Echoes Through the Mist: A Paranormal Mystery (The Echoes Quartet Book 1)

by K. Francis Ryan

  The Mayor’s eyes showed ferret-like quickness mixed with fear. His look told Julian this had better go the right way or things were going to turn ugly very quickly and that activity in the pub would turn vicious.

  Julian pushed his shoulders back and lifted the pint. First, he plunged his nose into the glass and inhaled deeply. He set the glass down on the bar and exhaled. Maher’s lip twisted into a snarl.

  The crowd outside went silent.

  Julian hefted the glass again and lifted it to his lips. The amber beer slanted as the glass touched his moth. He took a mouthful and seemed to chew the liquid all the while looking thoughtful, his eyes tight in concentration.

  He swallowed.

  Everyone waited.

  The glass was gently set back on the bar.

  Julian Blessing, the great Solomon of Cappel Vale, spoke.

  “This beer is watered,” Solomon said.

  “HA! You milky bastard, Mulherin! Jaysus, Mary and Joseph! Even a feekin’ policeman and not even an Irish one knows you watered your beer!” Maher barked.

  “This is a serious offense Mr. Mulherin,” Julian cut in, “and one that should not be dealt with lightly. For the next three days, or as long as it lasts, you are to serve your beer free of charge to any adult customer who comes into your establishment during your normal hours of operation. You can, of course, continue to sell your food and sundries as usual.”

  “You heard the police. You’ll be ruined with everyone rushing in here to drink up all your nasty profits,” Maher cried gleefully.

  The Landlord’s eyes turned into a squint as he calculated his potential losses. His forehead furrowed as he thought over the punishment. His eyes locked on Julian’s as realization set in.

  There would be no loss. Mulherin would close down both of O’Gavagan’s Pubs as people flocked in for free watered beer. He would more than make up for his losses on the bar side from the profits on food and sundries. The entire thing was flawless. This policeman was a genius, something of which most policemen could not be accused. The Landlord made a note to find out what sundries were and then get some quickly.

  With gratitude, the Landlord winked without changing his otherwise ashen appearance. He then closed his eyes looking every bit the broken man.

  The crowd outside erupted in laughter and shouts.

  Sean Maher did a drunken jig and began repeating the refrain of a song he had just recently created, “Mulherin is a bastard. Mulherin is a bastard, Mulherin is a bastard.” It was a song short on lyric qualities, but sung with real feeling.

  “But,” Julian said.

  Singing, dancing and laughter faded away and all waited for the words of the great Solomon, wellspring of all wisdom and lawgiver without equal.

  “Even for watered beer it isn’t half bad.”

  Pandemonium erupted outside as the crowd picked up where it had left off. Nothing had changed. Everyone got free pints and, by all reports, rather good pints at that. The Mayor slumped and smiled knowing that much tragedy had been averted.

  “What! What do you mean not half bad!” For all the racket, it was hard for Julian to hear Maher over the bedlam. “It’s watered beer. Do you know nothin’!” the big man roared.

  “Mr. Maher, watered or not it was good enough to get you a little unsteady on your feet,” Julian tried to shout above the crowd’s raucous celebrations.

  “Unsteady is it? I came into this rat hole of a pub in that condition. I’d been drinkin’ at O’Gavagan’s across the street most of the morning.”

  “Oh,” said Julian before looking toward the Mayor. “Oh,” was the last thing Julian remembered saying before his head bounced off the floor.

  How he got to the floor was something of a mystery to him. He was vertical one moment and horizontal the next. What happened to cause this perplexed him. There was a roaring in his ears, but he assumed that was just the noise of the crowd. From this angle the wood planking on Mulherin’s floor seemed remarkably straight, smooth, and only slightly uncomfortable to lie on.

  That is what Julian thought before the floor faded into gray and then black as his eyes rolled back in his head.

  ***

  Father Fahey and Sister Eugenia arrived at Mulherin’s Pub and shouldered their way to the door through the now silent crowd.

  The priest moved immediately to Julian’s prone body. He felt for a pulse and finding one that was strong and regular, nodded to Sister Eugenia. The stately nun picked up Father Fahey’s blackthorn walking stick, stepped over Julian and strode up to Sean Maher who had retreated to the end of the bar after having pole axed Julian.

  The punch to Julian’s head had been delivered to an area between his temple and his left ear. Sean Maher had delivered it at half speed and at half strength and was as surprised as anyone when Julian didn’t see it coming and kissed the floor with what appeared to be real gusto.

  At the nun’s approach, Sean drew himself to his full height and towered over her. If he thought this either intimidated Sister Eugenia or afforded him some sort of protection he was much mistaken, but he would soon find this was not to be his only regrettable mistake with this nun.

  “Did you do this?” the nun’s diction was impeccable and the implied growl was palpable. She was a slight woman, but her bearing made her appear every bit as large as Sean Maher. She held the walking stick in her right hand and tapped it rhythmically into her open left palm.

  “What do you mean, Sister? Oh that? Well, yes. Just a wee bit of horseplay. Ach, ’tis nothin’ to get worked up about and that policeman would tell you the same. But you’ll be excusing’ me, Oi have to get back to the fields.”

  “You, Thomas Donnelly,” the nun said never taking her eyes off Sean Maher’s face. The runner who had brought word to Julian appeared. “Yes, Sister,” said the boy as he ran to the nun’s side.

  “Liam McMaster employs Mr. Maher does he not?”

  “Yes, Sister, he works for Farmer McMaster same as me Da,” the boy said and began to suspect he was about to be given a starring role in this production.

  “Good. Go tell Bobby McMaster’s father that Sean Maher will not be able to return to work today. Go now and be quick.”

  “Now wait just one minute!” Maher bellowed.

  When exactly the big man realized his error was hard to calculate. It could have been when the nun caught him behind the knees with Father Fahey’s walking stick. Taking Maher’s knees out dropped him to a convenient height so that the nun could take hold of his entire ear. That might have been a dead giveaway of the magnitude of the blunder Maher had made.

  However, it surely must have dawned on him that something was amiss when she bent near to his face and with the sort of menace he had seldom heard, the nun said in a language he understood clearly, “You, Sean Maher, will come with me and it is sorry I will make you if you offer even the slightest trouble.” She measured out each word with painful slowness. “Resistance will only embarrass you and shame your family in front of the entire village. Now, come along you great thug.”

  With the big man bent in half and the nun holding onto his ear like a limpet, Sister Eugenia walked Maher through the silent crowd. The beginning of a snigger was heard and the nun wheeled on a girl from the 6th grade class. Later in life, she would claim Sister Eugenia had frozen the blood in her veins on the day Sean Maher knocked down the policeman.

  Having quelled that, and any contemplated disturbances, the nun and her prisoner moved off toward the police station.

  Father Fahey had two of the larger village boys remove what remained of Mulherin’s front door. The priest and the boys then rolled Julian onto the door. Using it as a stretcher they too trotted off to the police station.

  ***

  Julian woke slowly to a world devoid of all light and only a slight rustling sound of nearby movement. He had been undressed and found the bed covers tucked in tightly underneath him, pinning his arms to his sides. He made an odd gurgling sound and moved only slightly.

&nb
sp; “Shhhhhh. You’re to stay still.” The voice was a woman’s, soft, slow and gentle. It sounded dimly familiar to Julian.

  The voice continued, “Do you know your name?”

  “Of course I know my name,” Julian said as he tried to sit again. “What I don’t know is where I am or who you are or how I got here or what happened. How long have I been this way?” Nausea swept over him and he lay back on the bed exhausted by his efforts.

  “You will just have to lay still for now. As for the other, politeness forbids me from speculating on how long you’re been the way you are,” the voice said and chuckled.

  “Tell me the last thing you remember,” the voice whispered.

  “I was in Mulherin’s Pub. I must have tripped on something. I don’t remember falling down. I do remember my head hitting the floor, but that doesn’t make sense and God, my head hurts.” He tried to think more slowly and connect the dots one at a time, but his thoughts wouldn’t slow down.

  “It is true, you were in Mulherin’s Pub, but you didn’t trip.” The Irish-English accent sounded musical to Julian. The voice continued, “You were knocked down. Sean Maher struck you. The room has been darkened and you have a compress over your eyes as a precaution.”

  “Precaution against what?”

  “Well, a blow to the side of the head could have done nasty things to your eyesight temporarily, but, as easily, it could be far worse – a detached retina, although I seriously doubt that. You could have a concussion for all we know, but I doubt that too. There really is no way of knowing right now. Symptoms could show up immediately or a week later. Any punch delivered by Sean Maher is always serious business.”

  Julian tried to focus. It wasn’t working. “If it’s a concussion. I’m not supposed to go to sleep because I won’t wake up. I heard that somewhere.”

  “Then you listen to odd things from even odder sources,” the voice said softly. “Concussions happen when your brain violently bangs the inside of your skull. One of the primary symptoms of a concussion is fatigue.

  “Your body,” the voice continued, “is experiencing fatigue in order to tell you that your brain needs rest. Rest is, in fact, one of the best possible ways to treat a concussion.

  “Not to worry though, we’ll have you taken to a proper hospital where you can receive proper care from a top flight specialist,” the voice said leaving acid in its wake.

  “That’s okay. I’ll take Dr. Dwyer’s opinion for what should be done. When can I speak with him?” Julian said.

  Julian felt the woman move closer to him. Her voice became softer still and low as though she were sharing an intimacy. He could feel her breath on his ear and smell her hair. She whispered, “You are.”

  “Are what?” That voice, there was something about it. “Sweet Jesus!” He thought suddenly as he placed the voice. “She hadn’t been whispering when she came to the station to tell me what an idiot I was!” He tried to sit up, but the doctor pushed him down.

  “You have Dr. Dwyer’s opinion for what should be done. I don’t know if you noticed, but I am not a he,” she said. My name is Ailís Dwyer, Doctor Ailís Dwyer if you like or Doctor Dwyer or just Doctor, whatever pleases you, Constable Blessing.”

  Julian tried to repeat the doctor’s name. Doctor and Dwyer came out well, but the first name was a jumbled mess. His tongue was thick and his mind even more so.

  “EYE-lish,” Dr. Dwyer corrected. “You’ll get used to it.”

  Julian weakly insisted he was not a policeman just before he lolled to the side and fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

  Dr. Dwyer smoothed back her patient’s hair and then inspected again the lump on his head. She followed the contour of his cheek with her long fingers and admired the plane of his face, the broad forehead and the strong jaw. She smiled when she thought of her first encounter with him. She looked at his lips now and decided she was having decidedly undoctor-like thoughts again.

  “You’re a fish out of water, Julian Blessing, but a rather handsome fish I think,” she said in a voice just above a whisper. The doctor smiled.

  She moved from Julian’s bedside into the station proper, drawing the curtain behind her. “Moira Hagan! What are you doing! You can’t do that. Leave his things alone this instant,” the doctor said. She was trying to keep her voice down. A whispered shout loses much of its power to persuade.

  “Well, dear,” the Hagan said, “what does it look like I’m doing? I’m searching the man’s things. Fortunately, you kept him busy so I wouldn’t be disturbed with my work. Don’t worry yourself though, I’m nearly done. If you come help we’ll be done all the sooner.” The older woman was meticulous in her examination of Julian’s belongings and had them spread over the entire top of the station’s desk.

  “You’ll not get me mixed up in this outrage. The man is entitled to his privacy. Besides what difference does it make, he’ll be moving on soon I’m sure,” the doctor responded sounding indifferent to the matter.

  “Will he?” the Hagan said and looked up sharply, “I have the feeling he will be with us for a while yet. That should please you some, eh?” As an aside the Hagan added with a pleasant smile, “By the way doctor, when did you decide to take up fishing, or is it still fishing if the fish is out of the water?”

  Ailís Dwyer stiffened at the older woman’s remark, but said nothing.

  “You saw his shirt of course when you took it off of him – along with everything else. By the by, that’s unusual treatment for a head injury, but then you’re the doctor, aren’t you, darlin’,” the Hagan said pointedly and grinned.

  Her hand rested on one of Julian’s neatly folded dress shirts. “Now why do you suppose a man would tramp around Ireland in workman’s clothes wearing a shirt that cost a workman’s monthly wages?” the Hagan said thoughtfully. “And isn’t it fun we’ll have finding out the why of it and more importantly, the who of this Julian Blessing.”

  Chapter Nine

  With a dull ache throbbing behind his eyes, Julian sat on the cot in Sean Maher’s jail cell. The big man was a picture of wretched dejection. Earlier he had said he felt sure a pint of porter would lift his depression somewhat, but Julian remained adamant that they needed to concoct a plan before any pints would be consumed.

  Maher wasn’t good at making plans and felt this one flaw would leave him parched throughout eternity.

  “Let’s go over this again,” Julian said softly.

  Sean sighed. “That great brute of a bastard, Liam McMaster, has given me the boot and now Oi’ve no job and no one will hire me because Oi’m a convict and me wife and children will starve and I’ll be forced to go to some filthy place like Cork where Oi’ll be worked to death by a money grubbing bastard who is an even bigger money grubbing bastard than Liam McMaster.”

  Julian had to admit it had all the elements of a middling Shakespearian tragedy or a country-western song. It lacked literary force, but Maher’s impassioned telling of the tale made up for that.

  “You really have to stay away from depressing thoughts like that,” Julian said.

  “Why?” Sean asked. “I’m Irish, it’s what we do best.”

  “Well, let’s move along. What can you do?” Julian asked kindly. “If you had the choice, what would you like to be?”

  “Oi’ve always worked in the fields. Oi don’t know anything else. It was out of the school Oi was at an early age because Oi got into fights, Oi wasn’t very smart, and the nuns hated me. Never trust a nun. They will do you unto death and never think twice about it and that’s for sure.”

  “Sean, Sean, Sean, let’s get back to the subject. If you could do anything you wanted, what would it be?”

  Sean Maher had to give this some thought and the effort was wearing him out. He screwed up his face and bit his lower lip. He took deep breaths that would draw his massive shoulders up to his ear lobes. The exhalations were nearly as dramatic. In the end, he had to give the whole thing up. Thinking this through was beyond him.

  �
�Oi’m just not smart like you Mr. Blessing.”

  “We went over this before, Sean. You can call me Julian and you are plenty smart. We just have to figure out the best fit for you.

  “Why don’t you go home to your wife and children? They’ve not seen you in three days and your sentence is up,” Julian said.

  Sister Eugenia had tried, convicted and sentenced Sean to three days in lock up. The nun had decided to go for the upper limits on the cruel-and-unusual-punishment scale by not allowing the prisoner any alcohol. It was the worst torture imaginable for Sean Maher. “Hard labor from a hard nun,” he called it.

  “Oi can’t go home for the shame that is on me,” Sean said.

  “What shame? You did the entire village a huge favor.”

  “Oi brought shame on meself and all of me family, Mr. Julian.”

  “It’s just Julian. Sean, it didn’t happen that way. You discovered that Mulherin was diluting his beer. The entire village now knows he is a man who can’t be trusted. All of that led to your fellow citizens being able to drink up all the pints they wanted for free for three days.”

  “True. True,” Sean Maher said as he cocked his head and tried to look thoughtful once more.

  “Of course it is true. Go home. Hug your wife, hold your children, and know that the entire village knows you for the hero you are. We’ve got to find you a job, but we’ll figure that out later.”

  “Julian,” Sean said as he rose from the cot, “about that pint? Mayhaps not a pint so much as a dram?”

  Julian was distracted, but said at last, “Huh, no, do as I say and go home to your family. Then you can send someone to the pub to bring you back a pint. You’re to stay out of pubs for awhile.” As Julian spoke, the germ of an idea was beginning to sprout.

  ***

  Liam McMaster wasn’t an imposing man. He wasn’t a smart or even a clever man. He was, however, cunning and as cunning men are wont to do, he was backing the winners and trashing those likely to lose.