by Rhys Bowen
“Is this Dublin?” I asked a man who was striding out confidently as if he knew where he was going. I had a horrible sinking feeling that I might have taken the wrong boat.
“Dun Leary,” the man replied. I had no idea what this meant but I wasn’t going to show my ignorance. So I followed the other passengers to a bleak railway platform. I waited with the others and then boarded a small train that chuffed through the night. Eventually I could make out city streets and bigger buildings and soon we pulled into Dublin’s main station. It was still only five o’clock in the morning, much too early to show up at Kilhenny. What was more, the station was still deserted and the restaurant still closed. I sat on a bench, feeling wet, cold, miserable and far from home.
At six o’clock the station started to come to life and the café opened. I was starving by this time and treated myself to a proper breakfast. Thus fortified, I went to find out which train would take me to Kilhenny Castle. It seemed I’d have to get out at Kildare and find other means of transportation from there.
“You wouldn’t be the first person who wanted to get to Kilhenny Castle this week,” the ticket clerk said, grinning as he handed me my ticket. “I’d never even heard of it a few days ago. Now it seems the whole world wants to go there.”
I said nothing as I handed him the money then headed for the platforms. By now my suitcase was feeling remarkably heavy and I felt sick, tired and scared. If the whole world was heading to Kilhenny Castle then everyone had been quite right about warning me to stay away. Someone in the press would indeed recognize me. I still had time to turn around and go back to England. But then I told myself that nobody knew of my relationship with Darcy. I’d say I was merely visiting friends nearby and came to see the castle for myself. Pure curiosity, that’s all. I felt somewhat reassured as we chugged out of the station. It was still dark but a gray dawn gradually appeared, revealing a green and rain-streaked countryside. We were passing through a gentle land of rolling hills and green fields. And many of the fields had horses in them—fine Thoroughbred horses that tossed their heads and galloped away at the toot of the train’s whistle.
After several stops we came to the town of Kildare. The rain had subsided to a gentle drizzle. It was still early in the morning. I expected the town to be awaking gently from sleep, but quite a few people got out of the train with me and the town beyond was all hustle and bustle. Then I saw that it was market day. Stalls were being set up, cattle were being led to pens and people from the country were unloading their produce. It seemed a pleasant enough little market town, almost identical to such towns in England, and it was strange to think I was in another country. Apart from the gentle Irish lilt to the voices I could have been anywhere. I was met with a smile when I asked a man if a bus went near Kilhenny Castle.
“Only if you don’t mind a two-mile walk in the rain,” the man replied. “If you want to get there you’d better find Barney’s taxi. He’ll be happy to take you if he’s out of bed yet.”
So it seemed it was a taxi or nothing. Barney was eventually found and the clock on the town hall chimed nine as we set off. Barney was a big, florid man who liked to chat.
“You’ll be another of those reporters, I don’t doubt,” he said. “But I warn you, you can’t get near the actual castle. The police are making sure of that. Of course, that American gentleman didn’t want visitors, did he? Put up big iron gates where there had been none in his lordship’s time. Not at all what you’d call the friendly sort. They say his manservant shot at a trespasser once.”
There was a long pause and then he went on, “Of course, his lordship wasn’t exactly beloved either in these parts. Had a terrible temper on him, even before he lost his wife in the Spanish flu. But after that, well, it was hard to get a civil word out of him. Bite your head off if he was in a bad mood, so they say. I never met him myself. I don’t exactly hobnob with the gentry.” And he laughed at his own joke.
Again I said nothing.
“You’re not thinking of staying in the village, I hope? Both the pubs are full and I doubt you’d even find a spare bed in Kildare or Newbridge. There are even reporters over here from America. I drove some American woman to Kilhenny a week or so ago and she gave me a pound as a tip. A pound! Imagine that! Well, I thought perhaps she wasn’t familiar with our money, but I certainly wasn’t about to point out her mistake to her.”
And he chuckled again. We were driving between hedgerows that would have been leafy in the summer, but were now a mass of twisted and bare twigs. Beyond them were rain-soaked fields with puddles in them and depressed-looking cows or horses standing stoically. There were patches of bare woodland, gently rising hills, a stream gushing under a stone bridge. Now and then we passed a stone farmhouse, or a row of cottages, and then we came to a small village with a row of shops, a pub called the Harp and a church, surrounded by tombstones. Rooks flew from a yew tree, cawing. But apart from that there was no sign of life.
“This is where you’ll want to be dropped off,” Barney said.
“Where’s the castle itself?” I asked, realizing as I said it that it was still far too early to call upon anyone. “Is it far to walk?”
“Not unless you’re one of those lady reporters with high-heeled shoes,” he replied, chuckling. “About a quarter of a mile down that lane to the entrance. You’ll come to the wall around the castle grounds just after you leave the village but the gate’s a good way beyond.”
“Can you drive me there?” I asked. “I’d like to see for myself.”
“It’s your money,” he said. “I’ve got nothing but time.”
He let the clutch out and we nosed into a narrow lane. We hadn’t gone far before we came upon a high brick wall on our right. On our left was an open field with some kind of excavation work clearly in progress—mounds of earth and tarps covering some areas.
“Are they building something there?” I asked.
“No, it’s those archeologists. Apparently it’s a prehistoric site and they are digging up an ancient burial chamber or something. I can’t understand this sudden interest in digging up old remains. If it was a palace or a treasure trove of gold, well, that’s one thing. But they find an old broken piece of pottery and they act as if it’s wonderful. Waste of time and money, if you ask me.”
“How long have they been working on this site?” I asked.
“A couple of months now, it would be. Stupid time of year to start, if you want my opinion. Too cold and rainy.”
“Are they staying nearby?”
“Apparently they asked if they could stay at the castle but the American told them to go and jump in the nearest lake. I told you he wasn’t the most hospitable of men. So they’re at the O’Mara Arms in the next village. Ah, here we are now.”
I found that my heart was racing. To our right was a gateway, with ancient stone gateposts on either side, each one topped by a crumbling stone lion. A new metal gate, tipped with what looked like spears, now barred the entrance. Beyond it the driveway ran straight between borders of yew trees and in the distance I caught a glimpse of the castle itself, an imposing building of gray stone rising above the trees with a turret at one corner. It reminded me of my home at Castle Rannoch. I thought of Darcy, running through those grounds as a little boy. A happy little boy until his mother and brothers died and his father became so bitter.
“So the American man lived in the castle. Where exactly did Lord Kilhenny live after he moved out?” I asked, wanting to know where the lodge was but not wanting the taxi driver to know how much I already knew.
“I know nothing about it, me darlin’. Just what I’ve read in the papers like everyone else. So where to now?”
“I suppose you’d better drop me off in the village,” I said.
“You’re planning to stay, are you? I don’t think you’ve a chance of finding out much here or getting an interview with any of the family. But it’s not for me to say.” He turned the motor toward those tall gates then reversed. At the sound of our
engine a policeman appeared from among the trees and stood watching us as we drove away.
“I see that the Garda is still keeping an eye on the place,” Barney commented.
“Guards? I thought he was a policeman.”
“The Garda are what we call our police force. I take it it’s your first time in Ireland, then.”
“That’s right,” I said. I glanced back and saw the policeman still staring after us. It appeared that getting in to find Darcy would not be easy. There were a few signs of life as we came back into the village street. A milk cart, drawn by a tired old horse, was delivering bottles to doorsteps. The newsagent was opening up, setting out morning papers. The greengrocer was arranging cabbages under a canopy from which rain dripped. Barney stopped the taxi outside the Harp.
“I’ll leave you here, then. They have a telephone at the pub. They can get a message to me if you want to be picked up later.”
“Thank you.” I climbed out, retrieved my suitcase and paid him. He asked what seemed rather a large amount but I suspected his rates had shot up in the last week when reporters paid without quibbling. The taxi drove off and I stood alone in the village of Kilhenny, not sure what I should do next. Rain dripped off the brim of my hat. I looked around, wondering how I could ask about finding the lodge without word going all over the village, and whether I would have to walk back that half mile lugging my suitcase. And it occurred to me that Darcy might not even be at the lodge. If his father was still being held in prison somewhere, maybe even in Dublin, would he not want to be close by? I could see now that this quest of mine had not been well thought-out. I should have stayed in Dublin and asked my first questions there rather than rushing into the middle of nowhere.
But I was here now and unless I could persuade Barney to come back for me, I was stuck here. The frosted glass door of the pub was firmly locked but as I was standing there the milkman came toward me with two bottles. He nodded a good morning to me then went around the side of the pub to put the bottles outside another door.
“Were you waiting for someone, miss?” he asked as he returned.
“No, I just got here,” I said. “And I’m not sure what to do next.”
He grinned. “Another of those lady reporters, I suppose. Well, you’re out of luck if you’re looking for a room here. There’s already two of them staying at the pub. And Mrs. O’Shea has taken in two more as paying guests. I don’t know what they think they are going to report on. The trial will be in Dublin, won’t it?”
I nodded, then took a deep breath. “Lord Kilhenny’s son. I understand he came back here to be with his father.”
“He might have done.”
“And Lord Kilhenny was living at the lodge when this happened?”
“I only know what I’ve been told, like everyone else. But yes, his lordship had been living at the old gamekeeper’s lodge since that American bought the castle. He’d no business to go and sell it if you ask me. The O’Mara family had owned that place since the twelve hundreds. I knew no good would come of selling it to an American, even if he did claim Irish ancestry. And no good has come, has it. That man got rid of all the servants and he’d been living there like a hermit ever since. Didn’t mix with anyone. If he went out, it was in one of those big black motorcars, driven by his man. And now this.”
“I think I’d like to take a look at the lodge for myself,” I said. “Is it on the castle grounds?”
“Not exactly. It’s off to one side, on the road where the home farm and the stables are. It used to be the old entrance to the castle until they had the present driveway built in the last century.”
“So it’s past the new gates?”
“It is not. It’s before them. You turn down that little lane when you come to the castle wall. Keep following the wall and then you’ll see the roof of the stables ahead of you and you’ll find the lodge in a little spinney, off to the left all on its own.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I wonder if there’s anywhere I might leave my suitcase for the moment?”
“I don’t suppose Mrs. Murphy at the pub would mind. Knock on the door there and see what she says.”
With that he went back to the milk cart, empty bottles jingling. I tapped on the door and was greeted by a pleasant-looking woman in a flowery pinny. Of course she’d be glad to look after my suitcase, she said. She was only sorry she couldn’t offer me a place to stay, but she was bursting at the seams. She must have taken pity on my drowned-rat appearance because she poured me a cup of tea and said she’d be glad to feed me my midday meal if I was still in the village.
I had just spruced myself up in her ladies’ room and was about to face the rain again when I heard footsteps coming downstairs and a woman came toward me. One look at her and I knew she was American. She was wearing a purple scarf over very blond hair set in tight little waves, and her mouth was a bright red gash of lipstick. She eyed me with interest.
“Don’t tell me you’re another one of the fraternity,” she said. “Which paper do you work for, honey?” The accent confirmed my suspicion.
“I don’t work for any paper,” I said. “I’m just staying in Dublin and popping over to visit a friend here.” Then I decided attack was the best form of defense. “How about you? Presumably you’re from an American newspaper?”
“Magazine, honey. Ladies’ magazine. Our readers love tales about dukes and earls and things. Especially bad ones. I’ve been trying to get some dirt from the locals. So which of them is your friend? Maybe I could come along with you.”
“I don’t think so,” I said hastily. “My friend hasn’t been well. I plan to keep things really quiet and simple, if you don’t mind.”
As I went to leave she called after me, “I didn’t get your name, honey.”
I said the first thing that came into my head. “It’s Pauncefoot-Smith. Belinda Pauncefoot-Smith.”
She laughed. “You English with your snooty names. You crack me up.”
“And your name?” I asked.
“Connie,” she said. “Connie Wright.”
“Nice to meet you, Miss Wright,” I said. “Now I fear I must brave the elements. My friend lives a long way out of town.”
“There’s some guy with a taxi around sometimes,” she said. “You could have the innkeeper call him.”
“Oh, I don’t mind walking, thank you,” I said. I left the pub and set off in the wrong direction, just in case she had decided to follow me. Then I slipped between houses and managed to cut back along a footpath between allotments. The rain had now subsided to a gentle drizzle. I followed the lane back to the castle wall, then saw an even narrower lane going off to the right. At first I walked gently uphill, then the land dipped ahead of me and I saw the red roofs of the stables among green fields. There was a flash of movement and color coming over the rise and I realized, with something of a thrill, that the horses were being put through their morning paces. They came toward me until the ground echoed with the thud of their hooves. Then they rounded a corner and were gone. So life at the stables was going on, even without an owner or trainer. Unless the American had hired a new trainer after he sacked Darcy’s father.
I had been so intent on watching the horses that I hadn’t been paying attention to what was happening on the other side of the lane. I turned and saw that the high wall had disappeared to the left. There was now a dense stand of woodland beside the road and among the trees I spotted a house, or rather cottage. It too was built of gray stone but had a depressing look to it, with small windows and overhanging eves. Witch’s house from the Brothers Grimm came into my mind. I would not have wanted to live there. But smoke was coming from the chimney, which must mean someone was living there now. I took a deep breath and followed the flagstone path that wound between the trees to the front door.
I had rehearsed my speech so many times during the past twenty-four hours. “Hello, Darcy. I’m here and I love you and I’m not leaving so don’t try to make me. I want to do anything I can to help you.�
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I repeated it once more as I approached the front door. I lifted the big black knocker and brought it down with a resounding crash. At the sound, rooks rose cawing from nearby trees. The front door opened and I found myself staring not at Darcy but at an older version of himself. The dark curls were tinged with gray, the face had deep frown lines etched onto the brow, and the mouth turned down at the corners. Those lines turned to a scowl when he saw me.
“What the devil do you think you’re doing here?” he demanded. “How did you even know that I’d come home? Damn and curse you blasted reporters. If you don’t get out of my sight this very minute I might well consider committing a second murder. After all, you can only hang once.”
Any sensible speech had deserted me. He looked truly frightening, his eyes blazing with anger, and I well believed that he could kill without thinking twice about it.
“You don’t understand, Lord Kilhenny,” I stammered, because my heart was still beating really fast. “I’m not a reporter. I didn’t even know you would be here. I came to see your son.”
“Darcy?” he demanded. “And what might you want with my son?”
What should I say now? Obviously not that Darcy and I had been about to get married. I tried to think of something reasonable but my brain still refused to work. Then the need to come up with a reply was taken from me. There were footsteps in the dark hallway beyond and a voice demanded, “Georgie? What are you doing here?”
Chapter 12
MONDAY , DECEMBER 3
FINALLY AT KILHENNY , COUNTY KILDARE , IRELAND .
Darcy and I stood there, staring at each other. I couldn’t tell what emotion lay behind those alarming dark blue eyes. Not anger, surely. But fear? I mustered every ounce of self-control and put on a bright smile.