‘I know how you feel, love,’ said Nollaig. ‘But you starving yourself silly isn’t going to make Donald feel any better, now is it?’
I looked up at her, laughing weakly. ‘What are you? A mind-reader?’
Nollaig and Pru shared a glance. Then Nollaig rose, patted me on the shoulder and said, ‘Eat up, love. You’ll need all the energy you can muster, if you’re going to be able to deal with us lot.’
She sauntered off to the kitchen, curvaceous hips swaying behind her, and Pru sprang up and said, ‘I’ll go and make sure your room is ship-shape. It’s on the top floor – room number nine. You’ve got your own bathroom, and there’s a phone if you need to ring down for anything.’
≈
After breakfast I was stuffed to the gills and exhausted. Both Pru and her mother had disappeared, and the whole house had a sleepy silence about it that made me want to curl up beneath the covers. But I only had an hour to get ready for my meeting with the editor at the Daily Riddler, so I rushed to my room to prepare.
There was a wooden plaque on the wall beside the staircase, listing the room numbers and the floors they could be found on. My room, number nine, seemed to have the top floor all to itself. I wasn’t sure if that meant I was getting a nice penthouse suite, or if I was being segregated in a cobwebby attic. But if the previous reporters had been anything to go by, I was unlikely to be here very long, so it probably shouldn’t matter how cobwebby my room was. It wasn’t as though I had a deathly fear of spiders or anything. I was only afraid of the ones that had eight legs.
As I sped up the stairs, I got the distinct impression that something cold and filmy rushed right past me. What was it Pru had seemed about to say before she revised her words to houseboy? Could she actually have been about to tell me a houseghost was bringing my bags upstairs?
I shook my head, refusing to look back at the cold, filmy form, and continuing on up to the third floor. There was a small landing up there, and only one door. It clearly stated that it was number nine, so I pushed it open.
As the room was revealed, I stood on the threshold, gasping. The room was … well … the room was amazing. Sure, it was just as old-fashioned as the rest of the house. But I was beginning to realise that sometimes, old-fashioned was good. I mean, I had a four-poster bed for criminy’s sake. Through the open bathroom door I could see a huge, claw-foot bath, and the toilet had one of those overhead cisterns with a pull-chain.
There were French doors draped in gauzy white curtains, which seemed to lead out onto a balcony. In front of the doors there was an antique telescope. I examined it for a few seconds, a broad smile making its way across my face. My favourite foster-mother had a few like this in her collection, and my mind was suddenly thrust back to the nights we spent staring at the stars together.
As I cautiously opened the French doors, I realised that my room didn’t just have a balcony. It wrapped around the entire third storey, and even had steps leading up to a widow’s walk on the roof, giving me a view of the entire town. The surface looked stable, so I took a step out and walked around.
Arnold had told me this place was a coastal town, but he hadn’t explained the smell, the view, the gorgeous white sand, the lovely little harbour with the fishing boats and what looked like an olde-worlde tavern a little to the north.
I rolled the telescope towards the doors and took a look through the lens. I focused on the tavern first, on the people walking in and out. There was a man with a pipe in his mouth, making me wonder, once again, if I’d entered some sort of time warp. A sign hung off the front of the place – the Fisherman’s Friend. I spun the telescope to the right, and saw a lighthouse a short distance from the harbour. I heard my breath intake, just a little. Lighthouses and me … well, let’s just say I find them sexy and leave it at that.
Okay, let’s not leave it at that. I mean, I’ve already spilled way too much embarrassing information, so what difference will a little more make? I don’t just find lighthouses sexy. I dream about them. I fantasise about them. I have invented a hundred scenarios in my mind, of living in a lighthouse with a sexy, barefooted man who makes amazing coffee and likes to do carpentry in his spare time.
He also enjoys midnight swims, impromptu picnics, and listening to David Bowie. He has a telescope set up on the top floor of his lighthouse, and he knows almost as much about the stars as Janette (my favourite foster mother). Oh, and because I don’t have remotely high expectations, he happens to be an amazing lover, too.
I spun the telescope a little further to the north, and stood back, wiped my eyes and looked again. A sudden haze had fallen, although the sky looked clear just about everywhere else. That haze …
I went back inside and sat on my amazing bed, deep in thought. That haze had the same shimmering quality as the haze I’d seen between Let’s Go Round the Bend and Times of Yore. For the first time in my life, I felt absolutely certain that this was not a migraine.
A sense was beginning to fill me, but it wasn’t a sense of foreboding. I felt like I was opening. Like I was about to embark on the most exciting experience of my life. This town was the strangest place I’d ever seen – and I’d seen a whole lot of strange. But despite it all, I felt completely at home.
6. The Daily Riddler
When I was a kid, I always had this notion that reporters should look a certain way – a snazzy suit, maybe a pair of glasses. But I was cursed with perfect eyesight (other than the aforementioned hazy moments), and I had yet to find a snazzy suit that I felt comfortable wearing. I’d bought one after my lunch with Arnold, along with some very grown-up shoes, hoping to make a good impression on the paper’s editor.
But the fancy new outfit was still sitting on my four–poster bed, while I was in a sweater dress, knee-high flat-soled boots, and a faux-leather jacket. No matter how snazzy I wanted to look, I knew my limitations. I’d wind up tripping over my own feet if I wore my new shoes, and as for the fitted skirt and jacket I’d purchased, well … it just hadn’t felt like me.
When I came out through the Vander Inn’s screechy front gate, I turned right as per Arnold’s directions. The main street wasn’t exactly a happening place. There was that little convenience store Norma had been heading to, off to the left of the Vander Inn. There were a few pretty cottages on either side of the main street. There was a school, a church, a small garda station, and then … well then there was the Daily Riddler.
It was a large office, arranged over two floors. It had stunning glass doors with huge, circular brass handles. I put on my confident face, and walked inside.
A few feet inside the office, there was a short, immaculately-groomed man standing behind a walnut reception desk, speaking into the phone. As soon as he saw me he beamed, then quickly finished his call and extended a hand.
‘You must be Aisling,’ he said. ‘Welcome to the Daily Riddler. I’m Malachy – receptionist by day, chef by night.’
‘Chef?’ I smiled at him. ‘At the Fisherman’s Friend? Or is there somewhere else in town?’
He began to readjust a perfectly neat pile of papers on the desk. ‘I’ve just opened a little place. It’s out the road a bit,’ he replied vaguely. ‘Quite out of the way. Anyway, why don’t I bring you up to Grace now?’
I looked down at my notebook. Grace O’Malley was the editor here. I hadn’t been able to find any previous publications she’d been in charge of when I looked her up online.
I followed Malachy up a sweeping, spiral staircase, and when we reached the top we came to a set of double doors, even more fabulous than the ones at the front of the building. Malachy pressed a brass buzzer, and a moment later a woman opened the doors.
She had long, golden hair, falling in fifties-style waves to her shoulders. Her lips were painted a deep red, and her outfit made me drool.
‘Huh,’ she said. ‘So … you’re Aisling Smith.’
I nibbled on my lower lip. ‘No need to sound so disappointed,’ I said, hoping I came across as jokey rather than sarca
stic. The truth was, I was struggling not to be snarky. Grace was regarding me like I was that last, unsolvable word in an already irritating crossword puzzle.
‘Shall I get you two some refreshments?’ Malachy asked.
‘I’m fine for now,’ I said. ‘But thanks.’
‘I’ll have my usual,’ said Grace, leading me inside to what seemed to be half office, half private apartment. ‘That is if you’re okay with carrying it up?’
Malachy nodded quickly. ‘Of course. I’ll carry it. But don’t blame me if some of it gets spilled along the way.’
The place was just as glamorous as the rest of the office. There was a sunken seating area with shag carpeting, a huge desk with an old-school typewriter, and a set of open double doors which showed me her magnificent bedroom beyond.
‘Wow, talk about glam,’ I said. ‘I love the décor.’
Grace smiled and took a seat behind her desk, indicating that I should sit facing her. As I sat into the chair, she picked up a gold-handled magnifying glass, and looked through it at me. ‘Huh,’ she said, placing it down. ‘So what do you think to the town, Aisling?’
‘Call me Ash,’ I said. ‘And as for the town … well, mismatched is a word that comes to mind.’
She let out a peal of laughter. ‘Yes. We all seem to be stuck in our own definitive time zones here. But it’s not all like that. You’ll find most of the town is perfectly … normal. Now, I’ve been informed of the incident on the train. I’ve already written up a piece.’ She rummaged through a pile on her desk and pulled a page out, passing it to me. ‘This is for tomorrow’s daily edition. The piece for the evening paper isn’t yet prepared. Tell me what you think.’
Well, what I thought was: what the heck could a town with a population of two hundred and three need with two editions per year, let alone per day? But I pasted a business-like smile on my face, and scanned the short article.
Unfortunate Death on the Riddler’s Express
Yesterday morning, on the early morning train from Dublin to Riddler’s Edge, an unfortunate incident occurred. Bathsheba Brookes, 85, died from an allergic reaction after consuming a meal containing nuts.
Relatives have been informed.
I read it over again, then again. During my fourth reading, Malachy appeared, placing a cup of black coffee on Grace’s desk and then scurrying back down below.
‘Problem?’ Grace enquired, taking a sip from her cup.
‘I … no. Well, yes, actually. Did you speak with the coroner’s office? Did they confirm it was an allergic reaction already? I mean, Bathsheba and another guy on that train were totally covered up and wearing sunglasses while it was still dark, and there’s no way it was a fashion statement. And also, what about this treatment Bathsheba was getting up in Dublin? Shouldn’t we be looking into what medical conditions she might have had? Shouldn’t the coroner? Who, by the by, arrived far too fast for my liking. This is the back of beyond, and yet the emergency services arrive on the scene faster than they do at a gangland murder in Dublin? And what’s with having two editions? Per day? I just …’
I paused to take a breath, and also to wonder: why was she smiling? She should be scowling, surely, after a tirade like that.
She picked up the magnifying glass and looked at me once more. ‘Hmm,’ she said. Then she added a, ‘Huh,’ just for good measure. She lowered the magnifying glass and said, ‘People have quite the appetite for puzzles in this town. They buy both editions so they can do extra crosswords and the like. That’s why we have two editions per day.’
‘Right.’ I crossed my arms. ‘Arnold didn’t have a copy of the paper to hand when we spoke last Friday. I don’t suppose you could show me one right now? I’d love to see a copy of the evening edition.’
She cleared her throat and looked off into the distance. ‘You know, we’re really into recycling here at the Daily Riddler. This evening’s edition is off at the printers. I’ll try to keep a copy back for you, but I can be quite forgetful.’
‘Well, I’ll be able to pick it up in the local shop, surely?’
She was still staring off into that fascinating spot somewhere in the distance. ‘Oh, we do a very small run of the evening edition. I doubt you’ll find a copy.’
I sat back and stared at her. ‘Huh.’
‘Indeed,’ she said. ‘Now, I’m pairing you up with Greg, our IT guy and photographer, for your trial. Tell him to take some photos and do his thing.’
I could feel my eyes begin to bulge. She was actually giving me a story? ‘Photos of what, exactly? What are we working on?’
She finally met my eyes. ‘The train will be doing a run to Dublin in an hour’s time. Get over to the station before it leaves, nose around. See if you can come up with anything more … interesting … than the allergy angle. Oh, and go and talk to the husband afterwards. It’s always good to get a … human … angle on these things. Bathsheba lived a long and interesting life. People will enjoy reading about it.’
I was about to ask, oh, I don’t know, maybe a hundred more questions, when she stood up and pressed a button on her desk. The doors opened behind me, and she turned away, sauntered into her bedroom, and slammed the door.
≈
Malachy told me that I would find Greg in the break room, so I made my way there. It was just as elegant as the rest of the place, with curved couches, an expensive-looking coffee machine and shelves filled with books.
There was only one person in there. He had tight-cut blond hair, pale blue eyes, and was tall and wiry looking. He had a laptop open in front of him, and was wearing headphones with a mouthpiece. He was speaking quickly, typing and hitting his mouse like his life depended on it, frantically chewing a chocolate bar and slurping coffee at the same time.
‘Greg?’ I asked.
He jumped, said, ‘Got to go,’ into his mouthpiece, and then stared at me. ‘Sorry. I was in the middle of fighting the War of the Enclaves.’
I looked enviously at his empty coffee cup. Maybe that was what I needed. Another shot of caffeine. Or two. Perhaps then I’d catch up with whatever it was he’d just said. ‘The War of the Enclaves? That means nothing to me.’
‘It’s a game,’ he said, as though I ought to know. ‘Set in ancient times, back when the faeries and the witches were fighting for supremacy. I was playing the faerie side. Obviously.’
‘Obviously. So … I’m Ash. The latest reporter on trial here.’
‘Yeah.’ There was a tired tone to his voice. ‘I kind of figured that. Do you need me to set your computer up?’
‘No. Well, maybe later. Grace said we should go to the train station together? So you can take some photos. And then …’ I did my best to withhold a sigh. ‘And then we’re supposed to go speak with Bathsheba’s husband.’
‘Oh. Did she say I should do anything else, other than take photos?’
I shrugged. ‘She said, “Tell Greg to take some photos and do his thing.”’
‘Ah.’ His eyes lit up. ‘I’ll get my equipment.’
I followed him into a messy corner office, where he slung a camera around his neck. He picked up some other equipment too, but he turned his back to me while he did so, and by the time he’d turned back around I couldn’t see what he’d packed into his bag. ‘Come on then,’ he said, bounding out of his office. ‘No time like the present.’
He moved so fast, and had a proper bounce to each step. I was glad I’d chosen my comfy old boots instead of the high heels, but even with flat soles I barely managed to keep up with him. By the time I joined him on the street, I was panting.
‘I have a van,’ he said, pointing to a deep purple Volkswagen parked across the road. ‘But the station’s only a short walk. You up for a stroll?’
‘Sure,’ I said, catching sight of the ring on his finger. It looked exactly like the one Pru and her mother had been wearing. ‘I really like that ring,’ I told him. ‘Pru – she lives at the Vander Inn – has the exact same one. Hey, do you two know each other?’
/> ‘Em … no?’ he said, sounding unsure. ‘Well, maybe a little bit. You … you’re from Dublin, right? Anywhere I’d have heard of? Luna Park, maybe?’
I resisted the urge to gape at him. Luna Park was one of the place names on the list I’d been making in my special notebook.
‘No,’ I said, trying to sound casual. ‘Not Luna Park.’ I glanced at a strange-looking black gadget hanging off his belt. It looked exactly like the gadget Gretel had been waving about in the dining car. Greg hadn’t been wearing it in the break room, though. Maybe he put it on when he turned his back to me at his desk. Much as I wanted to ask about it, I decided to hold back for now. People weren’t answering any questions I asked today. Perhaps it was better to stop asking, and see what I could find out for myself.
≈
As we stood on the apex of the bridge, I could see that things were wrapping up on board the Riddler’s Express. Staff members and passengers from the morning train were walking away, while those for the next journey were queuing at the doors, while a thin man in a garda uniform waved them slowly on.
I marched towards the garda.
‘We’re from the Daily Riddler,’ I told him. ‘Is it all right if we go in and take a few pictures?’
He shrugged. ‘The body’s gone, love, and dying from an allergic reaction to peanuts doesn’t seem all that newsworthy to me. But if you fancy photographing a perfectly normal train, then be my guest.’
Just as the thin garda stood aside, I spotted Detective Quinn leaving the train. Beside him was the waiter who’d served Bathsheba and me earlier on in the dining carriage. The waiter was wearing cuffs, cuffs that had a kaleidoscope haze around them.
I stepped back from the door and walked towards Detective Quinn.
‘You’re making an arrest?’
He glowered at me. ‘What’s it to you?’
A Magical Trio Page 20
