December

by Gabrielle Lord

  ‘It was recently acquired by my family,’ I said, reluctant to say that Dad had bought it while he was over here.

  Dr Brinsley squinted at me, as though willing me to hand over more information. ‘The Ormond Jewel—perhaps you could tell me what it looks like?’

  Boges tentatively pulled out some photos of the Jewel, and looked to me for approval to hand them over. I nodded to him.

  ‘Here,’ he said, placing them in Brinsley’s eager hands. There were four photos of the Jewel; one showing it closed, one showing it opened—revealing the portrait of Elizabeth the First inside, one showing the back with the rose and rosebud, while the last was a magnified depiction of the Middle French inscription.

  After studying the photos for some time, Dr Brinsley sat back and fanned himself with a wad of papers. ‘I must say,’ he said, ‘this is incredible. The usual explanation for this sort of precious, antiquarian item reappearing in modern day is that it has been held by a family for hundreds of years, so long that its origin and importance has been forgotten or lost, then the piece is sold when a family finds itself in financial difficulties. I’d say it came on the market fairly recently, was bought up by a dealer who also didn’t know its history, and then was sold for its face value—a jewelled miniature of Queen Elizabeth the First by an unknown artist. It would bring a high price just as it is, but certainly not the price it is actually worth.’

  The Keeper’s face was filled with enthusiasm. ‘I think I’m starting to get some idea of what the Ormond Singularity might be. Mind you, it’s only a guess—an educated guess—but there’s something I have at home that I think you should see.’

  He pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose, then leaned over to his desk and unlocked a drawer.

  ‘In the meantime, I have this,’ he said, taking out a small document. It seemed to be written in Latin, but I could understand the date—1575. ‘It’s a record of a marriage. The marriage of one of Black Tom’s illegitimate sons, Piers Duiske Ormond—a secret marriage contracted at Duiske Abbey, Graignamanagh.’

  ‘G’managh? That’s one of the names on the transparency,’ I said, swinging round to Boges. ‘Piers must have been a common name.’

  ‘This shows that Piers Duiske Ormond married a young lady called Anne Desmond,’ said the Keeper, ‘before he married the woman who is known to history as his wife, and with whom he had his son Edward.’

  I was confused. Too many names were being thrown around.

  ‘Never mind all that,’ Dr Brinsley said, as if reading my mind. ‘What is important is the record of this secret marriage. Especially since I suppose you already know that Black Tom outlived his legitimate heirs?’

  ‘What’s all this got to do with the Riddle and the Jewel, Dr Brinsley?’ I asked.

  ‘It will make sense in good time, young man.’ He paused to take a sip of water from a mug on his desk. ‘Someone had hidden it in one of the ancient books that we bought from the Black Abbey some years ago.’

  Piers Ormond of the stained glass window had been at the Black Abbey. Had he hidden the original record of the secret wedding after copying it for his collection of papers? Had he been meaning to return and collect it when he had more information, before the war prevented his plan?

  ‘Here,’ said the Keeper, ‘is the name of Piers Duiske Ormond’s father, the tenth Earl of Ormond, Black Tom Butler. And here, where his mother’s name should be, there’s only this—’ The Keeper adjusted his half-moon glasses and cleared his throat. ‘Magna domina incognita,’ he intoned in Latin.

  ‘A great lady. Unnamed, unknown,’ Boges translated.

  ‘Well done, young man. I see you know your Latin.’

  ‘But I still don’t see what this has to do with anything,’ I said.

  ‘It has everything to do with it. I’ve been studying the Singularity for years now. I don’t have the whole picture by any means, but I have some information about it. Just now, seeing the photos of the Jewel, the text of the inscribed motto and what it implies … I can’t help playing around with certain possibilities.’ He looked around suddenly, as if wary of his surroundings. ‘This place is too public for this sort of discussion. This may be even more dangerous than I first anticipated.’

  ‘Oh, it’s a dangerous business,’ I assured him, considering the countless times in the last year I had come close to death. ‘No doubt about that.’

  Dr Brinsley gestured towards us, urging us to lean in closer to hear what he had to say. ‘Please come to my house tomorrow evening,’ he whispered. ‘There’s a sketch my grandfather did that I want to show you. After seeing the Jewel with its inscription, my instincts tell me that the sketch is of great importance. Perhaps you might be able to help? Especially when I tell you some thoughts I’m starting to entertain as a possibility, wild as they might be.’

  I’d come to Dublin to get answers, not a whole bunch of new questions. I directed the conversation back to basics.

  ‘You told us you had information about the missing last two lines of the Ormond Riddle,’ I said again.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ he said. ‘I can help you with that. Somewhat.’

  ‘Please tell us what you know,’ said Winter, her face eager. ‘That’s what we’re here for, after all.’

  ‘Those last two lines are believed to have been written by Black Tom himself.’ He looked at us as if waiting for a response. I didn’t care who’d written them, I just wanted to see them, read them, apply the Caesar shift to them. Every instinct told me that the last two lines would deliver the secret of the Ormond Singularity to us.

  ‘So do you have the last two lines or not?’ urged Winter, clearly becoming as impatient as I was feeling.

  ‘Not exactly, but I can tell you where I believe they are. In a copy of an antique book. Sir James Butler’s Lives of the Saints.’

  ‘Is it here?’ asked Boges, glancing over the thousands of books shelved from floor to ceiling all the way along both sides of the immense expanse of the long gallery.

  ‘I’m afraid it’s not quite as simple as that,’ Brinsley replied. He raised his eyebrows before continuing. ‘As I told your friend who rang last night—’

  ‘My friend who rang last night?’ I repeated, frowning, looking around at the others. I was met with shocked silence. ‘None of us rang last night,’ I said firmly. A cold chill ran through my bloodstream.

  ‘No,’ said Boges. ‘None of us rang you. Who do you mean? Who did you speak to about this?’

  ‘You must be mistaken,’ said Dr Brinsley, peering at me. ‘He knew all about you. Introduced himself to me and informed me of how he was here in Ireland helping you search for the meaning of the Ormond Singularity. He had an unusual first name, although his second name is common in Ireland—as a place name too.’

  I tensed up at the threat to us that this revelation implied. ‘There’s a place in Ireland called “Rathbone”?’

  ‘“Rathbone”?’ Dr Brinsley repeated. ‘What does Rathbone have to do with it? No, the chap’s name was Sligo. Vulkan Sligo. County Sligo’s in the west-coast province of Connacht.’

  Winter stiffened with fear beside me.

  Vulkan Sligo was in Ireland!

  ‘What did you tell him?’ I demanded, jumping out of my chair, and joining Boges and Winter who were already on their feet, ready to run.

  Dr Brinsley looked confused and concerned. ‘Just that I hoped I’d be seeing you today.’

  ‘You told him we’d be here?!’ shrieked Winter. ‘What else did you tell him?’

  ‘That you had the text of the Ormond Riddle,’ replied Brinsley, flustered. ‘He sounded a perfect gentleman.’

  ‘He’s a notorious criminal!’ shouted Winter. ‘He’s tried to kill us! He wants Cal dead! Cal, we have to get out of here, now! He could be in here somewhere!’ Her eyes darted around—she was petrified. Boges, too, was wide eyed and panicking, leaning over the railing, scanning the library for any sign of Sligo or one of his thugs.

  ‘All right, let’s go,’ I sa
id to my friends. I stopped for a second to warn Brinsley. ‘Dr Brinsley,’ I said, ‘I don’t want to scare you, but you could be in great danger too. You must believe me. Vulkan Sligo has been trying get me out of the way—’

  ‘—kill you,’ Winter interrupted, her face pale. ‘He’s been trying to kill you, Cal.’ She turned to Dr Brinsley. ‘He wants him out of the way so he can beat him to the Ormond Singularity.’

  The Keeper of Rare Books gave me a hard look that I couldn’t interpret. Maybe he just didn’t want to believe this.

  ‘I said I would help you with the last two lines of the Ormond Riddle, and that offer still stands.’ Brinsley grabbed a pen and started scrawling an address on the back of an envelope. ‘Tomorrow I should be finished up here by eight. Come to my place at nine. Come through the back door. Here’s my address,’ he added, handing me the envelope.

  ‘Cal, we have to get out of here,’ Winter pleaded.

  ‘I know, I know,’ I said. ‘Please, Dr Brinsley,’ I begged him. ‘If you hear from Sligo again, please don’t tell him you saw us here today. Don’t tell him anything. Our lives depend on it.’

  He picked up the Ormond Riddle, after I’d let go of it in a panic. I could see something in his face that looked like rabid hunger. Everyone who’d heard of this business seemed to want a piece of the action.

  ‘I’d like that back now, please,’ I said, trying to sound casual and cool.

  Dr Brinsley flashed me a glinting smile. ‘You could always leave it with me until tomorrow evening …’

  Boges stepped forward. ‘Not negotiable,’ he said, swiftly snatching up the Riddle.

  With that, we ran back the way we’d come—swiftly weaving through the towers of books and mazes of shelving, before quickly disappearing into the cold quadrangle outside.

  Hands shoved deep in pockets, and wishing I’d worn a scarf like Winter, I walked nervously with the others around St Stephen’s Green. Bare trees raised their dark limbs to the white sky, and even the ducks on the half-frozen ponds looked chilly.

  We were all frustrated and angry. The vague feeling of ease we’d experienced on arrival had been short-lived. I was just as on edge as I’d been back at home. In fact, I was worse. Time was ticking by and now I was being hunted down in a foreign country.

  My breath steamed in the air ahead of us as I spoke. ‘Dr Brinsley just doesn’t realise the danger surrounding the Ormond Singularity. He wasn’t taking our warnings seriously enough.’ Something else was troubling me too. ‘What if Sligo’s already swayed him?’ I asked the others. ‘What if tomorrow night’s meeting is a trap? We may have dodged Sligo today, but what if he’s at Brinsley’s place, waiting for us, at nine o’clock tomorrow?’

  ‘It’s a possibility that we have to be prepared for, dude,’ Boges replied. ‘It’s a risk we have to take.’

  ‘What if Brinsley intends on stealing the Ormond Riddle for himself?’ asked Winter. ‘Did you see the look on his face when he was examining it? He didn’t want to hand it back once you let go, Cal.’

  ‘He sure didn’t,’ said Boges. ‘It was like he realised something as we were sitting there. Like he saw something, understood something, that he wasn’t quite ready to share just yet. Tomorrow night’s going to be interesting.’

  We spent the rest of the day trying to see as much of Dublin as we could, although we were pretty uneasy knowing that Sligo was in town. Winter fell in love with the wrought-iron seahorses on the lamp posts—cool horses with arched necks, their raised front legs ending in layered fins, and muscular upper bodies tapering down into scaly mermaid-like tails.

  We were jumping at the sound of every passing car and we constantly used counter-surveillance, taking sudden turns and doubling back on ourselves until we were hopelessly lost and had to pull out the map that we’d taken from the hotel.

  It was impossible to relax. Eventually we decided it would be best to go back to the hotel. The thought of somewhere private and warm was too tempting.

  Winter was really worried about Sligo tracking her down, but she hadn’t checked in under her real name—none of us had—so we hoped that would keep her safe, for now.

  5 days to go…

  We found the address Brinsley had given us in Parnell Square, north of the Liffey River. His place was a stone terrace house with a few steps leading up to the red front door. The brass door knocker, decorated with a green and red holly wreath, gleamed in the streetlight.

  I took one last look around as we returned from checking out the lane that ran along the back of the terrace houses. There was no-one around. Except for us, Parnell Square was deserted.

  I made a quick call to Nelson Sharkey. I’d told him about the meeting over the phone last night.

  ‘Nelson speaking,’ he said, and I could hear the sounds of people talking and laughing in the background.

  ‘We’re about to go inside,’ I said. ‘If anything goes wrong, you have his address.’

  ‘OK, got that. But I’m a few hours away, remember. Be very careful. You can’t trust anyone. Are you sure you haven’t been followed?’

  ‘Pretty sure,’ I answered.

  ‘Have you checked the rear of the property? Checked no-one’s watching the place?’

  ‘Yep, we’re cool.’

  ‘No sign of Sligo?’

  ‘Nope. Anyway, it sounds like the party needs you. Call you later.’ I hung up and looked at my shivering friends. ‘Let’s do it.’

  We walked back round to the lane at the rear of the house, went through the gate and knocked on the back door.

  ‘Dr Brinsley?’ I called out after a minute or two.

  The door wasn’t locked and, with the slightest push, it swung open. The three of us wandered inside and looked around. Several closed wood-panelled doors led off from the black-and-white marble-floored square we’d walked into, and I could see a staircase leading to the upper floor.

  ‘Dr Brinsley?’ I called again, as our shoes tapped along the floor.

  ‘I don’t like this,’ said Boges. ‘Something feels wrong.’

  I felt Winter shivering beside me. ‘I feel it, too,’ she said, stepping a little further into the house. ‘He’s expecting us. He should have been listening for us. Hello?’ she called, louder than I had. ‘Dr Brinsley?’

  We stood in the cold room, waiting.

  ‘Why isn’t he answering us?’ whispered Winter.

  A huge empty fireplace to my left had several fire tools hanging from a bar. I picked up the heavy poker. Winter and Boges followed suit, also picking up potential weapons. If Sligo was in here somewhere, we’d need to protect ourselves.

  Soundlessly, we crept towards a light at the end of a small hallway behind the staircase, iron tools raised.

  Soft music came from behind the door to the room with the light on. Maybe Dr Brinsley was listening to music and was lost in it. Maybe I was just paranoid. I lowered the poker.

  I knocked gently. ‘It’s Cal. I’m here with my friends. We let ourselves in. You asked us to come over at nine, right?’

  No answer.

  ‘You two wait here,’ I whispered. ‘I’m going in.’

  I pushed the door open with my shoulder.

  The room felt empty although a fire crackled in a fireplace in the corner. I quickly scanned the scene. Books and papers were scattered around in wild and torn jumbles. The glass doors of a tall bookcase were hanging open, half off their hinges. A desk in the corner had been violently cleared—pens and paperclips were all over the floor.

  Someone had been here. Someone madly searching for something.

  I started to fear for Dr Brinsley.

  ‘This is crazy!’ said Boges who’d come in behind me, along with Winter. ‘Someone has trashed the place!’

  Winter gasped. I turned to her—her face was ghostly. Her lips were trembling. She pointed to the ground.

  Then I noticed what she was pointing to. Lying half buried under a series of old, leather-bound volumes.

  An outflung arm.<
br />
  Brinsley’s half-moon spectacles lay on the hearth rug, the golden rims and arms bent out of shape.

  I was fixed to the spot. A dark, red stain was spreading over the rug near his body. Even without checking, I knew he was dead.

  Winter fell to her knees and started pulling the books and debris off him, turning him over.

  ‘He’s dead!’ she cried. ‘Dead! Sligo’s been here and he’s done this! He’s murdered poor Dr Brinsley!’

  Boges bent down to Winter and pulled her away from the body. ‘Don’t touch anything,’ he said. ‘We’ve gotta get out of here.’

  ‘What about the police?’ she asked, getting back to her feet.

  ‘We’ll call the cops later—Sligo could still be here,’ he said. ‘We’d better run.’

  I turned around, preparing to walk carefully out of the room the same way I had come in, but as I was about to put my right foot down near Dr Brinsley’s outstretched hand, I paused mid-step. A piece of paper under the desk caught my eye. Familiar words jumped out at me … TOSJORS CELER.

  Cautiously, I bent over and picked it up. The words were part of an old pencil sketch of a ruin, smeared and yellowing with age. The sketch showed crumbling stone walls, collapsed fireplaces, vines growing in through unglazed windows, and piles of fallen masonry. This was what he’d wanted to show us.

  ‘Dude, we’ve gotta get out and call the Garda,’ Boges said. ‘Come on, try not to touch anything.’

  I grabbed Boges’s beanie off his head and wrapped my hand in it, turning the door handle and rubbing my prints off it. A sudden gust of wind rushed through from the hall, causing several of the books on the floor to flutter their pages.

  From one of them lifted some sort of pamphlet, rising and diving like a paper plane, almost landing at my feet as if it was trying its best to get my attention.