Erin Hart - Haunted Ground

The only sounds were the hollow lapping of the waves against the sturdy side of the wooden boat, and the steady creaking of the oars. They came around the far side of the island, and Cormac stopped rowing. From this distance, Bracklyn House was more impressive, more the stately fortress and less the crumbling manor house than it seemed up close. It cast a sharp, looming shadow over the brilliant emerald lawn, and the rough surface of its stone walls looked almost gilded against the faintly purpled clouds of the gathering dusk. One day, it too would be reduced to a ruin like the pile of rubble on the island. It was impossible not to think of all the human lives that had been bound up in the defense, the capture, the possession of this particular parcel of land in the long march of history. And of the lives Bracklyn House contained now, including his and Nora’s, which had eventually been touched by that conflict.

He watched her, only an arm’s length away in the stern of the boat. She seemed oblivious to his scrutiny, and stared down into the clear water. He was intrigued by the way Nora’s dark hair fell softly against her face. What was her story? He studied the hollow at the base of her throat, the way her right hand gripped the boat’s rim, the soft curve of her hip on the bench seat, remembering the abandon in the way she’d sung those words:my generous lover, you’re welcome to me. What he felt right now, looking at Nora, was something even stronger than physical desire—though he felt that intensely, too, he had to admit. But desire was swallowed up in a larger yearning to gain entrance, to wander the rooms and passageways inside her head, her heart, if she would allow him. Of course, that meant throwing open the doors, allowing her into his own hidden places as well. And for the first time in his life, that prospect actually seemed possible.

“Nora—”

“Do you think they’re down there somewhere?” she asked suddenly.

Cormac felt his momentary chance dissolve. “Who do you mean?”

“Mina Osborne and her son.”

“Devaney said the divers never found anything.”

“It’s an awfully big lake.” She turned toward him. “By the way, I met Jeremy’s mother while you were in town. I heard a noise down the hall from my room. It turned out to be a video of Mina Osborne and the little boy.”

Cormac remembered the notice he’d seen in the shop window. “Christopher.”

“Was that his name? Christopher. There was nobody watching the video, but I found Jeremy sleeping in the next room—what looked like a nursery. It was very weird. Anyway, that’s when his mother made her entrance. I don’t think we hit it off.”

Cormac recalled his own first encounter with Lucy Osborne. “If it’s any comfort, I didn’t make a very good first impression either.”

They floated for another while, until the boat gradually drew near the shore, where O’Flaherty’s Tower stood in silhouette against the darkening sky. There was no sign of the mob of crows Cormac had first seen around the tower’s top.

“I’ve been wondering about that place,” Nora said, shielding her eyes from the sun’s golden glare. “Know anything about it?”

“Just that it’s called O’Flaherty’s Tower. They were the landowners here at one time. Una McGann told me it belongs to the estate. And she said it’s supposed to be haunted. I don’t know any more about it than that.”

“Haunted? And you asked no more about it?”

“Oh, I forgot to mention,” Cormac said, suddenly remembering his conversation with Dolly Pilkington. “I found somebody who might tell us something about the local history. Ned Raftery, a retired schoolteacher. We’ll have to phone up and see if he’s willing.”

They had reached the shore again. Cormac turned the oars to stow them, then jumped out to pull the boat up the pebbly beachfront. “I was hoping we could put in another full day on the dig tomorrow, if you’re up to it. But I thought I might take care of some other things on Sunday, as long as you’re heading back for the dental exam on the cailin rua.”

“The what?” Nora asked, and Cormac realized he’d never used that name before, at least not aloud. “The red girl,” she said. Perhaps he shouldn’t be surprised that she had a bit of Irish.

“I suppose we ought to call her something more official, like ‘the Drumcleggan girl.’”

“No, I like cailin rua. It’s like something from a song,” Nora said, taking the hand he offered her. “I’m happy to work a full day tomorrow. And I don’t actually have to be back in Dublin until Monday afternoon, so whatever you need done on Sunday, I’m happy to pitch in.”

Something in her frank blue eyes disconcerted him, and he had a sudden vision of doors being thrown open. Maybe he wasn’t as ready for all this as he’d thought. “I appreciate the offer,” he said, letting go of her hand. “But I’m afraid Sunday’s personal.”

As they climbed the small embankment, Cormac thought he glimpsed a pale figure in one of the high windows at Bracklyn House, but when he focused on the place again, whatever had caught his eye was gone.

At half past nine on Saturday evening, Devaney sat at his kitchen table, disgusted that he had turned up nothing in the Osborne file. The truth was he’d barely had a chance to look at it. But this case was always on his mind. No one remembered passing Mina and Christopher on the road from town, so it was possible that they had never returned home. Or that they’d taken a different route, a shortcut away from the road. Hard to do with a pushchair, though, and everyone had seen her with it in the village.

He took a swallow of tea. Christ, he’d give anything for a cigarette right now, to help him concentrate, focus his mind on what was missing. He was going in circles.

Who stood to gain from Mina Osborne’s death? Her family in India had money, but the father had supposedly disowned her when she married. That sizable insurance policy might look dodgy, but without a body, Osborne would have to wait seven years to get any money. Besides, everybody said the man was devoted to the wife—but that’s what people always said, wasn’t it? That’s what they’d said about Barney Harrington down in Cork, who’d bludgeoned the wife with a frying pan when she criticized his cooking. The gossipmongers were having a field day now speculating about Hugh Osborne and Una McGann. Perhaps he should find out whether there was any truth to the rumors, and if so, how long the affair might have been going on. If he was going to look into the jealousy angle, why not Lucy Osborne? Say she’s living at Bracklyn House for several years, getting on with Osborne like a house on fire, when he suddenly up and marries someone else. Mina’s arrival must have been a blow, if Lucy had ever had any designs on the man. Nothing stayed secret for long in a town like Dunbeg. If there was anything funny going on, Mina Osborne was bound to have found out. Maybe she had just walked away.

He opened the file, flipping past the first few witness-statement forms until he came to a statement taken by telephone from Jaronimo Gonsalves, Mina Osborne’s father, who was living in India. He had sworn that no one in the family had made contact with Mina for several years.

He ought to have a word with the parents again, Devaney thought, just to satisfy himself that they had no further information. Better to ring from the sitting room, where he could shut the door and not be disturbed. He checked the spelling again. Gonsalves. What sort of name was that? It wasn’t like an Indian name at all—sounded Spanish or something. He carried the file to the sitting room as he repeated the name aloud: “Gonsalves, Gonsalves.” The foreign-sounding syllables felt strange on his tongue, but he repeated them until the sound started to become familiar, then picked up the phone. But what would he say? Your daughter is still missing, and we’ve made a complete bollocks of the case? The parents must be getting on in years. How would it affect them to have the past dredged up again? He pulled the file closer and punched in the number. A rapid rat-a-tat-tattat-tat on the other end told him it was ringing. A high-pitched woman’s voice came on the line: “Who’s calling, please?”