I had thought to grab the paper bag beside Bridget’s bed, the one that contained her medications.
I gave Colin my car keys so he could drive his family to the emergency room, since his car was still at the Callahan farm. “Bridget will go to hospital, no doubt about that,” he said. “I hope Jimmie will be fine to come home with us, but we have to get him checked out.”
I handed the paper bag to him. I’d tried to protect it, holding it under my sweater. “Bridget’s pills,” I said. “Maybe you’ll get some answers from these.”
Davin loaded his ATV on his truck, and he dropped me at Shepherds.
Everyone, it seemed, had gathered in Reception, Alex and all the other guests, even Mr. Sweeney, and Patrick and Enya. Colin had called Patrick with the good news, but it was clear from the anxious faces awaiting me that everyone wanted a firsthand report. I must have been a sight to behold, wet, smudged with soot, with stringy hair, a dirty quilt wrapped around me.
“For heaven’s sake! Look at you!” Helen said, her hands on her cheeks. “It’s a very good thing I’ve had a pot of tea waiting for you.”
The hot tea was welcome. I drank it, standing in the middle of Reception, too wet and dirty to sit anywhere. Patrick sent Enya for a couple of clean towels, after which I noticed that she went back to their quarters. Patrick had explained to the guests about Bridget, as they were all so worried about Jimmie. “Nothing gained now by keeping them in the dark,” he said. Though I imagined he’d painted just the broad strokes of the picture, I was relieved. He’d made it possible for me to tell what had happened at Red Stag Crossing without fear of betraying a confidence. Mostly, the guests wanted to know that Jimmie was not harmed, nor was Bridget. Probably they were curious about why Bridget was hiding at Magdala’s cottage, but no one asked. I didn’t mention the priest hole, which would have said too much about Bridget’s mental state. I would tell Alex later—yes, I should tell Ian, too—but I headed for a hot shower when I finished my tea.
As the spray of hot water on my shoulders eased my chill, I began to wonder about Magdala’s rantings. What had she meant about the little men and their gold? Why had she chosen that moment to slip into hallucinations about leprechauns? Something else I would tell Alex and Ian.
I hadn’t shared with the other guests most of the details that cluttered my mind, that might not fade from memory for a long time. Little Jimmie’s tear-streaked face when Colin brought him up, the confusion in his eyes, his tiny bell voice when he said, “Grandda.” The way he had simply laid his head on Grace’s shoulder and put his grimy fingers in his mouth.
Bridget had handed him up, but it had taken a while longer to coax her out. Colin was about to go down and bring her up, though the space was almost too tight to allow it. Eventually, her haunted face appeared in the rectangle where the panel had been, and Colin grabbed her frail shoulders, pulling her out, pulling her to him. I would not forget the unnatural glitter in her eyes.
Colin returned to Shepherds with Jimmie a couple of hours later, much sooner than I would have expected. I had to marvel at how unflappable Colin was. His clothes still damp, his hair plastered to his head like a dark red helmet, he sang out, “Fine as a fiddle, the boy is. The nurses at the A&E pampered him something awful, gave him juice and peanut butter and jam and ice cream, and a banana after that! Now he’ll be needing a good scrubbing.”
“Enya and I will take care of this scamp,” Patrick said, and Little Jimmie bounded into his uncle’s arms.
I couldn’t help wondering about the repercussions of this afternoon, the damaging effects on this gentle-spirited little boy. Would he remember being snatched from his crib? The flight through the woods? The pitch-black, claustrophobic hole? Would he remember the terror that must have prompted his cries? Or would the love that surrounded him here at Shepherds be enough to wipe out those nightmarish memories?
“Is there anything I can do to help, Colin?” I asked.
“If you don’t mind, you can drive me to get my car. It’s at the Callahan place,” he said. “Alex might like to go along, to see a real Irish farm. He might use it in his book.” I was astonished that Colin would think of that—now, with all that had happened.
I was happy to be useful, and Alex was glad to ride with us. “You know about farm holidays, don’t you?” Colin said. “Very popular. Worth a mention in your book.” Alex made a note. The rain had stopped, and everything had a freshly washed sparkle. Though we didn’t get out of the car, Alex and I both delighted in the pastoral scene, pristine little farmhouse with rock wall around it, emerald pastures and darker green hedgerows, and someone—and a dog—driving spotted cows to the barn. I thought of Ian’s story, the man with a spotted cow and a white one.
“That would be Davin’s younger brother,” Colin said.
I remarked that Davin’s ATV had been a big help. “A great help it was. I hope Davin wasn’t too late for his shift at Mitchel House,” Colin said. Only for an instant did a shadow cross his face. Then—he was planning on making a stop at the pizza place on the way back, he said, and what kind of pizzas did we like? We could not dissuade him. He was treating all the guests at Shepherds tonight, so touched he had been by how everyone had put aside their plans today and had waited for news of Jimmie. “Such caring they showed, people who don’t really know us. Even Charles Prescott came from the golf course when Helen called him,” he laughed.
“Even Mr. Sweeney was there,” I said.
By the time Colin arrived at Shepherds with boxes of pizza, it was dark. Patrick said it was no trouble at all getting Little Jimmie to sleep. Enya did not come down.
After everyone had finished their pizza, Alex and I lingered in the breakfast room with Colin. I had started clearing things away when Grace called Colin to come and get her.
“Bridget’s in hospital, in good care. It’s Grace that needs a rest now, I’m thinking,” he told us. “She says she’s desperate for a hot bath.”
“You might consider the same, Colin,” Alex said.
We had a much-needed laugh.
Grace was cooking breakfast as usual the next morning, Enya loading platters onto the rolling cart, Little Jimmie in his high chair with bowl and spoon. He had a smile for me when I peeked into the kitchen and said good morning. Grace returned the greeting, but something in her somber expression was troubling. I asked, “Any news about Bridget this morning?”
“Colin went early to the hospital, hoping to talk to the doctor on Bridget’s case. He called a few minutes ago. He was told Bridget had a comfortable night. She was still sleeping. I’m sure sleep is good for her right now. She’s so weak.” Grace scooped some eggs into a chafing dish. “Colin also said the Guards haven’t found Magdala.”
I hadn’t expected that. The officers at the cottage had seemed so sure they’d just go out in the woods and bring her in. Now it had been—I calculated silently—more than eighteen hours.
“Colin heard it from one of the nurses whose husband is a Guard. It’s a small town.” Grace managed a smile. “He said they sent out others to search through the night but haven’t had any luck so far.”
Enya broke in, impatience peppering her voice. “Are the eggs ready?”
Grace finished with the eggs. Enya took the chafing dish and rolled the cart from the kitchen.
“That old fool, Magdala, she thought she was helping Bridget, I’m sure,” Grace said.
“Maybe they’ll find her, now that it’s daylight, and she can get the medical care she’s needed all along,” I said.
Grace nodded, and I was sure her thoughts were the same as mine: If she’s still alive.
Ian was at the table with the Quinn ladies, but he left the breakfast room as I did. “Beautiful morning,” he said. “How about a walk?”
“Any place in particular?” I said.
“Red Stag Crossing, I was thinking.” He winked. “I hear things. Grace told me that the old woman out there was missing. The old woman someone suggested I should see. And Colin a
nd Grace’s daughter, Little Jimmie’s mam, was staying at her cottage, I understand. And I suppose you’ve known about that all along.” He gave a mock scowl.
“I did know about Bridget, but I couldn’t say anything, Ian. Now I can tell you some things about the old woman, Magdala, and about her cottage. Have you ever seen a priest hole?”
On our way to the place where we had to leave my car, I told how we’d found the secret chamber only because of Jimmie’s cries.
“My God,” Ian said. “What a terrible thing for the little boy.”
He didn’t make a judgment about Bridget, but I felt I needed to say that she was quite ill, not at all herself. I was not surprised that Ian’s questions turned to the priest hole.
“Some of them were scarcely more than a wall’s thickness,” he said. “Did you get a look inside?”
“Not really. I held the flashlight and directed it into the space for Colin to see, but I wasn’t in a position to look. It was all—confusing,” I said, trying to remember the moments following their rescue. I probably could have examined the hole, but it wasn’t my priority.
I parked beside a couple of official-looking cars. “It’s still a trek, from this point.”
The woods were less menacing today, more like the afternoon Grace and I had made the first visit to Magdala’s cottage. Sunlight filtered through the delicate leaves of the alder trees.
“Alders figure into many Irish legends,” Ian remarked. Probably he knew the legends Grace had mentioned.
I had expected we would come upon some of the officials looking for Magdala, but they’d been searching for a long time now; they had likely made a thorough search of these woods and had expanded their territory.
When we reached the cottage, Ian was not as fascinated as I had been. He’d seen other old—very old—dwellings. But when he tried the door and it opened, his face lit up.
“Do you think it’s all right to go in?” I said.
“Why not? We’re not breaking in, are we? It’s not a crime scene, is it?” He winked. “You’re much too influenced by those crime shows on American television, Jordan.”
I supposed he was right. Still, I called out, “Magdala?” Not surprisingly—silence.
Ian examined the fireplace for a moment before following me into the other room.
“That’s it,” I said, pointing up. No one had taken the time to replace the panel.
Like a child drawn to a favorite climbing tree, Ian made his way up the ladder. “I wish we had a torch. Why didn’t I think of that?” he said, crouching at the small rectangle in the wall. “I’d like to go down, myself, to see what it’s like.”
“Imagine a priest squeezing through that space,” I said, climbing the ladder, and I thought of Bridget, small enough, but with Jimmie in tow. The thought made ice in my blood again.
“I heard one tale of a priest hiding for more than a week, with only an apple to eat.” Ian peered into the opening. And then his face contorted into astonishment. “Sweet Mother Mary!” he said in a hoarse whisper. “I see eyes! Someone’s down there!”
Sometime in the cover of darkness, Magdala had returned to her cottage and had hidden in the secret chamber. Was she thinking the Guards would finally just go away—or just not thinking?
Ian tried to place a call to the Garda station, but he had no cell phone service. I told him Colin had the same trouble but was able to get service out on the path, not far. I was surprised that Ian had to go no further than the yard to make the call. “Different carrier, I suppose,” he explained. “The Guards are on their way.”
The minutes dragged by as we waited. From time to time I called down to Magdala. I thought it was Magdala all along but was not absolutely sure until she cursed at me and grunted something about gold. Tough old bird. Ian was determined to get a peek at the hiding place. We did, when it was all over. Just a black hole with rungs on the side, between three and four feet wide, a thickness of barely eighteen inches. One might sit, but could not lie down.
It was an ordeal, but a small female Guard finally managed to get Magdala out.
The old woman was dirty, wet, and reeked to high heaven, but otherwise seemed much as she’d been when we last saw her. Though physically unharmed, she continued to babble about the little men.
And she was holding on tight to a gold chalice.
CHAPTER 18
“A gold chalice. I suppose it all makes perfect sense now,” Alex said.
Ian and I sat across from Alex at Tara’s, over plates of baked salmon, mashed potatoes, peas, and carrots, their lunch special.
“You’re a hard one to impress,” I said.
“Oh, I am definitely impressed!” Alex said. “It’s most impressive that you had a hand in recovering a gold chalice that has to be centuries old—both of you.”
“I would love to know how long the old woman has known about the sacred vessel,” Ian said. “Her whole life, do you think? I would love to know the story that was passed down. It seems clear enough that a priest left the chalice that he’d used in a secret mass. The communion—the wine. You said you’re Catholic, so you’d know.”
Alex and I exchanged a look. I was not a very good Catholic, though I’d tried to raise my children in the faith. I doubted Alex had attended mass or gone to confession in decades.
“Why did the priest never come back for the chalice? Was he captured by priest hunters?” Ian paused with his fork in midair and said, in a lower voice, “Could it be my story?”
I had wondered the same thing.
“A lot hinges on the age of the chalice,” Alex said. “The Guard will surely contact the church, and they’ll find an expert to date it.”
“It has to go back to Cromwell’s siege,” Ian said. “Otherwise, why the secret?”
“What about Magdala?” I said. “Do you think she’ll receive any compensation? Surely, if the chalice has been hidden in her cottage for centuries, she can claim some ownership.”
“Ah, poor old thing,” Ian said. “From what I saw of her, I’d say she’ll be spending the rest of her days in care. Going on about the little men like that.”
“If she’d been shrewd—in her younger days—she could have found a collector and sold the chalice for a pretty penny,” Alex said. He responded to my frown. “I’m not saying she should have, just that some people would have done something with it besides keep it hidden.”
“She thought the gold vessel belonged to the leprechauns, if you pay any mind to her mad ravings,” Ian said.
“I wonder when it was that her mind began to go in that direction,” I said.
Our conversation went on like that for a bit, and then as we were leaving the restaurant, Ian said, “I didn’t tell you what the Guards said about my computer, did I?”
Everything that had happened the previous afternoon had taken precedence. The shootings, the message that had come to Ian’s website—all of it seemed long ago, but Ian’s report of the Guards’ findings renewed my interest.
“As expected, it was impossible to identify who sent the e-mail, but we know where it came from,” Ian said. “Right here in Thurles. The Internet café.”
Grace had gone to the hospital up in the morning, and Colin had returned to Shepherds. He’d been working in the office, he said, when Alex and I came back from lunch. We’d left Ian in town. He was going to make a personal call on the proprietors of the Internet café to see what else he could learn.
“I was just about to make myself a cup of tea,” Colin said. “Join me?”
We followed him to the kitchen. Alex told him about our lunch. “I should be getting tired of potatoes, but I’m not. Tara’s mashed potatoes may have been the best yet.”
Colin smiled, a little distracted, I thought. He busied himself with the teapot.
“Have you had lunch?” I asked.
“I’m not hungry,” he said. “Grace and I had some scones, waiting for the doctor.”
Colin was taking his time. I’d seen his method befo
re, telling about the visit of the Guards to Magdala’s cottage, what Bridget knew and didn’t know, what the Guards said about Dr. Malone’s murder. Colin had to have his tea first. He’d say what he had to say, eventually. He told us the doctor on Bridget’s case, Dr. Hogan, was a woman, very professional, it seemed, but young. Probably early thirties, though she didn’t look much older than Bridget. Ponytail and glasses shaped like cat eyes with sequins on the frames.
Bridget was much more “clear-headed” this morning, he said, but very tired. Not saying much. Grace was going to help her with a shower. Bridget didn’t object; she just didn’t seem to care much whether she cleaned up or not.
Colin made the tea and sat with us at the table, stirring the cream into his cup, and finally he came to the point.
“Bridget had a lot of drugs in her system. I can’t remember what they all were. A whole pharmacy, it sounded like, when Dr. Hogan began to rattle off the names.” Colin put down his spoon and picked up his cup, but he didn’t bring it to his lips. “The doctor said it was no wonder Bridget was in such a state. She’d been taking barbiturates that bring her down and amphetamines that make her high. Antidepressants and I don’t know what else. Some of the pill bottles from the cottage were empty but clearly she’d been mixing up all kinds of medications.”
He sipped his tea at last, and I took the opportunity to say, “Prescriptions.”
Colin waited a moment before answering. “I looked at the bottles before I handed them over yesterday. Some had the kind of label you get at a pharmacy, though they didn’t have a name of any pharmacy. Must have meant they came from Dr. Malone’s office. A few of the bottles just had a piece of tape with writing on it: Oxy was one I recognized. The painkiller. One of Patrick’s friends when we were back in Dublin was in a motorcycle accident and tore his back up bad. He got addicted to Oxycodone. First time I’d heard of that.” Another sip of tea. “So the question is, where did those come from?”
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