Erin Hart - Haunted Ground

He turned over to try to sleep again, but a knock sounded at the door. “Mr. Maguire?” a raspy, adolescent voice inquired. “It’s nine o’clock. You asked to be called.”

“Bollocks,” Cormac muttered under his breath. Aloud he said, “Yes, all right. Thanks very much. Any chance of a cup of tea?” There was no reply except the sound of a large pair of trainers bounding down the narrow carpeted stairs. He’d better make a move if he was going to meet Nora in the lab at two.

There was tea—a full breakfast, in fact, waiting for him in the bar below. He’d just tucked into a mighty-looking fry of eggs, sausages, rashers, and tomatoes when the pub door opened. Una McGann entered, followed by Hugh Osborne, who appeared reluctant to be disturbing anyone’s breakfast.

“Please forgive the interruption,” Una said. “I’ve just had a brain wave.” The two men shook hands, then stood for a moment awkwardly.

“Won’t you join me?” Cormac asked. Behind the bar, he could hear Dermot Lynch, the publican, clattering together spoons and crockery.

Settling his large frame onto one of the small upholstered stools that stood like dwarves about his knees, Hugh Osborne first cast a glance at Una, then addressed Cormac: “I’m developing a parcel of land for a workshop that will demonstrate and sell traditional crafts.” Cormac realized at that moment that he’d never heard the man’s voice. It had a deep bass timbre, and an accent that was neither Irish nor wholly English, but somewhere between the two. Osborne leaned forward, and the dark circles under his eyes suggested that he’d not slept well the previous night either.

“We’ve enlisted a couple of other weavers, a metalsmith, and several potters,” he continued. “And of course, Una’s dyeworks is a central part of the plan.” Listening to him, Cormac got the sense that Hugh Osborne was a naturally diffident person. He remembered what it was like to live an eventful life in a small town, and felt a surge of compassion for the lanky figure who faced him across the table.

“It’s an ideal setting, really, given the history of the place….” Osborne’s voice trailed off.

“Sounds promising,” Cormac said, “although I’m not quite clear how it involves me.”

“Sorry, sorry, I should have explained that at the outset,” Osborne said, coloring slightly. “We’re due to be putting in electrical and gas lines in a few weeks’ time. And I’m sure you know that in order to get planning permission, we first have to make an archaeological survey of the site. We were all set to begin, and the consulting firm I originally hired to do the work pulled out. Conflict with another project that’s taking longer than anticipated. And every other licensed archaeologist I’ve contacted is fully booked. I realize you probably don’t normally do this sort of thing, but we’re behind schedule as it is. I’d pay the usual fees, of course. It might take a week or two. Rather a busman’s holiday, I suppose—but you could stay at the house while you work. Of course, I don’t know what your schedule looks like.”

“I’m actually on sabbatical this term,” Cormac said. “The thing is, I’m supposed to be finishing a book; the publishers are breathing down my neck.”

“I understand completely,” said Osborne.

“And I told Dr. Gavin I’d be back in Dublin this afternoon for the exam on that girl from the bog.” Cormac realized that he had been vaguely unsettled by Devaney’s suspicions. He looked across the table, where Una and Hugh studied his face in anticipation. “I don’t know what to say. Can I let you know?”

“By all means. Think it over.”

“I’m sorry I can’t be more definite just now.”

Osborne rose. “Quite all right. I do understand.” He offered no handshake this time. One flicker of the deep-set eyes was enough to let Cormac know he wasn’t the first to balk.

“Good-bye then,” Osborne said as he moved toward the door of the pub. “I’m sorry if we disturbed your breakfast.” Una McGann gave Cormac a bewildered look, and pressed a slip of paper in his hand. “Here’s the telephone number.”

“Tell him I’ll ring this afternoon,” Cormac said. The words sounded unconvincing even to himself.

At one o’clock in the afternoon, the head of the nameless red-haired girl lay, still embedded in peat, on an examining table in the conservation lab at Collins Barracks in Dublin. Perched on a stool at one end of the table, Cormac studied the strange bundle as he waited for Nora Gavin. The scent of wet turf filled the room, and diffused daylight streamed in from a single unshaded casement window that looked out onto the expansive stone-paved courtyard. Just over a century ago, when this building was still the largest army barracks in the British empire, Queen Victoria had made a visit here to inspect her troops. Something of the spartan, military ambience of those days remained in these chambers, despite the fact that two wings of the quad were now occupied by the National Museum.

Cormac could hear Nora speaking on the phone in the adjacent office. “That would be great. Okay, see you soon. Thank you so much.” She pushed open the door to the lab. “That was radiology up at Beaumont Hospital,” she said. “They can fit us in for a CT scan at six, so we’ll have to get a move on here.”

Nora reached into a drawer beneath the table for a pair of surgical gloves, pulling them on over the cuffs of her lab coat. As she performed this ordinary task, her professional demeanor seemed to snap into place as well, fitting her as smoothly as the thin layer of latex against her skin. She gingerly removed the black plastic, then began to remove the larger piece of sopping turf, and to arrange the matted strands of reddish hair. As the young woman’s features emerged in the merciless fluorescent glare of the lab, her expression was even more ghastly than it had seemed out against the earthy blackness of the bog, but Nora’s hands were steady, and as gentle as if her patient lived. Whatever had so visibly affected her yesterday seemed to have loosened its hold. Cormac wondered what sort of a life Nora Gavin had left behind her in the States, and in particular why she had pulled up stakes midcareer and moved to Dublin. He had a suspicion that Gabriel McCrossan had known more about her circumstances than he’d been willing to share.

“We’ll have to wait for Drummond to do the official postmortem, of course. He said he might be available tomorrow, provided things remain quiet.”

As she spoke, Nora was carefully removing bits of peat from the red-haired girl’s face, and applying a mist of deionized water from a spray bottle. Cormac suddenly realized that if he apologized for the way he’d behaved the night of Gabriel’s dinner party, she would have absolutely no idea what he was talking about. There was something about that realization, and about sitting here watching Nora Gavin at her work, that he found enormously enjoyable. As he drew closer to observe, Cormac saw that the red-haired girl’s skin, now washed clean of its protective peat, was soft and brown as tanned leather. He studied the lifelike curve of her upper lip, the faint covering of down on her cheek, and had to resist an urge to smooth her furrowed brow.

“Is she the first you’ve ever seen up close?” she asked. He nodded. “Me too. You can help if you like,” she said. “But you’ll have to wear these.” She handed him a pair of gloves from a drawer. “We have to keep her as clean as possible.” She crossed to the door and called into the next office, “I’m ready for a hand, Ray, whenever you are.” Raymond Flynn, the conservation technician, joined them. Cormac watched and occasionally lent a hand as Nora and Flynn measured the circumference of the girl’s cranium and the length of her damp red hair, taking photographs and carefully noting their measurements as they went along, pausing frequently for the spray bottle. When they were finished with that phase of the exam, Nora carried the girl’s head at arm’s length to the adjacent X-ray room, positioned it on a negative plate, then retreated outside and closed the chamber door while Flynn activated the machine.