Secrets of the Lighthouse

by Santa Montefiore

  ‘Ah, cake,’ Ellen exclaimed hungrily, glancing at Jack who was perched on his usual chair. ‘I’m surprised that bird hasn’t scoffed the lot,’ she said to Ronan.

  ‘He knows he’ll be shooed away,’ Ronan replied. ‘It’s good. Have a slice.’

  Ellen cut herself some cake and Peg set about making a fresh pot of tea.

  ‘So, I suppose those boys took you to the pub for lunch?’ said Peg, sitting down again with the pot and a mug for her niece.

  ‘Yes, I met Dylan Murphy,’ she replied, watching her aunt carefully.

  ‘Oh, Dylan. He’s a character,’ Peg replied, giving nothing away.

  Ellen decided to come straight to the point. ‘He loved Mum, didn’t he?’ Peg paused the flow of tea. For a moment she seemed lost for words. ‘I could tell. He was staring at me with these big, sad eyes.’

  ‘Trying to find your mother in your face, no doubt,’ said Peg, pouring again.

  ‘So, what’s his story?’

  ‘Dylan? I suppose there’s nothing wrong with telling you the truth. It was a long time ago now. This will be new to you, too, Ronan.’ She poured milk into her cup and stirred it thoughtfully. ‘Dylan grew up with all of us, but he always loved Maddie the most. She loved him for a time, too. But then she met your father and, well, the rest is history, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s a history I’d like to know,’ Ellen persisted. Peg sighed and helped herself to another slice of cake. Ellen thought she did so out of nervousness. ‘Please, Aunt Peg. I think I have a right to know, now I’m here. If you don’t tell me, someone else will, eventually.’

  ‘Very well. The truth is that she was engaged to Dylan when she met your father.’

  Ellen was astonished. ‘She was going to marry Dylan?’

  Ronan looked as surprised as his cousin. ‘Get a load of that!’ he exclaimed, his serious face breaking into a smirk. ‘Old Dylan Murphy, the dark horse.’

  ‘He was very handsome when he was younger, you know.’ Peg smiled at her niece. ‘A lot of women think he’s even more handsome now. He’s never married, probably because he still holds a candle for your mam. Poor old Martha has the patience of Jove and she’s a good woman. He’d do well to marry her, but I’m not sure he’ll ever let your mother go.’

  ‘No wonder he looked at me like he did.’

  ‘We all assumed she’d walk up the aisle with Dylan. They were so well suited, like a pea and a pod. They were both bohemian and creative. But then she met your father.’

  ‘How? What was he doing over here?’

  ‘He was spending the summer with the Martins, who used to own the castle.’

  ‘He was staying up at the castle? The same castle I visited today?’

  ‘The very same. Conor Macausland bought it off Peter Martin. It nearly killed the poor man, having to sell it. The Martins had owned it for generations, you know. But Peter had a building business that hit some trouble and he ran out of money. They moved to Australia, of all places. I suppose to put as much distance between them and Ballymaldoon Castle as they possibly could.’

  ‘How weird! To think that my parents met here and I never knew.’

  ‘Where did you think they met?’ Ronan asked.

  It was at that moment that Ellen realized her parents had lied to her. ‘Scotland,’ she replied quietly. ‘Mum said they met at a shooting party in Scotland.’

  ‘As if your mother would have been at a shooting party,’ Peg scoffed, nearly spilling her tea. ‘Really, I know she always had aspirations of grandeur, but to suggest she was living that kind of life is ridiculous, to say the least. She’d never set a foot out of Ireland!’

  ‘Did you even know she was Irish?’ Ronan asked.

  Ellen felt herself bristle. Ronan was looking at her with an incredulous expression on his face, as if he thought her a simpleton for having been so gullible. ‘Of course I knew she was Irish, but she’s never really talked about Ireland. She only ever mentioned you, Peg, and never when she thought we were listening. If I asked about the past, she’d purse her lips and change the subject. We knew not to probe and to be honest, we weren’t really very interested. Was it really considered so terrible to run off with an English Protestant, Aunt Peg?’

  Peg toyed with her teacup thoughtfully. ‘I don’t think it was the fact that your father was an English Protestant that was the problem,’ she began slowly. ‘It was the fact that she was meant to be walking down the aisle with Dylan. One day she was planning her wedding, the next she was packing her bag and leaving in haste.’

  ‘So she really did elope?’

  ‘I’m afraid she did.’ She hesitated, as if she knew something she wasn’t willing to divulge, and then added quietly: ‘She was carrying on with your father behind Dylan’s back. It wasn’t kind, considering how devoted he was to her. That’s why she didn’t come back. Because she felt guilty,’ she said firmly.

  ‘But to feel guilty for over thirty years is a little dramatic.’

  Peg seemed keen to close the subject. ‘She chose a different life, pet. She married a rich man, started a new life and didn’t want to have anything to do with her old one, and that’s all there is to it.’

  Ellen was mortified. ‘Was she ashamed of you?’

  ‘I think so,’ Peg replied softly. ‘I don’t think we were good enough for her. She had aspirations, did Maddie. She was always going to be a princess, one way or another. She didn’t want the life Dylan offered her. She wanted something better and the minute the opportunity arose, she grabbed it, regardless of breaking poor Dylan’s heart. Don’t forget she was very beautiful and beguiling, Ellen. She had only to click her fingers and the men would be down on one knee, offering her the world if they could get it.’ Peg bit off a piece of cake. ‘I suppose she got the world.’

  ‘But to not include you all in our lives is so selfish.’

  ‘I’m afraid Maddie was always rather a selfish girl.’

  ‘It’s so unfair,’ said Ellen passionately. ‘I wish I had known you my whole life.’

  Peg’s face softened. ‘That’s very sweet of you, pet. But don’t get emotional. Your mother did what she felt was best, and you and your sisters have done all right, haven’t you? But now you’ve found us, you’ve really gone and put the cat among the pigeons. Lord knows what she’ll do when she finds out.’ Peg looked anxious. ‘Don’t you be letting on to her that I’ve gone and told you the whole story!’

  ‘Of course not. You have my word. But it makes me so cross. I don’t ever want to go back.’

  Peg gave her a stern look. ‘Then you’ll be just as bad as your mother.’ Ellen realized that, in fleeing from her own wedding, she already was.

  ‘Poor Dylan,’ she said sadly. She took a sip of tea. She’d been talking so much it was almost cold.

  ‘Let me give you another cup,’ Peg suggested, getting up. ‘You know, people are the sum of their experiences. It’s easy to see why Dylan took to the booze when you consider his past. He was a very happy boy growing up, but Maddie broke his heart. He never recovered. He was desperately hurt. He’s had a sadness about him ever since. I think his life has been a big disappointment.’

  Ronan’s face crumpled into a frown. ‘I never knew that, Mam. Poor sod! It’s a brutal thing to love and lose like that.’

  ‘What does he do?’ Ellen asked.

  ‘He’s a songwriter. He’s very talented. Such a shame he turned to the bottle because I think he could have really made something out of his life. He used to have a band, you know. It was quite successful once, in Ireland at least.’ Peg laughed. ‘Hard to imagine now, isn’t it? He plays the guitar and sings.’ Ellen wondered whether her mother’s decision not to give her guitar lessons had had anything to do with Dylan.

  ‘And now he props up the bar,’ interjected Ronan sadly. ‘Poor sod!’ he repeated. ‘I always thought he was a bit of a joke. What an eejit!’

  ‘Don’t be hard on yourself, Ronan. You weren’t to know.’ She turned to Ellen. ‘He wrote for himself
in the beginning, but then he stopped performing, so he wrote for other bands,’ she continued. ‘You’d be amazed if you knew some of the big stars who sing his songs. He had great success with one or two ballads. If you give me a moment, I’m sure I could hum them.’

  ‘What do you do, Ronan?’ Ellen asked, noticing that he was very quiet and wanting to bring him into the conversation.

  ‘I’m a carpenter,’ he replied defensively, challenging her with a look.

  ‘Don’t be defensive, Ronan,’ chided his mother. ‘There’s nothing wrong with being a carpenter. You’re a very good carpenter. He can do anything with wood, anything at all. You look at all those fancy pictures of kitchens in magazines and Ronan can copy any one of them. You’d never know the difference. He’s very talented.’

  ‘She would say that, wouldn’t she?’ He rolled his eyes, looking uncomfortable.

  ‘He did a lot of work for Caitlin Macausland up at the castle.’

  At the mention of Caitlin’s name Ronan’s face grew dark and sulky. ‘Yes, well, that was a long time ago. I’ve done plenty of stuff since.’

  ‘Ronan doesn’t like to be tied down,’ Peg continued, to her son’s embarrassment. ‘He likes to work for himself, when it suits him.’

  ‘Being self-employed is a real privilege,’ said Ellen, wanting Ronan to smile again. ‘I’m trying to be a writer. I’ve just spent the last six years of my life working in the marketing department of a jewellery company in London and I hate being chained to an office from nine to five. I try so hard to be on time but I’m late every morning. I’d do anything to be my own boss like you.’

  ‘So, what have you written?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing very good yet, but I’m hoping to be inspired down here.’

  ‘She can base a story around the castle and the lighthouse,’ Peg suggested.

  ‘Why?’ he asked.

  ‘Because they’re surrounded by mystery,’ his mother answered.

  ‘Do you want to write a murder mystery?’ he asked Ellen.

  ‘Now that’s enough, Ronan!’ Peg exclaimed crossly. ‘I don’t want to hear any of your nonsense on that subject. I wish I hadn’t brought it up.’

  ‘Because there’s one hell of a story for you here.’

  Ellen interrupted. ‘Oh, I’m not going to write their story. Goodness, I know nothing about it. I simply find the ruined lighthouse and castle romantic.’

  ‘Not a lot of romance there, I don’t think,’ he said, chuckling cynically. ‘The two of them were at each other’s throats like a pair of rats.’

  ‘Now why speak of them like that, Ronan? You were once full of admiration for her,’ said Peg.

  ‘I saw her portrait today. She was very beautiful, wasn’t she?’ Ellen commented.

  Ronan cut himself a slice of cake. ‘But that counts for nothing now she’s dead,’ he said.

  Ellen put down her mug. ‘Tell me, why did he take everything out of the castle and leave only that painting? Why would he do that? Wouldn’t he want to take the painting with him?’

  Ronan sighed impatiently. ‘Perhaps it’s too big to put up in his house? I don’t know. What does it matter?’

  ‘I’m curious. I mean, why not pack it away? But to leave it in the house is spooky, isn’t it? It’s like she’s still there.’

  ‘I don’t know, Ellen, and I don’t care,’ he replied gruffly.

  Peg smiled at her son indulgently. ‘Don’t mind Ronan, Ellen, he’s just tired of it all.’

  ‘Spend a little more time here and you’ll tire of it all, too, I promise you,’ said Ronan. ‘It’s all anyone can talk about, still!’ He bit into the cake and chewed vigorously.

  Now Peg nodded in agreement. ‘Well, you’re right about that, Ronan. Five years on and they’re still talking about it. Mind you, it’s hard not to when the lighthouse is sitting in front of their noses as a constant reminder.’

  ‘Is that why you don’t go to the pub, Aunt Peg?’ Ellen asked. ‘Because you’re sick of the gossip?’

  ‘No, I don’t go to the pub because I like to keep myself to myself,’ she replied tightly. ‘Why don’t you take Ellen, Ronan? Joe said he would, but I’ll tell him you’ve already gone. You can introduce her to the rest of the family.’

  He looked at his cousin quizzically, raising an eyebrow. ‘Do you think you’re ready for an overdose of Byrnes?’

  ‘I don’t know. I might be happier staying here playing cards with Oswald and Aunt Peg.’

  ‘You said you don’t play cards, pet, and there’s no television. So, you might as well go with Ronan. He’ll look after you, won’t you, Ronan?’

  ‘You’ll be just grand,’ he said, but he still hadn’t given her a smile. Ellen hoped she could coax one out of him in the Pot of Gold. ‘I have to drop my tools off at home first,’ he said, getting up. ‘If you don’t mind stopping by at mine then I’ll take you.’

  ‘I don’t mind at all,’ said Ellen, compensating for his sulkiness by being overenthusiastic. ‘I’d love to see where you work.’

  ‘Oh, Ronan’s workshop is a treasure trove,’ Peg gushed.

  ‘Yes, Mam, like Michelangelo’s!’ he retorted, but when he looked at her his face softened and one corner of his lips grinned reluctantly.

  Chapter 7

  It didn’t take long to drive to Ronan’s cottage. Positioned between his mother’s and Ballymaldoon, it had the same spellbinding view of the sea. He pulled up his van in front of the house and hauled his heavy toolbox out of the back. ‘You can come and have a look if you want,’ he said to Ellen. ‘My workshop is round the back.’ She followed him along a path that cut through the long grasses and weeds to the end of a very unkempt garden. The light was fading now, the early stars twinkling in the darkening sky like distant boats approaching through mist. The air was damp and chilly and a sharp wind blew in off the sea. Ellen pulled the coat she had borrowed from her aunt tightly across her body and shivered.

  Ronan’s workshop was a large wooden shed, built up against a high grassy bank. It looked unremarkable from the outside, yet when he opened the door and switched on the lights, Ellen realized that this was indeed a treasure trove as Peg had said. Rows of tools hung in neat racks on the walls, planks of wood lay in tidy piles, strange machines rose out of mounds of wood shavings and a sturdy workbench was positioned in the middle of the room with various tools slotted into ingenious, tailor-made slots. That in itself was like a work of art. She ran her fingers along the surface, marvelling at the cleverness of design. ‘You invented this, didn’t you?’ she said and he must have detected the admiration in her voice, for he put down his toolbox and began to show her around.

  ‘Necessity is the mother of invention,’ he told her. ‘So, I’ve made things along the way for my own use, as I’ve needed them, to make my work more efficient.’

  ‘Your mother is right, you really can fashion anything out of wood.’

  ‘Oh, this is nothing. This is just my workplace,’ he replied. ‘Would you like to see my portfolio?’

  ‘I’d love to,’ she replied, watching the pride turn his cheeks pink as he pulled out a large black book of photographs from behind his desk and brushed the dust off with his fingers. ‘I don’t show it very often, as everyone knows me here and most of my jobs come by word of mouth. But I keep a record of everything I’ve made, for my sake more than anything else. I’m fond of them, I suppose.’ At that, he finally smiled. Ellen felt her spirits rise on it, like a glider on a thermal. They sat at the workbench and Ronan showed her all his commissions. There were complete kitchens and bathrooms, a child’s Wendy house, dressers, tables and chairs.

  ‘How did you learn to do this?’ she asked, taking a closer look at the intricate heart carvings in the shutters of the playhouse.

  ‘Well, my uncle Ryan has a building company and his carpenter, Lee, is a wizard with wood. He taught me everything.’

  ‘You were apprenticed?’

  ‘For eight years. Then Lee retired and I worked for Ryan, then
set up on my own. I had made a name for myself by then.’

  Ellen turned the page and instantly recognized a bench by the castle lake. ‘Ah, this must have been for Caitlin Macausland.’ She felt him stiffen beside her. ‘It’s a lovely bench,’ she added, hastily. She soon realized, as she turned the pages, that Ronan had made her more than just a bench. There was a seat that encircled a tree, a pentagon-shaped summer house, a swing chair, a garden gate and cold frames in the vegetable garden. ‘Goodness, you’re prolific. I bet you didn’t have time to work for anyone else when you were working for her.’

  He nodded. ‘That’s true. She gave me the chance to make things most carpenters only dream about.’

  ‘You must have known her very well,’ she murmured without thinking. Then, remembering his earlier reaction to the subject, she added, ‘I’m sorry. I know how sick you are of the whole business.’

  ‘I’m sick of the lies, Ellen,’ he replied, to her surprise, then took a deep breath. ‘Everybody claims to know something, but they know nothing. There are only two people who know what really happened that night at the lighthouse. One won’t talk and the other can’t.’

  ‘So, if you don’t know anything either, how come you’re so sure he killed her?’ she asked, smiling to make light of her comment. ‘Aren’t you just as bad as everyone else?’

  He inhaled through dilated nostrils. ‘I knew her and I know that she was frightened of him. He has one hell of a temper on him. I think he’d be capable of anything, in a fit of anger.’

  ‘So, we’re not talking about murder then?’

  ‘Well, if you’re going to nit-pick, call it manslaughter. But he killed her one way or another.’

  ‘But you don’t really know.’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ he agreed, grudgingly. Then, without being able to find anything more substantial on which to base his opinion, he closed the book. ‘But he’s to blame, all right. I’d bet my life on it,’ he added resolutely, and Ellen deduced from the hardening of his profile that he wanted to believe it. She wondered whether there was a man in Ballymaldoon who wasn’t a little in love with Caitlin. ‘I don’t know about you, but I need a drink,’ he said, getting up. He replaced the portfolio behind his desk and switched off the lights.