Erin Hart - The Book of Killowen

Healy’s eyes grew defiant. “If you need to know what was in the envelope, why don’t you ask Claffey?”

“I certainly would, except for one small detail—he’s dead.”

Mairéad Broome looked up. “What? How?”

“His body was discovered this morning. He was murdered.”

Graham Healy’s mouth dropped open, but no words came out.

Stella continued, “So I have to ask where each of you were between the hours of one and five o’clock this morning.”

“We were here.” Mairéad Broome’s voice was adamant. “We stayed in all night. And as far as the contents of that envelope are concerned, Graham was acting on my behalf, Detective. Vincent Claffey had done some work for me, and—”

“What sort of work?”

“Pardon me?”

Stella repeated: “I asked what sort of work he did for you.”

“Odds and ends, mostly, framing and stretching canvases, that sort of thing.”

Stella turned to Healy. “I thought those sorts of jobs were handled by your assistant.”

“They are, usually, but Graham’s got a lot on his plate at the moment, dealing with galleries and all the exhibition planning. Things have been busy lately, so we needed some help with… some of the more basic tasks. And Vincent Claffey always needed money.”

“So you’re quite certain it wasn’t blackmail? I understand that Claffey was here last night, making threats. He claimed to know the secrets of everyone here at Killowen. I presumed that might include yourselves.”

“If that’s true, we’ve heard nothing about it. I told you, we’ve been here at the cottage since we arrived.”

“I probably ought to inform you as well that Claffey’s daughter and grandson have gone missing. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that?”

“Deirdre and the baby are missing? Since when?”

Stella thought she detected a note of increased tension in Mairéad Broome’s voice. “All we know is that she was gone when her father’s body was discovered. We’re searching for her and the child now.”

“You have to find them, Detective! It’s bad enough that she should have that odious man for a father—”

“Mairéad.” Healy shot an imploring look.

“I can’t help it, Graham. He was. I’m not sorry he’s dead.”

Stella’s phone pipped. “Cusack here.”

Molloy sounded breathless. “We’ve got them, Stella. The two girls and the child. They’re all right. Uniform are bringing them in.”

Stella felt a surge of relief. “Where were they?”

“Just the other side of the oak wood at Killowen. Like you said, they hadn’t got very far. Had to keep stopping to feed the child, to keep him quiet.”

Stella turned around to find Mairéad Broome’s gaze fixed on her.

“Was that news about Deirdre? Is she all right?”

Stella decided to probe further. “She’s physically fine. But I am concerned. I mean, if the girl happened to witness what happened to her father, or if she were somehow involved—”

“ Involved? For God’s sake, Detective, she’s a child.”

“Old enough to have a child of her own,” Stella said. Mairéad Broome turned away abruptly, as if she’d been slapped. There was some deep, unspoken link here, but what was it? Stella filed this information away, next to Deirdre Claffey’s reaction to news of Benedict Kavanagh’s death. “We discovered that Deirdre was traveling in the company of a Romanian girl, Anca Popescu. What do you know about her?”

“Not a lot. She’s been living here for the past year or so, working as Martin Gwynne’s apprentice. He’d know more about the girl, you can ask him.”

“I have a few more questions, about your husband’s visit to this area,” Stella said. “We’ve found the B and B where he was staying when he disappeared; some of his personal effects were still there. You’ve no idea what he was doing in this part of the country?”

“Not the foggiest.”

“Did he know that you were a regular visitor at Killowen?”

“I sincerely doubt it. He didn’t really pay me that much notice.”

“Doesn’t it seem odd that he’d come to this remote, rural area—to a place that you happened to frequent—and that his visit had nothing whatever to do with you?”

“Lots of things seem odd, Detective, when examined under a microscope. The only thing my husband was interested in was his research.”

“But he never happened to mention a connection to Killowen? What about Faddan More?”

“As I told you back in Dublin, he mentioned a breakthrough, but he offered no details. All I can think is that he was interested in medieval manuscripts, and this place was once a monastery…” Her voice trailed off, as if she’d just realized something significant, but the recovery was swift. “Then again, this whole bloody country is peppered with monastic ruins. I have no idea what brought my husband here. I wish I did.”

“All right, let me ask you this: in your husband’s belongings, we found a few interesting items. There was a gold cross with an inscription, From Mum . Not familiar to either of you?”

“No.”

“There were also some handwritten notes. In one of them your husband mentioned a person—at least I’m assuming it’s a person—with the initials IOH . Do those letters mean anything to you?”

Mairéad Broome gave a short, bitter laugh in reply. “Only the object of my husband’s affections, my nemesis—my only true rival.”

Not quite the answer she was expecting, Stella had to admit. “You’re saying that your husband and this IOH were involved?”

A tiny, cryptic smile played across Mairéad Broome’s features. “That’s a good word for it—involved. Most definitely.”

“In that case, I’ll need to speak to—”

Mairéad Broome cut her off. “That won’t be possible, I’m afraid, since he’s been dead for a thousand years. I am sorry, Detective, I’ve been toying with you. The initials belong to the ninth-century philosopher my husband studied. It was more than just study, if you want the truth. Benedict was completely besotted with the man—his intellectual hero, the great mind he tried to emulate. I know that level of devotion is hard to understand; in my experience, it seems to be a disease peculiar to academics.”

“So the manuscripts he consulted—”

“—were all to do with Eriugena, yes. He was obsessed.”

Stella paused for a moment. Eriugena . That name from Kavanagh’s papers again. Someone else had mentioned it as well—Martin Gwynne and the conference in Toronto. “How do you get Eriugena from the initials IOH ?”

“That was evidently how the man signed his work. Don’t ask me why. I don’t know.”

Stella’s mind returned to the handwritten note mentioning IOH and his great unfinished work. “Do you think your husband’s remarks about turning the world of philosophy on its ear had something to do with this… Eriugena?” Stella nearly stumbled over the strange name.

“John Scottus Eriugena, John the Scot—call him what you like. Everything Benedict did had something to do with that bloody man. I’m sick to death of hearing his name.”

At a quarter past three in the afternoon, Cormac and Niall Dawson returned to the excavation site. With the discovery of the wax tablet in Killowen Man’s garments, it became vitally important to search for other any other associated artifacts.

Cormac stood at the edge of the cutaway with his clipboard and pencil, ready to climb down into the pit. Niall had been silent and withdrawn since they’d discovered Vincent Claffey’s body.

Cormac knew this moment was his best chance to excavate the past, as it were, to begin turning up whatever his friend was hiding. He took a deep breath.