Erin Hart - Haunted Ground

“Everyone but you.”

“Maybe it seemed that way. On the inside, I’m afraid I wavered too.”

“I keep wondering what’s going to happen here, Cormac. Devaney said we might be called to testify, if the case actually goes to trial. I hope it doesn’t come to that. I wonder if Jeremy could survive going to prison. And if he isn’t charged, or gets a suspended sentence? Devaney said it’s a possibility because he was underage at the time. Where will he go?”

“Hugh told me he wants Jeremy to stay on here—if and when he’s released. He knows what happened wasn’t the boy’s fault.”

“It sounds very noble, but the whole idea is fraught with disaster. How could he not be reminded every single day of what Jeremy did? And how can Una McGann possibly go on living in the same house with her brother?” Nora said. “Fintan’s going off to seek his fortune in the States. For Aoife’s sake, how can she even think about staying there?”

“I know we’ve been through an ordeal with Hugh, and with Una these last few weeks,” he said. “But it’s not as if we even really know them. Maybe Hugh Osborne has more forgiveness in him than you or I could ever imagine. Maybe he needs Jeremy as much as the boy needs him. Maybe Una will decide to leave home. They’ll have to find their own ways through this, Nora. They will. But I don’t know that we can help them.”

She had imagined that finding answers should impart at least some small sense of satisfaction, and yet that feeling was absent. She knew that they would all carry on, as human beings had always carried on, as automatically as their hearts carried on beating, their lungs continued taking in and expelling breath. Sometimes without thinking or feeling, sometimes invaded by despair. Why then, after helping to unearth the truth of this place, did she feel so compelled to do more? What more was there? Maybe Cormac was right, maybe they had reached the end of doing.

“Come here to me,” he said, and whether it was the warmth of his arms, or the roughness of his face against hers, she did not know, only that she needed the solace he offered, and responded instinctively to his touch until they were tangled together on the high bed. All Nora could hear was their ragged breathing, and she felt herself falling, borne downward into a maelstrom, a potent confusion of feeling.

Downstairs, the single deep note of the doorbell sounded in the front hall. Nora pulled away and slid off the bed. “What the hell are we doing? What were we thinking? I’m sorry, Cormac.” As she left the room, she heard his carefully packed case go crashing to the floor.

Devaney stood outside the front door at Bracklyn House, bearing the brown paper envelope containing Mina Osborne’s letters. When Nora Gavin answered the door, he said, “I just dropped by to see Mrs. Gonsalves.”

“We’re expecting them any time. You can wait if you’d like.”

Devaney stepped inside, and caught Dr. Gavin eyeing his package. “Just some letters,” he said. “From Mina Osborne to her mother.”

“You’ve read them?”

“I have.”

“What was she like?”

Devaney considered for a moment, thinking of the Mina Osborne he’d come to know a little, remembering the intelligence, thoughtfulness, and compassion that radiated from her letters. He had wondered the same thing, and yet what was the point of such a question, since none of them, not even her mother or her husband, had really known, or would ever know? Mina Osborne had become a void, an absence in the lives of those she’d left behind. The paltry words that he might use to sum her up would be based only on a few lines of handwriting. He was aware that Dr. Gavin was watching him with a curious expression. “I’m afraid I can’t really say.”

Maguire seemed rather subdued when he joined them, and Devaney got the distinct sense that he’d interrupted something when he’d rung the doorbell.

“Detective,” Dr. Gavin said, “we’ve been wondering what’s going on, and maybe you could enlighten us. Cormac and I have read the papers and heard lots of things second-and third-hand about Lucy Osborne’s confession and the charges. We’d rather not be asking Hugh.”

“I’ll tell you what I can. According to what Jeremy told us, his mother had become obsessed about getting back her home place in England. She’d started writing rambling letters to her solicitor, and was scheming about ways to get it back. She evidently got it into her head some time ago that the Osbornes collectively owed her for the loss of her family home. Who knows if she would have done anything on her own, but when the shooting occurred, an opportunity presented itself, and the more she thought about it, the more she began to see eliminating this branch of the Osborne family as the main chance for herself and her son. With Mina and Christopher out of the way, she accomplished two things: she eliminated Hugh Osborne’s lawful heirs, and put her own son in their place. Hugh Osborne would be a rich man when he got the insurance, when his wife was declared legally dead. But once Hugh made Jeremy the beneficiary in his will, there was no reason to wait. All she had to do was to see that something happened to Hugh, and she and Jeremy would be secure. Osborne’s own policy might not have paid if he committed suicide, but Jeremy would still stand to inherit Bracklyn House, not to mention the life insurance on Mina Osborne.”

“How did it all start to unravel?” Dr. Gavin asked.

“Jeremy told us that he and his mother removed suitcases and clothing from the house to make it look as if Mina had simply run away. He was supposed to burn it all, but he hung on to a few items. Then a couple of months ago the cleaner, Mrs. Hernan, found one of Mina’s scarves under his mattress—and when Mrs. Hernan brought it to Lucy’s attention, she was sacked. Evidently Lucy forced Jeremy to burn the scarf—this time in front of her, to make sure it was done properly—and that’s when he felt he had to find a way to tell someone. He tried to keep away from his mother, ended up practically living out at the tower—he started stealing food, and all those candles he had were nicked from the church. Between the drink and camping in the tower like an outlaw, it’s not hard to see why Jeremy seemed to be the one who was going mad.”

“Do you know anything more about the charges, Detective?” Maguire asked.

“We got word today from the DPP—that’s the director of public prosecutions. Lucy Osborne is charged with one count of murder for the death of Christopher Osborne, and one of attempted murder against Hugh Osborne. If she’s judged competent to stand trial—and they cautioned that it’s a big ‘if,’ considering her current mental state—she could receive a life sentence on those charges alone. And she could get an additional sentence for concealing evidence. At this point, Jeremy’s up on a single charge of involuntary manslaughter for the death of Mina Osborne, but the DPP says he’ll most likely receive a suspended sentence, given the circumstances of the case, and his age at the time.”

“The thing I don’t understand is why Hugh didn’t say anything about Lucy giving him sleeping tablets,” Dr. Gavin said.

“He says he has no memory of anything that happened after he went down into the workshop—he can’t even recall Lucy bringing him tea.”

“Surely he must have figured out that he didn’t end up in that car by himself,” she said.

Devaney hesitated, remembering Hugh Osborne’s explanation when he’d brought up the same point himself during questioning. When you’ve thought as often as I have about what it would be like—to go out to the car, turn it on, and just go to sleep, he’d said, it’s somehow not at all surprising to find out that’s exactly what you did. If it weren’t for Lucy’s admission, Devaney thought, the man might still consider himself an unsuccessful suicide.