Erin Hart - Haunted Ground

The rain only seemed to be coming down harder; he’d have to make a run for it. Grabbing his bag, Cormac sprinted across the gravel and up the semicircular steps. He was soaked to the skin, and glad to find the front door unlocked, as Osborne had said it would be. Pushing against the four-inch thickness of oak, he found himself in a formal front hall with a black-and-white marble floor, dark wood-paneled walls, and a huge brass chandelier, under which stood a pedestal table bearing an arrangement of long-stemmed red tulips and bright yellow budding twigs. All was still but for the echoing tock, tock, tock of a large grandfather clock that stood against the wall at the foot of the massive oak staircase. Cormac set his case down beside the door; he was dripping all over the floor, and didn’t want to venture any farther without making his presence known. He tried shouting a couple of hullos, but there was no response, so he began pulling off his sodden jacket.

“May I help you?” The female voice came from above; the accent was English and decidedly upper class. The woman had begun to descend the last turn in the stairs, and Cormac sensed her dismay at finding him in the front hall of Bracklyn House. She was extremely thin and plain of face, but impeccably groomed, her dark hair swept up at the back and her nails manicured into perfect ovals. She wore a pale brown sweater set and a finely pleated wool skirt in shades of brown and black, cut in a style that flattered her slender figure. The woman’s age was difficult to discern; her angular countenance was unlined, but her ivory skin had a translucent cast, and her hands were beginning to show the first sinuous signs of aging. Cormac imagined that if she were nearer, he might see a fine network of lines radiating from the corners of her eyes. She descended unhurriedly, conveying a sense of urgency without losing an ounce of her carefully cultivated air of decorum.

“I’m sorry, but this is a private home; we don’t offer public tours. I’m sure the local tourist office has a complete list of nearby houses that are open to the public.”

She strode briskly past him to the arched doorway and, grasping the iron ring handle with both hands, swung the door open, though it took all her strength. Cormac was unprepared for the hardness in the woman’s pale gray eyes. He had just opened his mouth to explain when Hugh Osborne’s voice sounded on the staircase behind him.

“I see you’ve met our guest,” Osborne said, loping easily down the stairs. He seemed to assume that Cormac had just entered through the open door. “My cousin, Lucy Osborne; Lucy, this is Cormac Maguire, the archaeologist I told you about. I may have neglected to mention that he’ll be staying here with us while he oversees the excavation at the priory.”

An instant transformation took place in Lucy Osborne’s eyes. She smiled and extended her hand. As he took it, Cormac was struck by the sinewy strength beneath her cool, dry skin. “Welcome to Bracklyn House,” she said. “I do hope you’ll forgive my mistake. We sometimes get the odd tourist wandering in off the road. It’s not something we like to encourage; I’m sure you understand.”

“I’m sorry I forgot to mention it, Lucy,” said Hugh. “We only just made the arrangements yesterday. I thought I’d put him in the green bedroom, if that’s all right?”

She nodded. “Yes, quite.”

“You’ll find in pretty short order that Lucy runs the household,” Osborne said. “Things would most certainly fall apart without her.”

Lucy acknowledged this small bit of flattery with a slight, almost imperceptible tightening of her smile. “I hope you have a very pleasant stay with us,” she said. “You will let me know if you need anything at all, won’t you?” And with that, she turned and disappeared through the doorway under the stairs.

“Excuse me for a moment,” Hugh Osborne said as he hurried after her. All Cormac could hear was a brief murmured exchange, too low for him to make out what they were saying. Osborne soon returned, looking slightly preoccupied.

“Sorry about that. She dreads leaving the front door unlocked, but I refuse to live in a fortress—ironic as that might seem.” He finally noticed that Cormac’s clothes were creating a standing pool of rainwater. “God, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were dripping. Come on, I’ll show you to your room.”

“There’s something I really ought to mention right away,” Cormac said. “I thought it might be a good idea to enlist some help for this project—I hope you don’t mind. There’d be no extra expense. I found a volunteer, Nora Gavin—Dr. Gavin, I should say—the colleague who was here with me out on the bog.” He watched the shadow of that strange day pass over Hugh Osborne’s face. “I’m very sorry about springing this on you, I should have mentioned it when I phoned.”

“She’s arriving here this evening?” Cormac couldn’t tell whether Osborne was displeased, or merely trying to work out the logistics.

“She said she might be able to make it by around six. If it’s any extra trouble—”

“No trouble at all. I’ll just ask Lucy to ready another guest room.”

Hugh Osborne led the way up the massive staircase hung with paintings of richly dressed men from various periods.

“Family portraits?” Cormac asked.

“Rogues’ gallery is more like it. The first blackguard, there at the bottom,” Osborne said, stopping to point out the picture of a dark-haired man in a stiff white collar, “is Hugo Osborne, the first of the family to settle in Ireland. He actually worked for William Petty—I assume you’ve heard of him—the chap who did the first complete ordnance survey maps of Ireland. They all came here as adventurers, part of Cromwell’s grand resettlement scheme in the 1650s. Hugo basically robbed the whole of this estate from a family called O’Flaherty, first getting them shifted west, then making sure the family’s only son and heir was shipped off to a life of penal servitude in the colonies. The next chap there beside Hugo is his ne’er-do-well son, Edmund.” Cormac paused in front of a handsome ginger-haired character in a richly brocaded coat and breeches, and was dumbfounded by the resemblance between Hugh Osborne’s features—particularly the heavy-lidded eyes and handsomely cleft chin—and those of his distant ancestor, who no doubt had led his own guests up this same staircase four centuries ago.

At twenty minutes past six o’clock, Nora Gavin pressed the doorbell at the front entrance to Bracklyn House and waited. She felt uncomfortable about meeting Cormac again after last night. The memory made her face burn; she reached up and touched the place his fingers had rested. She’d been completely shocked. And what had she said to him? Something about being a coward? He must think her very odd. Glancing up, she noticed an overhang jutting out from the story above, and counted three openings above her head, all apparently blocked with mortar and stone. She heard the heavy door open behind her, and turned to find Hugh Osborne framed in the Gothic arch.

“Dr. Gavin? We’ve been expecting you.”

Having only seen him briefly out on the bog, Nora was disconcerted by the impression Hugh Osborne made face to face. He was dressed more formally now, and was taller and more powerful than she remembered, with strong bones and a weathered complexion that made him undeniably attractive. The deep-set, hooded eyes regarded her with equanimity. But you could look directly into the eyes of a killer and see nothing at all unto-ward; she knew because she had done it. Osborne obviously had no recollection of her, which was just as well.

“I was wondering about this—” She pointed upward. “I’m not even sure what to call it.”