Arcanum: An Irish Mystery

by Ann Mann

  They have spoken of arriving at their destination in a dense fog and released at night in similar weather conditions, making it almost impossible to pinpoint exactly where they were being held. There appeared to be no electricity connected to the farm and they were unable to obtain signals on their cells and tablets.

  The driver of the tour bus, Dubliner Dennis Ahearne, managed to escape his captors and, as this publication reported, has been suffering from a severe psychiatric disorder since his discovery at Lough Rosroe, Co. Clare in late October.

  The denouement of this mystery, far from having put an end to speculation, has only served to fuel the hundreds of thousands of conspiracy theories that are flooding the internet and re-ignited a massive interest in the area as the search for the farmhouse and its owner continues.

  To add to the labyrinth of conjecture two further incidents may stimulate further examination.

  While American lead dancer and choreographer Silas Murphy, thirty two, has given a statement to the press confirming his relief and delight at the dancers’ safe return, Irish born Clodagh Trevor, twenty-four, the group’s willowy leading female dancer has been unavailable for comment, stunning fans by her failure to post anything about the event on either her Facebook or Twitter pages. Her family who live in Donnybrook, Co. Dublin have maintained a dignified silence regarding her whereabouts.

  There is also the case of Terence Riley, the thirty year old stage manager who was kidnapped alongside the dancers and who has consistently refused to speak to anyone about the abduction. As this writer learned a few days ago, Mr. Riley has recently entered a Cistercian Abbey in County Waterford.

  *

  If it had been his choice, then the last place in the world Joe Tierney would have wanted to be that night was at his daughter’s Christmas feis. Forced to sit through two and a half solid hours of Irish competitive dancing for girls between the ages of fourteen and sixteen, he was unable to keep his thoughts from returning to the events of the last few weeks. Then, when Sacha was announced as winner in the solo reel category, he pulled himself back from his wanderings and rose along with the other parents to applaud and cheer before pushing past his astonished wife and son out of the drill hall and into the Dublin street.

  Leaning against a wall that separated the hall from a church filled with carol singers, he welcomed the sting of fresh snow on his face and tried to free his mind from what had happened that night by the lake. What had happened?

  There had been no time for contemplation. Caught in a vortex of high-powered and top security meetings and conference calls with those who normally he would never have encountered, he now had become two people and the strain was marked by his recent weight loss, short concentration span and sleeplessness.

  Sure, he had kept secrets before. Had to tell white lies. It went with the territory and he had accepted and balanced these numerous incidents with never a guilty thought or the temptation to disclose facts that might throw a case into jeopardy or compromise anyone’s privacy or trust in the Garda in which he had loyally served for thirty years.

  Until now. And because this was so other, so totally off the Richter scale, he had felt the overwhelming need to share what he had witnessed with the people closest to him and his inability to do this through duty was pulling him in such polar directions that only complete withdrawal seemed the obvious course of action.

  Therefore, Joe Tierney found himself in a worrying and uncomfortable place not helped by the fact that Sacha was obsessed with Arcanum. She had spoken of little else during their disappearance and even more since their return. The small amount of time he had spent with her so far during this school holiday season had resulted in a bombardment of endless questions for news of their kidnappers and even more for news of Clodagh Trevor whom she had idolised.

  And his wife who knew him so well of course realised he was hiding something big. Something of national importance. She could see it in his eyes and sensed it in his change of demeanour but she knew better than to probe, understanding that the price he would have to pay for disclosing classified information would mean the end of his career.

  Then there was the little matter of the gold coins which had been found in the possession of the stage manager. Twelve of them, dating from the early seventeenth century. They of course had now been whisked away by forensics and God knows where from there but the kids had started to enquire when they might have them back as they wanted to cash them in and share the profits between them.

  And so they should. They said they were a gift and so by rights they owned them, but he was sure they would never be returned. The stage manager had not put up a fight when asked to hand them over and Joe was pretty certain that he was the only member of the group who really knew the truth about their capture.

  He could hear Irish music starting up again in counterpoint with the carols and realised that Sacha must have accepted her trophy and was now doing her lap of honour. As he turned to go back in, he came face to face with Peggy O’Neill and knew there was no escape from a confrontation.

  “Hello Superintendent.” She said closing the door behind her and preventing his entering. “I saw you come out and thought I’d chance having a quiet word.”

  “Miss O’Neill.” He nodded. “I have to go back. Sacha…”

  The dance mistress cut across him briskly. “Yes, she won. Deservedly so.”

  “Thank you.” He said haplessly. “You’ve been a marvellous teacher to her.”

  The resemblance to Clodagh was quite uncanny. Red hair tinged with grey was piled into an untidy but oddly sexy knot framing a face with the same fine cheekbones and remarkable olive green eyes that were now searching his for answers.

  “I know you know where my niece is. I just want you to give our family the assurance that she is safe.”

  How could he do that? He had absolutely no idea.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know where Clodagh is, Miss O’Neill. But I’m sure that when she is ready to return, she will let you know.”

  How cold. How matter-of-fact shitty cold. He couldn’t have hated himself more than he did at that moment, standing on an icy pavement on a bleak December night with this delightful woman who simply wanted the truth. If it had been Sacha instead of Clodagh who had disappeared, he would not have just asked politely after her whereabouts, but would probably have threatened violence.

  Peggy O’Neill tugged her red cashmere scarf a little tighter round her neck and took a step closer towards him.

  “I understand that your hands are tied, Superintendent. But just answer me one thing, please? Did Clodagh go wherever she is of her own free will?

  He was grateful for small mercies for this time he didn’t have to lie.

  “She did.”

  The woman gave him a long, sad stare then turned towards the door.

  “Thank you, Superintendent. Now, shall we go and congratulate Sacha?”

  *

  Silas moved robotically among the crowds of Christmas shoppers, street performers and musicians, pausing to inhale the tempting aroma of sizzling chestnuts then weaving his unchartered way between lines of trees twinkling with fairy lights and hung with tiny gift boxes tantalising in their shiny red and green wrapping.

  It was still hard for him to believe that he was spending Christmas at home instead of on the road with Arcanum. It was a state that six months ago he would never have predicted and even stranger was that this time he was not just visiting but had made the relatively easy decision to return for good, moving back in with his parents and, with Blossom’s help, bringing all of his possessions over from Dublin.

  Boston did Christmas well and it wasn’t just because it resembled the Irving Berlin picture of how it should be. As he grabbed a hot chocolate from one of the stalls and made a half-hearted attempt at window shopping, he continued through the cobbled triangle of the mar
ket place to the strains of Johnny Mathis, negotiated a giant reindeer and passed a dim grotto where children were gathered around the rotund figure of a Coca Cola Santa.

  The glue that had been holding him together during the ordeal had lost much of its strength, causing a wave of fatigue which had now become a regular and unwelcome visitor. For someone who had always prided himself on his fitness Silas sank onto a bench, reminded once again that it was all gone. Every trace of those years of hard slog had disappeared along with the drifting Irish mist and the woman he could not forget.

  His dancers had scattered and showed no appetite at the moment to return to work. Nor had he the desire nor energy to consider forming a new troupe or choreographing another set routine as spectacular as that which had been fated to enjoy so short an existence. But life had taught him never to say never and it was always possible that one day he might find the heart to resurrect it although the wounds were still too open and too fresh to attempt such an emotional undertaking in the foreseeable future.

  Now he had to try and get his life into some sort of shape and to re-charge his desperately depleted batteries. He licked the last of the whipped cream from the top of his drink and pondered on the offers that had flooded in from publishers asking him to pen an account of the whole affair accompanied by a hefty advance.

  Of course that was impossible but he had flirted with the idea of writing a true account and suggesting they market it as a work of fiction. A novel. A story of courage, sacrifice and hope. That way he could possibly get around the secrecy documents he had signed and produce a pretty good story.

  But he knew they wouldn’t want that. What they wanted was a true account where he would have to lie. The irony of it didn’t escape him and he smiled to himself, receiving an intrigued stare from a little girl in a matching tartan hat and coat being pulled along by her mother and who continued to stare until she disappeared into one of the many busy stores.

  Silas realised there and then that in the whole of his adult life he had never felt so lonely. He stood up and aimed his cup expertly into the trash can, remembering how he and Clodagh used to advocate positive thinking whenever things got rough. Now it seemed that positive thinking had become wishful thinking, manifesting in the shame of not having taken her place, praying for her safe return and trying never to allow his mind to embrace the possibility of the worse terrors that might have claimed her.

  He wandered on, nudged by men, women and children only intent on seasonal pursuits and struggled to concentrate his thoughts on gifts for Blossom and for his family. As he rounded a corner he happened upon a shop that he had passed many times over the years but had never gone into. The Irish Shop, nestling between a book store and a Starbucks was designed as Olde Worlde with Dickensian style windows of bubbly plate-glass framed with highly polished wood and, as he peered inside, Silas saw a cosy interior lit by brass oil lamps.

  It looked so inviting that he found himself opening the door and stepping in, an old fashioned bell jingling his arrival, but feeling that it was probably a silly thing to do as he had just returned from the country itself and could have purchased anything this shop had to offer when he was living there.

  He glanced around at the collection of up-market Aran sweaters delicately woven from silk as well as the traditional fisherman’s jumpers, woollen hats with matching scarves and tweed caps and coats. There were neatly folded napkins of the finest Irish linen and the usual collection of souvenirs; mugs painted with leprechauns and shamrocks, Guinness place mats and snow globes containing miniature Irish dancers.

  Idly he picked up one of the globes and shook it, releasing a snow storm that swirled around the glass and as he turned the key it tinkled out a tune that he recognised but couldn’t name.

  Immediately the figure of the dancer began to move inside the globe and the snow slowly settled. Peering closer, Silas examined the tiny form in its short green dress, then released a sharp gasp of shock at the doll’s features for they seemed to distinctly resemble Clodagh’s.

  He glanced wildly around but there was no-one else in the shop, not even a salesperson, and he closed his eyes for a second then opened them, once again cursing what this whole affair had done to him. There had been so many tricks played on his mind which turned out not to be tricks at all, that it was becoming impossible to tell the difference between what was his imagination and what was not. Of course it was just a plastic figure and it could have been fashioned on any Irish dancer. Slim with red hair and now as he examined it closer, a pale glyptic face forced into a set smile.

  What was wrong with him? And why was he so pathetically searching for signs, anything that would signal a message from her letting him know she was okay? His shrink would have said it was all part of the mourning process, but as his shrink had been given the heave-ho because he thought that he was fantasising, Silas was unable to bring a molecule of logic to his thought processes.

  He wanted to buy it although his brain was screaming to his heart that it wasn’t a sign or a message, just a dancing doll in a globe, not even made in Ireland or here in America, but in China.

  He turned with a start as someone emerged from the back of the shop. A tall young man with wavy dark hair and wearing a green sweater which sported the knitted figure of a large snowman in a top hat.

  “Can I help?”

  Silas handed the globe over and rummaged into his leather shoulder bag. “How much?”

  “One hundred and twenty-five,” the sales assistant told him and as he produced some wrapping paper from beneath the counter, he lowered his voice and leaned forward.

  “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”

  “I don’t think so.” Silas was now eager to make his purchase and get on his way. The last thing he needed was casual conversation.

  “Sure I do.” The man persisted. “You’re that dancer, Silas Murphy. Hell, we were all pleased as punch that they were found.”

  Silas activated his credit card and accepted his wrapped gift. “Thank you.”

  But the young man hadn’t finished with his customer yet.

  “Mr. Murphy, can I ask, do you believe in coincidences?”

  It was a question that came so out of the blue that once again it pulled Silas up short and caused him to pause by the door. Remembering how Blossom had dismissed the term as intellectual laziness, he was prompted to answer. “As a matter of fact, no. Why?”

  The young man’s face had now become flushed and his eyes gleamed with excitement as he stepped from behind the counter, beckoning Silas to follow him through to the back of the shop.

  “Because I was offered something last week which I think might be of interest to you. Come…”

  Hesitating, Silas then allowed his curiosity to get the better of him and slowly followed where he was being led. It struck him as a familiar cliché, that ultimate item which shops of this kind dealing in souvenirs and historic content always seemed to find for the perfect customer. Or the perfect gullible idiot.

  It was a storeroom piled high with cardboard boxes and the contrast to the dimly lit shop was marked by the strong strip lighting above their heads, turning the shadow of their faces to the pallor of death masks.

  The salesman lifted a long item wrapped in tissue paper from behind a filing cabinet and began to peel the paper away as Silas looked on intrigued. He watched as the item emerged and saw that it appeared to be a gentleman’s cane, but far sturdier than most he had seen. It was highly polished with a silver handle and he could feel just by looking at it that it was very old indeed.

  “A woman who lives here in Boston brought it in last week,” the young man told him. “She said it had been handed down through generations of her family who were Irish and who came over to America in the early nineteenth century. I took a look at it and asked her why she hadn’t taken it to an auction house or a museum as it was obviously of so
me historical value.”

  Silas was still unsure as to why he should be singled out for this information, but there was something that was keeping his eyes fastened on the object the salesman was holding. An indefinable but fascinating something.

  “She told me that she chose to bring it here because she was sure that someone who came to this shop would want to buy it and treasure it. It was rumoured to have been an old Dance Master’s staff which was used when these guys were going around Ireland teaching folks who wanted to learn to dance. She said she had taken it to an antiques expert who told her that it was difficult to tell what kind of wood it was made of as it had been lacquered over so many times, but he thought that it might not have been made in Ireland because it was too sophisticated. He guessed it was possibly from Europe. Maybe as early as the 17th century.”

  Silas began to feel the familiar tingle of excitement coupled with an assault on his nerve-ends that caused his skin to turn hot and then prickly cold. He wished that Blossom was here and could bring her usual sense of practicality to that which was strange and bewildering to him.

  “Did she say what part of Ireland they were from? Her family?” He heard himself asking as though through a long, echoey tunnel.

  “She did as a matter of fact.” The salesman replied. “County Clare. Which of course you know.”

  He wanted to laugh but knowing it would come out sounding like a hyena on speed, suppressed it.

  The young man moved towards him, holding out the cane with reverent respect.

  “When you came in today I knew you were the one that she meant it for. Coincidence or not, it’s for you.”

  Something stopped him from accepting it straight away, for outside influences were moving a little too swiftly for his liking.

  “What do you want for it?”

  “I gave her five thousand dollars. In cash. I don’t want to make a profit, just to see it in the hands it belongs.”