King of the Castle

by Heather Graham

  “I think we have everything you could want, Mrs. McHennessy,” the other woman told her, excited at the prospect of helping someone research a book. She led Kit to the rear wall, where the shelves were overstuffed. “Here are all our books about the early tribal invasions. This one is on the Firbolgs—legends say they came from Greece. Then there were the Tuatha De Danann, the Milesians—the family of Gaels who came. Here are the centuries following the birth of Christ. And there are at least ten different books on the old Brehon laws. Plus we have the Viking invasions, the Norman invasions, the Tudor years, Cromwell’s atrocities, James the Second in Ireland and the Battle of the Boyne. Down here are the wars with the British, the potato famine and the forming of the Free State.”

  “You do have everything!” Kit laughed.

  “Just about. Oh, I see a customer up front. Please, browse all you like, and if I can be of any assistance…”

  While Mrs. McNamara hurried to the front of the store, Kit simply stared at all the books. One from each section would start her off very well.

  She forced herself to begin with the bottom shelves first. Cromwell, she knew from her college thesis, had come down on Ireland like a deadly storm. She flipped open a book about him and grimaced as she read that he had ordered the burning of the priests’ hands before executing the tortured men.

  “Not a nice guy,” she murmured aloud. She started stacking books on the floor. She chose a beautiful book on the Sinn Fein, the Irish political party, and then one on the Tudor and Stuart influence on Ireland.

  How far back did she want to go?

  It didn’t matter what she wanted to do. She found herself piling up books on the Firbolgs, the Tuatha De Danann and the Milesians. With a stack of about twenty reference books piled in her arms, she walked to the front of the store.

  “I’m going to like having you as a customer!” Mrs. McNamara laughed.

  “Good,” Kit said with a smile. “Because if I get confused, I’ll feel free to call you.”

  Mrs. McNamara told Kit that her name was Julie, and that Kit was welcome to call her anytime. “Where are you staying?”

  “In Bailtree, at the moment,” Kit said.

  “Oh,” Julie murmured, a little disapproving. She gazed at Kit over the register as she rang up a book. “You’re sure you’re not a reporter?”

  Kit shook her head. “No, I’m not.”

  Julie shrugged. “Our small towns can be strange. You should be careful; we’ve just had a murder.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard about it.” Julie kept ringing up books, and Kit remained silent for a moment. “Do you actually think it’s dangerous for me to stay in the area?”

  Julie shrugged, watching the figures on the register. “Well, they haven’t caught the murderer yet.”

  Kit pretended to study a book cover. “Then you don’t seem to think that…the fiancé did it?”

  “Justin O’Niall? Never,” Julie said steadfastly.

  Kit felt herself smiling and she wanted to kick herself. No, she wanted to kick Justin. Why was she so pleased that this young woman believed in his innocence? “Why do you say that?” she finally asked.

  “There never was any evidence against him. And his housekeeper swore that he was sitting at his desk the whole time.”

  “I hear they’re comparing the murder to one from a few years ago,” Kit said slowly.

  “Oh, aye, Mary Browne,” Julie said dismissively. “They never did solve that one. And some tried to pin that one on Justin, too. All because she’d been running around saying that baby of hers was his. I tell you, none of us believed that for a second!”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it just couldn’t be,” Julie said after a moment. “You’d have to know us better to understand, I suppose,” she said ruefully. “It just wouldn’t be Justin’s style. Oh, he has a temper, and he has an incredible way with women—but he’s the O’Niall, you see.” She offered Kit a dimpled smile. “He owns almost everything around here, as his father did. And everyone reveres him. It’s almost inbred, you see. I know this sounds archaic, but…the people honor the O’Niall, and the O’Niall takes care of the people. Justin is always there for everyone. When the harvest is bad, he feeds those who are starving.” She lifted her hands, trying to explain. “If a boy deserves to go on to college, but there’s no money—the O’Niall provides.”

  “It sounds as if he has a champion in you, Julie. I take it that you know him.”

  “Oh, aye! I was madly in love with him for years. He was everything to me. Tall, dark, handsome, vaguely mysterious and all-powerful. And sexy as hell.”

  “And you never…?”

  Julie laughed. “No, he never. And that’s why I’m so sure about Mary Browne. Justin has had his flings, but never with the young village lasses. He plays hard, but only with hard players, like that Susan Accorn. Do you see?”

  “I think so.”

  “Anyway, if you’re still interested in the murders, take a trip over to the library. They’ve all the newspaper reports on microfilm.”

  “Thanks,” Kit murmured. “Maybe I’ll do that.” She picked up her box of books, straining to manage its weight, then nodded to Julie. There was no ‘maybe’ about it; she knew she was going to the library.

  The young man at the library wasn’t as cordial as Julie McNamara had been. He seemed to disapprove of Americans snooping through Irish newspapers, but whatever his attitude, he still steered Kit in the right direction.

  She had no difficulty finding articles on the murder of Susan Accorn, since it was very recent history, and these stories told her much more than the Times had. She learned that Susan Accorn’s body had been naked when found, but the coroner had reported that there had been no sign of rape or sexual abuse. There was talk of the family’s fury, and of their determination to send private detectives in to ascertain if the Irish were really doing all they could.

  It was apparent that the Irish authorities had resented such an insult. The Accorns had almost accused Constables Liam O’Grady of Shallywae and Barney Canail of Bailtree of being bumbling idiots, determined to obstruct justice rather than uphold it.

  The words on the microfilm blurred before Kit’s eyes. It seemed as if the reporters really did want to hang Justin, but she knew he was innocent, just as Julie did. In that case, though, someone else had to be a murderer.

  Kit began searching through the files again, watching the past slip by until she had gone back eight years.

  Michael’s death was there in black and white. “American Man Plunges to Death from Cliff.” It was a sad story, telling about Michael’s yearning to come to Ireland and how it had caused his tragic demise. Kit was mentioned as the “grieving child-widow.”

  She didn’t stare at the story for long; it hurt too badly.

  She went on until she found all the articles on Mary Browne’s murder. Understandably, she hadn’t paid much attention at the time.

  She inhaled sharply and held her breath when she came to the description of the dead girl’s body. Mary Browne had also been found naked—but once again, though her throat had been slit from ear to ear, there had been no evidence of rape or sexual abuse. No motive had ever been found for her murder, and although the case was still officially open, reading between the lines assured Kit that the police had decided she had been murdered by a roving lunatic. No doubt the man was behind bars in an asylum now, locked away for other crimes.

  Kit glanced at her watch and saw that the time had passed quickly. If she didn’t get moving, she wouldn’t be back when Douglas dropped Michael off after school.

  Despite his rather abrupt attitude, Kit went to thank the young librarian who had helped her. While they spoke, she noticed that a small crowd had gathered at the far end of the library, behind a display wall.

  “What’s going on?” Kit asked.

  “We’ve a few things on loan from the museum in Dublin,” he replied absently as he checked in a pile of books. “You might want to have a look, if
you’re interested in history. One of the local ladies is giving a bit of a tour.”

  She knew she was already running late, but the lure was too strong. Kit decided she would take a quick glance, then hurry back to Bailtree.

  The crowd was grouped around a young woman who was describing each article on display. In one case there was a mannequin with fierce features elaborately painted on its face. The clothing was obviously authentic, shredded and torn by time, and the figure carried a huge battle-ax, which turned out not to be surprising, since Kit quickly ascertained that this was intended to be the great Brian Boru.

  Kit forgot the time and listened with interest, following along with the group.

  There were an assortment of figures dressed in remnants from the ages. Ladies from the eight-hundreds; royal princesses of Tara, decked in gold trim and furs. All sorts of additional items, like combs, purses and hairpieces, were on display, as well. It was wonderful. Kit dragged her notebook out of her bag and began jotting things down. Then the crowd shifted, and she looked up.

  She felt as if a cold breeze had suddenly risen. The guide’s voice faded, and all Kit could see was the last display case, at the end of the corridor, isolated and alone.

  There was a dummy, she was certain, beneath the clothing, but no features had been painted on it. They weren’t necessary. The figure was wrapped in a cloak, which had been faded brownish green by time, but undoubtedly it had once been pitch-black. The figure wore a mask, with horns like those of a huge goat. It was the same tarnished color as the cloak, but little splotches of red and gold remained to hint at how it had once been painted. The eyes were empty, slanted pits, hollow caverns that were the essence of something evil. Of promised malevolence…

  She had seen a picture of the goat-god once, in Michael’s book. And in her nightmares she had seen him a thousand times since.

  But here, now, he seemed so real! She started to tremble, feeling her throat constrict. A shaft of cold seemed to run along her spine.

  “…from two hundred B.C. through the early centuries after Christ’s birth. The goat was, to our ancestors, a creature of fertility. Fertility for the harvest, without which they could not survive. Fertility for their race. Prisoners of war were often used as sacrifices, but to be the bride of the goat-god was considered a great honor. The chosen woman would bear a child who would become the ‘god’ for the succeeding generation. That her own blood was to be shed meant little—the sacrifice of her life to feed mother earth and the child it must cherish was also a privilege. Nor were such rites unique to our shores….”

  The young woman was still talking, but Kit didn’t want to hear any more. She dropped her pencil, but she didn’t even notice as she walked hurriedly away from the library.

  By the time she reached her car she felt as if her sanity had come back to her. It had been ridiculous to be so frightened by a costumed mannequin. Okay, so she’d had a few nightmares about such a mask, but she had a vivid imagination, which, it seemed, was determined to run amok when she slept. It all made perfect sense, psychiatrically speaking. She had been very young when Michael died, and just before his death he had been talking about ancient rites and sacrifices. Of course that conversation would be embedded somewhere deep in her subconscious.

  And, embarrassing as it was to admit, she had felt a deep sexual attraction the first time she had seen Justin O’Niall on the cliffs. She’d taken classes in human behavior. It had been unacceptable to her moral sense to recognize that attraction for what it was, so she had made it into something diabolical to excuse what had happened.

  It wasn’t until she had almost reached the old farmhouse that she was struck by another thought. She might have been young, she might have been confused, hurt and alone, but even taking into consideration Justin’s care and kindness, as well as his electric attraction, she had loved Michael deeply. No matter what her attraction to Justin had been, she would never have jumped into bed with him at that point, or even a year later. She had been drugged. She didn’t know why; nothing she could think of made any sense. But it had happened. She knew it—and now she knew that Justin knew it, too.

  She was late.

  Kit saw Douglas’s car parked by the roadside. She parked beside it and hopped out, then rushed to the farmhouse. But before she could enter, she heard laughter coming from the back. Mike’s laughter. She hurried around the house.

  Mike and Douglas were there, and so were Jamie and Barney Canail. Mike was laughing because Douglas was on the ground, struggling to retrieve a rubber ball from Sam the sheepdog’s teeth.

  Barney Canail saw her first. “Afternoon, Mrs. McHennessy,” he called out.

  She waved to the group, then started walking toward them apologizing. “I’m so sorry I’m late. The time—”

  “Kit McHennessy!” Douglas laughed, his grin charmingly boyish. “Y’er not but five minutes late, and havin’ Mike here has been the pleasure of our day!”

  “Aye, old Sam’s day, fer sure,” Barney agreed, bending to scratch the dog’s ears. “Was yer trip profitable?” he asked.

  As Kit gazed into his watery green eyes, she wondered if the question meant more than the obvious. It was almost as if he had been expecting her to find something out. Something that concerned a lot more than history.

  “Very profitable. Thanks so much for the tip.” Maybe Barney had known that Julie McNamara would send her to the library, she thought, and maybe he had known that the goat-god would be on display.

  She was letting her imagination run wild. There was very little she could do about her dreams, but she refused to think so hysterically in broad daylight.

  “Mike,” she asked, “how did you like school? What did you study?”

  “A lot of math. I was good at it. Really. Ask Mr. Johnston!”

  Kit ruffled his hair and smiled at Douglas.

  “He was an excellent student. The others loved havin’ him. He taught the class all about New York City.”

  “Well, now that yer back, lass,” Barney Canail said, grimacing a little as he struggled back to his feet, “Jamie and me were thinkin’ of headin’ in fer a pint.”

  “Mom’s taking me to the cliffs,” Mike told them.

  “’Tis a beautiful day fer a walk,” Douglas said. “Ye’ll have a grand time, boy.” He turned to Kit again. “Would you like me to pick him up again tomorrow mornin’?”

  “I…that’s a lot to ask of you.”

  “I don’t mind. ’Tis no trouble. Really.”

  For a minute Kit felt uncomfortable, as if control was slipping from her grasp. As if an unseen force were sinking cold talons into her shoulders. Then she realized how ridiculous that was. “Thank you, Douglas. That would be great,” she said.

  “Then I’ll see ye agin in the morning’, lad,” Doug said cheerfully. He nodded to Kit, waved to Jamie and Barney and whistled as he walked around the corner of the house.

  Mike began tugging at her arm. “Can we go to the cliffs now, Mom? You promised.”

  “Yes, Mike, we can go now.” She glanced at Barney and Jamie. Were they watching her peculiarly? “I guess we’ll see you in town later,” she murmured.

  “Aye, most likely. Have a nice time, now,” Barney said.

  Her smile felt strained as she waved again and followed Douglas Johnston’s trail around the house. His little Datsun was already gone.

  Mike crawled eagerly into the car, chattering away about the kids at the school. Kit answered him in monosyllables, which were the only replies he seemed to need.

  The drive seemed short—too short. And no amount of logic could keep her heart from feeling heavy.

  Nothing had changed. Nothing.

  Down the rutted and twisted road stood the cottage, whitewashed, thatch-roofed. Wildflowers were there in abundance, and, beyond the cottage, high grass and bracken grew in passionate disorder, waving and flattening with the wind like an ocean of green and mauve and shimmering blue. Far to the left and right, sweeping downward into the fertile vall
eys, were the forests, shadowed, intriguing, beckoning her to come explore their secrets.

  Where the greenery ended, the cliffs began. High, sheer, strewn with rocks and pebbles, they dropped to the sea below. The sky, which was a dismal gray and filled with capricious clouds, stretched above. Kit knew that she could look down and watch the sea pounding against the rocks. The spray would rise, crystalline, catching whatever sun escaped through the roiling clouds. The roar of the waves would rise to mingle with the whine of the wind; seabirds would shriek, and it would be as it had been eight years ago.

  As it had been centuries ago.

  Kit hadn’t realized that she had already parked the car along the road that led to the cottage. She was sitting with her hands folded together, clamped hard in her lap, and she was shivering. She had forgotten how much colder it could be along the cliffs.

  “Mom?”

  She glanced at Justin, who was staring at her with curiosity and concern.

  “Can we get out now?”

  “Sure. I was just…cold. Are you sure your jacket is warm enough?”

  “Yeah. I’m plenty warm.”

  Kit nodded and stepped outside, vaguely hearing Mike’s door slam shut. She hadn’t closed her own door. She was hanging on to it, staring out at the cottage—and the cliffs beyond.

  It had been nighttime when she had come here that first time. The wind had been vicious, the sky pitch-black, except for a full moon that cast glowing light and mysterious shadow. It was a place that seemed to have a life of its own, sometimes lonely and forlorn and brooding, sometimes wild and menacing, as if it were waiting to trap the unwary….

  Watching…

  Always she had a sense of being watched, as if the rocks and the distant trees had eyes, as if they lived and breathed and watched her every move….

  Kit gave herself a little shake. She was giving a personality to a pile of rock, and that was ridiculous. She had never been afraid of the cliffs. She had walked along them often after Michael had died.

  She closed her door and started walking now, shoving her hands into the pockets of her pants. “You coming?” she asked Mike.