Buried In a Bog

by Sheila Connolly

  Luckily she could take advantage of such a conversation with a question about local McCarthys, although the answers were just as confusing. But, she rationalized, if Aussie Denis Flaherty had waited this long, a couple of days couldn’t hurt, and maybe she could produce some sort of answer for him.

  Some twenty minutes later Maura saw Bart Hayes head out the door, with a wave directed at her. It wasn’t long after that the two dour young men who’d been hogging the corner table and nursing their first and only pints made their exit, which opened up that table, occupied quickly. Business remained brisk.

  The other main topic of conversation, of course, was the body in the bog.

  “They’ve had the man from the museum down, to take a look at him,” one man volunteered.

  “What does that mean?” Maura asked.

  “Oh, these days whenever you find such a thing, the history folk have to make sure it isn’t a national treasure. That means all work stops until it’s been checked out. They’ve made a big thing of it, this last decade or so. There’s a whole bunch at the National Museum who’re working on it.”

  “And what did the museum man say?”

  “Seems the poor guy isn’t a thousand years old, so they’re not interested. Now it’s back in the hands of the gardaí.”

  “So how old is he? Or maybe I mean, how long has he been in the bog?”

  “Fifty to a hundred years, like. Can I get another?” He held up his empty pint glass, which Maura refilled.

  When the first man drifted away, another took his place at the bar, also talking about the Bog Man.

  “What happens now?” Maura asked him as she presented him with the pint glass of Murphy’s he’d requested.

  “Well, once a doctor declared the man dead, which any one of us could have done, he was shipped off to the University Hospital in Cork for an autopsy. The gardaí’ll want to know how he died.”

  “What if he just got lost and fell into the bog and drowned?” That had been Bridget Nolan’s suggestion.

  The man shrugged. “I only know what I see on the telly. Them shows—they’d have you think that the scientists can tell you what time of day the deceased met his fate, and what his last meal was. Wonder if that’s still true if his last meal was a century ago? Good entertainment, but I don’t believe the half of it.” He slid a few coins across the bar and went to join friends on the other side of the room.

  Jimmy breezed in about eight and sent Rose home—Maura hoped it wasn’t far, because it was full dark and rather wet outside—although maybe she was projecting her own anxieties about walking home late in Boston, which wasn’t always a good idea. Were there muggers in Leap? Drug dealers? On the face of it, it seemed unlikely, but there was crime everywhere these days, even in quiet Ireland. Better to be safe than sorry, she thought.

  Jimmy was greeted enthusiastically by several people in the room, and Maura watched him make the circuit. Pulling pints did not seem to be his first priority, but generating goodwill had to count for something. Did he see himself carrying on Old Mick’s tradition, as master of the place? He finally came over to talk to her.

  “How’s it goin’?” he asked, his eyes watching the room.

  “Fine. Did you get more chips—crisps?” Maura responded.

  “Ah, forgot. Tomorrow’ll do. Hey, you did a grand job with the loos—I didn’t even know that floor had a pattern to it.”

  “You owe me for the cleaning supplies. I couldn’t find any here.”

  “Take it from the till, and we’ll sort things out later.”

  People drifted in over the next several hours, most with a comment about the man from the bog. By ten Maura was falling asleep standing upright. The crowd had dwindled to three or four regulars, who looked like they weren’t going anywhere soon. Maura gestured Jimmy over. “You mind if I call it a day?”

  “You look done in. Not a problem—I think I can manage this crew. You’ll be back tomorrow?”

  “I will. Early afternoon, I guess, if that works for you.”

  “Grand. Thanks, Maura—I’m glad you’re here.”

  “Night, Jimmy.” Maura found her jacket and her bag and stepped outside, glad of the cool, damp air. The street was quiet again, or maybe as always. She crossed over and walked down the drive to the back of the bed and breakfast, trying to keep the gravel from crunching too loudly, since the upstairs windows were dark. Back in her room, she pulled off her clothes, shook them out, and draped them over a chair. She’d have to decide by daylight whether she could wear them another day or if she’d have to ask Ellen if she could do some laundry.

  But once she was tucked into bed, Maura realized she wanted to take another look at Denis Flaherty’s letter, which she’d only skimmed before. Maybe in the morning Ellen could tell her something about Old Mick’s relatives. Reluctantly she left the warm blankets and fished the letter out of her bag. It took her a few minutes to work her way through the closely packed script, written by a clearly aged hand. What she learned was that Denis Flaherty had been born in County Cork but had emigrated to Australia with his parents as a young child, and was now in his eighties. He was anxious to fill out his family tree while he could, and was finding it difficult so far removed. He hadn’t known the townland, only the county, although he’d somehow deduced that Leap was the nearest village to whatever townland it was. Much like her grandmother, Maura mused: the emigrants didn’t dwell on what they had left behind, and Denis had been a young child when his parents left Ireland, so he had appealed to Old Mick for help, although he didn’t explain how he had come by Mick’s name. According to the brief family tree he had sent, Denis’s father, Thomas Flaherty, had been born in 1880, his mother, Bridget McCarthy, a few years later. Bridget’s father—Aussie Denis’s grandfather—was also named Denis, and he had been born in 1837.

  Maura was about to give up, as her eyelids were drooping, when she read that Denis Flaherty said his uncle Denis McCarthy—another Denis!—had disappeared in 1931. That was the term Aussie Denis used: not died, but “disappeared,” and as far as he knew, no one had ever found or heard from his uncle again. One day Uncle Denis was there, the next he was gone, with no explanation to the family he left behind—a wife and three daughters. One line in the letter seemed particularly sad: apparently Uncle Denis had gone missing “with no more than a few pennies and his favorite pipe in his pocket.” Nothing was taken from his possessions at home.

  Maura wondered…hadn’t the man in the pub said that the body in the bog had been there less than a hundred years? And wouldn’t it be an extraordinary coincidence if the body in the bog was the missing uncle?

  She made a mental note to ask Ellen about it in the morning. And…she drifted off to sleep.

  Chapter 11

  Maura woke earlier the next morning than she had the day before, and lay listening to the sounds of the children over her head. The sight of Denis Flaherty’s letter propped up on her nightstand reminded her of what she’d read the night before. It was absurd to think that she could’ve so easily found the identity of a man who had died some eighty years earlier. But then again, what was she supposed to do with the information she had? It seemed wrong to ignore it.

  Her impressions of the Boston police had been kind of mixed. She’d never been in trouble herself, but she’d known plenty of classmates who had. On the other hand, even now a lot of Boston cops were of Irish descent, and they’d sometimes give a helping hand or look the other way when the newcomers were involved in minor incidents. She had no information at all about Irish police, beyond her encounter two days before with the friendly young Officer Murphy. Did she want to get involved with them, even in a positive way? She wasn’t sure.

  She dressed quickly and made her way to the kitchen above. Gráinne was sitting in a chair with a booster seat of some sort; she smiled at Maura when she walked in. That was progress.

  This time there was a man at the table, handing Gráinne what looked like Cheerios, a few at a time. “Hi, Ellen,” Maura sa
id. “Are you Ellen’s husband? I’m Maura Donovan.”

  “I am that. Thomas Keohane. I’d shake your hand but I’m a bit sticky, thanks to the little one here. So you’ll be staying on for a while?”

  “Looks like it. You’ve got a nice place here—the view is amazing.”

  “You can tell the house is kinda new, and the bit where you’re staying was added later still. Time was it was nothing but old cottages around the cove here. The Keohanes have been on this spot for generations.” He stood up. “I’ll be off, Ellen. Nice to meet you, Maura. I hope you enjoy your visit.”

  “I expect to,” Maura said.

  When Thomas Keohane had left, Ellen said, “You’re up a bit earlier today.”

  “I think I’m adjusting to local time, and I got in before eleven last night. By the way, I’ve said I’d stay on until the ownership of the pub is settled, just to help out. Is it all right with you if I keep the room?”

  “Sure. I’m glad you’ll be staying around—you’ll have a chance to get to know the place better. Full breakfast?”

  “I guess I’d better. I seem to keep missing dinner, so I’d better fill up while I can, right?”

  “Full breakfast it is. Although”—Ellen leaned closer to Maura and dropped her voice—“we only serve it to tourists. We natives eat regular food.”

  Maura laughed. “I’m not surprised. And don’t worry about me—I eat anything. Maybe tomorrow you can just give me what you’d eat anyway? Like yesterday?”

  “Was your gran a good cook?” Ellen asked, placing what Maura guessed was a local kind of bacon in a frying pan.

  “She was a good plain cook—nothing fancy. She taught me enough to stay alive if I have a stove.”

  “So we shouldn’t be expecting gourmet dinners out of Sullivan’s any time soon?”

  “Don’t think so.” Maura laughed. “But who knows what the next owner will want? There’s room behind the bar for a decent kitchen.”

  “True, and he’ll be sitting on a gold mine—quaint-looking place, right on the main road,” Ellen said, setting butter and several jars of jam in front of Maura.

  “Listen, can I ask you something?”

  Ellen sat down with a full cup of coffee. “Sure.”

  “Yesterday Rose found a letter at the pub that was addressed to Mick Sullivan, and it looks like he’d read it before he died. It’s from someone in Australia who’s been doing some family research—he and Mick might be cousins, because their mothers were both McCarthys from around here. Anyway, he mentioned an uncle of his who disappeared in the 1930s. I know it would be a huge coincidence, but I was wondering—maybe that’s the man in the bog?”

  Ellen looked thoughtful. “No shortage of McCarthys around here. Still, it’s possible, I guess.”

  “I’m wondering if I should tell someone about it. Like the police.”

  “Ah, well, but you’ll have to know that in those days, a lot of people kind of…went away. There was no work to be had, and some of the men were ashamed that they couldn’t support their families. Could be some left thinking they’d send money back, maybe enough to bring the families along to wherever they’d gone. But when they couldn’t…” Ellen didn’t finish her thought. She stood and went back to the stove to turn the bacon.

  “I can see that, but shouldn’t I tell someone official, just in case? If they tell me it’s a dead end, at least I’ll know I tried.”

  “If it worries you, you should do it,” Ellen said.

  “Okay, but who do I talk to?”

  “The gardaí over at Skibbereen.” When Maura looked blankly at her, Ellen laughed. “Haven’t you been to Skibbereen yet? It’s easy. You follow the road up there until you come to a little roundabout. Go left there and it’ll take you straight into town. Go left in the center; the police station will be on your left. There’s a big car park for the markets just across the way.”

  “Thanks, that helps. Do you think they’re going to think I’m crazy, just walking in with a story like this?”

  “Just tell them that you’ve information that might be important to the investigation of the man they pulled out of the bog in Leap. They’ll either take your details and thank you nicely, or they’ll pass you up the line to someone who will. Easy.” Ellen filled a plate with bacon and brown bread, then glanced at her watch. “Oh, look at the time. Gráinne, we’ve got to get you over to the creche now, and Mum’s got lots to do. You take your time, Maura—eat up.” She placed the plate in front of Maura. “Help yourself to more coffee if you like.” Ellen hauled her daughter out of her seat and disappeared toward the other end of the house.

  Ellen was out the door before Maura remembered that she had wanted to ask about doing some laundry. It would keep. She sat for a few minutes longer, sipping her coffee, and enjoying the brown bread with a healthy dose of butter, and turning over options in her mind. First, she should see what Mrs. Nolan had to say about what to do with the letter. Then, she wanted to see Skibbereen anyway, so she might as well drive over there. She didn’t have to make up her mind about going to the police until she got there, did she? Energized, she stood and carried her cup and empty plate over to the sink, then went downstairs to gather her bag and keys.

  The drive to Mrs. Nolan’s house seemed shorter and easier each time she made it—Maura was getting the hang of shifting gears, driving on the left, and navigating winding back roads, all at once. When she parked in the same place as the day before, she saw Mick emerging from the house and crossed to meet him.

  “Everything all right?”

  “Sure, I was just stopping by. Grannie said she expected you’d be back.”

  “I like talking with her. She makes me realize how little I know about my own gran’s early life. So talking to your gran is the next best thing.”

  “I’ll let you two visit, and I’ll see you later, won’t I?”

  “You will. Hey, can you make sure Jimmy stocks up? I left a list of things that are getting kind of low. And I was thinking, if you had more snacks around, maybe people would order more drinks.”

  Mick looked pained. “I’ll remind him. Ta.”

  He climbed into his car and adroitly steered it out of the enclosure, heading back the way Maura had come. What did he do with himself most of the time? Maura wondered. He showed up kind of on and off, and the pub didn’t seem like full-time employment; she had to wonder if its income could support one person, much less several. Maybe they made it all up in the summer and coasted the rest of the year.

  She knocked on Mrs. Nolan’s door and it opened quickly. “Ah, there you are. I was hoping you’d be by. You saw Michael, then?”

  “I did. Is this a good time?”

  “Oh, of course it is. Please, come in. I made sure Mick set out the tea things for us.”

  Maura was touched. How many relatives and friends could Mrs. Nolan have left, at her age? Despite what she’d said about liking her independence, did she get lonely, up here on a windswept hill, with more cattle than people as neighbors?

  After Maura filled her in on the plan to stay on in Leap and help out at the pub for a bit (which had pleased Mrs. Nolan no end), Maura said cautiously, “Do you remember any McCarthy families around here?”

  Mrs. Nolan seized on the subject and gave Maura a ten-minute summary of all the McCarthy families within twenty miles—and there were plenty. From what bits and pieces she had managed to grasp out of the torrent of facts, it was clear that there was no shortage of Denises and Ellens, Patricks and Bridgets. Goodness, Maura thought, how would she ever keep them all straight? When Mrs. Nolan paused briefly to take a sip of tea, Maura broke in.

  “Do you recall a Denis McCarthy who went missing sometime after 1930?”

  Mrs. Nolan laughed. “You must think I’m as old as the hills, dearie. I was only a few years old then, and I didn’t pay a lot of mind. Still, let me think…”

  Maura waited patiently while Mrs. Nolan mined her memories. Finally she said, “I can’t recall…But I wasn’t raised r
ight around here, you know—I came here only when I married. I grew up north of here, in a different parish, so I wouldn’t be of much help with the old families. I’ve told you of the ones I knew after I came here with my husband. Why do you ask?”

  “I found a letter at the pub yesterday—a Denis McCarthy from Australia wanted to know if Old Mick could tell him anything about McCarthys from around here. I have no idea how he found Mick’s name, but he knew that Mick’s mother was a McCarthy. In the letter he mentioned an uncle who had disappeared in the 1930s, and I’m wondering if the man they found in the bog is connected somehow.”

  “You’re wondering if the poor man in the bog was this letter writer’s lost uncle?”

  “It’s just a wild guess.”

  Mrs. Nolan seemed to shrink into herself just a bit. “What an awful thing that would be, that he might of been lying down there all these years and his family never knew.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you. Ellen Keohane told me there were plenty of cases of people who upped and left back then, when times were bad, so this is probably just a coincidence.” Although Maura thought that most of those men had probably said something to a relative or a friend before heading off to who knows what. It would be cruel to let parents—or a wife—think that you had abandoned them deliberately, or to let them believe that you were dead. What a sad choice. Times then must have been hard indeed.

  Mrs. Nolan spoke softly, “No, you’re right to ask it. Someone might be glad to know the truth of it, even so long after.”

  “I was wondering if I should tell the police. That’s what we’d do back home, if we think we have some evidence they might need.”

  “I suppose you might, although I’d be surprised if there was to be any record of a man gone missing like that. Will you be going over to Skibbereen?”

  “I thought so. I haven’t even seen it yet.”

  “If you should find yourself talking to Patrick Hurley at the garda station, give him my best regards. He’s the man in charge there. I haven’t seen him for a while, but he’s a busy man, no doubt.”