by Erin Hart
She found Cormac in his room, packing for the journey. “I just spoke to Hickey, the garage man,” she said, sitting on the bed where he was arranging the items in his case. “My car’s good as new, but they couldn’t get all the parts for yours. Drivable, he says, but you’ll have to get the rear window replaced when you get back to Dublin.”
“I was actually thinking I might not go straight home,” Cormac said. He paused a moment before continuing. “I was thinking of heading up to Donegal for a few days.” He hesitated once more, but this time looked up at her. “You could come with me.”
This sudden fit of spontaneity took Nora completely by surprise. She studied his face for a moment before responding. “I have to get back to Dublin; I’ve already missed a week of classes as it is. You’re probably better off on your own, anyway. I imagine you and your father will find plenty to talk about. How’s your head, though? Are you sure you’re all right for driving?”
“I’ll be fine.” Cormac shoved his case aside and sat down beside her, then reached for her hand, and pressed his lips to the inside of her wrist.
She tried to withdraw her hand. “I’m going to be kicking myself as it is, but you have to bloody well make sure of it, don’t you?”
“Nora, what’s bothering you?”
“I was so wrong about Hugh. I heard what I wanted to hear, and I came here ready to hang him. The worst part is that he’s been so forgiving.”
“It wasn’t just you; everyone suspected him. The police—”
“Everyone but you.”
“Maybe it seemed that way. On the inside, I’m afraid I wavered too.”
“I keep wondering what’s going to happen here, Cormac. Devaney said we might be called to testify, if the case actually goes to trial. I hope it doesn’t come to that. I wonder if Jeremy could survive going to prison. And if he isn’t charged, or gets a suspended sentence? Devaney said it’s a possibility because he was underage at the time. Where will he go?”
“Hugh told me he wants Jeremy to stay on here—if and when he’s released. He knows what happened wasn’t the boy’s fault.”
“It sounds very noble, but the whole idea is fraught with disaster. How could he not be reminded every single day of what Jeremy did? And how can Una McGann possibly go on living in the same house with her brother?” Nora said. “Fintan’s going off to seek his fortune in the States. For Aoife’s sake, how can she even think about staying there?”
“I know we’ve been through an ordeal with Hugh, and with Una these last few weeks,” he said. “But it’s not as if we even really know them. Maybe Hugh Osborne has more forgiveness in him than you or I could ever imagine. Maybe he needs Jeremy as much as the boy needs him. Maybe Una will decide to leave home. They’ll have to find their own ways through this, Nora. They will. But I don’t know that we can help them.”
She had imagined that finding answers should impart at least some small sense of satisfaction, and yet that feeling was absent. She knew that they would all carry on, as human beings had always carried on, as automatically as their hearts carried on beating, their lungs continued taking in and expelling breath. Sometimes without thinking or feeling, sometimes invaded by despair. Why then, after helping to unearth the truth of this place, did she feel so compelled to do more? What more was there? Maybe Cormac was right, maybe they had reached the end of doing.
“Come here to me,” he said, and whether it was the warmth of his arms, or the roughness of his face against hers, she did not know, only that she needed the solace he offered, and responded instinctively to his touch until they were tangled together on the high bed. All Nora could hear was their ragged breathing, and she felt herself falling, borne downward into a maelstrom, a potent confusion of feeling.
Downstairs, the single deep note of the doorbell sounded in the front hall. Nora pulled away and slid off the bed. “What the hell are we doing? What were we thinking? I’m sorry, Cormac.” As she left the room, she heard his carefully packed case go crashing to the floor.
10
Devaney stood outside the front door at Bracklyn House, bearing the brown paper envelope containing Mina Osborne’s letters. When Nora Gavin answered the door, he said, “I just dropped by to see Mrs. Gonsalves.”
“We’re expecting them any time. You can wait if you’d like.”
Devaney stepped inside, and caught Dr. Gavin eyeing his package. “Just some letters,” he said. “From Mina Osborne to her mother.”
“You’ve read them?”
“I have.”
“What was she like?”
Devaney considered for a moment, thinking of the Mina Osborne he’d come to know a little, remembering the intelligence, thoughtfulness, and compassion that radiated from her letters. He had wondered the same thing, and yet what was the point of such a question, since none of them, not even her mother or her husband, had really known, or would ever know? Mina Osborne had become a void, an absence in the lives of those she’d left behind. The paltry words that he might use to sum her up would be based only on a few lines of handwriting. He was aware that Dr. Gavin was watching him with a curious expression. “I’m afraid I can’t really say.”
Maguire seemed rather subdued when he joined them, and Devaney got the distinct sense that he’d interrupted something when he’d rung the doorbell.
“Detective,” Dr. Gavin said, “we’ve been wondering what’s going on, and maybe you could enlighten us. Cormac and I have read the papers and heard lots of things second-and third-hand about Lucy Osborne’s confession and the charges. We’d rather not be asking Hugh.”
“I’ll tell you what I can. According to what Jeremy told us, his mother had become obsessed about getting back her home place in England. She’d started writing rambling letters to her solicitor, and was scheming about ways to get it back. She evidently got it into her head some time ago that the Osbornes collectively owed her for the loss of her family home. Who knows if she would have done anything on her own, but when the shooting occurred, an opportunity presented itself, and the more she thought about it, the more she began to see eliminating this branch of the Osborne family as the main chance for herself and her son. With Mina and Christopher out of the way, she accomplished two things: she eliminated Hugh Osborne’s lawful heirs, and put her own son in their place. Hugh Osborne would be a rich man when he got the insurance, when his wife was declared legally dead. But once Hugh made Jeremy the beneficiary in his will, there was no reason to wait. All she had to do was to see that something happened to Hugh, and she and Jeremy would be secure. Osborne’s own policy might not have paid if he committed suicide, but Jeremy would still stand to inherit Bracklyn House, not to mention the life insurance on Mina Osborne.”
“How did it all start to unravel?” Dr. Gavin asked.
“Jeremy told us that he and his mother removed suitcases and clothing from the house to make it look as if Mina had simply run away. He was supposed to burn it all, but he hung on to a few items. Then a couple of months ago the cleaner, Mrs. Hernan, found one of Mina’s scarves under his mattress—and when Mrs. Hernan brought it to Lucy’s attention, she was sacked. Evidently Lucy forced Jeremy to burn the scarf—this time in front of her, to make sure it was done properly—and that’s when he felt he had to find a way to tell someone. He tried to keep away from his mother, ended up practically living out at the tower—he started stealing food, and all those candles he had were nicked from the church. Between the drink and camping in the tower like an outlaw, it’s not hard to see why Jeremy seemed to be the one who was going mad.”
“Do you know anything more about the charges, Detective?” Maguire asked.
“We got word today from the DPP—that’s the director of public prosecutions. Lucy Osborne is charged with one count of murder for the death of Christopher Osborne, and one of attempted murder against Hugh Osborne. If she’s judged competent to stand trial—and they cautioned that it’s a big ‘if,’ considering her current mental state—she could receive a life sent
ence on those charges alone. And she could get an additional sentence for concealing evidence. At this point, Jeremy’s up on a single charge of involuntary manslaughter for the death of Mina Osborne, but the DPP says he’ll most likely receive a suspended sentence, given the circumstances of the case, and his age at the time.”
“The thing I don’t understand is why Hugh didn’t say anything about Lucy giving him sleeping tablets,” Dr. Gavin said.
“He says he has no memory of anything that happened after he went down into the workshop—he can’t even recall Lucy bringing him tea.”
“Surely he must have figured out that he didn’t end up in that car by himself,” she said.
Devaney hesitated, remembering Hugh Osborne’s explanation when he’d brought up the same point himself during questioning. When you’ve thought as often as I have about what it would be like—to go out to the car, turn it on, and just go to sleep, he’d said, it’s somehow not at all surprising to find out that’s exactly what you did. If it weren’t for Lucy’s admission, Devaney thought, the man might still consider himself an unsuccessful suicide.
The sound of voices cut short their conversation as Hugh Osborne came in with Mrs. Gonsalves. Devaney heard the voice he’d come to know on the telephone, and wondered how the woman’s grace and dignity could seem completely undiminished by the length and grim purpose of her journey. He watched her dark eyes alight upon the package in his hands.
“You must be Detective Devaney,” she said.
“You know one another?” Osborne asked.
“We’ve spoken on the telephone,” said Mrs. Gonsalves, clasping Devaney’s outstretched hand. “Detective, I’m so grateful for all you’ve done on my daughter’s behalf. And my grandson—” Her voice faltered, but her eyes were steady. Devaney held out the precious brown package.
“Thank you for returning Mina’s letters,” said Mrs. Gonsalves as she received it. “I know you understand how I treasure them.”
Devaney begged off staying for tea. He had done his duty in bringing the package. Upon reaching home, he could hear a few faint, wobbly fiddle notes as he got out of the car. Roisin was in the kitchen, tentatively picking out a tune; he could barely recognize the first few bars of “Paidin O’Rafferty.” He watched through the kitchen window as Nuala came in, kissing the top of her daughter’s studiously inclined head as she passed.
“That’s starting to sound lovely, Roisin, keep at it. Remember what Daddy said, and don’t try to play too fast. I’ve got to go out—” Nuala stopped when he opened the door. Devaney felt frozen on the threshold, couldn’t force himself to speak or to step into the house. Roisin stopped playing, and Nuala came and stood in front of him.
“Are you all right, Gar? Why are you home in the middle of the afternoon?”
He wanted to tell his wife that for the first time in a long while he could see her so clearly, so entirely, every curve and eyelash and tiny line, as clearly as that first time they had slept and awakened together, but he found himself unable to speak.
“Garrett,” she said, “why won’t you come in?” Her touch was enough to break the spell. He stepped forward and sat down facing his daughter across the table. Nuala seated herself beside him.
“Listen, Daddy, I’ve nearly got it off,” Roisin said brightly, launching into a halting jig tempo once more, barely getting through the A part of the tune.
“Isn’t she coming along?” Nuala asked, still searching his countenance for some inkling of what was going on. He felt them standing on opposite sides of a threshold, if not of understanding itself, then at least a willingness to understand one another again. Nuala reached up and touched his face. “I’m going to call the office, and ask Sheila if she wouldn’t mind taking a couple of appointments for me. I won’t be a minute.”
When Devaney looked across the table at Roisin, he saw a reflection of his own bewildered countenance in the bottomless depths of his daughter’s eyes.
11
The funeral Mass for Mina and Christopher Osborne took place two days later at St. Columba’s in Dunbeg. Standing in the back of the church, Devaney watched a small clutch of reporters gather outside the gates, no doubt hoping to get a few shots of the grieving family, to be served up on the evening news with some of the more sensational facts of the case, all intoned with the usual air of affected solemnity. They’d have a good show; the whole village had turned out. Hugh Osborne was already in the front of the church with Mrs. Gonsalves. Devaney suddenly realized that in their conversations, he’d never even asked Mina’s mother her Christian name. He watched the mourners shuffle slowly past: Delia Hernan, Dolly Pilkington with her three eldest, Ned and Anna Raftery, all the women he’d dubbed charter members of the Father Kinsella fan club. Una McGann and her daughter sat among them, purposely removed from Osborne, Devaney noticed, and he could see the looks from all around her that measured the distance exactly. Una’s brothers were there as well, Fintan sitting upright beside her, and Brendan kneeling in one of the back pews with his head bowed, and a rosary knotted through his thick fingers.
Devaney was still standing inside the door, wishing in vain for a cigarette, when Brian Boylan approached. Boylan was all spit and polish today in one of his expensive suits, as if he’d come here to work the crowd—and so he had, Devaney thought cynically.
“Just wanted to say well done, Detective,” Boylan said in a confidential tone. “Very well done indeed. A sad case, but good to have everything resolved.”
“Sir” was Devaney’s curt reply. He didn’t feel he deserved even this brief congratulatory nod. Though he probably would have cracked it eventually, the fact of the matter was that the bloody thing had fallen right into his lap. When are you ever going to learn to ease up? asked the voice in his head. Whatever way the answers had come, the thing was finished.
A heavy rain lashed down all during the service, and by the time the Mass was over the television cameras had dispersed. The showers had all but stopped when the mourners reached the burial site, but the sun seemed to dodge in and out behind still-threatening dark clouds that occasionally let go a sporadic drizzle. Mother and child were interred in the same casket, in a corner of the ancient churchyard at Drumcleggan Priory, in an area slightly separated from the rest of the burials. The church had been full to the rafters, but here at the priory Hugh Osborne stood solemnly by the graveside, arm in arm with Mrs. Gonsalves, and the only others in attendance were Father Kinsella, Cormac Maguire and Nora Gavin, Una and Fintan McGann, Devaney himself, and the undertaker’s men.
After the rain, the air smelled of freshly turned clay, and it struck Devaney that there was nothing illusory about this burial: no carpet of artificial turf covered the mound of earth that had been dug by hand from the grave; the unpretentious wooden coffin was lowered into the ground on stout ropes by two laboring men in shirtsleeves. Seated on a folding chair at the graveside, Fintan McGann strapped on his pipes and, when the holy water had been sprinkled and the last prayers said, lowered his head and began to play an air—a lament whose simple, dignified melody contained the purest distillation of grief. After they all filed from the churchyard, Devaney turned to watch the workmen as they shoveled the wet clay into the grave, listening to the damp, rhythmic scrape of the spades, and the sound of the soil hitting the coffin with a hollow thud.
12
Back at Bracklyn House after the interment, Cormac noted how the noise level dipped for the slightest fraction of a second when Hugh and Mrs. Gonsalves entered the front hall, just as it had the night he saw Osborne ducking through the door at Lynch’s pub. The mood here was decidedly somber, and yet this usually silent house took on a different, almost unrecognizable demeanor when filled with the buzz of conversation. It was clearly the first time most of these people had seen the inside of Bracklyn House, and he could see their eyes gauging its proportions, and their frank astonishment at its general state of disrepair, the age and shabbiness of the furnishings. The doors to the formal sitting room were open wi
de, the chandeliers managed to glitter through their thin veil of dust, and the huge dining table and sideboard were laden with plates of homemade ham and salad sandwiches, dark fruitcake, and currant scones. The combination of homeliness and grandeur struck a discordant note.
Hugh led Mrs. Gonsalves to a chair beside the dining room windows. Una brought her a cup of tea, and tried to press some refreshment on Osborne as well, which he refused. Mourners began to file past. “Sorry for your trouble,” Cormac heard them murmur in low voices as they leaned down to Mrs. Gonsalves, or solemnly shook Hugh Osborne’s hand. How strange to see the modern-day citizens of Dunbeg, whose tenant ancestors no doubt spent lifetimes tugging their forelocks in the presence of the Osbornes, greeting the current owner of Bracklyn House as though he still exerted some sort of control over their lives.
As he moved about the rooms, Cormac wondered where Nora had got to, and saw her talking to Devaney in a corner of the library. Going about his work, Devaney always seemed so self-assured, but here he had the uneasy look of a man not used to socializing, at least in situations where there was neither pint nor fiddle in his hands. When Cormac approached, they were talking about the cailin rua.
“So you’re hoping the bones from the souterrain will come up a match?” Devaney asked.
“Malachy Drummond is helping us with it right now,” Nora said.
Cormac addressed Devaney: “We found some evidence that the red-haired girl from the bog might have actually been”—he lowered his voice, not wishing under the circumstances to broadcast such news to every soul within hearing—“executed for the murder of her newborn child. But Nora doesn’t believe it.”
“I realize we may never find anything conclusive,” Nora said. She looked through the open door into the dining room, where Hugh Osborne stood by the window, accepting condolences. “I just think we ought to get all the information we can.”
