by Nancy Warren
A police tech asked if we’d volunteer to be fingerprinted so they could work out whose fingerprints were whose upstairs in the master bedroom. We both agreed. She took our fingerprints and then gave us some packaged wipes.
It felt like a murder investigation. But Brenda wasn’t dead, I reminded myself. However, she wasn’t far from it. I thought it would be a miracle if she survived, but miracles happened.
The bathroom! The awful message. “Did you check the bathroom?” I asked.
She glanced at me oddly. “No. Not yet.” She rose. “Stay here. An officer will be along shortly.”
Archie and I sat in miserable silence in the dining room that I’d last been in for Billy O’Donnell’s wake.
I hadn’t enjoyed my time in this house then, and I enjoyed it even less now, waiting for the Gardaí and hoping against hope that Brenda would pull through.
Archie and I made labored conversation for a few minutes, and then both of us just gave it up and sat there, sitting silently with our own thoughts. After about twenty minutes, a young Garda took our statements. Mainly, they only wanted the barest details and our names and contact information. We were both asked to go down to the station the next day and make a full statement.
“Can we go now?” I asked. Cerridwen was still in the car and I felt burdened by pain, sadness and grief, as though the house itself were mourning.
“Let me find out for you,” and he went back upstairs.
There was a knock on the front door. Archie jumped like a frightened rabbit, and his fair skin blushed under his red hair. His blue eyes opened so wide, I was afraid the eyeballs would fall out and roll onto the dirty carpet. To reassure him I said, “It’ll only be more police. Someone must have locked the door by accident. I’ll get it.”
I opened the door, and standing in front of me was a stranger, not in uniform. He was about forty, with stylish, short hair, a beautiful suit and shiny, black shoes. He was good-looking in a boyish way. Something about him reminded me of my ex-husband, Greg. “Hello?” I said, waiting for him to pull out his identification.
He looked puzzled. “Hello.”
There was a beat of silence as we both looked at each other. “Who are you?” I asked finally.
He looked down at his phone. Stepped back and checked the number on the house. “I feel I should ask you that question,” he said to me with a humorous expression on his face.
“You’re not with the police?”
He glanced around him. “Is this some sort of joke?”
Oh, dear. One of us had made a terrible mistake. “Are you looking for Brenda?” I asked him.
“Yes. Are you her friend?” He began to look concerned, no doubt beginning to suspect that the police cars had been called to this address. “Where is she?”
So not the question I wanted to answer right now. We stared at each other again and, perhaps because I was in the house and he was outside, he ceded me the upper hand. He said, “I’m Dylan McAuliffe.” He looked at me as though I should know who that was.
“Okay. And you know Brenda how?”
“We’re engaged.” When I continued to stare, he said, “To be married.”
He was her fiancé, and he hadn’t been at her father’s wake. I’d have remembered him. I had to ask. “Why didn’t I see you at her father’s wake if you’re engaged?”
“Because I had to work. I wanted to be there, to support Brenda, of course I did. But I had to work, and she understood. I’ve come down here to help her move.”
Not in those clothes. It was one reason he reminded me of Greg. That suit was tailored. The shoes were Italian and looked handmade, and when he’d lifted his cell phone, I’d seen his watch. It was a ten-thousand-dollar watch.
Whatever his job was, it paid well. And if he’d come to help Brenda move, he’d timed it for when the hard work would all be done.
“There are Gardaí vehicles out on the street. What is going on?”
Archie came to the door then, and his Adam’s apple bounced up and down once more. “They said we can go..” He looked at Dylan McAuliffe. “Are you with the Guards?”
Dylan McAuliffe looked between Archie and me. “What’s going on? Why does everyone think I’m a Garda?”
Archie and I exchanged glances, and clearly neither of us knew what to say. Finally, I said, “I’m sorry to tell you this, but Brenda’s had an accident.”
He looked stunned. “Accident? What kind of accident? Like a car wreck?”
I shook my head. “She’s on her way to the hospital.”
He glanced up as though all the noise upstairs was beginning to register and he was associating it with Brenda’s injury. He seemed to wilt. “How badly is she hurt?”
“It’s bad.” It was all I could say. I wasn’t going to lie to the man.
He took a step forward as though he’d push past me and go upstairs to her. “Where is she? We’re to be married. I have to go to her.”
“She’s on her way to the hospital.” I’d already said that, but I understood that shock made it hard to take in new information.
“Where?”
“In Cork. It’s a tricky road,” Archie said. “It can be difficult to find.”
“Give me the coordinates. I’ll put it into my GPS.” His hands were shaking so badly, he couldn’t manage it.
“Did you drive down from Dublin today?” I asked him.
He glanced up impatiently, as though it was irrelevant. “I did. Now, if you’ll give me even the name of the hospital, I’ll be on my way.”
If he’d driven down from Dublin today and now had this horrific news, I couldn’t let him drive to Cork on his own. I looked at Archie. “You know the way, Archie. Could you drive Dylan to the hospital?”
Archie looked so relieved to get out of the house that he nodded enthusiastically. “Excellent idea. My car is across the street. I’d be happy to drive you.”
A shiny, late-model BMW was parked in front of the house, and across the street was a dusty, faded Skoda.
Dylan looked like he might argue, and then I said, “Trust me, it’ll be faster.”
I had no idea whether it would be faster or not, but I didn’t think Dylan should be driving alone. I didn’t know what news he’d get when he got to the hospital, but even if he could get there okay, I suspected that it might be terrible news that would greet him and he’d be better to have a driver on the way home. Maybe if he hadn’t reminded me so much of my dead ex-husband, I wouldn’t have been so concerned about him. As Dylan McAuliffe followed Archie out, I thought again how very dapper he was. Was he trying to impress others or himself?
I watched them drive away. I didn’t want to interrupt all the activity upstairs, but had they checked the bathroom? Surely the go away message was an important clue. I decided to wait until someone came down as I really didn’t want to go back upstairs. The evening was relatively warm, so I left the door open and sat on the front step.
I was thinking about Brenda, wondering how she was making out, when a nondescript car pulled up. Out stepped two men I knew, Detective Inspector Walsh and his sidekick Sergeant Kelly.
If they were surprised to see me, they didn’t show it. I stood as they grew closer. DI Walsh looked at me with those boxer’s eyes. His looks hadn’t improved since he’d last been in Ballydehag investigating a murder. He still looked like he’d lost a few too many rounds in the boxing ring. “Ms. Callahan,” he said, emphasizing the Ms.
“Detective Inspector Walsh.” I motioned behind me. “Everyone’s upstairs.”
His face never changed expression, but his eyes were sharp on mine. “Wait here.”
I knew they were here because it was a crime scene, but I wondered whether they were already treating this as a murder investigation. Oh, poor Brenda. I hoped not.
The two detectives went upstairs. I stayed where I was.
I sat outside on the steps until the two detectives came down and found me there. “Exactly what did you see when you got here?” Detective
Walsh asked.
I went through it one more time. “But who would hurt her? Who would do such a thing?”
DI Walsh wasn’t one to crack a smile, but there was a slight shifting in his expression. “That’s what we’re here to find out.”
I went through everything I could remember. “And did you see the bathroom?”
They looked at each other and then looked at me. “What about the bathroom?”
Presumably they’d been so busy in the bedroom where she’d been attacked, they hadn’t bothered to search the bathroom upstairs. “The writing on the mirror. The warning.”
“What warning?”
Really, I should join the Guards myself. I stood up. “Come on. I’ll show you.”
I went upstairs, and the two followed me. I led them into the bathroom, though only Sergeant Kelly followed me inside. The mirror was clean, sparkling, so it really stood out in the dingy room. I turned to him. “Did someone clean it off?”
He looked at me like I’d been hit on the head. Of course, the police wouldn’t rub away crucial evidence. But where was it?
“What exactly did you see?”
“The writing. It was right there on the mirror. In something red. I thought at first it was blood, but I think it was lipstick.” I was starting to doubt myself. “Someone must have slipped in and wiped the mirror clean.” I shivered at the thought that whoever had done it had been here while I was. Had they been hiding while I had called for help? If I’d stumbled on them, would I now be lying on a stretcher on my way to the hospital?
“What did the message say?” Sergeant Kelly asked.
“Go home. You’re not wanted here.” Was I crazy? Seeing things that weren’t there?
Or was I not going crazy? Was there another explanation for the writing on the mirror? I had assumed that message was directed at Brenda and somebody was telling her to go back to Dublin. Now I wondered if the message was intended for me. Some ancient and evil witch wanted me out of her way. Heat crawled up my neck. Finally, I said, “I’m so sorry. I think the shock and stress got to me.”
“So you didn’t see writing on the mirror?”
Well, I had, but I couldn’t prove it. And they certainly weren’t going to believe that a supernatural being had done it. I’d be far better to keep what little credibility I had left and keep my mouth shut.
“I think I’d better get home and lie down,” I told them.
“Would you like a ride?” DI Walsh asked.
I appreciated the kindness but told him no. DI Walsh reminded me to go to the station in the morning and give a statement. I said I would and was allowed to leave. The bag of books I’d intended to return to Brenda was on the kitchen floor where I’d dropped them. I didn’t want to leave them in an empty house, as they were so valuable. I’d hang onto them until Brenda was better or … well, I’d hang onto them.
I made my way back outside, got into my little car and headed home. The cottage looked bedraggled in the rain, especially the roses, which were dripping and drooping. I picked up the books and the piece of yew I’d taken off the street what felt like days ago and was only a few hours, then I let Cerridwen out of the back, where she’d been curled up sleeping. She yawned, looked at the rain and scampered to her cat door.
When I got inside, I lit the fire for comfort as well as warmth.
The first thing I did was wash my hands under scorching water, scrubbing my nails. Then I brewed myself a pot of my calming tea and sat in the front room watching the restless waves. I knew I should eat something, but my stomach felt queasy.
About nine thirty, my phone rang. It was Andrew Milsom. “Quinn. I wanted you to hear it from me.” And I knew before he told me that the news was bad. I could hear it in the heaviness of every word. “She didn’t make it. I’m so sorry.”
How many times had this man had to deliver the news that somebody’s loved one hadn’t made it? No wonder he’d retreated to what had seemed to be a peaceful village in Ireland, where the biggest thing he had to worry about was coughs and colds and when the fish might be biting. Instead, he’d been faced with murder.
Outside, I heard the restless sea sounding like quiet sobbing. Or maybe that was coming from inside me. “I’m sorry too.”
There was a pause. “You’ve had a shock. Will you be all right?”
That was an interesting question. I didn’t know. I felt strange and unsettled.
Brenda was now a murder victim.
Chapter 6
I took the books I’d intended to give Brenda out of the bag and set them on the table in the living room. I was puzzled as to what to do with them. I supposed until her will was read, I wouldn’t know who the next of kin was. In the meantime, I wondered if I should get the books valued. Maybe I was wrong and a very old book of shadows was a curiosity rather than a treasure.
There’d been a vampire who’d come to the bookshop a few weeks ago. Rafe something. He was an antiquarian book dealer and a friend of Lochlan’s. If anyone could tell me the value of these books, it would be him.
I’d meant to put the yew branch in the shed behind the cottage where I dried herbs, but with the rain, I’d beelined straight for the cottage door. I placed the branch above the fireplace where it lent a festive touch. A yuletide note creeping into the wet June day.
I settled myself in my favorite chair in the living room, which I suspected had also been Lucinda’s favorite, as it offered a view of the ocean and there was a reading lamp by the side.
I got my reading glasses and tea and settled myself in the chair with the old grimoire. I’d told Drew I’d be fine and thanked him for letting me know Brenda was gone, but I was far from fine. I puzzled over that note on the mirror that had disappeared, and I worried that it might be connected with Brenda’s death.
I sat for a long time with Cerridwen curled up in my lap. As though she knew I needed the comfort, or because of the rain, she’d stayed in.
I didn’t speak Gaelic, but I loved the feel of the old book, and I tried to imagine who might have owned it, what spells this book might contain.
The pages were remarkably well-preserved for their age. Very little foxing, no sign of insect damage, and while the spine was loose and the leather cover scuffed and worn, the paper itself was in good shape and the old writing legible. No doubt the witch had made sure of it. I turned the pages slowly. I could see some pencil drawings of herbs and the odd note in a cramped hand.
There was one page that contained some familiar words. This spell wasn’t in Gaelic but an older form of English. I said the words aloud, not at all sure of the pronunciation, but loving the sound of the words in the quiet room.
As I wicche be and by my crafte of sorserie
So I pleye to ouyrcome alle
Bewitchen him that bereth my herte
To that same Journey’s end
I wasn’t entirely sure what I’d said. It wasn’t Gaelic, and it wasn’t common English. I thought it might be something like Chaucer. Was that Middle English?
About eleven, Cerridwen got off my lap and stared, letting me know it was time for bed, and then she padded up the stairs.
I found it rather amusing that she kept whatever hours she liked, but when she was home at eleven, she liked me to go to bed.
She was probably right. There was no point sitting up late. I closed the grimoire and placed it carefully on the table. Then I turned out the lights and, as I generally did, paused to look out the window. The sight of the ocean was different every time I looked out. The moon waxed and waned. The waves were sometimes choppy and fierce, sometimes calm and lulling. The night might be clear or it might be clouded, and always I looked over at that solitary castle that Lochlan Balfour and a nest of vampires called home. There were lights on. I suspected that while my day was ending theirs was just beginning.
When I got upstairs, I found Cerridwen stretched out across the bed. For a small cat, she could take up a lot of real estate. I got myself ready for bed and then crawled in gingerly,
trying not to disturb the cat. Her purring was the last sound I heard before I went to sleep.
I woke and opened my eyes. It was full dark, which was strange because there’d been moonlight last night, and I hadn’t drawn the curtains. I rarely did. I liked to wake up to the morning light. If the weather was nice, I would open the balcony doors and welcome the morning.
I yawned and squinted at the clock. It must be the middle of the night. The clock said seven-thirty. That was strange. Why was it so dark?
The cat was still sound asleep, curled in a ball in the bent crook of my knees. I eased myself out of bed and padded barefoot across the floor to the balcony doors. There was something black across the panes of the window door. What could it be? I put my face right up against the window and peered, but it was so dark I couldn’t see anything. I turned on the light in the bedroom and then peered again.
I blinked and felt the first stirrings of unease. I was too sleepy for fear, but my foggy pre-coffee brain was still registering that something was wrong. It was like being inside an impenetrable forest. On the other side of the glass was what looked like tree boughs with thorns. Was I asleep and dreaming?
I pinched my arm and felt a sharp twinge. Not dreaming then.
I tried to open the doors, but they were stuck fast.
I was trying not to panic, but my heart was speeding up. I grabbed my housecoat and put on my slippers. Maybe something had happened in the night—a tree had fallen on the roof and I hadn’t heard it. I’d have to go out and investigate. I went downstairs into the kitchen and, naturally, the first thing I did was look at the windows. Every one of them was black. I ran for the back door. I literally ran. I yanked and yanked, and I couldn’t open the door.
I went to the front window, the largest one, and it looked like a million snakes, and they were moving. They weren’t snakes, but branches. My entire cottage seemed to be wrapped in branches and thorns. And why were they moving?
Frantic now, I tried the front door. Nothing. I pulled and yanked. I tried a spell. I couldn’t focus. I was too panicky.
I had to calm down. By this time, all the commotion had woken Cerridwen. She came trotting down and took a slow walk around the house. She must have been as unnerved as I was, for she went straight for her cat door. She butted her head against it and then turned to look at me as though it was my fault she couldn’t get out. “I’m as stuck as you are,” I told her.
