Had she threatened him? Back off the rumors of the cottage or I’ll tell everyone you don’t have a book deal?
“You’ll be bringing the good professor in for questioning?”
“Of course.”
“Have you identified the gold object under the bed?” He nodded. “And?” She was growing tired of the guessing games. Cases were so much easier when she had jurisdiction.
“It does appear to be from a hoard.”
“A hoard.”
“There have been a number of them found over the years in Ireland, England, Scotland, and Wales. You should look them up.”
“I will, of course. You’re sure the gold coin is from ancient times?”
“Just like the ones found in Tipperary,” he said. “Seventeenth century.”
“Those were found in what year?”
“Found in the floorboards of a pub in Carrick-on-Suir in 2013.”
“I’ll have to look that one up.”
“You should.”
“Did you find any more in the cottage?”
“We did not.”
“And you checked out the side of the cottage where the dirt was piled higher than the rest?”
“It does appear someone had been digging in that spot.”
“But there’s no longer anything buried there.”
“As you say.”
One gold coin. “Unusual, is it? To find just one?”
Danny nodded. “If it came from a hoard, then it would be unusual.”
“Did the owner of the pub in Carrick-on-Suir get to keep the gold coins he found?”
“No. They all went to the National Museum.”
As she thought. The Irish government claimed buried treasures as their own. “That means that anyone who found such treasures wouldn’t be able to cash in on them.”
“Not if they did their duty and reported them.”
“And if they didn’t?”
“Definitely wouldn’t be easy to find buyers.”
“And the coin you found is the exact coin found in Tipperary?”
“’Tis.” He closed his folder. Siobhán finished telling him everything she’d learned from their suspects so far. He leaned in. “Jane Delaney hasn’t submitted any proof that she was in Dublin this past week.”
Siobhán swallowed hard. Then nodded. “I will speak to Macdara.”
Danny stood. “You might want to check out the Ballysiogdun Charity Shop.”
Charity shop. Why did that sound familiar? She’d plucked the calling card from the local pub, then forgotten all about it. “I will do so.” She wasn’t sure why he was suggesting it, but there had to be a good reason. Maybe the owner could offer information about the gold coin. Luckily she had a photo of it on her mobile. Siobhán stood as Danny opened the door. Was he messing with her, dragging out the revelation as long as possible, or had he forgotten? “What did they find in her sink?”
His eyes danced. The game was afoot. “I have time for a break. You?”
* * *
Siobhán and Danny stood in Ellen’s kitchen staring into the sink. Written on the side of the sink in blood were two words: Jane. Tree.
Siobhán was at a loss. “What in the world?”
“Oh, there’s more.” Danny had dragged along his folder. He opened it and removed a printout of a crime scene photograph, and held it out for her to see. There was something gray and furry in the sink. She leaned in. “Is that a mouse?”
“Yep. A very dead mouse.”
If someone had offered her a million guesses she would have never thought for a second there would have been a dead mouse in the sink.
“My God.” Siobhán had no other words.
“Notice anything about the poor critter?”
She moved in on the photo. She didn’t mean to be cruel, but poor critter was hardly a fitting description. Deformed creature was more like it. Its enlarged face was hard to look away from, but when she did she spotted its stump of a tail with drops of red surrounding it. “Is that blood?” Danny shrugged. She wasn’t normally a fan of rodents but she couldn’t help but feel sorry for the poor wee thing. “I can’t make sense of it.”
“Can’t make heads or tails?” Danny laughed at his own joke. She didn’t blame him. Humor was a much-needed stress reliever when dealing with the macabre.
“Would Ellen kill a mouse and just leave it in her sink?”
“No clue.”
“I am at a complete loss.” Wasn’t she supposed to be a neat and orderly woman? Did she let loose when her daughter was away? Dead rodents in the sink weren’t just letting loose, it was darnright mental.
“The detective sergeant is thinking it was some kind of sacrifice.”
“You have to be joking me.”
“Did Jane ever mention that her mother believes in witches?”
“Witches?” Siobhán glanced around the simple cottage. “Do witches sacrifice mice?”
Danny shrugged and leaned in. “My first murder probe and it’s stranger than fiction.” He tapped on the specks of blood in the photograph. “Are there certain poisons that cause bleeding?”
Siobhán glanced away, she was already going to see that mouse in her dreams. “Did you find a bloody knife here?”
“No.”
“Then maybe poison does cause bleeding, or someone poked at this poor mouse somewhere else.”
“Possible.”
“Which means it was someone other than Ellen.”
“Jane?”
“Because her name is in the sink?”
“Yes. And. You know. She lives here.”
“What if someone was trying to send her a message?” Jane. Tree. Dead mouse. What kind of deranged message was that? Siobhán tried to work it out. If Jane messes with the tree she’s a dead mouse? Or was this more of a mobster warning? You dirty rat.
Danny folded his arms, looked away from her as he spoke. “Do you want to guess what killed the mouse?”
“Poison,” Siobhán said. “Wolfsbane.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Why do you think that?”
“If we confirm that Ellen was poisoned with wolfsbane. My guess? The killer was practicing.”
“But there’s blood evidence.” He pointed to the drops in the sink. “Do you think she cut into it?”
Siobhán’s stomach turned. “Why on earth would she cut into a dead mouse?”
“I’m still trying to account for the blood. Why is it there?”
Reluctantly, she glanced at the photo again and shrugged. “I would ask him but I don’t tink he’s going to answer.” Siobhán was convinced that Ellen did not leave this poor bloody mouse in her sink. Only one person would want to practice poisoning poor critters. The killer.
Was Ellen awake when her killer entered? She might have fought back. Thrown something through the window even. Siobhán headed for the window. It had been patched with boards. “Have you determined that the window was broken from inside the cottage?”
“What makes you think that?” There was a twinge of jealousy in his tone, and something else. Admiration. She was right. Ellen threw an object from inside the cottage, maybe aiming at her killer. But the poison was starting to take effect, or maybe the killer ducked.
“The witch,” the little Madigan girl had said. “Dancing.” Had she seen Ellen struggle with her attacker?
If someone poked at the mouse with a knife, and that caused the blood . . . wasn’t that overkill? Poison should have been enough. Had he or she planned on killing Ellen Delaney with a knife? But Ellen Delaney wasn’t killed with a knife.
Had the killer intended a stabbing versus a smothering? Did she pass out once the poison hit her system and the killer changed the weapon to suit the circumstances? Much neater to kill with a pillow than a knife . . .
Danny was watching Siobhán. “You get this look on your face when you’re concentrating,” he said. “Just like in college.”
“Joe Madigan mentioned something about dead mice at his farm.”
/> Danny perked up. “Were any of them deformed?”
Siobhán shook her head. “I didn’t think to ask, but he certainly didn’t mention it.”
Danny backed away from the sink. “I’ll check it out.”
“I’ll ask Macdara to press Jane on her alibi.”
“It won’t be good for her if she doesn’t offer proof soon,” Danny said. “Tickets, photos, witnesses. If she was in Dublin, it should be easy and quick to prove it. So why hasn’t she?”
Why indeed. “Tree,” Siobhán said. “Fairy tree?” Maybe someone was trying to frame Jane for her mother’s murder. “Do you mind if I have a quick look for Ellen’s camping outfit?”
“The scene has been processed. Feel free.”
Siobhán headed for Ellen’s bedroom, but a quick search did not find any dirty clothes. “What about her laptop. Anything come of it?”
“I really can’t say.” Danny meandered over to the boarded-up window.
“I understand.”
“But sometimes I talk out loud.”
“Do you?”
“Makes it easier to process.”
“I’ll just mosey over here.” Siobhán wandered to the far wall. Nothing hung on the simple wall, so Siobhán lost herself in the cracks, and lines, and dust. Was Ellen such a sparse decorator because she felt guilty that Jane couldn’t see? Or maybe decorating just wasn’t her thing. Siobhán loved the little touches that made a house a home. This cottage did not have that welcoming touch. She wondered what the fairies would think about that.
“Let’s see,” Danny said. “We need to bring Jane in for questioning, because her alibi hasn’t been verified, and as the closest kin to the deceased, she’d be very much on our radar as a suspect. We need to know why Dylan Kelly left his manuscript in the cottage. Or, if it wasn’t him, we need to know how and why the manuscript was on the counter. We’re waiting for the results of the footwear impression we found near the front door. We still don’t know how the window was broken, even though we know it was from the inside. Looking like wolfsbane in whiskey is the poison, but there’s no whiskey bottle. We’ve yet to locate Ellen’s truck, handbag, or mobile phone. Or the clothes she wore if indeed she was outside to spend the night near the fairy tree. We’ve requested her phone records—it’s unfortunate that everything takes so long. We ran with the recent tip that Ellen had secretly purchased the cottage, but we’ve verified with the village that she did not. It was never even up for sale.”
“She lied to her sister.” Siobhán was most definitely not going to be the eejit who delivered that bombshell.
“That makes me wonder why she needed to borrow fifteen thousand euro from her sister,” Danny added.
Siobhán began to follow a trail of dust on the wall, one that suddenly took shape as she stepped back. The dust marked a rectangle, as if a large frame had recently been hanging there.
“Danny, look.”
He ambled over as she pointed to the wall. “What am I looking at?”
“Doesn’t it look as if a painting once hung here?”
“Possibly,” Danny said. “Where are you going with this? Are you suggesting it was stolen?”
“No. Jane said she donated a painting—or tried to—for a showing Annabel was hosting at Molly’s Café. She said when Ellen found out she was livid.”
“Okay . . .”
“Ellen presumably got the painting back. So what did she do with it?”
Danny quickly took in the room. “The guards have been over the place several times. We didn’t find a large painting.”
“Interesting.”
Danny laughed. “I’ll let you follow that trail.”
“Thank you.” She smiled. It was great to work with her old friend. “For everything.”
“Don’t mention it,” he said with a grin. When she didn’t reply, his smile faded. “Seriously,” he said, as they exited the cottage. “Please don’t mention it.”
Chapter 22
Siobhán was headed back to the Ballysiogdun Inn when her phone pinged with a text from James.
We’re here
Who is we?
Her mobile dinged and a photo came back. Her entire brood was in front of the inn, large grins plastered on their faces.
It takes a village to survive this village
Tears welled in her eyes as she texted back:
Let’s go shopping then
Three moving dots appeared on her text and she grinned as she waited for his reply:
Typical
She laughed out loud, her steps lighter as she headed to meet up with them. Her joy was soon muted by the image of a dead, tailless mouse in Ellen’s sink. Sacrifice. Witch. How browned off was her fiancé going to be that she was keeping such bizarre discoveries from him? It would be hard to claim that it slipped her mind. She sighed, pondering her options, wishing she had a little person to blame it on.
* * *
The Ballysiogdun Charity Shop sold antiques and curiosity items, and after asking around Siobhán learned that the owner was touted as the man to ask about coins, or any Irish treasures for that matter. It was also a destination if not wildly, at least mildly approved by her brood. The short man tinkering with a clock grinned when they walked in. Ciarán, Ann, Gráinne, Eoin, and James all spread out, going for toys, books, clothes, graphic novels, and Siobhán wasn’t sure what James was going to find to occupy himself, but he seemed content to be in their company. She vowed they would go on a proper holiday soon, where murder would be the last thing on their minds.
Siobhán was hoping that a photo of the coin found underneath Ellen’s bed would be enough to garner some information. She approached the owner, who was polishing a crystal owl, smiling as if calculating how much they might spend.
“How ye,” he said. “If you’re looking for jewelry, I’ve got a nice assortment here.” He pointed to a large glass case next to him. She thought of her engagement ring, once again safely tucked away. She wouldn’t care if she never owned another piece of jewelry in her life.
“I need a consultation,” she said. “I have a photo of a coin. A guinea.”
“A guinea?” He plunked the owl down on the counter, rubbed his hands together, then looked around. “You heard the chatter then?”
“Chatter?”
“If it’s a big payout you’re looking for, you’ll be disappointed. If you found it buried in Ireland, it belongs to the government.” His smile was still visible but carried half the power.
“Nothing like that.” She pulled out her mobile phone and enlarged the picture of the gold coin. “It’s not a perfect picture, but I was wondering if there is any way you could identify it.”
He reluctantly took her mobile and brought it up to his eyes. “Hold on.” He dug around in a drawer, pulled out a monocle, and looked again. She saw him light up. “A 1773 George the Third. If it’s in fine condition, could be around eight hundred euro, or more. They’d have to measure the gold content.”
“Eight hundred euro?” Ciarán’s voice ricocheted through the shop as he careened over. “Let me see.” Siobhán showed him the picture. “Eight hundred euro?” Ciarán repeated. “For that?”
“Imagine if you found a whole pile of them,” Siobhán said.
“You’d be handing them over to the government,” the clerk repeated.
Chatter. “Has anyone else come into your shop inquiring about this coin?”
“Is this yours?” he asked. She noted that he didn’t answer the question.
“It belongs to a friend.”
“Did she find a hoard?” Siobhán took note that he said “she.”
“I know all about the book that’s being written,” Siobhán said. “I’m assuming Dylan Kelly has been in to see you.”
The clerk nodded. “He showed me an article mentioning rumors of a hoard in Ballysiogdun. Something about ‘where the fairies dwell.’ But he sure as I’m standing here didn’t have anything like that coin to show me. He promised he’d come back in and
tell me if he found a hoard.”
He’d certainly told someone something about it. Or did he keep it all to himself?
“Hoard?” Ciarán said, scrunching his nose. “What’s that?”
“Buried treasures,” he said with a wink. “Do you want to hear the stories?”
“Of course.” The answer came not from Siobhán, who was about to say the same thing, but from Ann, who was now standing behind her. Soon, all of her brood was gathered, eager to hear the stories.
“Barry Shannon, 2014,” he said. “Found himself a fishie buried in his aunt’s field.”
“A fishie?” Ciarán said. “In a field?”
“Not just any fishie. Not the swimming kind, lad. This was a gold fish from the seventh century.”
“A gold fish?”
“Aye. About this long.” He held his fingers out three inches. “Might have been part of a belt buckle. You see yer man had been searching as a hobby, like, using one of those metal detectors. ’Twas only a foot beneath the soil—can you imagine? The lad was only twenty-two years of age.” He laughed to himself. “Lad was a fisherman, thought it was a spinner, you know, the yoke you have on the end of the line. Even offered it to his cousin. Cousin told the lad to keep it for himself, for his trouble. He’d been out there all day searching, so he had. Then he takes it to his auntie, who thought nothing of it at first. After a while curiosity starts tickling at her. Who left it? How old was it? Was it worth anything? She decided it would be good to know, if even for a laugh. She gets the name of a fella who might know a ting or two. Lucky she did. Turns out it was a medieval adornment to a belt buckle, determined to be not Irish but Anglo-Saxon. How it ended up in that field we’ll never know. Perhaps due to trade back and forth across the Irish Sea.”
“How much was it worth?” James asked.
“I don’t recall. It was sent for valuation, but similar Anglo-Saxon finds have gone for just under two hundred thousand pounds.”
“Does he mean euros?” Ciarán said, crinkling his face.
“You’re right, lad,” the man said. “The pound is still stuck in me head. And sometimes the quid.” He threw his head back and laughed, then laughed even more at the perplexed look on her brother’s young face. “There’s buried treasure out there, chalices, jewelry, earthenware, even little gold fishies.” He leaned in. “But the Irish government is going to take it from ye and stick it in a museum. Yer man there in England, back in 2009, was digging and struck an entire pot of gold coins. Seems they were buried in the third century as an offering to the gods, hoping they’d bless them with good farming conditions. In 2013 there was another fella in Wales, found fourteen coins. Worth about seven hundred fifty euros each. Nice little haul.” He was excited now, practically drooling.
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