by Lila Dubois
“Carroll had a sister and a brother. Aogan, her brother, lived to be sixty years old and had seven children. There is no record of her sister Mary’s marriage or death. Now, if Mary hadn’t been married, she most likely would have gone to live with Carroll and therefore would have been with the family when they were killed, but as I said, there is no record of her death.”
Melissa flipped to another slide. This one was an overhead shot of three skeletons, the bones clean and white, laid out neatly on blue plastic.
“Using the details already mentioned, I’m making my preliminary identification. This is Mary O’Donnabhain.” Melissa pointed to the adult skeleton. “According to her birth record, she was twenty-seven at the time of her death. That means that she was around sixteen when she became pregnant with her first child, Charles.”
“She was so young,” Sorcha whispered. “I assumed she was his mistress, but if she was that young…”
Melissa took off her glasses and folded them. “There is no way of knowing how Mary first came to be involved with John, but based on the records and context evidence, we can assume that she remained involved with him, either voluntarily or involuntarily, for the next eleven years.
“She had three more children—Henry and George, who were old enough to attend school, and a baby.”
Melissa rose and went to the wall, touching the image of the child’s skeleton. “This is Henry. The skeletal growth indicates a child between eight and nine years old, which aligns with the records. This—” she pointed to the littlest skeleton, “—was Mary’s youngest child, approximately four months old.”
“She was either mistress or slave to this man,” Tristan said, too caught up in the history to remember that he was avoiding Melissa. “Her oldest child died among his mother’s family, who were rebels against his father’s authority.”
“Precisely.”
Tristan met her gaze. There was no censure, no pity. He relaxed slightly.
“Henry was strangled to death, with enough force to break bone.” She clicked to an image of a small curved bone. “Can you see the fracture?”
He’d been killed there. In his mind’s eye, Tristan could still see the image of the woman in the green dress—Mary—grabbing and strangling a young boy, who stared up at his mother, struggling and thrashing against her hold.
“The infant was also strangled,” she said, clicked to another slide, another damaged bone.
“How did Mary die?” Seamus asked, voice nearly expressionless.
“I cannot say for certain, but based on the bones, I would say that the extent of physical trauma that occurred just before she died would have been enough to result in death.”
“She was beaten to death?” Tristan asked.
“That’s my best guess—let me skip to the illustrations of her bone damage. She had a broken leg and ribs. There’s some skull damage, but it wouldn’t have been enough to do serious brain damage.”
Beside Séan, Sorcha was wiping her eyes. Séan had his arm over her shoulders, his face set in grim lines. Tristan could just see the side of Elizabeth’s face, and her already pale skin had taken on an unhealthy pallor.
There was a moment of uncomfortable silence, broken only by Sorcha’s soft weeping. Melissa blinked and frowned. She opened her mouth as if she were going to say something, then toyed with her necklace. Tristan tipped his head to the side, trying to read her expression—it wasn’t frustration, it was distress. She looked at Sorcha and her shoulders fell.
It never paid to be the bearer of bad news, but it was killing him to see her looking like that. He liked her feisty and stubborn.
“You forgot something,” he said.
“No, I didn’t.” Her frown went from worried to irritated.
“Yes, you did.”
“What?”
“You don’t see it?”
“No, because I haven’t forgotten anything.”
“You’re missing a child. You said there were three in the school record.”
“Oh, that. I didn’t miss it. I know exactly what happened to George. I was just waiting.”
“I have things to do,” Tristan said with his best haughty tone.
Melissa narrowed her eyes, her fingers tapping on her leg. He tried to hold his expression, but he lost control and grinned. She blinked, realizing he was teasing her. She rolled her eyes.
“If I can continue…as I said, there’s more to talk about. I had some friends pull records in England and—”
“Who killed them?” Seamus asked. The words cut through the lightened mood Tristan had tried so hard to create.
“There is no way to know for sure. Questions like that require additional information or a definitive murder weapon—such as a bullet—that can be traced back to a particular item or person.”
“You know, don’t you?” Elizabeth turned in her seat and looked at Séan, Sorcha and then at Tristan himself. “You saw it, didn’t you?”
“I didn’t,” Séan said quietly. “And Sorcha did more than see it. She had to live it.”
“I…I was inside her.” Sorcha’s voice trembled. “For a moment I was inside the woman. She was so angry, so sad. One of her children was dead. Charles. She knew Charles was dead, and she blamed it on him.”
“Who?” Elizabeth asked.
“John. The man she loved.”
“Did he order soldiers to murder Charles?” Elizabeth’s eyes were so blue they seemed to glow.
“I’m not sure. All she was thinking was that he had murdered Charles.”
“And so she murdered two of their children.” Elizabeth’s words hung in the air. Even Melissa had come closer, listening. “What else?” Elizabeth asked.
“What do you mean?” Sorcha replied.
“Did you see him? Did you see John?”
“Not really. Just an impression. He had dark hair. He hated her—they hated each other.”
“That much hate…it can taint a family for generations.”
Seamus stiffened at Elizabeth’s words.
“They left that hate in the room,” Tristan said, so caught up in the conversation he forgot that he didn’t want to remind Melissa about what he’d seen. “Those weren’t ghosts, not true ghosts. What they felt and did was so powerful that it lived on, stuck in an endless loop that replayed.”
“And what about you?” Elizabeth asked Séan. “What made you break down that wall?”
“I’m still not sure.”
“Excuse me.” Melissa spoke loudly, more loudly than was necessary given that they were all only a few feet from each other.
Seamus, whose back was to her, turned. “Is there a problem?”
“I’m afraid so.” Melissa looked at each of them in turn. “Who were you talking to?”
“What do you mean?” Tristan asked.
“You all seem to be responding to someone, or something. Who are you talking to?”
Tristan looked at Elizabeth, then at Sorcha and Séan before returning his focus to Melissa. “We’re talking to Elizabeth.”
“Elizabeth.” Melissa nodded slowly.
Elizabeth hadn’t yet turned around, but now she did, moving slowly. She faced forward, hands neatly folded on her lap, and didn’t look at Melissa.
“Who is Elizabeth?” Melissa asked.
Tristan’s stomach knotted and his heart started racing.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Sorcha cleared her throat. “I must have forgotten to make introductions. Elizabeth is our general manager.” Sorcha gestured to Elizabeth.
Melissa looked at Elizabeth.
Melissa looked through Elizabeth.
“My God,” Tristan whispered. He leaned forward and grabbed Elizabeth’s shoulder—it was warm and solid under his hand. He sat back, relieved. For a moment there he’d thought…but no, that wasn’t possible.
“Is Elizabeth in this room?” Melissa asked, voice calm and measured.
“She’s sitting right in front of you,” Tristan barked out, tone harsher than he�
��d intended.
“This chair?” Melissa pointed to where Elizabeth was sitting, still and quiet.
“She can’t see her,” Séan said grimly.
“Non. Elizabeth is right there.”
“Right here?” Melissa gestured to the chair again and when Tristan nodded, she turned and sat on Elizabeth.
Elizabeth disintegrated, whirls of yellow, blue and cream smoke curling around Melissa’s now-seated figure.
Sorcha screamed, jumping up so fast her chair fell over with a clatter. Tristan too jumped to his feet, but he grabbed Melissa, pulling her up and pushing her away from the chair—he didn’t want her to end up possessed or hurt. Séan grabbed Sorcha, backing both of them away.
Only Seamus remained unaffected. He rubbed the head of the wolfhound who had come over to see what the commotion was about.
Melissa looked at each of them, then at the chair Tristan had shooed her off of. “I guess this would be a bad time to mention the desecrated graveyard on the other side of the garden wall?”
Chapter Six
Melissa stared at the glass of wine and debated downing it in one gulp. One thing she’d never say about her life was that it was boring—it was at times tedious, dangerous, relaxing and frustrating, but never boring. Though having a whole room of people talking to thin air, while insisting there was someone there who Melissa just couldn’t see, was new.
“Garcon.” Tristan waved over their server.
“Is there a problem with the wine?”
“No, but it is not enough. Two Belvedere martinis, very cold, slightly wet.”
Melissa looked across the table at Tristan. It was early evening, and instead of cooking dinner for other people in his restaurant, Tristan had whisked her off to Trim. They were in a nice little place with waiters in suits and linen napkins. Melissa had the vague feeling that it was the kind of place she would normally enjoy, if she were able to get out of her own head and look around.
“You look like you could use it,” he said by way of explanation.
“I can. It sounds like you know your martinis.”
“The only way to get a martini that is acceptable is to order it well.”
“Then I’m glad you’re here. My order would have made that poor guy cry.”
Tristan’s lips twitched. One lock of hair was dangling over his forehead. She wanted to push it out of the way and then kiss him.
Where had that wildly inappropriate thought come from?
“What would you say to make him cry?”
“I would have ordered a beer.”
“Beer? A local microbrew is a good choice. We carry a few in the pub and they might have them also. I can change the order to beer.”
“I wouldn’t have ordered nice beer. I would have just asked for whatever they had. Don’t change the order.”
“You don’t strike me as someone who would enjoy beer.”
“Bottled beer is easy to get almost anywhere in the world and is usually safe to drink.”
“Ah, you travel.”
“I do, for work.”
“Where have you gone?”
They paused the conversation as the martinis were delivered. Tristan raised his glass.
“What are we toasting to?” she asked as she did the same.
“To the unexpected.”
For the first time in hours, Melissa smiled. “To the unexpected.”
The martini was perfect, the wine delicious. When the waiter returned a moment later to take their order, Melissa was about to say that she hadn’t even looked at the menu when Tristan ordered for both of them. He rattled off a list of items, then handed over his menu. When she ordered at restaurants, it usually turned into a game of twenty questions as the server asked her about what she wanted on the side or how she wanted things cooked. Tristan’s order had included all that information, and the server was there and gone in the time that it would have taken her to ask for bread.
“I’ve never seen someone do that before,” she said.
“Do what?”
“Order everything all at once, and include all the information so the server didn’t have to ask anything.”
“I take food very seriously.”
“I could tell—you’re a little protective of that kitchen.”
He muttered something in French and took a sip of his martini.
“Another new thing.” Three sips in and Melissa was feeling the vodka. “You ordered for me. No one has ever done that before.”
Tristan raised a brow. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have done it?”
“No, it’s okay. You probably picked something better than I would have.”
“I was taught that it was good manners to place the order for your companion.” He lifted the cloth off the breadbasket that had appeared on their table, cut off a piece of crumbly Irish brown bread and placed it on her plate. “My grandfather was a true gentleman. When my cousin Analise told him he should not do things like open doors for women or place the order for everyone at the table because it was sexist, it was my Grand-Mère who told her not to be ridiculous. She was an artist, a fierce woman who did not follow any rules, except maybe her own. She said that she would not still be married to my grandfather if he opened doors for her because he believed she was weak or unable.” One corner of his mouth kicked up in a smile. “She told my cousin that a gentleman will hold doors not because a woman can’t but because she shouldn’t have to.”
“They sound like remarkable people, your grandparents. Though part of me suspects that you ordered for me because you do think I’m incapable.”
“Incapable of placing an order with a server? No, I am sure you could do that.” He grinned.
“Oh I see, it’s not that you think that I couldn’t place the order, it’s that you think I wouldn’t have ordered the right thing.”
“Précisément.”
“Your gentleman grandfather would be horrified.”
“I would not let my grandfather order either. When it comes to food, I trust myself most of all.”
“So it’s simple arrogance.”
He raised one eyebrow. “You’ve tasted my food.”
“Justifiable arrogance.”
At that he laughed. “My Grand-Mère always said, ‘L’orgueil est un des sept péchés capitaux.’ She warned me that my arrogance was dangerous, yet she taught me to cook.”
“Your grandmother was such a feminist that she’s post-feminist.”
“I will have to tell her that next time I talk to her.”
“Your grandparents are still alive?” Melissa popped a bit of buttered bread into her mouth. It was rich and nutty, and the butter creamy and sweet. Somehow just being in his presence made her more aware of the food, and made her appreciate it.
“Grand-Mère, yes. My grandfather died five years ago. My father’s parents died before I was born. I didn’t know them.”
“I’m sorry about your grandfather. And what about the rest of your family?”
Tristan paused, his hand hovering over his glass. He didn’t look at her as he said, “You’re asking if they’re dead?”
“What? Oh, no, that’s not what I meant.” Melissa pushed her half-finished martini away. “No more vodka for me. I was just asking about your family—where are they, do you have siblings?”
He slid the martini back toward her. “Enough about me, let’s talk about you.”
“Why?”
“Why would we talk about you? Because I want to know more about you.”
“I’m hardly the interesting one here. You’re the one who sees ghosts.”
Their appetizers arrived. Melissa wasn’t even sure what it was—it was something inside puff pastry with pale-green sauce under it, but it tasted like cream and happiness.
“Oh my God, this is good.”
Tristan smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Melissa put down her fork.
“How’s yours?”
“You don’t believe in ghosts.”
She too
k a sip of wine before responding. “No. I don’t. Tristan, I didn’t mean to ruin the mood. I shouldn’t have said what I did.”
“You don’t believe in them and you don’t see them.”
“I wish I could say that maybe they do exist, but I don’t believe that either.”
“Elizabeth Jefferies hired me. She was the one who called me to come and interview for the job. I shook her hand when I started. I’ve seen her and touched her. She is as real to me as you are.”
“I don’t know what I can say—there were five people in that room this morning. You and I, Sorcha and Séan, and Seamus. The chair where you said she was sitting in was empty.”
“When you sat down, she disappeared, as if she’d never been there.”
Because she hadn’t, Melissa thought.
Tristan looked away, focusing on something behind her.
“I don’t doubt that there’s something going on at Glenncailty Castle,” Melissa said. “The existence of a room with bodies in it is disturbing; that one of those bodies was a child and another a baby makes it worse.”
“But you think there was nothing more there—that I didn’t see anything, that Sorcha wasn’t possessed.”
“Yes, that is what I think. But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t real to you.”
He snorted and sat back. “It’s all in my mind?”
“No, that’s not what I mean. I do believe there are explanations to what is happening. There have been a variety of studies that examine common physical factors in places that are reported to be haunted. The one I lend the most credence to is sound. One study found that there’s a particular frequency, too low to be heard, that causes a feeling of unease that many attribute to ghosts or haunting.”
“A strange sound has made me and everyone else in Glenncailty see the same woman? If you asked any of my staff, they would describe her the same way—Elizabeth was part of all the kitchen staff interviews. It’s only you who can’t see her.”
“I understand that you think you saw her—”
“I touched her. Do you remember that? I saw you looking at her, but it seemed that you didn’t see her. I leaned forward and touched her shoulder. She was real, she was solid.”
That had been troubling Melissa, because she had seen Tristan reach forward. His hand had stopped in midair, and yet his flesh had seemed to flatten as if it was pressed against something.