by Erin Hart
“First of all, I want to make it clear that no one’s accused you of anything. We need to learn what happened last night. We’d really like to be able to help you, Anca, but you’ll have to give us a little information before we can do that. Do you understand?”
Anca didn’t respond, just pulled a fresh cigarette from the pack. She lit up with the old butt, then savagely stubbed it out. “I don’t have to tell you anything.”
“No, you don’t. But it may help you in the long run. If you cooperate with us now, we may be able to help if you’d like to stay in Ireland. You would like to stay?” No verbal response, but Stella could see the hunger in the girl’s eyes.
“Why don’t we start with last Wednesday, when you were still working at Killowen? We understand that your friends there were trying to protect you, to keep your name and picture out of the press.” Anca stared at the table, took a drag on her cigarette.
“I know you may be wondering what will happen to you, and to Deirdre. If you answer our questions, and we have no reason to hold you, you’ll be free to go.” Still no reaction. “If you’re concerned about the people who brought you to Ireland, we can offer accommodation at a safe house when we’re finished here. We’ll protect you. That’s one thing I can promise.”
Anca’s eyes flicked toward the door. It was the first time she’d lifted her gaze from the table, and Stella’s heart leapt just a little. She was in.
13
Claire Finnerty had left a cold supper for Cormac and her three other guests on Saturday evening. Everyone else seemed to have retreated into their private spaces. The atmosphere was quiet but slightly on edge, almost as though the house or the people in it were waiting for something. After dark, a couple of lights glowed from upstairs windows in the opposite wing.
As Cormac passed Dawson’s room, he saw that the door was open. Still not back from Dublin. Nora came up behind him. “Where’s Niall gone?”
Cormac tipped his head toward the door to their room. When they were safely inside, Cormac stretched out beside Nora on the bed. “Niall’s gone home to talk to Gráinne. It seems when he was here last April that he… well, he had a very brief thing with that Romanian girl, Anca.”
Nora sat up. “Niall Dawson? Jesus, Cormac, what on earth was he thinking?”
“Well, he wasn’t thinking, that’s the point. He said he felt sorry for her.”
“No wonder he was so anxious whenever her name came up.”
“From what he said, it also seems clear that he was set up. Vincent Claffey had photos. Niall paid him, but Claffey wanted more. Niall thinks Claffey might have coerced the girl.”
“That doesn’t excuse him, Cormac.”
“No, of course it doesn’t, but remember what Shawn told us about Anca running away from that Romanian gang? Claffey may have been threatening to reveal her whereabouts if she didn’t do exactly as he said.”
“You realize what this does—it makes Niall a prime suspect in Vincent Claffey’s murder.”
“He swore to me he’d nothing to do with it, but—”
“But what?”
“He did admit that he was there—at Claffey’s place—early this morning. Claffey was dead when he arrived. I have to believe him, Nora. Niall’s one of my oldest friends, and he’s going to tell Cusack everything as soon as he’s spoken to his wife.”
“And you have to believe that as well?”
“He’s not a liar—”
“Except about blackmail, apparently.”
“—and he’s certainly not a killer.”
“Well, if Niall didn’t murder Vincent Claffey, then it’s likely someone else around here did. And if we’re going to help Niall, we have to figure out why. You know, I keep thinking about those gallnuts in Kavanagh’s mouth—and Claffey’s as well. Martin Gwynne said they were used for making ink. If you look at the other items recovered so far, we’ve got a wax tablet, a stylus, a satchel. But there’s still something missing: a manuscript.”
Cormac was pleased that Nora had hit upon the same thing he and Niall had realized this afternoon. He wasn’t sure he should share what Niall had told him today, but his friend’s whole future was at stake. “Niall said he was here in April following up on a tip about a group of treasure hunters. The caller mentioned that they were after a manuscript. Something very old and very rare, like the books at Trinity.”
“With all the monasteries here, there must have been hundreds, even thousands, of books made in Ireland. What happened to them all?”
“Destroyed by the raiders who burned down monasteries, or some would have been hidden and never retrieved, and obviously a great number would have been carried to the Continent. There are still libraries in France and Switzerland full of ancient Irish books. But only a few manuscripts created in Ireland actually stayed here—I’d say less than a dozen.”
Nora didn’t say anything but reached for her laptop on the nightstand and opened the lid. “I was thinking about what Shawn Kearney was telling us about her research on the site here, and I came across something interesting online earlier. The local historical society just posted the full text of John O’Donovan’s Ordnance Survey Letters for this part of Tipperary. Look at this.”
1336—Ó Beigléighinn, Coarb of St. Eóghan, dies at Cill Eóghain. [Note: Ó Beigléighinn was the coarb of the church at Cill Eóghain, in the parish of Faddan More, in the northwest of the county of Tipperary, where his lineal descendant and representative still farms the termon lands.—JO’D]
[This appears to be the earliest reference to the Coarb of Cill Eóghain from whom the hereditary custodian of the Book Shrine of Cill Eóghain was descended—the Termon Beglan, as we might call him, from his inherited right to the termon land of that church. J. E. Canon McCarthy cites him in his list of the Abbots of Faddan More as “Ó Beigléighinn, successor of Eóghan.” Concerning Killowen, he tells us elsewhere, “The Parish of Faddan More extended along the bog to Carrig, and included the town-land of Killowen in the County Tipperary,” and, in connection with the Cumdach Eóghain (or the Case of Eóghan’s Book, as he translates the Gaelic term) he says, “For many centuries the O’Beglans of Killowen, comharbas of St. Eóghan, were the custodians of this interesting relic, as the MacMoyers were of the Book of Armagh, the Buckleys of the Shrine of St. Manchan, and the parish priest of Drumlane, for the time being, of the Breac Maedóic reliquary. In the course of time, the possession of the shrine was hotly contested between the bishops and priests of these dioceses. Sometime in the twelfth century it fell into the hands of a Faddan More O’Beglan, who, in misguided zeal to end the controversy, was said to have burned the precious manuscript, known as the Book of Killowen. Some centuries later an O’Beglan from Derrylahan was reported to have sold the shrine to a Nenagh watchmaker to have it melted down.]
When Cormac finished reading, Nora looked at him expectantly. “The keepers of this book shrine—they were called O’Beglan.”
“It’s funny, I was thinking about that name just this afternoon. It means ‘descendant of the little scholar.’” Cormac was remembering the dilapidated farm he’d visited earlier in the day. Were it and the place he and Nora sat at this moment part of the termon lands of Cill Eóghain, where the ancient monastery had once stood?
“And is a book shrine what I think it is, like those elaborate metal boxes they have in the National Museum? You said Niall was here checking out a tip about some treasure hunters and an old manuscript. Do you suppose Kavanagh could have been mixed up with them somehow?”
“From all I know of Kavanagh, he wouldn’t have been much interested in an elaborate shrine. He was far more likely to go for the book inside. But didn’t O’Donovan say in that passage that the manuscript was burned?”
“No, he says your man O’Beglan was said to have burned the manuscript, that the shrine was reported to have been sold and melted down. You’d think Niall would have known about all this. I’m going to see if there’s mention of this book shrine anywhere else.”
> Nora’s attention was focused on her laptop again. Cormac’s head had begun to ache. He also wanted to check once more to see if Niall had returned from Dublin. “Listen,” he said to Nora, “I’m going below for a cup of tea. Do you want anything?”
“No, I’m all right.” She frowned at the laptop screen.
Cormac checked Niall’s room as he passed—still not back. It was getting late now; maybe he’d decided to stop at home for the night. And maybe that was a good sign. Cormac felt burdened by what he knew. He couldn’t abandon his friend now. Downstairs, the moon was shining through the window, so Cormac didn’t bother to turn on a light. He ran the tap for a few seconds, then filled the electric kettle. He looked out into the garden, imagining that it must resemble the kitchen garden that had helped to feed a monastery. He remembered the strange sight of Anthony Beglan cutting something from the entrails of those eels this afternoon. He’d have to ask Nora about it.
A harsh whisper came from the courtyard, and Cormac drew back into the shadows. He couldn’t make out who was speaking, but he saw two figures creep along the inner wall and leave by the gate outside Martin Gwynne’s studio.
Seized with an urge to know who could be skulking around Killowen at this hour, Cormac followed, keeping his distance. His brain registered the silhouettes ahead as male and female, but he could not distinguish their identities. He watched the two figures head for the storehouse, set into the side of a small hill, where the farm’s creamery and cheese-making operation was housed. Could it be the French couple, Lucien and Sylvie, or was someone else breaking into their domain? The pair ducked behind a white van, ghostly in the moonlight, parked directly in front of the door. KILLOWEN FARMHOUSE CHEESE was emblazoned on its side, and a pair of cartoonish bearded goat faces glowed eerily.
Cormac hesitated. He couldn’t follow any longer without being detected. Perhaps he ought just to wait.
Five minutes passed, then ten, as Cormac kept watch on the storehouse door. What the hell was he doing out here? Nora’s words reverberated through his head: If Niall didn’t murder Vincent Claffey, then it’s likely someone else around here did.
He checked his watch again. No sign of movement in the storehouse. He could be out here all night. Bugger that. And bugger the tea as well. It was time to turn in.
Checking Dawson’s room again on his way upstairs, he detected a flicker of movement inside. He pushed the door open wider. Niall was sitting on the bed, staring straight ahead.
“Everything all right?” Cormac asked.
“Gráinne threw me out. I’ve never seen her so angry.” He made eye contact. “Thanks for the advice.”
“Niall, I’m sorry.”
“You know, I don’t feel much like talking right now.” He reached out to push the door shut, and Cormac had to jump back to avoid being hit.
He’d made a total bollocks of everything. Nora was still staring at her computer screen when he opened the door to their room. She glanced up.
“Niall’s back from Dublin. Gráinne threw him out. I urged him to come clean, Nora, and now—”
“The two of them will have to figure out what to do, Cormac. We can’t help them.” She pointed to the floor beside her. “Come and sit.”
Her cool fingers gently massaged his temples, the tension melting away down his neck and shoulders, wherever her hands came in contact with his skin.
“Nora?”
“Hmm? You know, if you keep talking, you’ll never relax properly.”
“There’s something I meant to ask you. I followed Anthony Beglan home from the bog this afternoon and watched him clean and dress about a half dozen eels. He cut something from their entrails—I wasn’t close enough to see, but he brought whatever it was to Martin Gwynne.”
Nora kept working at the cords in his shoulders. “Go on.”
“They were small bluish sacs, about this size.” He made a shape with his fingers, held it up to show her. “After Anthony left, Martin cut open each one and drained off a bright yellow liquid into a jar.”
Nora stopped kneading. “Ah, yes, he told me about that. I wandered into his studio the day we arrived. We were talking about all the strange sources for pigments, and he said the monks used to make a yellow ink from the gallbladders of eels—”
A knock sounded at the door. And another, urgent.
Eliana was outside, in pajamas.
“He’s gone, your father. I don’t know where he is.”
Cormac froze. They’d never had a problem with him wandering off at home in Dublin, but each day out here seemed to hold a new and distressing surprise.
They headed downstairs, with Cormac and Eliana each taking a wing of the house and Nora checking outside in the car park. As Cormac ventured down the corridor of the south wing, he spied the door of the thermal suite ajar.
The old man was up to his chin in peaty water, eyes closed, clearly enjoying himself. “He’s here,” Cormac shouted. “Nora! I’ve got him.”
Eliana arrived at the door. “I’m sorry, I should have been watching.”
“No harm done, none at all,” Cormac insisted. “This isn’t your fault. It’s just that he’s very… independent.”
“Please don’t be angry with him. It’s my fault. Perhaps he doesn’t understand me, my English—”
“Your English is fine,” Cormac said. “Now, please don’t be upset. No one is in trouble.” When Nora arrived, he said to Eliana, “Maybe you and Nora would make us a cup of tea while I get him dressed again.”
Nora slid her arm around the girl’s shoulder. “Come on, Eliana, I think there’s a bit of porter cake left.”
When they’d gone, Cormac sat down on the bench beside the sunken tub and studied his father’s face: eyes closed, a film of perspiration on his forehead and upper lip. Suddenly the old man’s eyes opened, and he seemed overcome by a gust of feeling. Cormac sat helplessly, not certain what to do. He reached out and placed a hand on his father’s shoulder, the aging flesh soft as kidskin, loose against bone. To his surprise, the old man’s hand covered his. “You’re my sum,” Joseph said. “My sum.”
Cormac sank down on one knee beside his father, not wishing to withdraw his hand too soon. At last the old man sighed heavily. “I’m wet,” he said, as though noticing that fact for the very first time.
“Yes,” Cormac said, “that you are.” He reached over and pulled one handle to begin draining the tub, another to switch on the shower spray.
“Mmm,” Joseph said absently. He took Cormac’s hand once more and pressed the palm against his breastbone. “My sum.”
BOOK FOUR
Ná luig, ná luig
fót fora taí:
gairit bía fair,
fota bía faí.
Do not swear, do not swear
by the ground on which you stand;
it’s a short time you’ll be upon it,
and a long time you’ll be under it.
—Poem written by an Irish monk in the margin of a medieval manuscript
1
As Cormac came down the stairs into the kitchen at Killowen the next morning, Niall Dawson was staring down into a cup of steaming coffee. He looked like hell—unshaven, dark rings under his eyes. But he glanced up as Cormac poured himself a cup of coffee.
“I’m sorry for taking everything out on you last night,” Dawson said. “It’s not your fault I’m in this mess—it’s all down to me. It’s probably good that I’m here, actually. It’ll give Gráinne time to think.”
“She loves you, Niall. You’ll work things out.”
Dawson nodded numbly. “Listen, before we head back to the site, I was thinking of nipping over to the hospital, to see if I could use one of the scopes and have a closer look at that wax tablet. Thought you might like to come along.”
Twenty minutes later, they were pulling into the parking lot at the hospital in Birr. The tablet had been kept with evidence from the Kavanagh murder, which included Killowen Man, his clothing, and other effects. Dawson b
rought the tablet to the adjacent pathology lab where they could examine it under a microscope.
“I’ve been thinking about the stylus Shawn found at Killowen last April,” he said, placing the tablet gently on the scope’s stage and adjusting the angles of the lamps. “I spent hours looking at that thing under the magnifier at the Barracks. One side of it had a small flattened spot—not clear how it happened exactly, but it gave the thing a particular fingerprint. And with a material as impressionable as wax, it just might be possible to prove an association between the stylus and this tablet. Each stylus has a signature, and if there’s any way of identifying its mark—if there’s a flattened area on one side that could be identified on a microscopic level, for example—we might be able to say with a high degree of certainty that the stylus Shawn found was used on this tablet.” He peered through the lens, moving the tablet carefully across the stage to inspect each line of text.
Dawson’s voice took on an excited edge. “You’re not going to believe this. Take a look.”
Cormac leaned in and looked through the lens.
“Do you see it?” Dawson was almost dancing. “I had hoped, certainly, but never… can you see it?”
Cormac could see a distinctive flattened impression, repeated wherever the writer had made a mark upon the wax.
“No other stylus could make exactly the same mark. This is enormous.”
Cormac understood how Niall was feeling. That sudden, visceral connection with the person who wrote those words on the tablet, or left his mark on metal, his fingerprint in clay. No one talked much about the emotional fallout of these discoveries, rare glimpses so deep into the past. Staring at shapes graved into the wax, he suddenly saw how letters began, as animal signs and drawings on cave walls. The words before him still carried the horns of the ox, the sinuous curve of the serpent.
