The Book of Killowen ng-4

by Erin Hart

  Dawson began to pace in the narrow laboratory space. “I’m thinking Killowen Man must have been a rare specimen indeed, if he could read and write Greek. Must have been a scholar of some degree.” He was thinking aloud. “If we could get a better angle on the lighting, perhaps we could make out the words more clearly.” Cormac stepped back, and Dawson began adjusting the lamp to rake light across the surface of the wax. “Better be careful,” he muttered to himself. “Christ, that’s all I’d need right now, to melt this! Have you got the camera—”

  The door swung open to reveal Stella Cusack, with Detective Molloy behind her.

  “Mr. Dawson?” she said. And suddenly the tiny room seemed far too crowded. Niall looked up from the microscope, elation draining from his face.

  “Niall Dawson, I’m here to arrest you for the murder of Vincent Claffey. You are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so, but anything you say will be taken down in writing and may be given in evidence—”

  “What?” Dawson studied Cusack’s face as if there was some disconnect between it and the words issuing from her lips, and Molloy came around from behind, reaching for a pair of handcuffs from his belt.

  “Wait a minute, this can’t be right,” Dawson said, pulling his arm from the junior detective’s grip.

  Cormac turned to Stella Cusack. “What’s going on?”

  “I don’t suppose you can vouch for Mr. Dawson’s whereabouts two nights ago, between the hours of one and five A.M.?”

  “For Christ’s sake, Detective, we were all asleep,” Cormac said.

  Niall still held his left wrist aloft, as though doing so could stave off the inevitable.

  Molloy said, “If you would just come along, Mr. Dawson. It’s better for all of us if you don’t make a fuss.”

  “I’ll make a fuss. I’ll make a fuckin’ stink if I like,” Dawson said. “Because I haven’t murdered anyone. You can’t possibly have any evidence.”

  “What we have is an eyewitness who saw you kill Vincent Claffey,” Molloy said. “I’m afraid we’ve got to bring you in.”

  “What eyewitness? That’s impossible. Somebody’s lying.”

  Cusack replied, “If you’d just come with us, Mr. Dawson.”

  Niall’s shoulders sagged as he turned to Cormac. “Please be careful. That tablet is—”

  Cormac tried to reassure him. “I’ll make sure it’s safe.”

  “Could you take a few photos first?” Dawson asked. “Document that mark. It’s very important. I didn’t do this, Cormac, you’ve got to believe me.”

  “Do you want me to phone someone? Gráinne, or a lawyer? Anyone?”

  “No, don’t call my wife,” Dawson said. “Not yet. And there’s no need for a lawyer. I’m sure this will all blow over—it’s a misunderstanding, has to be.” At last he brought down his other wrist and submitted to being handcuffed. “It’s all a dreadful mistake.” He sounded as though he was trying to convince himself, and not succeeding.

  Cormac was left standing alone in the little laboratory, the microscope lens still focused on a string of words written a thousand years before.

  2

  Cormac sat at the lab bench, knowing he had to do something to help Niall, but what? Get past all the qualms he’d been feeling last night and actually do something, start digging. If Niall hadn’t killed Vincent Claffey—and Cormac believed he hadn’t—then someone else had, someone else who also had just as much in the way of motive. Claffey had threatened every person at that dinner table. He had something on all of them, it seemed.

  Cormac switched off the lamp. He should finish up here at the hospital and get back to the farm, talk things over with Nora.

  He told her about Niall’s arrest and about the shadows he had followed to the storehouse last night.

  “Cusack said she had a witness to Vincent Claffey’s murder?” Nora asked.

  “That’s what Detective Molloy said.”

  “But who would say such a thing, if it wasn’t true?”

  “Someone who wanted to deflect suspicion from himself, I’d imagine.”

  “Surely Cusack gets that. Maybe she’s just playing with the real suspect, making him think the heat’s off. Let’s wait a minute now. We haven’t stopped to put together all the facts.”

  “We can’t rule out the possibility of a conspiracy. Do you remember the way everyone at the table that night seemed to be in agreement about one thing—the need to protect Deirdre Claffey from her father?”

  “There did seem to be a general consensus.”

  “So maybe there was a similar pact about protecting Mairéad Broome from her husband.”

  Nora rubbed her arms. “Not a very comforting thought. I suppose it’s a good thing we’re out here where no one can hear us.”

  They were sitting on the ground in the middle of the open field above Killowen’s geothermal system, far from any possible eavesdropping. Joseph and Eliana were doing flash cards under the tree at the edge of the meadow, well out of earshot.

  “Claffey might have discovered who murdered Kavanagh, and the killer might have taken his threats the other night seriously,” Cormac said. “The cloven tongues and oak galls found in the victims’ mouths—those are the details tying the two murders together. Who would have known enough about Kavanagh’s murder except the person who put those galls down his throat?”

  “Or persons, if you’re sticking with your conspiracy theory. So what do we do next?”

  “Keep our eyes open, try to find out more about Kavanagh’s connections here at Killowen. And anything to do with Claffey’s blackmail schemes, manuscript smuggling. There’s definitely something strange going on at that storehouse. Conspiracy or no, I get the distinct feeling that everyone here knows more than they’re telling.”

  “What did you find out about the wax tablet?”

  “Niall thinks the impressions in the wax came from the stylus that Shawn Kearney found. The point of the stylus has a unique imperfection that makes a distinctive mark.”

  “You have photos?”

  Cormac pulled a memory card from his pocket. “Did you want a look?”

  “What would you think of printing off a few pictures and showing them to Martin Gwynne? He’s apparently worked with old manuscripts; maybe he could decipher the writing.”

  “Isn’t he one of our suspects?”

  “Of course he is, but at this point, who isn’t?”

  3

  Stella Cusack needed to speak to Anca Popescu once more. The girl claimed she had witnessed Vincent Claffey’s murder. Stella pulled into the drive at the safe house where she’d sent Anca and Deirdre Claffey and the baby, expecting to see the Guards officer she’d assigned to the door. No one there. The door was open, and she found the officer, Stephen Murray, tied to a chair in the kitchen. Stella felt no qualms about causing pain as she ripped the tape from his mouth. “Christ, Murray, what happened?”

  “That little one, the Romanian, she’s a right devil. I turned my back for one second, and the next thing you know, I’m trussed up here like a Christmas turkey, and they’re away in me car. Sorry, Stella, I know she was your witness.”

  “I’ll deal with you later. Which way did they go?”

  Murray pointed with his head. “East on the Mill Road, I think. They can pick up the N52 from there. They didn’t say anything about where they were going, like. Been gone about twenty minutes or so.”

  “What’s the number plate on the car?”

  Murray rattled off a Tipperary registration, and Stella got on her radio and put out a bulletin for all available cars to check the numbers on all Garda vehicles within a sixty-kilometer radius. She returned to Murray, still strapped to the chair, and cut the tape from around his arms and torso. “You can do the rest yourself,” she said, handing him the knife. “Then get back to the station and write up a report. Don’t leave anything out.”

  * * *

  Stella trudged back to her car. She’d had some serious doubts about Anca’s story
all along. Now she had a sinking feeling that it had only been a ploy to buy time. If Anca had been any way involved in Vincent Claffey’s death, she’d be deported straight back to Romania. The Immigration Ministry had no qualms about ejecting criminal offenders. The girl was running scared. She’d turn up; you could get only so far driving a Garda officer’s vehicle, especially with a baby. And petrol cost money. Stella suddenly realized that they’d never found the brown envelope that Claffey had received from Graham Healy. If Anca had taken it, she’d have enough to keep running for a while—but was it enough to leave the country? The way things were with the economy right now, you might easily find a fishing boat that would drop you on some faraway coastline for the right price. Stella couldn’t help thinking of the two girls, one the same age as Liadán, and the baby, and all the harm that had come to them already. She could only hope that they would be found again, and soon.

  Her thoughts returned to Kavanagh’s references in his note to a mysterious manuscript and the curiously few degrees of separation between the body in the boot and the residents of Killowen. Vincent Claffey’s gob full of gallnuts—it seemed a deliberate clue, perhaps a little too deliberate. There must be a logical order to all the disparate pieces of information they’d collected so far. She just had to figure out how they all lined up.

  Stella set out for the station. Dawson had started to tell her about the anonymous tip he’d received in April, about a mysterious ancient manuscript. Kavanagh’s handwritten notes flickered through her head: IOH returns to IRL, great work unfinished. What was the great work? Mairéad Broome said the initials IOH belonged to the object of her husband’s obsession, this ancient scholar Eriugena. This is going to rattle some bones, Kavanagh had told his wife.

  When she arrived at the makeshift incident room, Stella began scribbling notes on the whiteboard:

  IOH—great work unfinished

  Treasure hunters operating near Killowen—manuscript?

  Kavanagh here 18 mos earlier—notes on location of Faddan More

  Healy/Broome paying Claffey off

  Cregganroe?

  She stood back and took in the whole picture. Like the debris field after an explosion, there were fragments and bits of things all scattered and mixed together.

  “We need to know more about this Eriugena character,” she said to Molloy, who’d just come in. “What can you find out about him?”

  Molloy opened his laptop and tapped a few keys. “Let’s see, John Scottus Eriugena.” He went through the history as Stella scribbled a few notes. “Early details are sketchy. Most people think he died around 877, probably in France. They’re not sure whether or not he was a cleric.”

  “Anything there about his ‘great work’?”

  Molloy peered at his screen. “His major work was a philosophical treatise, Periphyseon—On the Division of Nature. Here’s something interesting—the last line mentions ‘recent discoveries of manuscripts.’”

  “How recent?”

  Molloy scrolled down to the bottom of the page. “Ah, this was written in 1909.”

  “No joy from Interpol?”

  “Nothing yet.”

  Stella spotted a fat interdepartmental courier envelope in the wire basket on a shelf behind Molloy’s head. “What’s that?”

  “Case file on the Cregganroe bombing you requested. Arrived this morning.” He reached for the file and handed it over. Stella shoved it in her bag; she’d have a look at it later.

  “What about Diarmuid Lynch? What do we know about him before he turned up at Killowen?”

  “He’s no driving license, which is a bit odd in itself. Says he had a passport but lost it when he got back from Spain. So I checked. Forty-six passports issued to people with the name Diarmuid Lynch over the past twenty-five years. The thing is, Stella, it’s just you and me on this case. We don’t have the manpower to track all these people down.”

  4

  Martin Gwynne was in his studio bent over a sheet of parchment when Cormac and Nora arrived at his door. Nora waited until the quill lifted from the calfskin before speaking. “Mr. Gwynne?” She pulled Cormac into the room after her. “We wondered if you would mind having a look at some photographs.”

  “What sort of photographs?” Gwynne said, apparently a little puzzled by the request.

  Cormac spoke this time. “We had a textile expert here going through our bog man’s garments, and we found this tucked inside his cloak.” He laid the printed photographs of the tablet on the table.

  Gwynne stared at the pictures, as if touching them might make the images evaporate. “My God, a wax tablet.” He proceeded to examine each photo in minute detail before turning to the next. “I’m sorry, where did you say this came from?”

  “Killowen Man’s cloak,” Cormac said. “He must have been carrying it when he went into the bog.”

  “When he was dumped into the bog,” Nora said. “After being stabbed to death.”

  “Is that right?” Gwynne seemed distracted, focused completely on the tablet images and not on his visitors or what they were saying.

  Nora said, “We were wondering if you could help us decipher the writing.”

  Gwynne looked up, as if suddenly aware that he was not alone. Cormac noted a twinge of melancholy—or was it regret?—that seemed to cloud the man’s features.

  “Yes, of course, I can try.” He cleared his throat and settled down to business, pulling his lighted magnifier closer, setting the pictures out in two short rows. He pored over each photo through the thick glass. “The language is Latin, as you probably recognized, with a few Greek words interspersed. The script is Irish majuscule, very like the Springmount tablets.” Gwynne reached for a sheet of paper and a pen. “Let’s see if we can work out what it says…” The nib of his pen began to move across the page, Latin words appearing in a fancy, ancient-looking hand:

  Si enim libertas naturae rationabilis ad imaginem Dei conditae a deo data est, necessario omne quod ex ipsa libertate evenit, malum seu malitia recte dici non potest

  Gwynne stopped writing and looked at the paper. “ ‘For if the freedom of a rational nature has been given by God, then necessarily all that from freedom comes—or has come to pass, evil or malice’—no, that’s not right—it’s ‘cannot rightly be called evil or malice.’”

  Cormac’s eyes were on Gwynne’s handwriting as well. “Definitely not Psalms, then. Any thoughts on what it might be?”

  Receiving no answer, he glanced at Gwynne to find his face completely blank, the pen tumbled from his hand, his eyes staring into the middle distance. The change in demeanor was so abrupt, and so extreme, that Cormac had to wonder whether something had gone wrong inside his brain. “Gwynne,” he said sharply. “Martin, are you all right?”

  All at once the eyes seemed to regain focus. “Yes, yes, quite all right. No, it’s not Psalms, you’re right about that.” He peered through the magnifier once more. “No, it’s something else entirely, but I’m not sure what. I’d be happy to hold on to these photos and keep working on them, if you like. It might take some time—I’m afraid my Latin has grown a bit rusty.”

  “Anything you can tell us would be helpful,” Cormac said.

  When they were out of earshot of the studio, Nora turned to Cormac. “I don’t suppose you would have noticed, since that was your first time in Gwynne’s workshop, but he’s gotten rid of the oak galls. There was a huge bowl on one of the side tables last time I was in the studio, and now they’re gone. Listen, one of us ought to spell Eliana for a while—I’ll take the first shift. What are you going to do?”

  The shadows he’d seen skulking about the storehouse last night lingered in Cormac’s brain. “There’s something I need to check out. I’ll catch up to you in a bit.”

  When Nora had gone, he made sure he was alone, then crossed the yard to the storehouse. The van was still parked out front. He glanced about once more and shaded his eyes to see in through one of the storehouse’s tiny windows. No one. Might be worth a look insi
de. He was just about to head for the door when Tessa Gwynne emerged from the forest path. He slipped quickly around the corner, hoping she hadn’t seen him. Tessa came straight for the storehouse and ducked in through the small doorway. Under cover of a vine, Cormac peered inside to see her looking through the items on the shelves, about two dozen packages, all neatly wrapped in brown paper. She seemed to be searching for a particular parcel. When she found it, she brought it down and pasted a Killowen Farmhouse Cheese label on top, then placed it in the basket she carried over her arm.

  Tessa Gwynne left the storehouse and crossed over to her husband’s studio. They both emerged a minute or two later, Martin climbing into the driver’s seat of the Killowen van.

  Cormac could hear Nora’s voice inside his head: What a perfect way to smuggle stolen goods—inside a wheel of cheese. We should at least see where they’re taking it.

  Cormac slipped behind the wheel of his jeep and headed down the driveway, careful to keep his distance.

  5

  Cormac checked his watch. Martin Gwynne was a careful driver, coming to a full stop at every crossroads, checking both ways before pulling out. Wherever the pair of them were headed, they didn’t seem in any hurry. The van cruised along a back road from the farm to the N52, followed that main road north for a bit, then turned onto a secondary road that led into the Slieve Bloom Mountains. At the twenty-six-kilometer mark, just past the village of Coolrain, they turned into the driveway of a big house with beautifully manicured grounds. Cormac hesitated at the gate, not wanting to make his presence known. He’d park outside and see if he could figure out what this place was. The sign at the gate said simply HAWTHORN HOUSE.