Erin Hart - Lake of Sorrows

Nora said, “But from what Quill said out on the bog, it sounded as if he’d kept pressure on Dominic Brazil all these years. Dominic never broke, because he didn’t know where the collar was. But Quill didn’t know that for certain. He couldn’t risk killing the person who was his only possible lead. But when Danny Brazil turned up, Quill knew exactly who was responsible. He must have heard enough about Danny’s body to assume it was a triple death, and he made sure that his victims’ wounds matched Danny’s—maybe to throw you off, or maybe because he felt some attraction to the method, some connection to the idea of sacrifice. I think in some strange way, it pleased him to see the ritual angle being pursued.”

“All of this was buried for so long. What opened it up again?” Cormac asked.

“I suppose you could think of Ursula as the catalyst,” Nora said. “When Danny Brazil’s body turned up, she started investigating rumors about gold in the Loughnabrone hoard, and eventually she found the drawing. She knew it was a key to finding the collar, but she needed Quill’s help to decipher it.”

“The map wouldn’t make sense to anyone who didn’t know the area,” Ward said, “but to someone who’d been here dozens of times, as Quill had, it made perfect sense. He could see the lakeshore and the nine hives, and the inscription provided another clue. The bees made a nice protective shield. Who would think to look underneath a hive?”

Cormac pulled at his ear, puzzled. “I understand the whole connection between Quill and the Brazils, but what I can’t understand is how Ursula managed to figure it out.”

“Sometimes it’s just a tiny thing,” said Nora. “Ursula must have seen the same photograph that I saw hanging in Owen Cadogan’s office, showing the Brazils with their discovery. Desmond Quill was in the picture too; you couldn’t see his face, but he was wearing a tiepin that he still wore all these years later—a pretty distinctive triskelion. It took me a while to put my finger on where I’d seen it before. Once you start thinking about it, Quill is quite recognizable in the picture—something in the way he holds himself, that upright bearing. I can’t explain it beyond that, really.” It remained a small twist of fate, she thought, a mystery that would probably never be solved. She turned her attention to Ward. “No word on Teresa Brazil?”

“No, not a word,” Ward said. “No body turned up in the Brazil house, as you’ve probably heard by now. It’s as if she vanished into the air. The fire investigators tell me all the oxygen tanks and the gas taps on the cooker had been left open. All it took was one spark from the oil burner to set it off. Have you ever seen the aftermath of a gas explosion? The house was completely leveled. Nothing left.”

Nora had not mentioned to anyone how the explosion had transformed the sequence of events—how Quill’s attention turning to the Brazils’ house as it was blown to bits had given her one last chance to fight back. Or how the resulting conflagration had brought the fire brigade so quickly, and ultimately saved Brona’s life. All that, and more besides, they owed to Teresa Brazil. She had saved them both by destroying the lie she had lived for so long. Nora imagined her leaving the house, pulling the door shut to the hiss of gas escaping.

“Will you be staying the rest of the summer, then?” Ward asked.

Nora looked over at Cormac before answering. “That’s another thing we wanted to mention. I’m headed back to Dublin tomorrow, for the postmortem on the Loughnabrone bog man.”

“What is it you hope to find out from him?” Ward asked. He sounded genuinely curious.

“We look for a rough date and cause of death, any pathologies, and explanations for anything that does turn up. For my own research, I’m looking for a better understanding of what happens to preserve a body in a bog. We may be able to analyze his stomach contents, and that can tell us a lot about his diet and about social conditions at the time. I’m sure he’ll stir up a whole chorus of new debate about sacrifice. We look for all the same things you look for in investigating a crime, I suppose—who and how, but most of all why. It all comes down to human motivation in the end.”

“And what about you, Dr. Maguire? Is that your sort of thing as well?”

Cormac’s face darkened, and he glanced at Nora. “Normally it would be, but I won’t be able to go. I’ve just had a call from the woman who looks in on my father. She says he’s not doing very well at the moment, so I’m heading up there tomorrow. I’m sorry, Nora.”

Ward put his hands on his knees and stood up, his curly head nearly touching the low ceiling. “I’d better be off.”

He lifted his raincoat from the chair and turned toward the door, but Nora stopped him.

“Did we answer your question, Detective Ward? When you arrived you said you had a question for us.”

“Oh, yes—I almost forgot. It’s this,” he said, reaching into his breast pocket and pulling out a small black-and-white photograph, which he showed to each of them in turn. The picture showed a dark-eyed young woman in a peasant blouse. She was looking back at the camera over her left shoulder, and her eyes held the photographer in a frank and playful gaze. The immediate impression was one of luminous youth and startling intimacy. “Do either of you recognize this woman?” Ward asked.

“Yes, of course,” Cormac said. “I’m surprised you don’t know her yourself. It’s Evelyn McCrossan, the woman who owns this house. It’s an old photograph, though. She’s over sixty now.”

“The name on the back here is Evelyn Fitzgerald.”

“That was her family name, before she married,” Cormac said. “Where did you get this picture?”

“From a locked drawer in a desk at Desmond Quill’s house in Dublin. There were nearly a hundred photographs of the same woman—some taken a long time ago, like this one, and dozens taken more recently. Some were dated in the past few months.” The chill that had fingered Nora’s spine returned. Ward asked, “Any idea why Quill was so interested in Evelyn McCrossan?”

“Not a clue,” Cormac said, and Nora could only shake her head. One photograph in a jumble didn’t mean anything. Her heart fluttered as she spoke. “I suppose it wouldn’t be too startling if Quill knew Gabriel and Evelyn. He was an archaeologist years ago, and worked at the National Museum; I’m sure he and Gabriel were probably acquainted from way back. And if that was the case, he couldn’t help knowing Evelyn as well.”

“You can always ring me if you think of anything further,” Ward said. “When a suspect dies before the whole case is resolved, there are always these questions without answers. I do appreciate your time.”

As soon as Ward had gone, Nora went to the sideboard, to the box where she’d hidden the photograph of Quill with the McCrossans. She turned it over and read the inscription: Desmond, Evelyn, and Gabriel, Loughnabrone, 1967. She held it out to Cormac. “I found this photograph of the three of them this morning,” she said. “What year were Gabriel and Evelyn married?”

“I think about 1969 or ’70. I’m not exactly sure.”

“But they weren’t married when this picture was taken?”

“No, definitely not.” The question hung between them, unasked, unanswered.

“If they knew each other, I wonder why Gabriel never mentioned Quill. Maybe they parted ways, had a falling out.”

“Over Evelyn?”

“I suppose it’s possible.”

Nora studied the grainy faces in the photo. Did the atmosphere seem strained somehow, as if the two men were vying for the affections of the beautiful girl who sat between them? Quill’s arm snaked up behind Evelyn’s back on the snug cushion—a proprietary gesture. But how could you see the nuances of relationships in a snapshot, a fleeting moment frozen in time? They knew who had ultimately won Evelyn’s affections, and it was not Desmond Quill.