“Maura, I can’t answer most of that.” He glanced at her briefly. “I’m good on criminal law, but for the rest, you need to speak to a solicitor.” After a pause he went on. “You’ll press charges against Danny?”
“Damn straight I will—he deserves it. But I don’t want that poor old man to lose his home because of me. Is that all right? Legally, I mean?”
“I think it can be done. I’ll talk to the Clogagh gardaí, make sure they keep an eye on Jerry. But from what I’ve seen, he’s not bad—he’s just too easily led by someone like Danny. But as for Danny, I have no problem sending him to prison.” He drove for a few miles before speaking again. “Are you all right, Maura?”
Maura turned over that question. “I…don’t know. I’m not sure why I came here at all, except that Gran wanted me to, and she’d never asked for much, so I promised her.” She took a deep breath. “I’ve been here a week, and in that time I somehow seem to have ended up discovering relatives I didn’t even know I had, and that includes one who was murdered by another one. And now I’m supposed to decide if my whatever-cousin should go to jail for being dumb and picking the wrong friends, which might mean that his grandfather will end up out on the street. Detective, what the heck am I supposed to think?”
“Maura, I can’t even begin to tell you.”
Chapter 28
Maura fell silent, trying to wrestle her feelings under control, and Patrick Hurley didn’t interrupt her, no doubt preoccupied by his own responsibilities in the case. But after a while the silence began to weigh on Maura. “What was that land business Denis McCarthy mentioned all about?”
“You mean the exchange? How much do you know about land ownership in Ireland?”
“Not a heck of a lot. Didn’t the English control everything, so the Irish couldn’t actually own land?”
Hurley nodded, watching the road. “That was true for a time. The tenants were Irish Catholics, and the landlords were English Protestants, who most often lived somewhere else. And the English didn’t want to put much into improving the land—they just wanted to collect their rents. The Irish population kept growing, and that meant that the Irish landholdings kept getting smaller as they were split up within families.”
“So the Irish really did have something to complain about?” Maura said, almost to herself.
“They did. Did you think they complained for no reason?”
“I don’t know,” Maura said. “All I know is that a lot of the Irish guys I met around Boston thought that somebody owed them something. I guess I never believed that there were any facts behind it.”
“We Irish have been oppressed for centuries, and it colors our view of things. I can see that it would grate on you, taken out of this setting here. But things began to change in the nineteenth century, when the landlords first made it possible for the Irish tenants to buy the lands they’d rented and lived on for generations. That was the start.”
“You mean the guys I met in Boston were whining about something that had stopped over a hundred years ago?” Maura demanded.
Hurley glanced at her. “Do you want to learn something or not?”
“Sorry. I guess that sounded rude. It’s just that I can’t believe that Irish people hang on to a grudge for so long. But I guess it shouldn’t surprise me, considering Northern Ireland is still separate, right?”
“It’s changing—slowly. But let’s not get into politics, right? The attachment to the land runs deep in Ireland, so we’re still living with the results. As you yourself have seen. In the case of the McCarthys, it led to a murder, whether intended or not. It began in the late 1800s, when the English government started letting the Irish buy certain areas of land, though the English were still in control up through the 1920s. After independence, the 1923 Land Act bought out the remaining landlords and sold the land to the tenants. It sounds like that was when the McCarthy brothers started arguing. The Land Commission financed the farmers, made it possible for them to buy land at favorable rates. And over time, that became a financial, political, and social issue. Some in government wanted to keep the farmers on the land, to maintain the traditional rural culture of the small family farm, but at the same time, to guarantee some economic stability for those farmers and their families. Others thought that was a bad thing for the agricultural economy—that system was inefficient and discouraged modern improvements.”
Maura held up one hand. “Enough! The landlords caved, then the government came along and made it easier for the farmers—which was about everybody—to buy land. Some people liked the idea, but others wanted to stay where they were. Does that cover it?”
“Near enough. It made sense in practical terms, since in the old days the land was broken up into many tiny lots, so the farmers spent a lot of time just going from one to another. We tend to see the old system as just another way the English tried to keep the poor Irish peasants down. It made it difficult for them to do more than hang on, so Jeremiah McCarthy had the right idea, only he ran head on into his brother’s emotional connection to the land. Once his brother was dead, he did take the deal and made a go of it.”
Maura mulled over what Hurley had said. Apparently she hadn’t inherited the Irish need to have a piece of earth to cling to. But then, it had never been an option—for Gran or for her.
Detective Hurley dropped her in front of Ellen’s. Before shutting the car door, Maura leaned in and asked, “Do you think you’ll need me for anything else?”
“Most likely. I’ll give you a call once I’ve got Danny squared away. But you can stop looking over your shoulder now. You’ll be around for a bit longer?”
“Yeah, I’ll be here.” Maura watched as he pulled away, headed back toward Skibbereen. She checked her watch and was surprised to see that it was barely one. So much had happened, in so little time!
Maura realized that the first thing she needed to do was apologize to Ellen for bringing so much trouble to her household, even if it wasn’t her fault. At least she could tell her that both murders had been solved and that nobody was likely to come after her again. Instead of using her key, she knocked at the front door.
Ellen answered promptly. “There you are, Maura! Oh, come in, come in. How’d you fare?”
“Very well, actually. We figured out who the man from the bog was and who the guy who broke in was, all at once.”
“You’re having me on! The two of them together? Come sit and tell me all about it.”
Repeating the story to Ellen over another cup of tea in the kitchen made it clearer in Maura’s mind. Danny the Dublin thug had wanted to keep his thug skills polished by using them on unsuspecting locals and clueless tourists, and he’d decided that Maura posed a threat to his cushy little hideaway in Clogagh. Jerry was a jellyfish who couldn’t stand up to Danny. Old Denis was…old and couldn’t control his grandson, much less a Dublin delinquent. But his memory was intact, and he had given them the whole story behind the old murder. Does every family around here have this kind of story lurking in their past? Maura wondered.
Ellen was satisfyingly sympathetic. “Oh, you poor girl. So they arrested the Dubliner? I’m not surprised someone from away was behind it all. Poor Denis McCarthy—the Clogagh one, not the one from the bog, although he’s had no luck either.”
“I’m going to go see Bridget Nolan next—I’m sure she’d want to hear how this all came out.” And about Maura’s own connection, going back to the dead man in the bog.
“Ah, she’s a grand lady, isn’t she? And Mick’s so good to her,” Ellen said. When Maura didn’t respond, she added, “Maura? Are you listening?”
Maura shook her head to clear it. “Sorry, Ellen. I was just trying to figure out all the connections. On the one hand, it’s not a big country, right? But on the other hand, a move from one place to another twenty miles away made a big difference for the McCarthys. It’s all new to me, although I suppose everybody around here knows who’s related to who. It makes me sad now to realize how much Gran never told m
e, that I’m just finding out. I don’t know why she never talked about any of this, and now I can’t even ask her anything.” She paused before adding, “Though I know I shouldn’t be mad that Gran didn’t tell me, when I guess I never asked either and didn’t want to know a lot about it. I wish I could talk to her now, but it’s too late.”
“Ah, love, I’m sure she knows. Maybe she’s even watching out for you.” Ellen glanced at her watch. “Heavens, is that the time! I’ve got to retrieve Gráinne from the creche. You’ll be back later?”
“Much later—I’ll be at Sullivan’s tonight, after I’ve seen Mrs. Nolan. Let’s hope we can all sleep better tonight.”
“God willing,” Ellen said, bustling out the door.
Chapter 29
One week. She’d been in Ireland all of one week, Maura realized as she drove toward Bridget Nolan’s house in Knockskagh. She couldn’t remember ever having spent a more bizarre week in her whole life. It wasn’t all bad, and it could have been so much worse, but she really didn’t know what to think. People had all been kind to her—well, with the exception of Dublin Danny—but she felt like such an outsider. She didn’t know even the most basic things about her own family that other people expected her to know. And that was her own fault. Worse, it was not something that could be made up in a week, or even in a year.
She pulled into her usual space across from Mrs. Nolan’s enclosed yard and parked. What looked like Mick’s car was already parked in front of the house. Thick clouds were moving quickly through the sky, and Maura wondered if it was going to rain again. With a sigh she climbed out of the car, but before she could reach the door, Mick opened it, then closed it quietly behind him.
“She’s napping,” he said.
“Oh,” Maura replied. “Should I wait?”
He didn’t meet her eyes, looking down at his feet rather than at her. “There’s something we need to talk about. Will you walk with me?”
“Sure, okay,” Maura said. “Where did you want to go?”
“No matter. Down the lane will do.” He turned abruptly and started walking up to the lane that bordered Mrs. Nolan’s land, and Maura followed, bewildered.
She caught up with him at the turn. “You’re being kind of weird. Have I done something?”
“I’m guessing you found out who the man in the bog was, you and the detective,” he said flatly, stopping to lean against the stone wall at the side of the road, staring out at the landscape. “I’d hoped that it wouldn’t come out, when they found him,” he said, more to himself than her.
Maura came up and stood beside him, trying to see his face. “Help me out here. You knew who it was, and you didn’t tell anyone? Why not?”
“I didn’t know for sure, but I had my suspicions. Denis McCarthy was my great-grandfather. Bridget’s father.”
Oh. Maura was stunned into silence. She leaned against the wall and tried to work out what that meant. The most important question was, did Bridget know? But if she had, wouldn’t she have said something days ago? Either she was a darned good actress, or she really was in the dark about this. And why had Mick known?
She took a deep breath. “Okay, you’re going to have to explain. First, does she know?”
Mick shook his head, without looking at her. “She does not. I’d hoped she would never know, because it will cause her pain—she doesn’t deserve that.”
“She doesn’t know that her father disappeared?”
Now he turned to look at her. “You find that hard to understand, no doubt. Bridget was a very young child when her da went missing—you do the math. Her sisters were a bit older, but young still. Her mother wasn’t a strong woman, and then Jeremiah McCarthy more or less stole the land from under her, and she had no choice but to take the girls and go back to her own family. She broke off all ties down here. Worse, she took back her family name and never told the girls they were McCarthys. She forbade her family from mentioning Denis McCarthy, thinking he’d run off and abandoned them all. Bridget was too young to know what was going on, and if her sisters did, they were frightened into silence.”
“But why do you know this?” Maura pressed.
“Would you be content if I said no more than ‘curiosity’?”
Maura regarded him steadily. “No, not really. What made you look?”
He returned his gaze to the timeless landscape. “I was checking some property titles and the like—I wanted to be sure that Grannie was taken care of. After a bit I realized that no one in my family had looked for some of the basic documents like birth certificates and marriage licenses, which seemed odd to me.”
Maura digested that. “But…didn’t her mother have to sign them up for school? Or tell your grandmother her real name when she married?”
“Things were simpler then. I have no idea what the priest knew, but he made no trouble for her. Grannie only came back here as a married woman, and nobody remembered the old story, or if they did, they didn’t mention it, out of kindness. When her husband—my grandfather—died, she inherited the land, and she has enough to live on, so there’s no government meddling. She could easily never know.”
“Except for me sticking my nose into it? I was just trying to help.”
“I know. It’s no fault of yours.” Mick fell silent.
After a moment, Maura said, “Shoot—that means we’re related too, you and I.”
“I make it third cousins,” Mick said with an amused smile.
Maura turned to face him. “Do you know how many people I’ve added to my family tree in just one day? This is ridiculous! I’m going to have to start assuming I’m related to everyone I meet around here.”
“It happens,” Mick said. “You won’t tell Grannie any of this?”
“She already knows about finding the Bog Man, obviously. Will it be possible to hide his identity from her?” Maura felt a stab of guilt: she didn’t want to hurt Bridget Nolan, but she was the one who had figured out the connection.
“I hope so.”
“Did Bridget’s mother ever remarry?” Maura asked softly.
Mick shook his head. “How could she? There was no proof that her husband, Denis, was dead—until now.”
“So Bridget never had a father,” Maura said.
“Her mother’s people lived in a townland much like this one—all the families clustered together. It was a happy place, to hear her tell it.”
And Maura didn’t want to spoil those memories for Mrs. Nolan. “Mick, I won’t say anything if you don’t want me to, but don’t you think it’s bound to come out, one way or the other? And if there’s a funeral for Denis, won’t that stir up more memories around here?”
“I’m trying to keep it quiet. For her sake.”
Maura wondered if that was Mick’s real reason, but she couldn’t find another one that made sense. But if it had been her…she would have wanted to know the truth, even if it was unpleasant.
Just like you’ve gone looking for the truth about your mother?
That thought stopped Maura in her tracks. All right, Bridget had led a long and happy life, and Mick wanted her to end it happy, not mourning a father she had never known. Was there anything wrong in that? And it certainly wasn’t her place to question his decision—it was his call. But that still left one question.
“Fine. I’ll keep my mouth shut—about everything. She doesn’t know about the guy trying to run me off the road?”
Mick shook his head.
Maura sighed. Neither Mick nor his grandmother knew about what had happened at the Keohanes’ house the night before, and she wasn’t going to tell them. Although it was hard to keep such stories quiet around here, she was finding. “Are we going to go see Mrs. Nolan now? And who’d you leave in charge of Sullivan’s?”
“Jimmy’s there, and Rose. It’s a quiet day, so they’ll manage.” He straightened up, pushing away from the stone wall. “You can go now—I’ll explain to Grannie why you didn’t stop by.”
“Can I visit her tomorrow? After
I’ve had time to think about all this?”
“Of course.”
Chapter 30
The rain had finally made up its mind and was falling heavily. If Maura hadn’t had to drive in it, she might have enjoyed watching it: clouds scudded across the sky in the distance, dragging curtains of rain. The gullies alongside the road filled rapidly, creating their own little streams. Maura was thankful that she could follow fairly well-paved roads back to Leap.
Mick had stayed on to talk with his grandmother, saying he’d be in later. Maura parked the car in front of Sullivan’s and dashed for the door. When she opened it, the place smelled damp and smoky; the small peat fire in the fireplace was not enough to disperse the clammy air, and there was nowhere for it to go anyway. Old Billy was dozing in his usual chair. Rose was behind the bar, Jimmy was nowhere in sight, and there were a few customers, mostly minding their own business. It was not a day for cheerful chat.
“Hi, Rose.” Maura greeted her, and stashed her bag behind the bar. “Anything going on?”
“I’m guessing you’ve seen more excitement than we have. I hear you laid out a burglar with a lamp last night.”
“I hit him, but it was Sean Murphy who scared him off. Anyway, we found him again, over in Clogagh, and he’s been arrested. Do you know, that all started right here in Sullivan’s?” When Rose raised her eyebrows, Maura explained, “The guy and his friend were in here the day I opened that letter from Denis Flaherty—remember, we were talking about it? What I hadn’t figured out was that Bart Hayes, the man who died in Skibbereen, was here when they were, and when he left, the other guys followed him, thinking he’d be an easy target. One of the guys saw me later going to the garda station and thought I could put them all together. They were worried that I’d make trouble for them.”
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