, right?”

  “Yes,” I couldn’t help laughing. “I’m not entirely unfamiliar with the smell of manure. It beats bat guano, by the way. And you got it right, the first time. It’s that smoky smell I was referring to.”

  “I’m curious to know what it is, myself,” Miles said. As we rounded the bend, the hedges bordering the road veered off at a right angle to one another, and the horizon broadened significantly. “We’ll be sure and ask.”

  The driveway—because that’s what it was—continued more or less in a straight line for about a quarter of a mile, then veered off to the left, leaving a smaller offshoot to complete the path to the front door of a small cottage. After another eighth of a mile or so, the driveway’s progress was interrupted by a closed gate. On each side, a post and wire fence stretched to enclose a large barn of rough stone. Two windows dotted the building’s side, and a third was centered in the triangle of space above the oversized red door. The faded, red-painted corrugated metal of the pitched roof matched that which formed the arched top of the shelter beside it. Through the open end that faced us, several round hay bales were visible.

  In front of the barn, on the other side of the fence, three alpacas and their cria grazed, while chickens pecked away at the ground nearby. A rooster crowed proudly, then crowed once more for good measure, as a young guy, younger than us, led a group of black cows and their calves through a side gate, and into the pasture beyond.

  I turned my attention back to the single-story cottage, as we continued our approach. Whatever the solid white external layer consisted of, it didn’t entirely mask the unevenness of the underlying stone. It wasn’t paint, that wouldn’t do more than change the color. It surely wasn’t plaster, either. Even with a heavy coating of latex, that wouldn’t hold up to the elements for long. An oil based paint wouldn’t fare much better. It didn’t look rough like stucco, and that would be a poor choice for an area prone to frequent rain, anyway. It wasn’t likely they skimped, whatever it was, because the sheet metal roof was built to last. It also looked relatively new. The window sashes wore a fresh coat of dark green paint, as did the door, and the yellow daffodils and other colorful blooming bulbs in the beds on either side of the entrance, were well tended. It was a charming little house, and the smoke rising steadily from one of its two chimneys was a good indicator we’d find someone at home.

  I sniffed the air again.

  “It smells sort of like meat smoking,” I considered. “Only without the meat.”

  Miles laughed, then pondered that.

  “I think I agree with you, though what wood it is, I still can’t put my finger on.”

  “It’s like…” I struggled to come up with something else, but drew a blank.

  Miles’ eyebrows knit thoughtfully, but his eyes were teasing.

  “No… I believe it’s more than that.”

  I laughed, and unsuccessfully tried to pinch him. He smiled as he tucked my hand in his arm.

  “Give me a shot at it,” he said. “And no jumping in before I can come up with something.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” I scoffed. “I can hardly wait to hear what you have to say.”

  “Alright, then… It smells like… early morning winter, in Cedar Oaks.”

  I sniffed again.

  “That’s really close,” I concurred. “But there’s something else there, too.”

  “You’re right,” Miles agreed “Whatever it is, it may be indigenous to this area.”

  We reached the narrower path that led to the house, and followed it. As we drew closer, the occasional sound of voices and the fai
nt clatter of dishes met us.

  “I hope we’re not interrupting breakfast,” I said quietly.

  “It’s more likely we’ve arrived in time for cleanup,” Miles replied.

  The voices grew more distinct, the closer we came. There were two, a woman and young girl. I couldn’t make out any words, but they were both cheerful. It was nice to know we weren’t interrupting a fight. That would be worse than intruding on breakfast. Although if there was a fight, maybe it ought to be interrupted, but there wasn’t, and Miles was knocking.

  The voices quieted, and a moment later, the door opened. On the other side stood a woman about Mom’s age, with a pleasant face and friendliness in her eyes, as she dried her hands with the dishcloth she held.

  “Good morning,” Miles greeted her. “My name is Miles, and this is my wife, Anika. We’re searching for a friend of ours, and are hoping you may be able to help.”

  “Sure an I’ll be glad to try,” the woman replied, as a brief gust swept past. With a shiver and a glance at the sky, she swung the door wide, and motioned for us to join her. “‘Tis a bit cold to be standin’ here, an ye must be half froze after walkin’ all this way. I don’t s’pose you’ve a conveyance parked the other side of the hedgerow? Then do have a seat near the hearth, there. The kettle’s on, would you fancy a cuppa?”

  I had no idea what that was, but since it involved a kettle that was on, it might be tea. Or coffee. Or cocoa.

  “Thank you, that’s very kind,” Miles accepted. “We’d love to join you.”

  We shed several of our layers, then sat near the hearth as instructed.

  Trixie stretched out on the hearth itself. I wondered at the wisdom of that, but… she was in semi-transparent form. Maybe that precluded bursting into flames. She looked perfectly comfortable, and since Miles was unconcerned, I decided not to worry over it, either.

  Like the exterior, the house’s interior was white. Somewhat. The walls furthest from the fireplace still were, but the closer one came, that began to change. At what point was hard to say, as the difference was gradual, but the faint tinge of gray was there. I marveled at the persistence it must take to keep the stain of smoke and soot to a minimum. The wooden chairs in which we sat bore no trace, though it would surely be another matter if they were upholstered. The arched depression in the wall that made up the fireplace was black with it, as was the area immediately surrounding. The underside of the high mantle was also dark, though above it, not so much. The clock that ticked there, and the framed photos, bore only a light coating. Far from detracting from the appeal of the combination living and dining room, it added to the rustic, cozy atmosphere. An oval, braided area rug covered a good section of the floor around which the room’s small couch, recliner, wood chairs, and rocking chair were gathered. The table was also within reach of the fire’s cheerful blaze.

  As I got back to warming my hands, I was left with no doubt that this, indeed, was the source of the scent we puzzled over since our arrival in Ireland several minutes before. I studied the glowing logs, but they were unrecognizable as such. Satisfying my curiosity any further would have to wait until our hostess returned from the charming kitchen, a glimpse of which was visible through the broad opening in the nearby wall.

  “Your home is lovely,” I remarked as she rejoined us, carrying a tray with a cozy-covered teapot, five mugs, a bowl of sugar, and pitcher of milk. A girl, probably thirteen or so, followed behind with a plate of scones. She looked just as pleasant and friendly as her mother—at least I assumed the woman was her mother—and smiled back, in response to my own.

  “Thank you, we do enjoy it ourselves,” the woman replied, as she and the girl arranged the tray and plate on the nearby table.

  “It reminds me of a cottage where I once lived,” I commented.

  “That would be in America?” she asked, as she poured tea into each of the waiting mugs.

  “Yes, in a town called Cedar Oaks,” I replied. “Miles was just mentioning, that early in the morning in winter, the air smells sort of like this, but not exactly. We’ve been puzzling over what kind of wood you’ve got burning.”

  The woman’s eyes sparkled merrily, and she smiled.

  “It’s not wood you’re after,” she declared. “Not if it’s this you be wantin’.”

  “What is it, then?” I wondered, as I gave the cheerfully burning fire another glance.

  “That’d be peat,” she answered. “It’s all that’s burnt in this house. Would you care for milk an sugar?”

  “Yes, please,” I said. “For both of us. What is peat, exactly?”

  “‘Tis strips of turf that are cut, an dried,” she answered, with a nod at a metal bucket to one side of the fireplace. Inside was what looked like crude bricks of some sort. “It burns right well, an has its own fragrance as you’ve noticed.”

  “It’s… dirt?” I questioned in surprise, as I glanced at Miles in confusion. Did I hear that right?

  “It does bear a striking resemblance,” Miles acknowledged. “It’s primarily made up of partially decomposed plant matter that’s spent a significant amount of time in a waterlogged, anaerobic and acidic environment.”

  “Then you know it after all,” the woman said. She sounded impressed.

  “Only in theory, until now,” Miles replied. “I recall reading about it, but this is the first I’ve come across.”

  “Well it has a really unique scent,” I declared. “Although I never would’ve guessed it wasn’t wood that was burning.”

  “It’s always been peat, here. We haven’t forests enough in Ireland to support anythin’ else,” she said, as she handed each of us a steaming mug, and set the plate of scones within easy reach.

  No sooner were she and her daughter seated on the couch with their own mugs, than the sound of a door opening came from inside the kitchen. It closed amid the stomping of feet, and the young guy who led the cows to pasture just minutes before, appeared in the doorway. His eyebrows rose in surprise when he saw us, but his expression was friendly.

  “This is Liam, my son,” the woman introduced us. “And this is Miles an Anika, from Cedar Oaks, in America.”

  “It’s nice to meet you,” Miles said, and Liam grinned and held up his hands.

  “I’ll be glad to shake your hand, an you’ll be gladder still, if I wash first,” he declared. “It’s from tendin’ the livestock I’ve come.”

  “That’s very considerate,” Miles smiled, as we all laughed. “You’re also right. I’ll be happiest to wait.”

  Liam retreated back into the kitchen with another grin, and the sound of running water ensued.

  “I do believe I forgot about completin’ the introductions,” the woman said. “This is my daughter, Myra, an I’m Riley.”

  “Riley,” I said, and my heart beat a little faster. “Your last name wouldn’t happen to be O’ Sullivan, would it?”

  It was Riley’s turn to look surprised.

  “Indeed, it ‘tis. What brings you to ask?”

  “I think we may have something of yours,” I answered, and rummaged through my roomy shoulder bag. I located the magazine we found inside Finn’s cottage, and held it out. “Your name and address are on the back.”

  Riley’s expression was deeply puzzled as she took it from me.

  “It’s from some years back,” she remarked, as she scanned the pages, and confirmed her assessment with a glance at the publication date. “I don’t understand. However did you come across this?”

  “We found it,” I answered. “In the cottage of a man who disappeared without warning, some time between Wednesday afternoon, and early yesterday morning. We’re anxious to find him, and make sure he’s alright. No one seems to have any idea where he might be, so… we found your name and address on the magazine, and here we are.”

  There was concern in Riley’s eyes as she slowly thumbed through the pages. Myra’s forehead was furrowed faintly as she looked on. Liam reappeared in the doorway, his eyebrows knitting as he slowly dried
his hands on the towel he held.

  “I’m utterly baffled,” Riley confessed, as she referred once more to her name, address, and the publication date printed on the cover. “It seems unlikely a magazine such as this could exist after so long.”

  “Were you living here, when it was printed?” I asked.

  “That I was,” Riley replied without hesitation. “The farm’s been in our family for longer than I can remember. I’d scarce know how to live anywhere else.”

  “Then it stands to reason it’s yours, or was at one time,” I concluded.

  “Who is it went missin’?” Liam inquired.

  “The man’s name is Finn O’Connell,” Miles answered.

  Surprise, then fresh concern, flickered across the faces of the O’ Sullivan family. They didn’t need to lie—or tell the truth—to confirm the name was familiar to them.

  “This Finn, he gave no notice of his leavin’?” Liam questioned.

  “No, he didn’t,” Miles confirmed.

  “How is it you know the man?” Riley asked.

  I could ask her the same thing, but instead I wondered why they didn’t come out and acknowledge they knew him, or at least of him. They obviously knew something.

  “We became acquainted earlier this week, when Anika and I were walking in the rose garden of Bannerman manor, on the Isle of Camden. Finn took an interest in our conversation when I mentioned the hybrids my mother and grandmother developed, and Anika expressed the desire to continue the tradition set by the Bannerman wives, before her.”

  The O’ Sullivans relaxed slightly.

  “He seemed intrigued that Miles’ side of the Bannerman family emigrated before the manor was built, and that it and our estate have many of the same roses,” I elaborated.

  A little more of the tension eased.

  “Anika’s desire to develop new hybrids, and their shared Irish heritage, seemed to strike a chord,” Miles said.