by Erin Hart
“Dr. Gavin? Sorry to disturb you so early, but we need to have a word with you and Dr. Maguire.”
“About what?”
Ward pursed his lips and frowned. “I’m afraid there’s been another murder. Rachel Briscoe’s body was found this morning at Loughnabrone.”
Nora backed up into the entry, feeling jittery, as if she’d had too much coffee instead of too little sleep. Could something she had said or done in the last few days have placed the girl in even greater danger? “Another triple death,” she said. Ward’s face remained impassive. “It was, wasn’t it?”
“I’m afraid I can’t discuss the details—”
But what else would have driven them straight here, to check on their prime suspect in Ursula’s murder?
Cormac came downstairs, struggling into a shirt, with his hair still standing on end. Nora could see that he wasn’t quite awake, and she also saw each of the detectives noticing the reddish marks on his forehead.
Ward addressed Cormac: “I was just telling Dr. Gavin the reason that we’ve disturbed you so early this morning. A young woman named Rachel Briscoe has been found dead at Loughnabrone. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”
A look of helpless disbelief crossed Cormac’s features. “Of course. Anything I can do to help.” He waved them into the sitting room.
Brennan took a seat on the sofa and brought out a small notebook and pen; Ward remained standing. He said, “I have to ask you both where you were last night between the hours of midnight and four o’clock.”
Cormac ran one hand through his uncombed hair and looked over at Nora. Her stomach leapt, knowing what he’d have to say, but Cormac didn’t seem tense at all. “After midnight, maybe about twenty past, Michael Scully rang. His daughter hadn’t come home all evening, and he was worried.”
“We went over to the house right away,” Nora said. “Michael was quite agitated, so I stayed with him while Cormac tried to find Brona.” Was it her imagination, she wondered, or did Ward’s reaction to this news seem a bit odd? She said, “I don’t know if you know the Scullys, Detective.”
Ward cut her off, saying in a low voice, “Yes, I know them. Michael Scully is my father-in-law.” Nora had a sudden vision of a slender form slipping silently beneath clear water, and grasped that Michael Scully’s elder daughter must have been Ward’s wife. He would know all about Brona’s silence. Her face burned and she felt ashamed for being so obtuse. Ward looked away for a moment, then calmly resumed his questioning of Cormac. “Where did you go looking for Brona?”
“I started behind the house, just cutting through the pastures. I’d seen her once before near a whitethorn tree at the top of the hill, so I thought I’d try there first. I didn’t go down to the lake.”
“Did you have a torch? Did you call out? What I mean to ask is whether anyone might have seen or heard you.”
“I don’t know. I did have a torch, and I did call for her, but I doubt whether anyone heard me.”
“How long did you carry on the search?”
“I suppose about an hour or so, maybe an hour and a quarter. I didn’t really pay attention to the time.”
“So from about one o’clock to approximately two-fifteen. And you eventually found her?”
“Yes. She was hiding in the top branches of the whitethorn tree I mentioned. It’s in the clearing on top of the hill behind Ursula’s house. I shone my light up into the tree, and she let go a branch that hit me square in the forehead. That’s how I got this.” He indicated the raised reddish bump near his hairline. Brennan noted all this in her book.
“Why would the girl attack you like that?” Ward asked.
“I don’t know. She seemed terribly frightened, as though someone had been after her and she thought it might have been me. I tried explaining that her father had sent me to look for her, that I couldn’t leave there without her. I just kept talking, and eventually she calmed down and came along with me. We got back to the house between two-thirty and three.”
“And then what happened?”
“After we’d got Michael and Brona settled, and all their doors and windows locked, we came home again and went to sleep. It had been a very long night. I think I fell asleep just after dawn, maybe around five.”
“Did you see anyone besides Brona Scully when you were searching?”
“No. I didn’t see anyone. Look, I didn’t have anything to do with any murder—last night or any other night.”
“Nevertheless,” Ward said, “I’m afraid we’ll have to ask you to answer a few more questions down at the station.”
Cormac stood up, resignation visible in his face and posture. “I suppose the sooner I go in, the sooner you’ll be finished with me.”
“We would appreciate your cooperation.”
Despite the strong sunshine, the wind was brisk when they went outside. “Can I just get my jacket from the car?” Cormac asked, and Detective Ward gave a quick nod.
Cormac opened the jeep’s rear compartment to retrieve his anorak, and Brennan stepped up behind him.
“That yours?” she asked.
“Is what mine?” Cormac’s voice was muffled as he slid the anorak over his head.
“That,” Brennan said.
Cormac’s eyes went cold, and Nora and Ward stepped forward as Brennan pointed to a rucksack, nearly hidden by the site tools in the back of the jeep. A shiny pink fabric heart hung from its zipper.
Brennan’s eyebrows arched as she looked at Ward and lifted the rucksack out of the boot. She unzipped the main compartment and opened it. Inside the flap was an address label, filled in with Rachel Briscoe’s name and address.
“Wait a minute. I’ve never seen that rucksack before,” Cormac protested. “And I don’t know how it got there. I don’t believe this—”
Brennan opened the car door for him. “We can talk about all of this down at the station,” she said.
4
After the detectives had taken Cormac away, Nora stood in the kitchen and tried to think. There had to be some way through all this, but her head felt as though it was made of felt. Somebody was trying to make it look as though Cormac was mixed up in these murders. Someone must have been watching them last night; how else could anyone have known that Cormac was out searching for Brona at the time Rachel Briscoe was killed? Unless they’d been drawn out of the house on purpose. For a split second she wondered if someone had tried to set them up. But who—Michael and Brona Scully? She didn’t like to think it, but she and Cormac would have been at home all night if it hadn’t been for Michael’s urgent call. A wave of paranoia, and then a backwash of disbelief, rolled through her. No, not possible, not possible. Michael had been Gabriel McCrossan’s good friend. It had to be coincidence that Michael had phoned when he had.
She suddenly remembered what Cormac had said about finding Brona Scully—that it seemed the girl had attacked because she thought someone was after her. She had to talk to Brona, try to find out whether that had been the case, whether she knew anything—and whether she’d be willing to go to the police. But how would that help, having as their only material witness someone who could not speak?
Or maybe it would be best to go all the way back to the beginning—start with Danny Brazil, the first victim found with a knotted cord around his neck. Ward had refused to tell her how they’d found Rachel Briscoe, but Nora had a terrible, sinking feeling that there had been a triple-knotted cord around her neck as well.
This whole mess was beginning to resemble a tangled knot, with strands looped back and twisted around themselves. But getting frustrated wouldn’t help. Unraveling any knot needed a careful attack, following one filament at a time, working at it until it slid free; that was the way to undo this puzzle too. That was the way she could best help Cormac.
What could Ursula have found out or surmised about Danny Brazil’s death? Ursula had asked Quill if he thought three was an unlucky number. And the next morning she was dead. It was impossible to shake the impression t
hat her murder had something to do with the Loughnabrone hoard. After all, Ursula had stolen one of Charlie Brazil’s drawings, one that seemed to document the existence of a priceless gold collar never registered in any museum. This was just the sort of discovery that would add fuel to all those myths about hidden treasure, gold buried underfoot. If Ursula had known of the collar’s existence, she might also have had some theories about who had killed Danny Brazil to get it. And maybe she was prepared to use that information—perhaps for blackmail, trying to squeeze money out of Danny’s killer. Or maybe it was even more complicated than that. Maybe, like Danny Brazil, the collar had never gone away. Maybe it was still here, still a motive for murder.
Nora crossed to Cormac’s desk and opened the book where Ursula had stashed the stolen drawing, turning on the table lamp to examine it more closely. The paper was black in places from mildew, but the draftsmanship was exquisite, incredibly clear and detailed. She reached for Cormac’s magnifying glass and sat down to get closer to the image. Maybe there was something she was missing, some double meaning hidden in it somewhere. The magnifier made the image bulge before her eyes, shading and hatch marks blurred into three-dimensional illusion. She traveled up and down the lines, looking for something, anything that might leap out.
She turned the paper over and saw a series of nine smaller circles inside the arc of a larger ring. The way they were drawn, she saw eyes peering out of the paper, a face that seemed somehow familiar, but not quite right. She turned the paper upside down, but that didn’t help. Did the numbers mean something—three and three and three?
Nora jumped as she heard a heavy fist beating on the cottage door. She closed the drawing into the book and slipped it under a pile of papers as quickly as she could. The pounding had stopped; with her heart still thudding in her chest, she moved to the door and peered out the diamond-shaped window.
No one was visible, but someone had left a small white envelope wedged into the window frame. The handwriting on it, plainly visible through the window, read “Nora Gavin.” Nora wondered why anyone would leave a note instead of talking to her. Could it be some communication from Brona Scully?
Remembering Cormac’s warning, she crossed quickly to the fireplace, grabbed the heaviest poker, and returned to the door. Still no sign of anyone outside. If only the window were a little larger, a little lower, so she could see if someone was there…. Sheunlocked the door as silently as she could, reached for the envelope, then closed and locked the door once more.
Safe inside, she turned her attention to the envelope. It was only lightly sealed, and Nora opened it carefully, conscious of the value it might have as evidence. Inside was a black leather cord with three figure-eight knots. Was it intended as a warning, or an accusation? She felt the thin roundness of the cord between her fingers, and knew with sudden clarity that the person who’d killed two people had just been outside the house.
She raised her head to peer through the window once again. Only then did she perceive the shadowy presence behind her and hear the soft whistle that split the air. Her head snapped forward, and the solid world beneath her dissolved, swallowed up in black and blinding pain.
5
“Look, I’ve told you already, I have no idea how that rucksack got into my jeep,” Cormac said. His eyes burned and his head ached from lack of sleep. Detective Brennan had been going at him for nearly an hour. He glanced up at Detective Ward, sitting silently by Brennan’s side, arms crossed over his chest.
“Why would I have opened the car if I’d known the girl’s rucksack was in there? It doesn’t make sense. We’re wasting time here, going around in circles.”
“So tell me something new,” Brennan said.
Cormac said, “All right. I think Ursula Downes was murdered over buried treasure.” Silence greeted his pronouncement; not a good sign.
“And why would you think that?” Brennan finally asked.
“I think she suspected—as a lot of people did—that not all the items in the Loughnabrone hoard had been turned over to the National Museum.” Cormac detected a subtle movement in the chair beside her, perhaps no more than a blink, but he knew that the idea had piqued Ward’s interest.
“Go on,” Ward said.
“But I think Ursula found some proof that there were items in the hoard never accounted for. I don’t know that much,” Cormac said, “but I’ll tell you what I do know.” And so he told them everything, about the drawing Ursula had apparently left in one of his books, about the similar one Nora had found in Charlie Brazil’s shed, about the letter Rachel Briscoe had left in Nora’s car, and his theory about her true identity. He carried on, despite the skeptical turn of their lips, the doubt in their eyes.
“You think Ursula Downes thought she’d found proof of a gold collar found at Loughnabrone?” Brennan asked.
“Yes. I don’t know who she thought was in possession of it. And I don’t know who she might have been working with—Charlie Brazil clearly has some connection, since he has a number of similar drawings. I think Ursula may have been carrying on an affair with Owen Cadogan. There’s nothing to say he was involved in the sale of illegal antiquities, but he’d have better connections in the right places than most of the men who work for him.”
Ward said, “Let me ask you, Dr. Maguire—if you believed these drawings to be so significant, why did you not bring them forward earlier?”
“It was a question of provenance,” Cormac said. “People would want to know where I’d got my hands on them. Plus, there was no way of knowing whether the collar really existed or whether someone just made it up. All the same, if it is real, then it would be incentive enough for murder.”
“How much incentive?” Brennan asked.
“You mean how much would something like that be worth?” Cormac shrugged. “Hard to say—whatever the market will bear. And when you’re talking about one-of-a-kind ancient gold objects on the black market, it’ll bear a lot.”
“So why should we believe your version of this story?” Brennan asked. “Why shouldn’t we just flip the whole thing back to front? You found proof of the collar, and Ursula tried to get a share of the selling price, so you killed her. And then killed Rachel Briscoe because she’d seen you that night at Ursula’s house.”
“Even assuming that were the case, why would I tell you about the collar? Why would I not just keep mum? Take me home right now, and I’ll show you the drawings if you don’t believe me.”
Ward and Brennan exchanged a glance; then they both stood up to leave the interview room.
“What’s happening?” Cormac asked. “Where are you going?”
“We’ll be back in a moment, Dr. Maguire,” Ward said. “I just want a quick word with Detective Brennan. Can we get you anything?”
“No, thanks.” When the detectives had left the room, he let his eyes wander around the stark space. If only he and Nora had been able to make more progress on the details surrounding Ursula’s death: her interest in Danny Brazil’s murder, the collar. He hoped Nora wasn’t up to anything rash, trying to get him out of this jam. They wouldn’t be able to hold him forever; they’d eventually have to either charge him or let him go. Surely she would see that. But somehow he didn’t feel overwhelming confidence on that point.
He might not even be here if someone hadn’t deliberately planted that rucksack in the back of the jeep; if he could only work out why…Perhaps so that he would have to be questioned again; but to what end? He couldn’t believe the police would actually charge him for Rachel Briscoe’s murder. It didn’t make sense, thinking that he’d killed the girl while out looking for Brona. So why lead them down the wrong track—unless it was just to get him away from the house?
And with a sudden, awful horror, he knew. Whoever had planted the rucksack wanted the drawings. He couldn’t believe he’d been so thick. He’d said it himself: Ursula’s drawing was the only evidence that any Loughnabrone collar existed—and to some warped mind, probably well worth killing for.
<
br /> He leaped from his chair and started pounding on the door of the interview room. “Detective Ward! Somebody—open up!”
As they made their way to the galley kitchen across from their office, Brennan spoke first. “I can’t believe he wants us to swallow all that—a gold collar, for God’s sake.”
“Does sound a bit outlandish, all right, but you have to admit it’s not impossible. Look at that fella stumbled across those Bronze Age gold necklaces at the beach on his holidays up in Mayo.” She must remember it; the case had made national headlines.
Brennan gave a grudging nod, and Ward continued: “Dr. Gavin’s statement says she overheard Ursula Downes telling Charlie Brazil that she knew what he was hiding. What if he and the father still have a whole pile of stuff from the hoard? Ursula finds out, and they have to get rid of her.” As he spoke, a gauzy notion dragged across Ward’s consciousness. The way Ursula Downes and Rachel Briscoe had been killed—just like Danny Brazil, one of the brothers who’d found the Loughnabrone hoard in the first place. It was Maguire who’d known so much about triple death, but Charlie Brazil who’d been suspected of carrying out bloodletting rituals. “Even if he is blowing smoke, Maureen, it wouldn’t hurt to see these drawings he’s talking about. And we should probably pull Charlie Brazil and Owen Cadogan this morning, see if they can give us details about what they were up to last night. Maybe we’d better split up, when we’re done with Maguire. I’ll take Brazil; you take Cadogan.”
They both turned to the uniformed officer who’d just stuck his head in through the doorway; he appeared slightly winded from legging it up the stairs.
“Ah, Detective Ward, there you are. Thought you were in the interview room. I’ve got a phone call for you.”
“I am in the middle of an interview,” Ward said. “We’re just on a short break. Take a message, will you?”
“I would, but she says it’s urgent, sir, and she won’t speak to anyone but you.”
