Fatal Roots

by Sheila Connolly

  “Just be careful. Billy’s a good man and an honest one, and if he says he can’t speak of it or doesn’t know anything, yeh’ll have to take him at his word. And if yeh tell him yer not gonna hand it to the gardaí, he’ll trust you. There are some secrets that are personal.”

  “Fair enough. I hope he’s all right.”

  “Go and see, then.”

  Maura stepped outside, then hesitated. Why was she worried? She was very fond of Billy, and she didn’t want to upset him. She wasn’t just being nosy about the body she’d found; if it had been found anywhere other than on her property, she wouldn’t have thought much about it. And she’d more or less promised Mick that if Billy didn’t admit to knowing anything, she’d drop the whole thing. After all, the man in the fairy fort had been dead longer than she’d been alive, so it had nothing to do with her.

  She walked to the end of the building that housed Billy’s rooms and knocked. “Billy? It’s Maura. Can I talk to you for a minute?”

  “Give me half a moment, my dear,” he called out, his voice muffled by the thick walls.

  It took him maybe thirty seconds to arrive at the door, but he welcomed Maura with a smile when he managed to wrestle it open. “Come in, come in, please.”

  “Billy, good to see you. You haven’t been around Sullivan’s much, and I was worried. Are you feeling all right?”

  “Just old. Happens to the best of us, they say. Are yeh keepin’ busy?” Billy shut the door behind her. “Have a seat.”

  “Thanks.” She settled into a battered upholstered chair and waited until Billy had taken another one. “There haven’t been a whole lot of customers lately. I wish I knew why. I mean, this is tourist season, right? Has someone else stolen them?”

  “Ah, these things come and go. They’ll be back, I don’t doubt. Yer mother and sister have been around a lot.”

  “They have, and I’m glad we’ve had a chance to talk. Do you know, Helen never talked about her first marriage to the rest of her family? Susan didn’t even know I existed until recently.”

  “How’s she takin’ it?”

  “Pretty well, I think. She and Rose seem to have hit it off, and they’re busy remodeling the kitchen, so she’s got something to keep her busy. Helen has offered to find us some used equipment for the kitchen, which will save us money. Now, if only I was sure any of us could cook … Apart from Rose, of course.”

  “Yeh’ll be fine.”

  “I hope so.” Maura paused for a moment to gather her thoughts. “Billy, can I ask you about something? I don’t know if you can answer it, or whether you’ll want to answer, and I understand if you don’t.”

  “And what would yeh be wanting to know?” Billy was watching her face, but he didn’t look troubled.

  Maura took a deep breath. “You and Mick Sullivan were friends, right?”

  “That we were.”

  “For a long time, you’ve said. And he ran Sullivan’s for years. When did you move in at this end?”

  “Hard to say, now. Thirty years, mebbe? Neither of us had family, so he let me use this place. Never asked me to pay. He had plenty of friends who’d come by fer a pint, evenings. He was never worried about makin’ any money—he just liked the company. Didn’t like tourists much, though, and after a while they stopped comin, so it was mostly friends.”

  “You mean it wasn’t because he never cleaned the place?” Maura asked, smiling.

  “Might have been. It was mainly men—farmers from outside the village. They didn’t much care about it bein’ clean.”

  Now came the hard part. “Billy, have you heard about the body that was found in the fairy fort this week?”

  He didn’t answer quickly. “I might have done. Where was he found?”

  “On a piece of property north of Knockskagh. That Mick used to own. Where the fairy fort is. Now I own it, but I’ve never really explored all the bits and pieces of fields that he left me.”

  “Ah. And yeh’re wonderin’ if I might know who it was?”

  Billy was a very perceptive man, Maura thought, not for the first time. “Well, yes, I am. I hope you don’t mind my asking. It was because of those students from Cork University—they went looking at that place first, trying to plan their research. Then they came back the next morning, but one of them kind of disappeared in the afternoon. At least, nobody’s seen him since then, and he doesn’t seem to have gone back to Cork. Mick and I went up there the next morning to see if they’d missed anything, and if it might be visible in the light of early morning.”

  “And yeh found something?” Billy’s smile had faded.

  “We found what looked like a burial, and I started poking around to see if it was just a hole in the ground. Except then I found part of a skeleton, and it was human. I called Sean Murphy right away.”

  “What did Sean do?”

  “He sent whatever was left to Cork for a quick autopsy, and then he asked that Mick and I wouldn’t say anything until he knew more. And we haven’t. But Sean was guessing that it was a man who was maybe forty or fifty, and he’d been buried for a couple of decades. Sean’s too young to have been around when the man died. And then he said the man didn’t die a natural death. So I was wondering if you were around then and knew anything. Or Mick was, and did he ever say anything. And that’s all I know.”

  Billy didn’t say anything for a couple of minutes, and Maura waited. “That’s a long time ago now, Maura,” Billy finally said quietly. “Mebbe Mick said something, mebbe he didn’t. I’ll have to think back. My memory’s not what it once was, and I don’t recall anybody askin’ about a man gone missin’ back then. There were fewer gardaí then—years back Leap had a station with only the one garda, but that’s been gone fer a while. Mebbe nobody ever missed the man. I’m sorry if that’s no help to yeh.”

  Maura had to admit to herself that she was disappointed—either he didn’t remember anything, or he was being careful to hide what he knew. “Don’t worry about it, Billy. I certainly don’t know anything. I wouldn’t worry except that it’s on my land, which was a surprise.” Maura stood up. “That’s all I wanted to ask. Will you be stopping by the pub later? I can guarantee you it won’t be crowded. I don’t know where everyone is, and I’m hoping that serving food will improve things, bring more people in.”

  “Sounds like a grand idea. I’ll stop by in a bit.”

  “Good. I’ll be looking for you. And thanks for the information.”

  She left Billy’s apartment feeling dissatisfied, and angry at herself for feeling that way. She’d promised herself that she would accept whatever Billy told her—she liked and trusted him, and didn’t want to think he wasn’t telling the truth. But at the same time, she’d sensed something vague about what he said. Okay, he was old, and probably forgetful. He hadn’t left his own lodgings in Leap for more than a couple of days for a long time. Would seeing the fairy fort jog his memory? But was there anything about his memory that needed jogging?

  The whole situation was a mess. Nobody seemed to admit to knowing anything. Did it matter? The man was dead. Most likely whoever had killed him was also dead. Old Mick, who had owned that patch of land, was definitely dead. Why should she care? Either Sean would find something or he wouldn’t—it didn’t affect her.

  When she walked back into Sullivan’s, nothing much had changed. Helen and Susan were gone, and Rose was still clattering around in the soon-to-be kitchen. Mick looked up. “Did he have anything to say?” he asked her.

  “No, not really. I don’t know why I care. The man died, he was buried by someone, and however many years later we found him and Sean took him away. End of story. Billy says he’ll come by later for his pint, but there’s nothing he wants to share. And that’s where we are.”

  Chapter Twenty

  It was nearly closing time when Maura asked Mick, “Is tomorrow Sunday?”

  “So I’ve heard. Why do yeh ask?”

  “It means we don’t have to come in early in the morning.”

&n
bsp; “Right so. I was thinking of stoppin’ by to see Bridget—it’s been a few days now.”

  “I haven’t seen her either, and I’m sorry. I can’t even claim I’ve been too busy to stop by. Have you told her about the man in the fairy fort?”

  “That I haven’t. Are yeh sayin’ I should?”

  “I don’t know. Billy couldn’t remember anything useful, but I wasn’t sure whether his memory was failing or there was nothing to remember. Or if he was hiding something.”

  “And why would he be doin’ that?”

  “I’m not sure. And I’m only guessing. Remember, I don’t know much about Irish history, so I certainly don’t know what was going on around here before I was born. Was there a lot of crime or violence?”

  “Yeh’re talking about the 1960s? Before my time as well, although there always seemed to be something going on, even in West Cork.”

  “Sometimes I wish I’d talked more with my grandmother, although she didn’t seem to want to talk about her early life. Made me wonder what she was hiding, or if it just made her sad. She had plenty of friends and coworkers in Boston, and I’ve told you before she used to invite new arrivals in, and feed them and help them find a job and a place to live. But none of them stuck around for long. And she never got, well, involved with anyone new. I suppose we were both lonely, but we were so busy just trying to make ends meet that we didn’t have time to think about it. I wish she’d said more about Leap and Knockskagh too—not that there are many people around there now, and probably fewer when she lived here. I know she and Bridget wrote back and forth sometimes—I found the letters after Gran died. And she wanted me to meet Bridget when I got here.”

  “Bridget spoke of her now and then,” Mick said. “Not often, though. Happened a lot around here, in the past—people would emigrate, lookin’ for work or a better life, and they’d never return. They might write now and then, and send some money, but things would be different without ’em.”

  “Sad,” Maura said. “Do you know, I have no idea where my grandfather was buried? Did he have a headstone?”

  “Hard to say. People couldn’t always afford one, but the family would remember where the burials were, and honor them. There aren’t so many cemeteries—the one in Leap, down the street, Kilmacabea, Drinagh, and the older Drinagh West.”

  “What about your family? Where are they?”

  “My parents and sister are still living, though not near here. I’m not sure about me grandfather—Bridget would know. But like you, I hate to ask her.”

  Funny, Maura thought. It wasn’t the stone that mattered to people—it was the family memories. No one was forgotten.

  “When do you think you’ll be at Bridget’s in the morning? We could have breakfast together, since we’ll have time.”

  “Say, nine o’clock? I’ve some things to do at my place—do yeh mind if I don’t come over tonight?”

  Maura smiled. “I think I’ll survive. Maybe I should have Susan come spend a night or something. You’d think we’d have a lot to talk about, if Helen doesn’t mind. Shoot, I don’t know anything about Helen’s parents either, and they’d be my other grandparents. How did I manage to miss so many details of my own life?”

  “Very un-Irish of yeh, Maura Donovan. But yeh’re learnin’.”

  “Can we shut down now?”

  “Since there’s no one in the place, I think it’s safe.”

  Maura drove slowly back to her cottage after they’d locked up. The sun had set, but the sky was still a milky color. She thought she saw a rabbit—or were they hares? She could never tell the difference. Few lights were on in the houses, and there were no cars on the roads. It was kind of nice, now that she knew the way and didn’t get lost.

  She’d never given much thought to the local history. Some houses she passed were clearly old, although they’d been kept in good shape. Others were new. Did people really come back to family land here? Or were they—what did people call them? Blow-ins? Looking for a change of scene, a quieter, simpler way of life? She’d met few of them, but she hadn’t made a point of going around and introducing herself. Most of her waking time was spent at the pub, so she didn’t really know who her neighbors were. Or how many there were. No more than she’d known about Old Mick’s jumble of small pieces of land. Had he had a herd of cows, back before he started running the pub?

  Where did she come from? And where did she belong? She’d always thought she was from Boston, but only because she didn’t know anywhere else. Gran had seemed determined to be American, and she’d never mentioned the idea of going back to Ireland. Had she missed it? Or was there no one left behind to miss?

  She parked beside her cottage. Outside the car she paused, inhaling the sweet summer air. Nothing like Boston’s! Once inside she decided she might as well go to bed. She could get up early in the morning and maybe make some scones or biscuits or something. She really did need to learn how to make a few basic things to eat, and she could bring them down to Bridget’s for breakfast. And Bridget could tell her how she’d gone wrong that she knew so few people, either in Boston or in West Cork.

  She checked her supplies: flour, eggs, butter, milk, and sugar. She should be able to make something edible from those. She stuffed them into her bread box—she’d learned quickly that there were always a few hungry mice or beetles that would find their way to flour. Then she turned off the lights and went up the stairs.

  The rising sun woke her early the next morning. It wasn’t even six yet, but she felt rested, and she still had to find a recipe for her … baked whatever. She should start by turning on the oven before she started mixing things. Downstairs it was delightfully cool, so she put some water on to boil and opened the front door. It was nice not to have to rush anywhere, and she decided to walk up the hill to admire the view—unless she ran into the pig stink, in which case she might want to walk in the opposite direction. Luckily what little breeze there was was at her back, and maybe all the pigs were still home in bed.

  She’d mentioned to Ciara the fairy fort at the top of the hill, just past the pig farm. The road had crumbled away, once the last owner had passed away, and she was reluctant to drive on it. All she could see was the perimeter of the fairy fort, but it was clearly large. A single cow looked up when she leaned on the gate, then went back to chewing its grass. It occurred to her that she hadn’t seen her friend Gillian for a while, even though she lived just over the hill. Although Gillian was busy with her baby and was trying to get back into painting as well, so Sunday at dawn was probably not the best time to drop by—and today Maura was planning to see Bridget for breakfast anyway. But soon. With a sigh, Maura turned around and headed back down the hill.

  She admired the view of Bridget’s cottage against the rolling landscape. There was no sign of Mick’s car, and no smoke coming from Bridget’s chimney, so she turned to the left toward her cottage. Then she stopped: there was a man sitting on the crumbling pier that had once held up a gate. He stood up when he saw her approaching, and she realized she recognized him.

  “Darragh? Where the hell have you been? Half the village and the gardaí in Skibbereen have been looking for you. Are you all right?”

  “Can we take this inside?” he asked. His voice was hoarse, Maura noted, and he looked tired and not very clean.

  “Sure. You want coffee or anything? Have you eaten? I’m having breakfast with my neighbor in a while and I was going to try to bake something. Have you talked to Ciara? She was worried when you just disappeared.”

  “She staying here?”

  “In my place? No, she went back to where the three of you were staying, some hostel. She said Ronan went back to Cork, but she’s still around. What happened with your research project?”

  “I learned what I wanted to know. Can we go inside now?”

  Maura thought he sounded pissed off. Why? He barely knew her. She’d offered to feed him. What did he want?

  “Darragh, what are you doing here? And where have you been for th
e past couple of days? Hiding from the gardaí?”

  He pulled the door shut behind them. “I need to talk to you. Sit down.”

  “Why do you want to talk to me? You barely know me.”

  “Just listen, will you?”

  Maura stared at him. What was his problem? Had he been bitten by some rabid wolf or something while he was hiding out? No, there weren’t wolves around here, as far as she knew. Had he drunk some poisoned water? This whole scene was getting more and more weird.

  “This was Mick Sullivan’s place, right?” he demanded.

  “That’s what I was told, when I inherited it.”

  “Are you related to him?”

  “Not that I know of. I grew up in Boston, in the States. I didn’t see Ireland until a last year. Why? I don’t know squat about Old Mick. He’s dead. That’s why I’m here—he left it to me.”

  “He’s dead?” Darragh said. He sounded surprised.

  “Yeah, dead.”

  “And you’re not family?”

  “No. From what I was told, he never married or had any children. That’s why this place looks like crap—he never did much with it, and I haven’t either. Why do you care? You think you’re his long-lost something-or-other?”

  “God, I hope not. Where’s that coffee you mentioned?”

  “I’ll make it.” Maura stood up quickly, dumped some coffee grounds into a battered aluminum coffeepot, and poured the water over the grounds while she tried to sort out why Darragh was here. How did he know Old Mick?

  “The man was past eighty when he died. What’s he to you?”

  “A killer.”

  Well, that certainly clears things up, Maura thought to herself. “Darragh,” she began carefully, “does this have anything to do with the man in the fairy fort?”

  “So you found him. Yes, it does.”

  “Do you know who he was?”

  “Do you?” Darragh spat back.