by Lila Dubois
The walls were decorated with framed panes of glass with pressed flowers between them, shadow boxes opaque with dust, and delicate illustrations of Bible stories suitable for a nursery—Noah’s Ark, Jonah and the whale, and Christ kneeling among children.
A tipped-over rocking horse lay on a rug in the center of the room. A small table waited there, a vase of long-dead flowers sitting atop it, strangely untouched by the chaos around it.
Across from the beds was a fireplace. It was massive and made of heavy stone, more in keeping with the original structure than this Victorian decor. A fireplace screen was half fallen over, the glass insets broken out.
Beyond the little play area there was a swath of clean floor. A path in the dust and debris showed the dark wood of the floor and led from near the beds across the room to beside the fireplace. Melissa flicked on her torch, examining the clear area. Dark brown dots stained the wood. She crouched and examined them. Without testing there was no way to know what it was, and even that may prove inconclusive.
The beam of her torch followed the path toward the fireplace. Drops and smears of dark brown marked the wood, ending in one larger, massive stain. Beside it was a perfect handprint.
Melissa blew out a breath.
She was willing to make an educated guess that the stains on the floor were blood, and that whoever had been bleeding staggered to this point before dropping or being knocked to the ground.
Melissa held the torch between her shoulder and chin, transferred the camera to her left hand and carefully lay her gloved palm over the handprint to gauge its size. The hand was smaller than hers, but not by much. Given historical skeletal sizing, it was fair to say the handprint could have been made either by a woman or a pubescent male.
There was a thick trail leading away from the main pool of blood. Walking in a crouch, Melissa followed the trail, identifying a second handprint, the lines smudged as if the hand had slid sideways.
At the end of the trail, half-hidden by a mounded blanket, were the bodies. Straightening to her full height, Melissa surveyed them.
Three skulls, three bodies—one adult, one juvenile and one infant. The adult skeleton wasn’t fully visible, as it was covered in bits of stained green fabric. The garment was ripped or torn, so ribs and bits of arm bone and pelvis were visible.
Both the juvenile and infant wore white night dresses, which obscured all but the skull, hands and feet.
Melissa had seen enough for now. She knew what she was dealing with and could start on the actual examination in the morning. After getting a close up of each skull and the adult’s pelvic bone, she turned and headed for the door.
Oren was leaning against a wall, his chin dropped to his chest.
“Sergeant?”
He looked up. “Done so soon?”
“Barely begun, but at this time I can definitively tell you that it’s three bodies. Based on the pelvic bone and the less pronounced brow of the skull, one is an adult female. The smaller two are a juvenile approximately age nine and an infant, no older than six months.”
“That’s terrible.” He shook his head. “Terrible isn’t the word. The poor children. And how did they die?”
“I’m not prepared to say until I clean the bones, but right now my best guess is that the adult’s death wasn’t natural.”
Oren shook his head glumly. “I was afraid of that. And the age?”
“Based on environmental and context evidence, I’d say they died sometime between 1790 and 1860. And even that is only an estimate and could change.”
“That’s good enough. They’re at least 140 years old, too old to be a real police matter.”
“And too young to involve the museum.” Melissa pulled off her mask and closed the door to the nursery before removing her gloves. “I’ll get you more information as soon as I can, Detective Sergeant.”
“I’m plenty happy for now.” Together they took the stairs to the first floor. Melissa pulled out the key Sorcha had given her. She opened the door to her room and set her case inside.
Oren was looking at her in alarm. “You’re staying here, just below that?” He jerked his head at the ceiling.
“I’ve stayed in far worse places.” She was more tired than she’d realized, and though it was still early, she wanted to lie down for a few hours. Then she’d get her bags, write up her notes and email off some photos to people who might be able to help her. “And they’re beyond hurting now. I’m sure they won’t mind if I stay.”
“It’s not you hurting them that I’m worried about.”
Chapter 3
Rolling his shoulders, Tristan pulled the bandanna from his forehead and scrubbed his scalp with his fingertips. It had been a good dinner service. The specials had sold out early, and one of the newer chefs had acquitted herself well. It had taken nearly two years, but now the kitchen was running the way he wanted and was truly his.
His dream had been a restaurant of his own in Paris, but for now a restaurant in this pretty part of Ireland would do, at least until he figured out where he’d go next, since Paris was not an option.
He said goodnight to the chefs working clean up, confident that they would have the kitchen spotless and ready before he arrived tomorrow. Though he had shared office space in another part of the hotel, he preferred to keep his things here, where his staff did. Going to the back wall, he stripped off his chef’s coat and put it in the bin to be laundered by the same company that processed the linens. Pulling the bin labeled “Tristan” from one of the shelves that served as makeshift lockers, he retrieved his jacket, scarf, wallet and keys.
Once he was ready for the street, he said one final goodbye and slipped out through the restaurant. It was quicker to exit out the kitchen’s side door into the gardens and take the path that led around the pub to the parking lot, but if the volume of orders was any indication, the pub was plenty busy tonight, and he didn’t want to deal with the noise and people right now. He made his way to the foyer, nodding to the sleepy-looking evening clerk who sat behind the antique registration desk.
Sorcha, the guest relations manager, appeared from the hallway on the other side of the foyer. She was pulling on a jacket and Tristan waited, opening the heavy front door for her.
“Thank you, Tristan. How was dinner service?”
“Bien. The specials did well, and wine service was up.”
“That’s wonderful, did the curry…”
Her voice trailed off and Tristan followed her gaze. At the foot of the steps was Glenncailty’s long curved drive, which led past the front door to the parking area. On the other side of the drive was a wild garden of roses, tall grass and old trees. It was made to look as if the forest that surrounded the castle came right up to the front door, though in reality the area was maintained by the gardener.
There was a pretty stone bench just across from the steps. Sitting on it was Séan Donnovan. Tristan looked between the beautiful redhead beside him and the strong, quiet farmer who raised the beef and lamb he served in the restaurant.
It was painfully obvious that Séan was madly in love with Sorcha.
At least it was obvious to Tristan.
Hanging back a step, Tristan grinned and winked at Séan. The other man looked at him briefly before transferring his attention back to Sorcha. It was probably Tristan’s imagination, but he thought Séan blushed.
Moving as quietly as possible, he peeled away from Sorcha and headed for the parking lot. He was tempted to stay, to see if there was something he could do to push the two stubborn Irish people into each other’s arms. It had been painful watching Séan pine after Sorcha for the past few years.
And speaking of stubborn…
The pretty blonde doctor from earlier was walking out of the parking area toward him, a large pack on her back and a smaller bag held in her right hand. Her face was more serious than it had been earlier, with a small line of worry or confusion between her brows. Tristan wanted to see her smile or laugh, as she had earlier. Anti
cipation had him quickening his step as he moved to intercept her.
“You’re here to stay? I will put a lock on my kitchen doors.”
She looked up at his words. Her hair was silvery in the moonlight, her face a study in cool blue tones.
“Chef Tristan. I must thank you again, your food was exceptional.”
“Bien sur. Next time come when the restaurant is open and I will show you what I can really do.”
“I’ll do that.”
“And soon, it seems.” He gestured to the bags she carried.
“Yes, I’ll be staying through the duration of my examination and testing.”
Tristan nodded. “The bones.” It seemed hard to believe that such a pretty woman had such a sad job, but there was strength in her, and intelligence so fierce it practically radiated off her. “You’ve been to see them?”
“Yes, have you?”
“No. I do not need to see them.”
“That’s surprising.” She started walking toward the castle. Tristan considered stopping her to give Séan and Sorcha time, but it was late and she was probably tired. Instead he turned around and walked with her. He took the bag she held in her right hand.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Why do you think it’s surprising I don’t want to see the bones?”
“Most people are curious about human remains. It’s natural—expected, even. I’d assumed that despite the police—I mean, Garda—presence, most people who worked here would have snuck in at some point.”
“Some did,” Tristan said with a shrug. As they neared the front doors, there was no sign of Sorcha or Séan. “I care nothing for bones. All of Paris rests on bones.”
“That’s very true, and has always been an interesting anthropological study.”
“The catacombs?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve been in the catacomb passages many times with my…” Tristan forced a smile. “When I was young and foolish.”
“But you didn’t sneak in here.”
“No.”
“What did they say they saw?” she asked. “The people who went in.”
“A mother and her children.”
“A very good guess, one I’d say is possible, and maybe even probable.”
“C’est vrai?” Tristan shook his head. “I am sorry for them.”
“Yes, it’s tragic, but they are at peace.”
“Really?” Tristan opened the door for her. She nodded in thanks as she entered. “How do you know they are at peace?”
“Because they’re dead and have been for at least 140 years.”
“Death is no guarantee of peace.”
She stopped in her tracks and looked at him. “Of course it is.”
Tristan smiled. “And who told you that?”
“No one told me. I don’t need to be told that once the body dies any consciousness or personhood dies with it. There is no more pain, no more suffering.”
“Life and death are not so simple as that. The soul is greater than both.”
She blinked several times. “You actually believe that.”
“I do.”
“And do you believe in ghosts?”
“Believe in them?” He considered her question.
Ghosts were very real, and this place was most definitely haunted.
“I do not ‘believe in’ them,” he said. She smiled a little and started walking again, headed for the west wing. “I know they are real.”
“For goodness sake,” she said on a sigh.
“I take it you do not ‘believe’.”
“No, I do not. Let me clarify—I will not. I’ve seen bones marked by the suffering of life, picked pieces of people from pits where they’d been thrown like garbage. Putting aside the fact that ghosts have no basis in science, I refuse to believe that death didn’t bring an end to that suffering.”
Tristan, who’d been walking beside her, slowed his pace, watching her pull ahead as they moved through the covered hallway between the main and west wings. Who was she that she’d done these things, seen these things? He’d assumed she was some professor or academic. There’d been grim conviction in her voice, as if she needed her words to be true.
He ran to catch up.
“I’m sorry, sometimes the things I say do not translate well to English. I’m sure you are right, death ends all suffering.”
There were two big lies in there—he’d taken English since he was five and was a fluent speaker.
The second lie became horrifyingly apparent when they entered the west wing.
A woman stood at the bottom of the stairs. She was only a pale outline the color of parchment paper, but he could just make out the hint of the chains that draped her and of the bucket she held in one hand. At the far end of the hall there was another woman, who seemed to be wearing a long dress, her hair piled up on top of her head. A massive ghost dog prowled down the hall toward him.
One by one Tristan looked at each ghost, acknowledging it. Their images wavered, as if they were trying to gather the power or strength to interact with him.
But nothing happened. The ghosts faded away.
Tristan looked over his shoulder. There was still one ghostly outline there, but this one’s features were familiar. The ghost smiled slightly at Tristan, then looked at Melissa, who was unlocking her door, before looking back to Tristan. That was odd, he didn’t normally acknowledge the presence of any other live people.
“Merci, mon frère,” Tristan whispered.
The ghost of his brother smiled before he too faded away.
* * * *
Melissa was up before dawn. She checked her urge to jump into action, instead taking time to run through her physical therapy exercises, using a bottle of water since she didn’t have a soup can. Her arm wasn’t as sore as she thought it would be after yesterday’s activities.
She took a quick shower, braiding her hair to keep it out of the way. It was just past seven when she left her room, making her way up to the second floor of the west wing. Before she entered, she put on a protective suit and gloves. Though she’d done an initial examination with minimal protective gear, today she intended to be very by-the-book. The reality was that she rarely got to take the kind of precautions or time that she’d like to. In the quiet dawn light, the scene before her was almost peaceful. She knew most people wouldn’t see it that way—the once-pretty room, a scene of destruction around the bones that lay in a pool of shadow, was not most people’s idea of peace.
But for Melissa it was. Now that the first wave of emotion was gone—the sadness she’d felt yesterday—she could view this place objectively. The bones were just bits of carbon—the last remains of a collection of biological and chemical elements that made up the human body. When that body stopped functioning, the consciousness ceased to exist. Its exit was instantaneous, while the body lingered, slowly breaking apart into chemicals and organic compounds.
Humming to herself, Melissa took out her camera and did another complete video of the scene. When she was satisfied that she had a good record, she carefully cleared away the area around the bodies. She shifted broken furniture, moved bits of glass and pushed aside tattered fabric that crumbled at the slightest touch.
She knelt beside the bones of the woman—enough of the pelvis was visible that she was sure it was female—though the green dress she’d died in made that identification fairly obvious.
Taking out a tarp, tissues and some acid-free paper, Melissa laid the tarp on the ground and set up panels of tissue before she started removing the dress. There were slashes and rips edged in black—old blood. Starting at the hem, she cut the fabric up each side, then started removing the front of the dress in sections.
It was stuck to the bones in several places. When gentle tugging didn’t remove the fabric from the femur, she moved on. When the skeleton was revealed, the bones lying in perfect order, Melissa stopped for more photos. The back of the dress was nearly all black, dyed and glued to th
e bones by the slurry of liquid the body released post-death and during decomposition.
When she was satisfied that she had enough photos, Melissa moved on to the other bodies, repeating the process of removing the upper layer of fabric and then photographing.
It wasn’t until she removed the infant’s long dress-style garment and saw the diaper still wrapped around the pelvis that her heart clenched.
“You were loved.” Seeing the care with which the baby was dressed made it more difficult to see the remains as merely physical remnants of life instead of a baby. Melissa leaned forward, peering at the infant’s neck bones. “Maybe I was wrong.”
There was damage to the base of the skull and vertebrae C1 and C2. The infant’s neck was broken—he had been strangled.
Melissa finished pulling away the clothing. She laid the pieces of the garments out on the acid-free paper then carefully added more tissue and thin padding before folding the packets up, labeling them and putting them to the side.
She needed to get a better look at the bones, but the only way to do that was to strip and clean them.
Though she’d brought some equipment, she hadn’t brought bins. Rising, she flexed her left arm, which was starting to ache. She was surprised to see that she’d been working for nearly three hours.
She stripped off her protective suit at the door, then set up a red biohazard trash bag by the door, dropping her gloves into it. She needed bins for the bodies and boiling water.
Stopping by her room long enough to plug in her camera, Melissa then made her way to the Glenncailty kitchen.
* * * *
Tristan stared at the pot of water on the stove.
“Who did this?”
“None of us did, Chef,” the rôtisseur answered. “I was in the garden for ten minutes—it must have happened then.”
“While you were picking herbs, someone came in here, dumped out the bread and put a pot of water on the stove?”
The chefs looked nervously at each other, then ducked their heads, going back to their various tasks with a single-minded determination that would be admirable if it wasn’t fueled by desire not to face Tristan’s anger. Tristan occasionally had trouble keeping a lid on his emotions. If he was angry or frustrated, he saw no reason not to express those feelings, but it seemed to freak out the Irish.
