“Started off in England at Hinckley Point on Bridgewater Bay. Been out here a bit. Catch has been good.” There was a slight pause as the Wellies squeaked. “Here’s my papers.”
Another voice, not as gruff. “What grounds you been fishing?”
“Been chasin’ the cod run through Saint George’s Channel.” A heavy metal hatch began lifting. The grating sound vibrated in his ears. “Taken me nearly a week to get a full catch. You’d a think there wouldn’t be another fish left with all them boats out there. Small outfits like meself are gettin’ pushed to the limit. Me wife would get the divorce for the time I spend out here except for the fact that she likes it when I’m gone.” A lighter thump then a squish as he took a step. “Say now, why I been seeing you Coasties dashing about?”
“We’ve been asked to perform standard sweep protocol for all ships coming in from international waters as well as monitor catches.”
“I been fishing these waters for thirty years and I never seen anything like it. I’d a thought you were looking for somebody or something.”
“Standard monitoring. Nothing more.”
“That’s good. I’d a thought yas were looking for something to do with that bombing. Terrible business, that. Any leads yet?”
“Standard monitoring. Nothing more.”
More grating and slams as hatches were opened and shut. “Take a look around and suit yourselves.”
Tim felt the vibration of more footsteps and the boat rocked to the side. “Thank you kindly for your cooperation. Where you selling your catch?”
“When I refueled on the Isle of Man I heard prices were good up north. Thought I’d take my chances at the auctions in the Belfast ports.”
“Best be going then.”
The boat gave a bigger rock as the passengers disembarked. A few minutes later, the other boat’s engine faded and light flooded the stinking fish hole. Tim could feel someone pulling at his ankles, and he shimmied free, gasping, rocking, his face sputtering in spasms as he ripped off his clothes.
The stupid man stood there with a hose, soap and neatly folded shirt and pants. He studied Tim’s contorted face and snickered.
“Here you go, Tik.”
BALLYRONAN, NORTHERN IRELAND
THE TRAIL SURROUNDING Michael’s home started at the edge of the great lawn and meandered through wooded thickets and along streams. Fallen trees or mossy planks haphazardly hammered into place long ago bridged the water. On the top of a rise, the path provided a clear view of the winding drive and gatehouse, quiet with the morning’s shift changes done.
The surrounding hillsides were a collage of deep greens checkered by fields lined with stone walls. A few homes and cottages dotted the hills and the gray stone husks of castles reigned on hilltops. To an American’s soul, “old” and “historic” meant brick or wooden structures dating back several hundred years. In the Irelands, those words were rendered quaint against piles of rubble that dated back centuries more.
Americans also claim to feel a startling sense of connection when they set foot on Irish soil, as if some sort of invisible plug existed on the soles of their feet that connected to an Irish source of history and sense of self. Many a tourist walked down the streets of an ancestor’s hometown and fancied a connection to it. Shoulders squirmed with feelings of déjà vu and a sworn kinship with the people.
Jessica thought them fools.
Reluctantly, she admitted she yearned for roots. Even so, she wouldn’t let herself be deluded into thinking she belonged somewhere she had never been. She was born in New England and raised a Yankee. The stirrings of her soul or the needs for a connection were nothing more than her picking up the baggage of her life and moving on. Walking with her hands shoved deep into her pockets, she let the colors of the land and calls of the birds ebb through her as she let herself be pulled to the shores of Lough Neagh.
She bent down on the yellow sand and traced her fingers through the same waters her mother had known. The water was cool, its smell and taste unremarkable. A pang of homesickness, rather than the pretention of connection, flickered alive. At least, this is what she told herself. The once clear direction ahead blurred because all that trailed behind had changed.
Her walk took her through wooded areas and walled gardens. At one time, the gardens of the two hundred year-old estate must have been spectacular. Only those adjacent to the house were tended. Outlines remained of flowerbeds and paths designed to capture different vistas and provide sitting or picnic areas. Her route was often marked by stones slick with moss, other times by scrubby vegetation determined to take hold. The trails beckoned her forward. At least she had that.
The path meandered its way to the old stables. Outside, the turnout areas were marked with broken fences and fallen stones. Down the hill was a flat area that would have served as a schooling ring. The surrounding fields were perfect for jump training with wide-open areas and natural obstacles. Inside, the stable’s bones gave evidence to well cared for horses—a broad cobblestone aisle and box stalls with doors that swung on hand-forged hinges. Four of the twelve stalls had been converted into a garage some time ago—showing a bias for horseless carriages over four-legged versions that marked supreme wealth at the turn of the century. The loft showed evidence that the leaking roof no longer offered protection. Dampness threatened to consume everything with mold and rot if left unchecked. She looked down at the hard-packed floor and noticed recent footprints. Her heart skipped a beat as she quickly scanned the interior. Knowing she was in the middle of Michael’s world helped her push away a moment of worry.
The path continued to the other side of the sloping lawn. The smooth green carpet stretched up to the house and sparkled with drying dew. A slight movement caught her eye. A man with a dog appeared a discrete distance behind her. He touched his forehead in a salute and continued his patrol.
She had been out longer than expected and began to hurry, looking forward to the breakfast Murray would have waiting for her—still warm scones and soda bread and a choice of tea or coffee. He was determined to amend her heathen ways by encouraging adoption of tea as her preferred beverage, insisting tea was as important as oxygen to the Irish. Taking a shortcut through a garden, she walked directly to the solarium. The heavy doors, unaccustomed to any use, screeched open. A tray waited for her.
Murray gave a discrete cough as he stood in the doorway connecting the solarium to the rest of the house. “Good mornin’, Miss Jessica. Glad to see you up and about on this fine day. That door’s protesting its use. I’ll have it tended.” He turned to look over the pile of photographs and journals and the stack of Jessica’s recent notes. “Shall I pour you a spot of tea while you ready for more research?” He filled a china cup with steaming reddish-brown liquid.
“Thank you.” Jessica took one sip, and placed the cup back down. At least she tried. Murray had the good grace to pretend he did not see. She motioned for him to join her.
They chatted about her walk and discoveries. “What’s up, Murray?” she asked, knowing her American phrases would give him momentary pause.
“I’m more curious to what’s up with you,” he replied, pleased with himself and enjoying the volley. “I’m not surprised you were drawn to the stable and waters today. Horses and love are even in the myths about how the lough formed.”
“Seriously? Tell me.”
He beamed, happy to have an audience. “A young lad named Eochaidh fell in love with his stepmother and they eloped. His father took an understandable exception to that act and killed all the horses used for their escape.” He rounded his eyes and lowered his voice for emphasis, obviously enjoying the tale. “A sympathetic Aonghus, the Irish god of love, gave the elicit lovers a huge horse, instructing them to never let it rest for all would die if it did. But Eochaidh didn’t listen and let the horse rest because he couldn’t wait to snog his stepmother. The exhausted horse peed and a huge spring erupted on the spot, drowning all.”
“Well, the shore here is just
about the right color to have me believe that.”
He sat down beside her with the comfortable air of settling down next to a friend. Their kitchen talks and mutual enjoyment of the top to bottom explorations of the manse helped establish an easy rapport.
“I took a look at the pictures you gave me. I’ve identified where a few of them were taken.”
Jessica tried to temper the excitement in her voice. “I knew it! What did you come up with?”
Murray placed a few of the photos on the low table in front of them. “As soon as you told me your mother spent happy times on these shores, I had an idea of where that cluster of cottages might be. Looking at the photos, I found one that confirms it.” He pulled one picture from the pile—colors faded to browns and yellows with a surface cracked and curled—and produced a tourist brochure.
The picture was one of Jessica’s favorites. Bridget’s head was thrown back with laughter, a huge smile on her face, expression radiant with happiness. One leg was propped up on the fender of a dilapidated lorry—wooden sides leaning precariously outward—and she rested her arm on her knee. Behind her, a dirt track wound down to a lake.
The coastline and small rocky island were very distinctive. The tourist brochure had a picture of a beach with a rocky island not too far off shore. The islands matched perfectly.
“The cottages were a favorite spot for folks from inner Belfast to summer. Back then, different families owned them, but they were purchased and made into a resort. The island is called Ram’s Island. Being one of the few in Lough Neagh made it easy enough to identify.”
“Is the resort still in business?”
“This is an old brochure. I really don’t know.”
“How about a caretaker? Would anyone be there who would remember those cottages and the families who stayed there?”
“I really don’t know, and I’m not sure it’s wise to appear on someone’s doorstep and start asking questions.”
Jessica fingered the brochure. “How do I get there?”
Murray pursed his lips. “You’re too predictable for your own good, Miss Jessica. It’s about two hours drive from here.”
“I’ll take you.”
Jessica was surprised to see Michael standing in the doorway, hands shoved in pockets, and shoulder leaning against the jamb. He walked over and gave her a kiss on the cheek. He wore buff colored chinos and a shirt of thickly woven linen the color of peat that set off his dark hair and made his eyes shine navy blue. His casual attire signaled he had no plans for more meetings that day.
“Murray told me about his discovery,” he said. “Those cabins are a short drive south of the school. I thought I could take you there, let you explore, then show you around the campus. Interested?”
“Yeah,” she said, giving another look at the brochure before placing it on the table. “That would be terrific. Tomorrow?”
Michael looked at Murray, who gave a barely perceptible nod. “Tomorrow works. It should be fun and I can guess you’re getting cooped up here.” He poured himself a cup of tea and took a thick slice of soda bread.
Murray got up to leave, but Jessica stopped him. “I feel like you want to tell me more, right? You’ve taken a look through all of the papers too, so... ” She let her voice fade.
“I’m not sure if it’s important, but if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to keep reading her journals and letters and find someone who can translate the Gaelic for you. Your mother was quite a woman. I can see the resemblance.”
Jessica blushed. Murray’s compliment was the first time someone told her she resembled her mother—her real mother—and she was rattled by the effect those words had on her. “Thanks, Murray. Of course you can. But the deal is you have to tell me everything you learn.”
“Most certainly.” He loaded a tray with discarded cups and saucers. “We wouldn’t have it any other way,” he said and left.
Michael sat down on an oversized sofa closest to the window. He adjusted some pillows and motioned for her to join him.
“We?” she asked.
“Murray’s keeping a watchful eye on you and making sure I’m apprised of what’s on your mind. I’ve been busy this past week. I’m happy for his help.”
“He’s been terrific at making me feel welcomed. Quite a contrast to Nan.”
“He’s been a part of this home for as long as I can remember. His father worked for my mother’s family, and my father hated him.”
“Hmm. That makes me like him even more.”
Michael chuckled as he pulled Jessica beside him. “You’ve certainly received his approval. Not everyone gets to crawl around this house like you have.”
“Walking the grounds and exploring the house helps me get to know you, too. I’m excited to see the school. I feel like I’m being rewarded for good behavior.”
“Very good behavior.” He wrapped his arms around her and reclined. The length of his body pressed against hers. Tension drained, he grew content. “It’s been a crazy week. I’m sorry I’ve been gone so much. Murray tells me you’ve been up and around more. You must be feeling better.”
“Mm hmm,” she affirmed. “I needed the rest.”
“How are you feeling?” He brushed her hair aside and opened her shirt collar far enough to see the round bruise, now dappled with hues of yellow and faded purple.
“Good,” she said, rolling her shoulder around, judging its stiffness. She screwed her mouth to the side. “Any idea who wants to kill me?”
Her directness startled Michael. Recovering, he shook his head. “No. Doherty said animosity about you was at a boiling point, so it could be related to the race. No one has learned anything more.”
She pressed. “I saw fresh footprints in the dirt in the old stables.”
“Footprints?” Michael looked in the direction of the stables. “Most likely one of my men, checking the outlying buildings. I’ll mention it, but I’ll bet they were just being thorough. The stables haven’t been used in years. We always had horses during my summers here, but they were in need of care even then.”
“Restored, they’d be amazing. Even the grounds look perfect for steeplechase training.”
“They are, or at least were, when I was a kid.”
She sat up in surprise. “Seriously? You raced here? Who won?”
He smiled. “I did. It was one of the few things I did better than my brother, and I took a profound amount of pleasure beating him at something. My mother would help me. She’d cut off Liam’s line and slow down just in time for me to take the lead. After a while, I could see the strategy for myself and cut both of them off.”
“You’ve been holding out on me! That explains why you weren’t wiped off Planxty’s back.”
He shrugged, enjoying her surprise. “Most jockeys are under six feet tall, so a pretty safe assumption was that I’d find another career. I rode with Tim, too. I mentioned before that our fathers were business associates.”
She chewed on the inside of her cheek, weighing how much to say. “Yes, you did. You were a bit short on the details, though.” She shifted herself around and hugged her knees to her chest. “Go ahead. Fill me in. I’ve got time.” A smile grew on her face, but an edge crept into her voice. “He’s different.”
“Tim’s loyal to the Charity. He’s always been tough to understand.”
“There’s more to it than that, Michael,” she ventured. “With animals he’s great. With people, not so much.”
“Yeah, I know.” He hooked his finger under her chin and pulled her face up to read her expression. “You get tense every time his name comes up. I wish you had asked me about him sooner. Tim is a few years younger than me, but was one of the few kids allowed on the estate when I was younger.”
“Allowed?”
“My father would say that money attracts more money or flies. He was cautious who he let close to us. Not every parent wants their kids playing in a sandbox surrounded by armed guards, either, so the locals kept their kids away. You see, my f
ather always had mixed reviews.” He shifted, uncomfortable.
“But Tim’s parents were okay with him being here?”
“Tim’s mom died when he was very young and father was incredibly skilled at handling horses. Must be where Tim picked it up. Anyway, his father established the network of trainers, vets, and jockeys who knew how to work the racing system. He stayed away from anyone directly involved with management of the tracks and used people he knew he could control. He was involved with farms that raced at Suffolk Downs, Belmont, and Churchill Downs.”
Jessica could feel her eyes sting, and her face grow hot. She picked at a worn spot on her jeans. “If that’s the case, then his father could be the link between Wyeth’s Worldwind Farms and the Charity? Maybe he knew Gus Adams, too?”
“It would fit.”
She puzzled over the new information. “If his father knew how to dope the animals and fix races, Tim probably learned to wield a needle at his father’s knee. That would explain why he was so competent at sedating the horses for transportation.”
“Tim idolized his father and did whatever he asked. In fact, I have to say that Tim was hungry for any approval he could get. When we were kids, I would sneak out of the house and meet him at the stables. We never planned a time, but there he’d be, just waiting for me. He would sleep there as often as he could, making a bed from the horse blankets and curling up in a corner of a stall. That reminds me of someone.” He playfully touched the tip of her nose with his index finger. “You’re right. He’s always been one of those people who got along better with animals than humans.
“Tim actions make me think he had some kind of brain injury or maybe he’s a bit autistic? He’s great if he’s practiced doing or saying something, but if he’s presented with new information, he gets flustered. I can tell he’s been taught to react and behave in certain ways. I’ve watched him stare when trying to read body language then flip out when he doesn’t put the pieces together correctly.”
The Troubles (The Jessica Trilogy Book 2) Page 29