“Might be she’s afraid of the same thing. Could be there’s things about Old Mick and the other people around here that she thinks you’d rather not know.”
“Hard to imagine. Maybe it’s the fairies who want me to know. I guess when I first got here, I didn’t really expect to stay long, so I didn’t go looking for family history. I figured if my gran never talked about it, either she didn’t have the answers or she didn’t think I needed to know. And I didn’t nag her.”
“But yer gran still sent you here. Knowing that you might find out some things.”
“You think Darragh needs to know?” Maura found a clean plate and started slicing bread.
“Bridget can always say she doesn’t know,” Mick pointed out. “But she’s not one to hold a grudge. Though Darragh might, or already does—hard to say. Depends on the story he hears.”
“All he’s said so far is that his grandfather was killed by Mick Sullivan. Do we want to know more? Or should we end it here and send him on his way?”
“Mebbe we should ask Bridget how much she wants to share. If anything.”
“How much time do we have?”
“It’s not yet nine.”
“Then we’d better go ask. I’m sorry, Mick.”
“You’ve nothing to be sorry for, Maura. Whatever happened, it’s long before your time.”
When they returned from the kitchen with a fresh pot of tea and a plate full of brown bread, Darragh was all but inhaling the last of the first round. Maura wondered just where he’d been the last couple of days, and if he’d found anything to eat. And why had he been hiding?
As if reading Maura’s thoughts, Mick asked, “Where’s he been hidin’?”
“He didn’t say,” Maura replied as quietly as she could. “I think he needed time to think. It’s not that he’s angry at us, but he wants answers.” She picked up the tea tray. “Let’s get this out there so we can move on.”
“Thank you, Maura, Mick,” Bridget said when they returned from her kitchen. “We’re well set now.”
“I love your bread, Bridget,” Maura told her. “One of these days I’ll figure out how to make it myself.”
“Ah, it’s easier than it looks. Yeh’ll just have to practice. But be sure yeh get the right flour.”
“Well, at least I’ll have a better kitchen to work with soon.”
After everyone had helped themselves to bread and butter, they all settled in chairs and somehow ended up staring expectantly at Bridget, as she noticed quickly. “Yeh’ll be wantin’ your story now, I expect,” she said.
“Only if you want to tell it, Bridget,” Maura said quickly. She didn’t want to cause Bridget pain.
Bridget smiled at her. “It’s time it was told. It’s been a good many years, and most of the people involved have left West Cork or have passed on. There may once have been a crime, but there’s no one left to charge fer it. Will yeh let me tell it my way? Mick, I don’t think yer father ever told you, and I know yer gran didn’t tell you, Maura, so let me spin the tale without interruptin’. Yeh can ask questions later.”
“Fair enough, Bridget,” Maura said. Mick only nodded. Darragh said nothing.
Bridget settled herself in her upholstered chair. “It was more than sixty years ago now. Me husband Michael and I were livin’ right here, with our children, including Mick’s father. Mick Sullivan lived alone in the cottage—he never married and had no children. He was a cousin of mine, and the land between us had been split long before, but there was more than enough. Darragh, you’re a Hegarty. Did yer people ever mention where they were from?”
“You mean, more than West Cork? I think they said Bandon originally, but then my father moved to Dublin, or maybe south of there. Carlow’s what I first remember. No one ever mentioned why they’d moved, and I always assumed it was for finding a better job, since we never had any money.”
“That was before yeh were born, young man. But there were still family here, and yer parents came back to visit now and then.”
“So you knew them?” Darragh asked.
“Only to speak to. We weren’t related, but neighbors always welcomed neighbors back then.”
Maura struggled to remember exactly when her grandmother had grabbed up her son and left for Boston. Had that been for money too? Had they owned a house, or only rented one? Of course, Maura hadn’t come along for quite a few years, and many things could have changed by then.
Bridget’s eyes looked shrewd, although the smile hadn’t left her face. Maura was getting more confused by the minute, but that was her own fault: she’d never paid much attention to recent Irish history, and American schools simply didn’t teach anything about it. She struggled to figure out when these events had happened and started trying to do the math in her head. She was in her midtwenties now, and Darragh looked to be about the same age. Gran had left Ireland before Maura was born, nearly thirty-five years earlier, which made it around 1990. And that would have been her parents’ generation, so her grandparents must have been adults another twenty-five years earlier, or around the mid-1960s. Why on earth was she supposed to remember anything from that time? Darragh would be in the same boat. Mick was a bit older, but enough to harbor memories of that era?
How had all this come to light now? She’d been minding her own business, just getting used to living in rural Ireland, so different from Boston, and now without warning they were talking about murders that happened before she was born and fairy forts. As she’d been told more than once, memories were long in Ireland, but she had no memories to share. Her grandmother Nora had never shared any, but now Maura was finding out how much she had hidden, and she felt lost.
Bridget interrupted her reverie, almost as though she’d been reading Maura’s thoughts. “Maura, I know yer gran never told you about any of this, and she had her reasons. We wrote each other, now and then, but there were things we never mentioned—what would have been the point? What was done, was done, and we’d gone on. Oh, we’d made some changes in our lives, over time, but there was no goin’ back.”
“I can understand that, Bridget. And we sort of did the same thing, when my father died, when my mother left. We couldn’t change a thing, but we had to survive, so we just kept going without looking back. But I never knew that Gran kept in touch with you, and with Old Mick. I didn’t even know you existed. Heck, I could barely find Ireland on a map. So whatever you’re telling us will be new to me—probably more than to Mick or Darragh. Before we jump into this, can you tell me if anyone is likely to be arrested?”
“Ah, Maura, it’s too long in the past now. If I had to guess, I’d say that Old Mick might have been the one, and it may be that Nora waited until he’d passed to speak of this. If anyone cared at all.”
“I did, and do,” Darragh spoke up suddenly. “Maybe that sounds foolish. But no one in my family ever shared the details. I assumed there were details, since sometimes someone would ask a question and others would fall silent. Not often, but enough to know there was something secret. But I think it’s safe to say that no one ever came to our home talking about a killer.”
“That’s no surprise, if yeh were livin’ in Dublin. This place is hardly on their minds, though things might’ve been different a hundred years ago. West Cork may look peaceful, but there was a time when a lot of people died here—strangers, friends, relatives. They were hard times.”
“Hold on a sec, Bridget,” Maura interrupted. “I went to school in Boston, remember? I could probably give you a quick history of the American Revolution or the Civil War, but I don’t know much of anything about Irish history from any time, except maybe during the Famine. I can say that a lot of the people—men, mainly—that my gran took in and helped might’ve mentioned why they’d left Ireland and their families behind, but they weren’t handing out any details. So I kind of always knew something had happened, but I never knew what.”
“And did yeh hear of the IRA?” Bridget asked.
“Sort of. The Irish Republica
n Army, right? There were—and are—a lot of Irish in Boston. But it always sounded like the IRA changed over time, thanks to politics. We’re talking here about one particular time, right?”
“The sixties,” Mick volunteered. “One particular phase of the organization. But the IRA had a long history in West Cork, in all its forms.”
“Am I going to embarrass myself or upset anybody by asking stupid questions here? Because, like I said, I don’t know much of anything. Is it safe to say that what little family I had, had nothing to do with the IRA or the military or anything like that?”
“I’d say yes, Maura,” Bridget said. “You know yer gran left here soon after her husband’s death, with her son, but that wasn’t fer political reasons. If anything, it was to keep herself and her young son safe, in case anyone thought she’d been part of the death.”
There was that term again: death. Darragh believed Old Mick had killed his grandfather and hidden the body. But he hadn’t said why—why the man was dead, and why Mick would have been responsible. Did Darragh know, or was that one of the things he was trying to find out? And why had he waited so long to come looking?
Maura checked her watch again: it was now approaching ten, and she and Mick were supposed to be opening the pub in about two hours. She truly wanted to hear what Darragh and Bridget had to share about whatever had happened, but somebody had to see to business. She could call Rose and ask her to open, but she hated to rush the discussion. She wanted to talk to Sean Murphy about whatever she learned here, but that would be a private conversation, not a public one. Not that she was reporting a crime or anything like that, but she thought Sean should know, and she wanted his opinion.
How had this gotten so complicated? “Bridget? And the rest of you? I don’t want to rush this, and I really want to hear what happened, because it’s part of my life too. But I’m supposed to be running the pub, even if it doesn’t open as early as usual today. And even if you give me the short versions, I’m going to have questions, and I’m pretty sure Darragh will too. Mick, do you want to be part of this?”
“Yes. Fer my gran here, and fer you. Darragh’s his own man, and I can leave him to figure it out. But I’m thinkin’ he came to West Cork with a bone to pick with someone, and he may not like what he hears. It’s up to me to look after Bridget. I’ll stay and we can go through it all now, or we can set a later time when there’s no hurry.”
“Yeh’ll be needing to hear Old Mick’s side,” Bridget said. “It’s up to me to speak fer him, fer he was family, and a friend as well. Still, I know yer all eager to hear the truth. Does anyone have a plan?”
“We’ve all forgotten Old Billy,” Mick announced. “Shouldn’t he be part of this too?”
“Did he have a role in whatever it was that happened, or is it only because he’s one of the oldest among us?” Maura asked.
“A bit of both,” Mick said slowly. “Bridget, how much does he know?”
“More than you’d think. He was my friend, and Mick’s, for many years. He knew the facts, but he’s never told. He deserves to have his say.”
“How about this, then?” Maura offered. “Say we close the pub early tonight, and we get together with Billy and Bridget, wherever it’s convenient? I know it will be late, but I don’t want to sit on this and stew about it. What do you all think? Bridget, it would be hardest on you, I guess, and you don’t have to do it.”
“Ah, Maura, I’ve been living with this story fer more than half my life. If I wait much longer, there’ll be no one left to tell. And now, after so long, the tellin’ can’t hurt anyone. I’d be glad to be part of it.”
“Here or in the village?”
“Ask Billy if he’s willin’ to come, and where he’d like it to be. At least I know I have you and Mick to bring me home, if we’re at the pub. Where do yeh think Old Mick would like it to be? Because he’s the center of the story.”
“We can ask Billy, because Sullivan’s has been his home for a long time, and he was Mick’s friend. Does that suit you?”
“I believe it does.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Once they’d established that the details of the story would keep until later in the day, the breakfast at Bridget’s wrapped up fairly quickly.
Maura was quick to tell Bridget, “Mick can bring you to the pub later—unless, of course, you change your mind. I won’t mind if you do, because we can talk about it all some other time.”
“Ah, Maura, yer too kind. I’ve waiting a long time to see the end of this story, and I don’t want to put it off any longer. If anythin’ goes wrong, I’ll call. But I’m lookin’ forward to seein’ Billy again—it’s been too long, and he has his own pieces of this puzzle to share.”
“Thank you, Bridget,” Maura said. “I’ll be seeing you later.”
Maura opened the front door and waited for Darragh to follow her. Outside she said, “Where do you want to go? You can come sit in the pub if you want, or hang out around here. Or you can skip this meeting or party or whatever it is and write us a note. Are you going to invite Ciara?”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because I think she cares for you. If you’re going to disappear from her life, it would be polite to let her know. And I’m not volunteering to be the one to tell her, because I don’t know either of you well. If whatever it is is over, you tell her. Mick and I have got to get to the pub, so make up your mind where you’re going to be today. And if you want to take a shower and change clothes, you’re welcome to use the cottage.”
“What?” Darragh looked confused. “Oh, right—I’m not in any shape for a party, am I? And maybe I could use a nap.”
“You still have your car?” Maura asked.
“Yes, but it’s out of sight.”
“You can drive it to Leap. Like I said, Mick will take care of his grandmother. And if you make her unhappy, I may have to bury you somewhere myself. Which reminds me: assuming the gardaí don’t find a reason to charge anybody, what do you want to do with your grandfather, if they’ll release the remains?”
“I’ll have to give that some thought. My family won’t care, but I do. Look, Maura …” Darragh fumbled for words. “I’m sorry if I’ve messed things up. I really thought it would be simple: find the fairy fort, find the body, if it was there, and be done with it. I never expected to involve so many people. Nor did I think you’d all be connected somehow.”
“Hey, that’s how it seems to be around here,” Maura said, managing a smile. “Look, Mick and I will be leaving. You can hang out here as long as you like. I can tell you there’s no money hidden and nothing of any value, and Old Mick didn’t leave a journal with all the details of what happened with your grandfather. You’re going to have to come and listen to everyone else if you want to know.”
“Thanks, Maura. You’ve been kinder than I had any right to expect.”
Maura gave him a curt nod, since she had no idea what to say, then turned and went down the hill to where Mick was waiting next to his car. “Have I screwed this up?”
“Why would yeh say that?”
“I could have kept my mouth shut about all of it. God knows what Sean is going to think, if he hears the whole story. Or I could have told Darragh to go on his way and get out of our lives, and we might never have known. Is Bridget going to be all right about this? I didn’t think she’d know about the whole mess from the past. I don’t want to make her unhappy.”
“I think she’s stronger than you give her credit for, Maura. And it’s partly her story too. So much of history around here was never written down, and it’s the people who were in the thick of it that hold on to the memories.”
“I still feel like a fool, now that I’ve gotten everybody else into this mess. It wasn’t my problem to share.”
“Yeh might be surprised, Maura.”
“Do you know more than I do, Mick?” she asked.
“I’m not sure. Let’s give it a rest until later. We’ll go to the pub, and you can talk with
Billy. I’ll pick up Bridget in the afternoon.”
“What do I tell Rose? Or Susan and Helen? ‘Sorry, but we’re settling a family crisis that’s more than half a century old and you’re not invited’?”
“Yeh might argue that Helen has a connection. It may be what brought her husband—yer father—to the States.”
“I don’t know her well enough to ask. Heck, if I couldn’t ask Gran, how can I ask Helen what she knows or wants to know?”
“Your choice, Maura. Mebbe she won’t come by at all.”
“And what about Susan?”
“Maura, I don’t know. Yeh might have noticed I’m not good at talking about things that are personal, even if they’re long past. I can’t be tellin’ yeh how to deal with yer relatives.”
“We are a mess, aren’t we? I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.”
“Then let’s go see how yer kitchen’s comin’ along, and then you can talk to Billy.”
“I guess that will have to do. One last thing: does this have anything to do with us? You and me, I mean?”
“It might do. Don’t borrow trouble, Maura. We’ll be sorting it out later.”
Maura surprised herself by getting into Mick’s car. Sure, her own was sitting right up the hill, and she might even need it later in the day, but right now she wanted Mick’s company. And she was pretty sure she’d want it later.
As a couple they were in fact a mess. She’d known him for well over a year now, and for much of that time she’d been unsure of what her plans were going forward, and reluctant to get involved with anyone. She got the same feeling from Mick. After all, he was intelligent and educated—and single. What the heck was he doing in a small shabby pub in a village in West Cork? But as far as she knew, he hadn’t been looking for anything more. Still, after some time Bridget had pushed him into confessing why he’d lost all ambition and was content just to drift through his life. It had been a shock to her to find out what he’d been hiding, but it had explained a lot.
That train of thought led her to recognize that Bridget was a wise woman. She knew her grandson, and she wasn’t lecturing him about getting on with his life. She’d also known Maura’s grandmother for years, but she hadn’t told Maura what to do next when she arrived. Which led Maura to think that if Bridget believed they needed to get this whole messy business of the body in the rath sorted out, then maybe she was right. And when Bridget and Billy were gone, much of that history would be lost, the story left unfinished. So why was she so upset about it?
Fatal Roots Page 17