Fatal Roots

by Sheila Connolly

  “No, I don’t. I didn’t know Mick Sullivan. I haven’t been living here long. I didn’t know I had extra land, and I certainly didn’t know about that fairy fort because I didn’t know what one was. I’m not even sure I was born when that man was buried there, and I’d never been to Ireland then. Oh, and the gardaí don’t know who he was either. What is it you want me to tell you?”

  “What happened to the man?”

  “Well, I don’t know!” Maura protested. “I’m the new kid here, remember? And why are you asking about him? You’re not old enough to have known him. Why do you even know he exists? Was that why you started this research? By the way, where’s your radar thing?”

  Once again Darragh ignored her questions. “It’s safely stowed. Anyways, someone around here must know about him.”

  “I don’t know a heck of a lot of people around here, and I certainly never talked to any of them about a fairy fort and a body in it.” Maura stood up abruptly, grabbed two mugs, and took them and the pot over to the table. “So, why are you here this early, glaring at me, and asking me questions I couldn’t possibly know the answers to?”

  Darragh stared at the coffeepot as if hoping it would give him a sign that the coffee was ready. Or maybe he hadn’t slept for days and was totally spaced out, Maura thought. But it was clear he was angry about something, and she couldn’t figure out why he’d be angry at her.

  “Darragh,” she said carefully, “did you know there was a body there?”

  He filled a mug with coffee. “I suspected. There or somewhere close by.”

  “Did you think it was in any random fairy fort, or this one in particular?”

  “I knew that if the body existed, and had survived being buried for years, it would be somewhere in West Cork. And I guessed that it had some connection with Mick Sullivan. That’s one reason I was taking classes in Cork—so I’d have a chance of finding him.”

  “And why would you want to do that? After so many years?”

  “Because I think that body was my grandfather.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  That was the last thing Maura had expected to hear, but then she’d known about the fairy fort less than a week, and known there had been a body there less than that. And why was Darragh so angry? He must have been a child when his grandfather—if that was really who the body was—had been buried in an obscure corner of West Cork. And why here? And what did any of it have to do with Mick Sullivan?

  She took a deep breath. “Okay, Darragh—you’re going to have to explain. Have you told the gardaí what you suspect?”

  “No!” he said sharply. “It’s none of their business.”

  “Why do you say that? Who knows he’s dead? Do you know who killed him, and why? Who buried him way out here? Did his killer hope no one would ever find him? Did your family know? Did the gardaí ever look for him, or did nobody ever report him missing? And why do you care so much now?”

  Darragh began shaking his head as if to clear it. “Shut up, will you? This is my family you’re talking about! It’s part of my history, and I want to get it straight. All I’ve got now is bits and pieces of the story, because my relatives would never talk about it. Like they were embarrassed, or angry. You don’t have any stake in this—you’re an outsider, with no family here, and no history.”

  “You’re wrong about that, Darragh,” Maura said. She had as much right as he did to get angry, and she was getting tired of being lectured to by a person she barely knew, who clearly knew even less about her. “My grandmother was born here, and her husband. Their son—my father—was born here. That’s all the family there was, so it’s not like I’ve got sixteen cousins up the hill. But I’m not some silly tourist who thought a cottage in the country sounded like a cool idea. I’ve never lived here before, and my grandmother never talked much about it. My father died before I was old enough to remember him. Look, I don’t have any problem with you. I’m sorry you think it’s your grandfather you found. Are you planning to tell the gardaí? Reclaim the body? Bury him in a family plot?”

  “No. Because it’s not as simple as that. The man was murdered.”

  That was not what Maura had expected to hear from him. She already knew from Sean that the man had been killed, but why would Darragh know? “Oh. Well, maybe that’s different, but it was a long time ago.”

  “Not long enough.”

  “Darragh, what is it you want? You want to arrest someone for killing your grandfather? How likely is it that he would still be alive? Do you want to rebury him? Do you want to go back to doing research on fairy forts? Or Irish history? Or lay the whole thing to rest and do something different with your life? What about Ciara? Is she part of this, or does she just hope to be? Or is she a cousin or something and she’s just faking it and trying to help you out?” Maura was babbling and she knew it, but she wanted answers.

  “It’s none of your business, Maura.”

  A body on her land wasn’t her business? “Then go do something else. This isn’t my problem.”

  “I think Mick Sullivan was part of this, and I want to know if he left any kind of proof behind.”

  “You mean here, in this cottage? Go ahead and look, as long as you don’t knock down any walls or break anything. I didn’t arrive with much, and I haven’t added much. He left me this place because he had no one else to leave it to, but he certainly didn’t fancy it up before he died. By the way, I was told he died in this house—nothing like a clinic or hospital. But I haven’t found any letters or records of what happened. Maybe he’d simply gotten into a fight and hit your grandfather too hard and that was the end of it. I only know that he spent more time at the pub than here toward the end of his life, and he was buried in Leap. Maybe he thought this place was haunted, although I haven’t run into any fairies.”

  “Wherever it happened, how and why did he haul the body out to that field and bury him?” Darragh demanded.

  “Hey, Darragh, I really don’t know. I barely know what a fairy fort is, and people have told me most people find them unlucky and stay away. They don’t come back in the dark and bury bodies in them, although if it was Mick who killed him, maybe he thought no one would look for the body there, because they all thought the place was haunted. You know anything different?”

  Darragh shook his head. “No. Like I said, nobody talked about it. But my grandfather left and never came back. All I remember is a rough old man with gray hair. I’ve never even seen a picture of him.”

  “Well, I’m very sorry, and I do know something about losing people, but I don’t know anything about your family’s past. Are you leaving anytime soon?”

  “What, West Cork? Your cottage? I haven’t decided. You tell me, Maura Donovan: how many people are there around here who are old enough to remember what happened?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t go looking for people or asking questions, because I’m in the pub all day and half the night. If somebody comes into the pub, they don’t start talking about old crimes and people who are gone. You might talk to Old Billy. You met him at Sullivan’s—he lives at one end of the pub building, and he was a friend of Old Mick’s. For years. He’s the right age, but he’s never talked about his past that much. But I think he’s the closest thing to a local historian that we’ve got. Unless you want to go back to the university and find some professor to ask.”

  Maura was beginning to think Darragh had calmed down, or maybe he was just tired, when there was a knocking at the door. “Maura, you there?” Mick’s voice. It must be time for breakfast with Bridget.

  But Darragh had gone tense. “Who’s that?”

  “Mick Nolan. He works with me at the pub. You must have seen him there. His grandmother Bridget lives just down the hill, in that yellow house.”

  “She’s a Nolan?”

  “She married one. I think she was born a Sullivan, but only a cousin or something to Old Mick. But she’s lived in the same house most of her life, so she knew him.” Before Darragh could decide wh
at he should do, Maura went over to open the door for Mick.

  “Are we still plannin’ on breakfast?” he asked. And then he spied Darragh.

  Mick stiffened. Was he worried about Darragh being there? Did he believe Darragh was there to rob the place? Which was silly, since there was nothing of value in the cottage and Mick knew it.

  “You met Darragh, right, Mick? At the pub, and the fairy fort? He just showed up, with some interesting stories. About his past, or his family’s past, anyway. I’ll let him tell you about it, because it’s not my story.” Mick’s gaze hadn’t left Darragh’s face, and Darragh returned the stare. Maura was losing patience. “Mick, isn’t Bridget waiting for us?” she asked.

  Now Mick glanced briefly at her. “Yeh’re right—she is. I’m sure she’d love to see Darragh. I think she knew his family, years ago.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Maura saw Darragh straighten up and freeze. Interesting. “Would you like to join us, Darragh?” Maura asked. “I’m sure Bridget could tell us some interesting stories about her life here.” She knew she sounded phony, but somebody had to do something.

  Mick didn’t say anything, but he cocked an eyebrow at Maura. She wasn’t about to explain her rather odd request, but she definitely wanted to be there, and Mick as well. And she was pretty sure she wanted to hear what Darragh knew about the history of the neighborhood, and his grandfather, and Old Mick. There was clearly a hidden story there.

  She stood up quickly and turned off the oven. “Sorry, Mick—I didn’t get around to baking anything. Will that be all right? I know Bridget’s scones would be better than mine.”

  “I’m sure she’ll be fine with it. Are yeh ready to go? Darragh, what about you?”

  “I’m looking a bit scruffy,” he said dubiously.

  “Ah, Bridget won’t mind. Come on then, or we’ll meet ourselves eatin’ lunch.”

  Mick waited until Maura and Darragh had gone outside, then pulled the door shut behind them. Darragh had stopped in the unpaved lane outside Maura’s cottage. “Grand view, isn’t it?” he said, almost to himself.

  “Does it look familiar, Darragh?” Maura said, coming up behind him.

  Darragh shrugged. “It looks like Ireland, and I don’t mean Cork city. Bridget’s in the yellow cottage, Mick?”

  “That she is. She’ll be waitin’ fer us.”

  As they neared Bridget’s home, Mick took the lead and knocked on her door. Bridget must have been waiting, for the door opened quickly, and Bridget smiled at her guests. “Come in, come in. Maura, I thought you might have gotten lost, it’s such a long way from yer home.”

  Maura smiled at her joke. “Sorry, Bridget, but I had an unexpected guest of my own, and then Mick arrived, so we invited Darragh as well. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Of course I don’t, Maura.” Bridget stepped into the sunshine to greet Darragh. “Fáilte—Darragh, is it?” Then she stopped and took a closer look. “Ah, yeh’re the spittin’ image of your father. You’d be a Hegarty, would you not?”

  By now Darragh was gaping at Bridget. Finally he found his voice. “That I would. You knew my father? Would he have come from near here?”

  “Down the road, maybe a kilometer, toward Leap. But the Hegartys moved away many years ago, as you may know. Please, come in, sit down. Maura, can you pour the tea?”

  “I’d be happy to, Bridget. I’m sorry I haven’t been to see you lately, but we’re building a new kitchen at the pub and it seems to have kept everyone busy lately. And my mother’s come back, and this time she brought my half sister with her, so things have been very interesting.”

  “I’d love to hear more. This grandson of mine here doesn’t share the details with me. Mick, will yeh bring the brown bread and butter to the table, please?”

  While Mick and Maura were sorting out the tea and food, Darragh had all but fallen into a chair and was staring at Bridget. It was highly unlikely that he would remember her, but maybe the sound of her voice and her accent were familiar. How did it happen that he’d never come to West Cork looking for the fragments of his past until now? Old Mick had always been here, and so had Bridget. They both had good minds and sharp memories. Except that nobody had ever mentioned the fairy fort to her. Did they not want her to know about it? Or were they trying to keep prying eyes away from it?

  Maura set about filling teacups from the pot. “Are you feeling all right?”

  “I am. This is the best time of year for those of us whose joints are gettin’ stiff with time. And I’ve nowhere I have to be. My grandson here asked if I wanted him to take me to church today, but I told him I’d rather wait till yer opening yer grand new kitchen.”

  Maura smiled. “We haven’t set a date yet, and it’s not exactly new, but I’m pretty sure all the parts will work. So you want us to have a party?”

  “Wouldn’t that be a fine thing?”

  “It could be, if we get any more customers. They seem to be avoiding us this summer.”

  “Ah, it’s a busy year fer them. Yeh might recall the snow we had a few months ago—it did serious harm to many of the fields, and the dairy farmers are trying to make up fer the grass they lost. Don’t take it personal.”

  “Thank you—I’m glad to know it’s not something I did. Will the grass come back before the end of the year?”

  “It might, but there’s some that’s lost, and it won’t. Farmin’s not easy work.”

  “Has Gillian brought the baby by?”

  “Now and then. He’s a lovely boy, isn’t he? And she seems to be a good mother, although she’s said she’d like a few more hours in her days because she’s back to painting again.”

  The conversation drifted along on what was going on around Knockskagh. Maura avoided talking about her mother and her new sister, mainly because she wanted to talk to Bridget alone, without the guys getting bored. Bridget was the last person who had known her gran, and Maura wanted to hear her memories.

  And whatever memories hadn’t come up as well, like the fairy fort and the body in it that no one had mentioned before now. She glanced at Darragh, who hadn’t said a word but stared consistently at Bridget. Bridget had noticed, and once she’d collected all of Maura’s and Mick’s news, she turned her Darragh. “And what’s brought you to West Cork, Darragh Hegarty?”

  “I, uh, well, I’m getting a degree in archaeology at University of Cork, and I’m working with a couple of other people surveying the local fairy forts.”

  Bridget nodded. “Ah, I see. And is there nothin’ more than the history of the sites that yeh were lookin’ fer?”

  Darragh shot panicky glances at Maura and Mick, and then seemed to make a decision. “Well, yes and no, yeh might say. You knew who I was, soon as yeh saw me, but my parents never talked much about this part of Cork, and I’m beginning to learn why. My parents left the place when I was very young and never came back. They rarely talked about it, and never when there were us children around, and they didn’t answer any of our questions. It took me a long time to put together what pieces of the story I could find. The other people I met at university knew more about how to find where people had lived or owned land in the past, and that’s how we found Maura here. And the fairy fort that was on what had been Mick Sullivan’s land.”

  “It’s been many years since I’ve seen that,” Bridget said wistfully. “Yeh’ve heard the old stories, about how they’re haunted, or fairies live there. Most people don’t care to visit, and Mick Sullivan was one of ’em. Why’d that one interest you?”

  Maura watched while Darragh wrestled with what to say next, or whether to say nothing, but she didn’t interfere. Bridget was a strong woman, and the odds were that she knew something. Maura decided to let Darragh make up his own mind.

  At last he spoke. “I don’t mean to upset you, but I believe Mick Sullivan killed my grandfather and buried him in the fairy fort. Maura and Mick found a body there this week.”

  Bridget didn’t answer immediately. Finally she said, “I believe yer ri
ght, Darragh Hegarty, though no one’s said anything about it for many years.” When Mick moved to interrupt, she raised a hand. “He’s right to want to hear the story, now that he’s come so far. And there’s few who remember it. I’ll tell him what happened, for it’s a bit late fer anyone to pay the price. If you’ve other things to do, Mick, go on your way.”

  “We’ve got time,” Mick said stiffly. “And we don’t know the story ourselves, though part of it falls on what we know now is Maura’s land.”

  “Mrs. Nolan,” Darragh protested, “I don’t mind if they hear—and you’re right: there’s nothing to be done now. But I’ve heard too much to just let it go. If you don’t mind telling it.”

  “It’s time fer it all to come out. Maura, will yeh refill the teacups? This may take a bit of time.”

  “Of course. I guess I’ve got a stake in this too.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  When she was done pouring, Maura said, “I’ll need to make some more tea,” in a cheery tone that sounded completely unnatural to her. Was she really that nervous? She checked to see if there was enough water in the kettle and turned on the flame under it.

  “That’d be lovely,” Bridget said.

  “Let me help,” Mick said, springing out of his seat and following Maura to the small kitchen.

  Maura cleaned out the teapot while Mick hunted for more bread. “I’m sorry,” Maura said in a very quiet voice. “Like I said, Darragh just kind of showed up, looking for his past, and it’s clear that Bridget knows a lot about it. But I don’t know what it is, and she doesn’t have to talk about it. I haven’t asked half the questions I could have, about Old Mick, and how I ended up with his home. And pub. I have an unhappy feeling that it’s connected with Darragh’s family, but I’m not sure I want to know. You can stop it if you want.”

  In an equally quiet voice, Mick said, “Bridget seems all right with talkin’ about it, and mebbe she wants you to know where yeh fit.”

  “I’ve always been afraid to ask much. I didn’t want to upset Bridget, and she’s a good friend.”