by Ali McNamara
Then, when there’s a break in the traffic, I run across the road and make my way up to the house, hoping that it isn’t playing host to anyone right now.
As before, I push open the unlocked door and step inside. As I do, I remember what Father Duffy had said and stop for a moment, trying to ‘feel’ the mood of the house.
It does feel oddly welcoming as I stand in the hall with my eyes closed. Not at all like it did the first time when Kiki and I had stumbled in uninvited. Today, I have to admit, the house feels like it wants me to be there.
I carry out a quick check of the rooms upstairs and down to make sure no one else is residing here at the moment, but everything is in order. The beds are clean and made up, the fridge is stocked with its usual basics, and there’s a fresh loaf of bread in the breadbin waiting to be cut.
When I’m done, I let out a sigh of relief. As I’d hoped, I have the house to myself.
To begin with, I walk slowly around all the rooms, examining everything I think might have some meaning, without having the slightest idea what I’m supposed to be looking for. In the sitting room I pull out every book on the bookshelves one by one, and open them up in case a clue should helpfully fall out, like it always does in detective shows on television. But there’s nothing except an old receipt that someone once used as a bookmark. I open up the doors to the dresser and discover several cardboard boxes with many more visitors’ books like the ones Kiki and I had discovered in the hall. That’s odd, I’m sure they weren’t there the last time we looked. Perhaps the caretaker who wrote the letter has returned them, worried that someone was getting close to discovering who he or she was. Presumably they wouldn’t want to risk leaving evidence hidden around their own home. I glance through a few of the books, but there’s nothing new in any of them, just the same style of entries as had been in the original book in the hall.
In the kitchen I go through every cupboard and drawer, but the only documents I find are a couple of menus from takeaway restaurants in Ballykiltara, and some instruction manuals for the few appliances in the house. Upstairs is no better; there’s absolutely nothing in any of the drawers, and only clean bedding and towels in the cupboards.
I’m beginning to feel frustrated. Father Duffy and Mac had made it all sound so easy; as if all I had to do was make up my mind I wanted to find the missing pages, and there they’d be. You’d think I’d know by now that nothing in life is ever that easy.
I sit on the edge of the bed in one of the bedrooms, facing a window with the gorgeous view that had first attracted me to the house, and I look out across the lake.
Where would you be hiding? I ask the empty room and the view, but there’s no reply. I catch sight of my reflection in the window and shake my head, wondering how I could let my usually sensible self be carried along with all this mystical nonsense – and it’s then I hear a noise coming from downstairs.
I jump from my bemoaning, and listen hard. Is someone else in the house? How could anyone have got in? I didn’t hear the door open.
But the noise doesn’t sound like it’s being made by a human. It’s more of a tapping and fluttering sort of noise – a bird maybe?
As I head downstairs, the noise becomes louder, but where is it coming from?
I walk around the house like a child playing the hot-and-cold game. Listening hard all the while, moving to rooms where the fluttering is louder, and away from those where it’s barely audible. But nowhere can I find whatever is making those sounds. I’m sure it is a bird, because it sounds exactly like one, but is it trapped somewhere in the house? And if so. where?
I go back into the sitting room, because that’s where the noise is loudest, and I turn slowly in the middle of the floor, trying to work out where it’s coming from. Then I stand very still and close my eyes, desperate to pinpoint which part of the room the noise is loudest in.
It’s then I feel it: the strangest of sensations, like I’m being moved across the floor. I open my eyes and the sensation stops, so I close them again, and allow whatever it is to guide me across the room. When I open my eyes again, I’m in front of the bookshelves, and the fluttering and tapping is the loudest I’ve heard it so far.
‘Where are you?’ I ask as I begin removing the books one by one. This time, I don’t put them back on the shelves; instead, I place them on the floor beside me. And as I clear the bookcase, removing more and more of the books, I realise there’s no back to these shelves. What I’d thought was a panel that formed the back of the bookcase is in fact a solid wooden door.
As quickly as I can, I remove the last of the books. Now that the bookcase is completely empty, I can see right through to the other side.
‘OK, let’s see about moving you out of the way,’ I say to the bookcase. It may be empty, but even so it weighs a ton and I have to alternate between dragging and pushing with all my might to shift it. There’s no question now that the noise is coming from behind the hidden door, and I’m determined to find out what’s in there. Whether it’s a bird or some animal making those sounds, it must have got itself trapped and I’m not about to leave it in distress.
I continue to manoeuvre the bookcase along the carpet an inch at a time, until I have enough room to squeeze behind it and open the door. But when I go to turn the large black doorknob I realise that the door is locked, and there’s no key in the lock to help me.
‘Damn, all that effort for nothing! Where on earth am I going to find a key hidden in this place? I had enough trouble finding the door! I don’t know,’ I say to the house, exasperated. ‘You leave your front door open for any Tom, Dick or Harry to walk in, but you choose to lock this one!’
On a whim, I decide to try the same technique that led me to the door. I step out from behind the shelves, pick my way through the piles of books until I’m standing in the middle of the room, and I close my eyes. At first there’s nothing, so I take a few deep breaths and try to clear my mind. Suddenly, an image springs into my head and I snap my eyes open. Of course! I dash upstairs to the bedroom I’d been sitting in earlier, only this time instead of looking out of the window at the view, I head straight to the opposite wall and take down the picture that’s hanging there.
It’s an oil painting of Sheehy Abbey, and it looks as if it might have been painted by someone who once stayed in this house, because the vista in the painting is exactly the same as the one visible from the window. But I don’t stop to admire the brushstrokes or the perspective; I’m more interested in the frame. I turn the picture over in my hands and tear as carefully as I can at the brown paper that covers the back, until I’ve peeled it far enough to find what I’m looking for.
In the gap between the canvas and the paper is a black iron key. I lift it from its hiding place, replace the painting on the wall, and rush downstairs again.
There’s a moment of trepidation as I place the key in the lock. What if this isn’t the right key? I have nothing else to go on, no other clues, this has to be it. I take a deep breath and start to turn the key.
To my huge relief, there’s no resistance; the key turns smoothly in the locking mechanism, followed by a satisfying click. I reach for the doorknob again, and notice that the fluttering has stopped. In fact, I haven’t heard it since I returned downstairs with the key. I hope whatever it is, is OK, I think as I tentatively open the door.
Immediately behind the door are some stone steps that lead down into a pitch-black abyss. Could this be the entrance to the mysterious cellar? I wonder. And if it is, do I really want to go down there?
I hesitate at the top of the stairs. It’s not that I’m frightened by Eddie’s tall tales – Father Duffy had said that the stories about the cellar were nothing more than tittle-tattle and hearsay – but perhaps I should leave some sort of note in case for some reason I can’t get back up here. After all, I’ve no way of knowing what’s at the bottom of those steps.
On the other hand, I don’t want to alert anyone to the fact I might have found something. This is my q
uest now, my mystery to solve; I want to be the one who discovers whatever it is I’m going to find down there – hopefully some illuminated pages to give to Father Duffy, but who knew, there could be a huge cave of gold and treasures waiting for me . . .
OK, stop it now, Ren! I tell myself sternly. You’re not in some Indiana Jones film, searching for biblical treasures . . . Well, technically, you are . . .
Stop it! You’re starting to sound like Kiki! I tell myself.
Kiki! That’s exactly the person I should tell. I pull out my phone and fire off a text:
Some interesting developments here while you’ve been away, both with Finn and the house. I’m investigating the latter. If there should be any problems when you get back, or you’re in any way concerned, go to the house and look behind Miss Marple. Ren x
I read the text twice and edit some of the words. I don’t want Kiki to be worried, but at the same time I don’t want anyone else who might see the text learning too much from it.
Right: time to go in!
I light up the torch on my phone, and begin to walk gingerly down the stairs, taking each step one at a time. When I get to the bottom, I hold up my phone. I’m surprised and somewhat disappointed to see a large, but very empty cellar.
I hear the flapping again and turn around. In the corner I see a large black bird watching me. At first glance I think it’s a crow, but then I realise it’s a raven.
‘How did you get down here?’ I ask. ‘Are you hurt?’
The raven shakes himself and walks along his perch – a narrow stone shelf jutting out from the wall.
‘Well, you don’t appear to be in distress. But how did you get in here?’
I look around the cellar again. There are no windows – but then, there wouldn’t be, would there? I must be underground now, surely?
The raven flaps his wings and jumps down to the ground. I start to follow him with my torch as he walks, then I stop and turn my torch back to the spot he’s walked over – what’s that?
I move closer to the wall to inspect it, and then I run my hands over the rough carving. It’s a cross, but it’s not just any cross, it’s an intricately patterned Celtic cross, and there’s another right next to it, and a third. I’ve seen crosses like this somewhere recently, but where?
I think for a moment, the raven watching me all the while. The abbey, that’s where, when we went across on the boat trip. There were crosses exactly like this on some of the interior walls there. But I’d seen them somewhere else too . . .
I think again . . . Then I remember.
‘The books,’ I say to the raven. He cocks his head to one side with interest. ‘The books that Father Duffy had, some of them had these crosses on too. They must be related, don’t you think?’
The raven doesn’t appear to have an opinion on the matter; he turns his head and looks up towards the staircase where the light from the sitting room is filtering down.
‘I guess we should go back up there,’ I say to him. ‘I wish I knew how you got down here though.’
I look at the stone carvings again, and in a flash of genius I decide to take a few quick snaps of them for reference. The raven jumps as the flash on my phone camera goes off, and he hops over to the staircase while I finish taking my pictures. Then, after one final look around the cellar, I encourage my feathered friend to follow me as I make my way up the stairs into the safety of The Welcome House once more.
‘OK, before I put all these books back, let’s get you outside so you can fly home to wherever you came from,’ I tell the raven, who’s now sitting up on top of the sideboard watching me.
I go to the window and open it wide. Then I gesture to the bird. ‘Come on,’ I urge him, ‘this is your chance.’
The raven merely cocks his head at me.
‘Oh, you silly thing, I haven’t got time for this. Don’t you know I have to put all these books back before I can leave?’
The raven doesn’t budge; he carries on watching me, the same fascinated expression on his face.
‘Fine. Sit there and watch me then, why don’t you?’ I say, locking the cellar door and removing the key. With difficulty I push the bookcase back in front of the door, and begin filling it with books again.
When at last I’ve finished and everything is back to normal, the raven decides to make his move. He takes off from the sideboard, making a strange deep purring sound. It almost sounds like he’s saying ‘good, good, good’ as he flies past my head. Then he lands on the window ledge, takes one last look at me, flaps his huge wings and flies off out of the open window.
How odd, I think as I go over to shut the window. Perhaps ravens are common around here; after all, the pub is named after one. But still, it’s strange that it should have got itself trapped down in that cellar, and then hadn’t wanted to leave until everything was tidy and back in its rightful place.
‘You get stranger by the day, Welcome House,’ I tell it, checking to make sure the iron key is still safely in my pocket. It’s then I remember a question about ravens we’d had in the quiz last night and what Donal had said about them.
The question was ‘Name an Irish proverb that involves ravens, and explain what it means’. Donal had answered: ‘To have a raven’s knowledge’, and we’d all laughed because it was the name of the pub we were sitting in. But he had then explained that it meant to have a seer’s supernatural powers, the raven being considered one of the wisest of animals in Celtic mythology, a bird of wisdom and prophecy, often a messenger.
‘Yes,’ I murmur, looking back at the window the raven had left through. ‘Very strange indeed . . . ’
Thirty-Three
I drive back to the hotel, my mind full of ideas and plans.
I realise I’m going to need some help figuring out this latest mystery, and I think I know just the person to help me.
‘Is Donal working today?’ I ask Orla at the reception desk.
‘It’s his afternoon off, I’m afraid, Ren. Is there anything I can help with?’
‘Thank you, but no. Donal’s the only one that can help me with this particular problem.’
‘I know where you might find him, if it’s important?’ she offers.
‘Oh, I wouldn’t want to bother him on his day off.’
‘Between you and me,’ she says, leaning across the desk, ‘Donal never really takes a day off from this place – it’s his life. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.’
‘If you’re sure?’
‘Donal lives with his mother in one of the cottages on Abbey Road. You won’t miss it; it’s the pretty one with all the flowers outside. He’ll most likely be home, if you drop by.’
‘Thanks, Orla, you’ve been a great help.’
‘Oh, before you go, Ren – I think Finn was looking for you earlier. He asked if I’d seen you return to the hotel.’
‘Did he?’ I say, hesitating. ‘I have to go out again in a minute. Maybe I’ll catch up with him later . . . ’
Orla merely nods in that discreet way receptionists have.
I head up to my room to pick up a few bits and to freshen up. As I brush my hair in front of the mirror, I recall standing in the same spot earlier, full of excitement and anticipation at what my lunch with Finn might bring. Even though my mind is racing with this latest project, my heart still sinks at the thought of what happened earlier.
‘Enough of that, Ren!’ I tell my reflection sternly. ‘Let’s go back to old Ren, shall we? The one who thinks with her head and not her heart. That has served you well until now, and you’ve seen what happens when you try to do otherwise.’
My stomach growls as I look at myself in the mirror, and I realise I haven’t eaten since this morning and it’s . . . I look at my watch – it’s almost four o’clock! No wonder I’m hungry. I grab my bag and head down to the bar, hoping I won’t bump into Finn. ‘Can I grab a sandwich, Danny?’ I ask him hopefully. ‘I know it’s late, but I missed lunch.’
‘Of course you can, miss,’ Danny says, s
miling. ‘What would you like?’
I have to wait while the sandwich is being made, all the while feeling on edge and jumpy as I hide in a corner of the bar, hoping Finn won’t come in and see me. As soon as Danny brings my sandwich over, I wolf it down as fast as I can, and swig the rest of my Diet Coke in an attempt to exit the bar as quickly as possible.
‘You certainly were hungry, miss!’ Danny calls as I return my plate and glass to the bar and thank him. ‘I think that might be the fastest I’ve ever seen a guest eat one of Sarah’s club sandwiches.’
‘Tell her it was delicious!’ I call as I leave the bar.
‘I will, miss!’
This is ridiculous, I think as I race through the reception and out the door, waving to Orla on the desk as I go. I can’t spend the remainder of my time here rushing around or skulking about in corners in the hope I don’t see Finn.
My heart sinks at the thought of finding somewhere else to stay; I haven’t seen anywhere in Ballykiltara as nice as The Stag. Nevertheless, I resolve to check out the local B&Bs, to see if anyone has a room available. Kiki can stay on here – it wouldn’t be fair to make her move when I’m the one who has the problem. A problem caused yet again by a man.
It takes me until I’m almost at Donal’s house to realise the answer to my dilemma had been staring me in the face all along, if I’d only been able to step away from my wallowing long enough to see it. The Welcome House, of course! I could stay there. It wouldn’t be for long, and it would be the perfect place to work on this mystery I’ve found myself in the middle of. The house seems to like me now; it’ll make me feel welcome, I’m sure of it!
Listen to yourself, Ren! Even you are starting to believe this house has feelings now!
I’m smiling as I arrive at the house that Orla described – a well-kept, pretty terraced cottage, with flower boxes under the windows, planted with colourful geraniums.
‘Miss Parker?’ The door of the cottage opens and Donal appears in the doorway wearing a blue T-shirt and loose jeans. It takes me a moment to work out what’s wrong with this picture, but then I realise I’ve only ever seen him in his dapper hotel uniform. ‘What are you doing here? Are you lost?’
