by Des Sheridan
She was glad Robert had suggested a trip to Maynooth but her plans had already jumped further ahead. She was certain that the poem provided a set of clues that would lead to the three missing parts of the Triskell. She just had to convince Robert that she was right. She would in time, somehow. Then she would go with him and Malachy to Europe and find the pieces. Or – a desperate thought crossed her mind - if they declined she would go alone or hire someone else. Her Boston compensation settlement meant that she could afford such a trip. It was not like she had a lot of choice. She couldn’t just sit here and wait for either another disturbing dream or to be murdered by some unknown but very tangible enemy. The line of the song kept going around her head: something about the tough get going when the going gets tough.
Thinking about the murder brought the detective back into her mind. Her interview with Flanagan had not been what she expected. The Irishwoman had handled the situation very sensitively and Tara was struck by her empathic manner. It reminded her of being with her psychotherapist. Tara knew that Flanagan had let her off lightly and was grateful for it. The DI, she sensed, was a policewoman of real integrity.
And then there was the rest: the bit that only she and Malachy had discussed. He had confided in her that he believed the Triskell was a device that the Celts had used to read the future, through the mediation of a visionary called a Seer. She had pressed him on how he managed to make this leap of faith but he retreated into vagueness. It just fitted with a lot of Celtic folklore apparently. She couldn’t see how but it didn’t matter to her. It made perfect sense in another way. It explained why the Bishop was guiding her; he must have a great purpose in mind. And it fitted with that phrase in the poem that the Triskell ‘showeth all’.
Finally there was something else, something she had not discussed with Malachy although he had hinted enough at it. Nor could she wouldn’t share it with Robert. It would repel him and he would judge her and Malachy insane. Her secret was that, like Malachy, she was now a believer; she accepted that she was the communication channel. She was what the Celts called a Seer.
After a time, sitting silently, she decided to move. It was time to pack her bags.
Chapter 19
Santiago de Compostela, Spain, 1849
Celestina Araujo Coto de Lallio stood alone in the drawing room at the front of her house in a small village not far from Santiago de Compostela and, looking out of the window, took in the view. She had seen it a thousand times but now, knowing this was the last occasion, she stared at it intently, absorbing the detail like a woman about to lose her sight. Celestina was a medium-sized woman dressed typically for a bourgeois lady in a remote part of northern Spain. Her black hair was plaited, the strands pulled back to sit flat in a severe bun, held in place by a black net. She was thirty-eight years old but the lines on her forehead, and threads of grey in her hair, made her look easily the wrong side of forty. Her body, tightly corseted, rested under a close-fitting black cotton blouse and a full skirt consisting of a black petticoat worn over a steel-framed crinoline cage. She stood motionless, absorbed in her thoughts. Her gaze took her across the garden and over the road to the sweet chestnut and apple orchard on the far side. For a moment she could see again her husband, Ferdinand Lallio, running in the orchard, with their infant son, Ricardo, their arms outstretched as they pretended to be great eagles swooping under the branches. The memory of their voices and shouts rang in her ears and echoed hollowly around the empty room. Better times, long since gone.
Her marriage, she reflected, was forged in heaven for she and Ferdinand had been childhood sweethearts and her mother had arranged the match in the face of scepticism on her father’s part. Celestina could, with hindsight, understand his viewpoint. The Lallio family’s fortunes had been in decline for over a century. Way back, in the late sixteen-hundreds, they had held high post in the administration of the Cathedral at Santiago but over time the tradition of pilgrimage had melted away and the family had become agents for church lands that were rented out. The family had shown distinguished service in the revolt against Napoleon in 1808 but its declared position in favour of Galician independence in the years after this was ill-timed as Spain entered a fresh phase of centralist ascendancy.
No wonder her father had reservations, she thought, for she had indeed married below her rank. Nonetheless her heart swelled with pride as she recalled Ferdinand’s first grand gesture, even though it had precipitated their ruin. In 1835, during the First Carlist war, his brother Xavier, who was a priest based near Oroso, had sided with the peasants against the local nobility. It was a morally proper decision and Ferdinand had sided publicly with his sibling. But the action put Ferdinand at odds with his employer, Dom Perrino, for whom he acted as forero, or agent, in dealing with over eighty tenants. Don Perrino was not an unkind man but he in turn was beholden to the local political fixer and was obliged to take action and sack Ferdinand. Overnight their income was reduced to a trickle that came from the six remaining tenancies which they owned outright. As the strings on their purses tightened Ferdinand became increasingly volatile about his predicament and Celestina was not surprised when he rallied quickly to the Solis Uprising in 1846. He joined on an impulse, his motivations, as best she could discern, equal parts blind optimism and political confusion. His aspiration for the Galician freedom was genuine but in truth the rebels were a motley mix without a clear cause or a sound base of support. Celestina couldn’t help thinking that the impulsive action got her late spouse off the hook. It saved him from having to think too hard about where to turn next politically - although that was a charge she could lay against the entire Spanish ruling class of the previous fifty years. Having lost an empire the country had never found a direction, its leaders arising from a class that hardly spoke to or had contact with the peasants and labourers upon whom they relied for their income. To her mind it was a nation riven in two and Ferdinand, in his failure to find a new way of making money, was typical of the class he sprang from. The thought occurred to her that at least, to his credit, he had understood his tenants and respected them.
The end had been swift. Ferdinand had been one of the Martyrs of Carral, the twelve men executed for their part in the Uprising. The Government had acted decisively and the local establishment moved fast to ingratiate itself with the inquisitors arriving from Madrid. Celestina was ostracised overnight from polite society and for the last three years she had persevered without a friendly face to turn to. Had she the financial means to carry on, she would have faced society down, but after three years she could no longer afford the upkeep of the house. She and Ricardo would move to her sister’s house in Vigo. Magdalena was married to a doctor and, being childless, they had ample room to accommodate them. It would be a relief in some ways. Village life was suffocating. Convention required that persons of stature should not socialise with the peasantry and the latter, if the truth were told, seemed quite happy with that arrangement. Only two other women in the village could read, not that they spoke to her any more.
Turning, Celestine moved out of the room and started to climb the stairs slowly and thoughtfully. She was heading for her twelve-year-old son’s room, where she hoped to find him completing his packing. Ferdinand’s abrupt demise had left a task unfinished. He had not brought the boy into the family duty of protecting the Triskell. She now would have to find the words to inspire the boy to respect and accept his role. It was good he was still a child and held the Faith closely, she thought. It would be more difficult to convince a young man, touched as he would be by corporal desires and the mean-mindedness of emerging adulthood. It was hard to believe in much in the Spain of today, being, as it was, a world pressed down by venality. Even their Queen, Isabella, was a slattern, if the rumours were to be believed.
Half way up the flight she paused, rehearsing in her mind the key points in the Triskell story. How Donovan Lally had arrived in 1650 to find Santiago de Compostela already in decline. How he had not known that the relics of St James had b
een spirited away 60 years before, all because of fear of a raid by Sir Francis Drake that had not materialised, although the pirate had indeed reached La Coruna, forty miles distant. How the pilgrims were forsaking Santiago as the Reformation deepened its grip on northern Europe, and so the shrine was already past its peak. How, nonetheless, with the help of a letter of recommendation from Archbishop Walshe of Cashel, Donovan had risen to become the Bishop of Santiago’s key administrator and, once relieved of a monk’s obligations, had settled down to family life. How, hours before French troops had sacked Santiago in 1808, Ricardo’s grandfather had moved the Triskell out of its hiding place in the Cathedral and away to the safety of the attic of this very house. How, if you prayed with a clean conscience and an honest heart, the metal of the beautiful object would warm under your touch. She would show him and he would believe!
As she reached the top tread Celestina’s mood lifted. She realised that she would not change a moment of the life she had lived. Ferdinand had proved a loving husband if an ineffectual leader of the household. She still had her boy, Ricardo, whom she cherished. She was a fiercely proud woman and the house sale, and future dependency on her relatives, cut her to the quick but she was also a realist. The change had been a long time coming so it held no surprises for her. It was time to start again and live a new life in reduced circumstances. Her task now was to protect Ricardo and the Triskell. She reminded herself that she was a Spaniard and the obduracy of her race ran deep in her blood. She would endure.
Chapter 20
Sligo, Ireland, 3 October 2014
Pascal sat opposite Patrick Deargal in a small bistro in Sligo town centre. Pascal ate nothing although the food looked appetising. It was his habit to have a large breakfast at about ten in the morning, after a strenuous workout, and then nothing until dinner in the evening. Patrick suffered no such compunctions and was tucking into his second course. He knew of course that Pascal would pick up the tab.
Deargal’s manner was invariably obsequious and today was no exception. Pascal was, after all, his main private source of funding for archaeological work. Nor did Deargal mind being interrogated by Pascal. Each new question provided fresh opportunity to further ingratiate himself with his paymaster by disclosing the business of others. Pascal found Deargal’s lack of loyalty to anyone repulsive but it made him a first rate informant. There was no need to push him to get information - he just loved gossiping.
‘No, Pascal, no one knows where they are. Brian says that Tara needed space to recover from the shock of Shay’s murder but won’t say more. Some of Shay’s crew say that she paid a hit squad to nail him because he wasn’t interested in her. Have you ever heard anything so stupid? Another rumour has her going to stay with her sister Niamh but Mrs Ryan is adamant she hasn’t. She has spoken to Niamh and Tara is definitely not there. The housekeeper is quite piqued at not being kept in the loop by Tara, I might tell you. As for Grainger he has gone back to London and been replaced by a Scottish chap called Felix Caddel, who behaves as though he is settling in for the long haul.’
‘Oh well, but what about the real business? How is the dig progressing?’ inquired Pascal.
‘The authorities are finally getting their act together. They are stripping the wood land off the site and by-passing planning regulations by invoking the national interest. A sturdy security fence is going up to encircle the area. The tomb is clear of treasure now and standard archaeological procedures are being employed. About time too, it slows everything down, as it should do! There was far too much mumbo-jumbo intruding, you know. I suppose you heard about the woman’s dream?
‘No. What woman?’
‘Tara Ruane. Apparently she claimed she was having prophetic dreams and directed the excavation to a particular spot, where they dug up some strange metal object. I have seen it - more La Tène of course, although no one can figure out its purpose. But the really odd thing is that one of the archaeologists claims there was a poem accompanying it, dating from the seventeenth century. Poppycock if you ask me. What kind of morons are coming out of universities these days spouting such rubbish! Anyway Andrew and Brian have clammed up about it and won’t discuss it with me. However one of the junior archaeologists told me Malachy McCarthy had contacted some priest in Maynooth about someone called Archbishop Walshe, who was Bishop of Cashel at some point. But it doesn’t make any sense to me. Probably has something to do with Malachy’s own research. I can’t see how it could link to the tomb.’
‘Sounds like nonsense to me,’ concurred Pascal. ‘But tell me more about this metal object, it sounds intriguing.’
Deargal’s description convinced Pascal that the item was part of the Triskell, perhaps the base.
‘I can’t show you it. It is under lock and key. But I can get you in to see the other treasures. I am surprised you have not come back sooner.’
‘I would love to, Patrick, but another time. I am up to my eyes with business. I have to return to Brussels tomorrow.’ Pascal shrugged his shoulders as if in despair at how little control he had over his busy life.
Walking back to the car Pascal found that the lunch conversation had restored his equilibrium. Events were moving again and opportunities for action would be sure to open up. He would get Erik working on the Maynooth link immediately. They would go there if need be.
II: The Competitive Priest
Chapter 21
Maynooth, Ireland, 3 October 2014
Robert had reached the decision to leave Rosnaree quickly. Tara had done a good sleuthing job in unravelling the clues in the poem but the case was not made, not yet. And he had suspected that many of the opinions she was expressing were probably first dropped into the pond by Malachy. Behind the mild manner and poetic expression, Robert suspected a deeper zealotry, which Malachy was careful to mask.
But listening to Tara last Monday, he had felt the adrenalin rise within him like a wave of heat and recognised a familiar feeling. A sudden sense that something important was about to happen and that it was time to move. He had experienced it on the night the twister had visted them. It could save your life, he knew. Once with Nico and a troop, seizing some important stolen antiquities in a village near Shatrah, he had felt it. They were flushed with success when Robert sensed that something was wrong - the Iraqi onlookers were too quiet and still. With a whispered remark he had alerted his colleagues and they had repositioned unobtrusively into more defensive positions: here behind a low wall, there closer to a doorway. They had still lost one man when the attack materialised two minutes later, but the rest had survived.
There were other reasons to make a change too. The claustrophobic mood in Rosnaree had been suffocating since Shay’s murder. And earlier that day he had received Flanagan’s warning. Why wait? So he had proposed to Tara and Malachy that they should leave as soon as possible. He had spoken to Brian and found a way of making sure that no one saw them leave. It had been the right decision. The last few days had restored their spirits. They had travelled to Maynooth and found a holiday home to rent. The next day they had relaxed as they waited for a response from the academic and today, Friday, were about to meet the man.
Robert looked around the room trying to size up the character of the occupant who had yet to join them. The room was typical of a man’s study: leather sofa a bit the worse for wear, large old wooden desk and book-lined shelves. But in one respect it did not conform to the cliché. It was meticulously tidy. A glass-fronted cabinet was full of medals, trophies and cups. From the inscriptions, or at least the few that were in English, Robert gauged that their host was an accomplished athlete in a number of sports including hurling and football.
‘A GAA man,’ pronounced Malachy, tracking Robert’s line of visual scrutiny.
‘GAA?’ Robert queried.
‘Gaelic Athletic Association, dedicated to the preservation of native Celtic sports. The GAA are also strongly committed to the preservation of the Irish language. Some members can be a bit fanatical, be warned. Not to mentio
n the fact that he is a Jesuit to boot.’
Robert wasn’t quite sure what the significance of the Jesuits might be. He saw that Tara had her head in a magazine and was evidently not listening. Robert dimly recalled that the Jesuits had led the Counter-Reformation and were sometimes referred to as the Pope’s crack troops - the Catholic Church’s intellectuals. Before long the door swept open and the priest entered. Again, Robert’s preconceptions were overturned. There was no clerical dog-collar. The man standing before them was about five foot eleven, of wiry build with an elongated head. His receding dark hair was cut very short and was slicked back with gel. He was wearing a pair of dark blue drainpipe jeans, with a matching denim jacket over a red T-shirt. A clutch of books nestled under his right arm. Throwing the books on a chair, he scanned some envelopes that he held in his hand, making no eye contact with his guests. Watching him Robert guessed he was in his mid-forties although he moved with the agility of a younger man.
‘You must be Messrs McCarthy and Grainger and Ms Ruane,’ he announced abruptly, finally raising his eyes to them. The two men started to rise from their seats, but he waved them back down.
‘Stay where you are, I see you have made yourselves comfortable.’
Robert couldn’t tell if this was simple observation or sarcasm, and the man’s face gave nothing away. There was no handshake or smile, and the brief eye contact had ceased. Moving to occupy the desk, and opening an envelope, he continued, ‘So how exactly can I help you?’ whilst starting to read the letter in his hand.