Lake of Sorrows ng-2

by Erin Hart

  They’d reached the edge of the cutaway. The policeman seemed unfazed by the sight of the corded brown arm that stuck up out of the peat. “Ursula Downes and I were having a look at the other findspot when they called us over,” she said. “I think at first we both assumed this was another set of old remains, until we saw the watch.”

  Ward’s eyebrows spiked. “A wristwatch?”

  “Yes—I can show you, if I could just climb down into the drain for a second.” Ward nodded. Nora dug out a foothold in the drain face and stepped down onto the board that rested on the mucky floor. She had to hang on to the edge of the cutting and tread carefully to keep the plank from tipping. If she fell off, she’d be mired to her knees in a second.

  Through her magnifying glass, she examined the dead man’s flexed hand, his long fingers with their well-formed oval fingernails, and noted the fibrous black peat embedded beneath the nails, which were slightly ragged, as though bitten off rather than clipped. The delicate flesh on the back of the hand was shrunken and slightly decayed from being near the exposed surface of the bog, but the palm appeared wonderfully intact, the fingertips wrinkled as if he had just lingered too long in the bath. With gloved fingers, Nora scraped the wet peat from around the watch, its wide metal strap buckled around a once-solid wrist now reduced to moldering flesh and exposed bone.

  Ward crouched on the bank above the cutting for a closer look. “What else can you tell me?”

  Nora peered through the glass at the disfigured face. The man was clean-shaven; his eyes were closed, but not sunken in the sockets. Reddish lashes rimmed the lids. It was impossible to tell his age; immersion in astringent bog water tended to make even youthful skin appear shrunken and wizened, and this man had already begun to take on a tanned-leather appearance. Though he couldn’t have been buried here more than a few decades, this body was not quite as well preserved as the older corpse. There was nothing odd in that; bog preservation happened by accident, depending on fortuitous water levels and chemicals mixed by capricious nature. Sometimes the acidic bog water preserved skin and internal organs but had the opposite effect on bone; Nora remembered reading about a bog man in Denmark whose entire skeleton had been completely decalcified, leaving behind only a flattened, human-shaped sack of leathery skin. What could she tell Ward? The dead man’s nostrils and open mouth were filled with peat. Perhaps it was only an impression, but to her he seemed to have been captured in the posture of dying, at the very moment when life’s frenetic energy ceased: dividing cells stopped in their tracks, coursing blood slowed to a halt, the brain’s constant storm of electrical impulses suddenly ceased.

  Ward showed no adverse reaction to the gruesome sight before them, but a young uniformed Garda who came up beside him only looked at the body for a moment before turning away abruptly, and being violently sick all over his shiny black shoes. Nora saw the detective’s hand rest briefly on the younger man’s shoulder. It made her think that perhaps Ward had experienced similar distress when faced with his first corpse in the line of duty. Without a word, he signaled another uniformed officer to come look after their ailing colleague. Nora couldn’t help feeling a surge of compassion for the ashen-faced Guard as well. She had never been affected by the sight of death; it was physical insult to living creatures that provoked in her an extreme visceral reaction. The embarrassing truth was that she’d barely made it through her surgical rotation in med school.

  “Here’s Dr. Friel,” Ward said, ducking under the blue-and-white police barrier, and Nora looked up to see a silver Mercedes pull up along the road. She’d heard the state pathologist, Malachy Drummond, speak of his new colleague, but had never yet had the opportunity to meet Catherine Friel, despite the fact that their offices were only a short distance apart at Trinity. The slim, silver-haired woman who emerged from the car carried herself with a fresh, energetic demeanor. To look at her, one would never have imagined that Dr. Friel traversed the country several times a week on the trail of deadly violence. It was a regrettable sign of the times that Malachy could no longer keep up with the caseload all on his own.

  Nora studied Ward’s formal, deferential posture as he greeted Dr. Friel and escorted her to the excavation site. With his calm, soft-spoken manner, he seemed more like a family doctor than a cop. What had prompted him to join the Guards? What did he enjoy about a job that many viewed as nothing more than dredging up the unsavory details of other people’s lives? She’d often tried to fathom what it took to be a detective, a person obliged to look behind hedges and ditches and through the walls of houses, stripping away the veils of propriety and convention to find a world of strange and untidy reality.

  When Ward introduced them, Catherine Friel said, “Nora Gavin. That name seems so familiar…” Her face brightened. “I remember what it was. Malachy showed me an article you wrote recently for one of the anatomy journals, about bog chemistry and soft-tissue preservation?” Nora nodded. “Fascinating stuff. I’m certainly glad now that I read it with such interest.” She turned to Ward. “It might be wise, as long as we have Dr. Gavin here, to make use of her expertise—if she’s willing, and you have no objection.”

  “No objection at all from my end,” Ward replied. “Carry on.”

  Nora felt her stomach begin to grumble; she hadn’t eaten since six that morning and it was getting on toward one o’clock. But this was not the time to be worrying about hunger pangs; they would pass.

  Moments later, outfitted in a white paper suit, Nora was down in the cutting again, this time beside Dr. Friel, who asked for her observations so far. At this point, she didn’t have much to offer. “The position of the body, the presence of peat in the mouth and nose and under the fingernails—all of that could point to the possibility that this man just fell into a bog hole. But there’s one thing that seems really strange.” Nora reached for a handful of the black peat and rubbed it between her fingers. “Look at the texture of this stuff right around the body, how it breaks up into small clumps. It’s definitely backfill. So even if he did just stumble into a hole, it looks as if somebody might have gone to a lot of trouble to cover him up.”

  “I knew there was a very good reason to keep you here,” said Dr. Friel. “Let’s see what else we can find.”

  They very carefully removed the remaining peat from around the dead man’s neck and upper chest. “Odd that he’s not wearing a shirt,” said Dr. Friel. “How many people venture out onto the bog half-dressed, even in fine weather like this? And look here.” Nora leaned closer and saw a thin leather cord. Dr. Friel traced its length to just below the man’s left ear. “Could be a ligature,” she said.

  “Yes, but wouldn’t it be tighter if it had been used as a garrote?”

  “You’re probably right.” The pathologist’s fingers probed gently at the leathery flesh beneath the dead man’s chin. She lifted a small fold of skin, and Nora spied one end of a gash just under the jawline. “Doesn’t look terribly deep,” Dr. Friel said, “but it might have bled quite a lot—unless he was strangled first, and the throat wound was inflicted postmortem.”

  Nora realized she wasn’t really listening; she was concentrating on the disjointed images that tumbled about in her consciousness: another length of cord, another knife wound, another dead man only a few hundred yards away. But this man was wearing a wristwatch. The two deaths couldn’t possibly be related; they were separated by a few centuries at least. She said: “The body that was discovered here a few days ago—”

  “Yes, what about it?”

  “Well, it appears that he was garroted, and his throat was slashed as well.”

  “You think there’s some connection?”

  “I don’t think it’s possible. It just seems a strange coincidence that two men would be killed the same way, in the same place, hundreds of years apart.”

  Dr. Friel looked up at her. “What are you doing tomorrow morning, Dr. Gavin? I’m wondering if you’d like to attend the postmortem. Nine o’clock?” Before Nora could answer, the pathologist
had turned her attention to the young Garda who stood above them. “Would you find Detective Ward for me? I want to let him know I’m listing the death as a homicide. And we can let the scene-of-crime officers begin their work, if they’re ready.”

  Nora spied Ward up at the road, where the van carrying the National Museum delegation had just pulled up alongside the police cars. The detective was leaning in the window, no doubt explaining the situation.

  She turned back to find Charlie Brazil standing behind her at the drain edge. He must have come walking across the bog, but the fact that no one had heard his approach was hardly surprising; four meters of peat soaked up sound like the ultimate underfelt. He was crouched beside the cutting, staring down at the dead man, his expression a complex blend of fascination and revulsion.

  “Another one,” he said. “What happened to him?”

  “We don’t know yet.” She saw Charlie notice the leather cord, and the watch. He knew this body wasn’t as old as the one he’d found. She could see the details pull him in, begin to work on him. He looked startled when she spoke. “Ursula said you were the one who uncovered the body the other day.” He nodded. “I’d like to hear your version of what happened.”

  Charlie Brazil’s eyes shifted, and he looked at the group that was headed toward the cutting. “I’ve got to be going now,” he said. “I’m not supposed to be here.” Then he turned on his heel and trudged off.

  Now that the museum contingent had arrived, it was time to leave the realm of police work and return to the inquiry on the first Loughnabrone bog man. Nora went to greet Niall Dawson, who was getting his people set up at the far cutting. They wouldn’t miss her for a few minutes; she excused herself and headed up to the hut for a long-delayed lavatory break and a bite to eat. She fetched her packed lunch from the car, and entered the Portakabin to find that the archaeologists had been sent home for the day. The place was deserted, and the floor was an inch deep in peat clods, as if a stampede of water buffaloes had just been through. As she bit into her green apple, Nora caught a flash of light on metal from a parked car outside and looked up to see Ursula Downes and Owen Cadogan engaged in conversation. The wind’s steady whine swallowed up their voices, so they moved like figures in a dumb show. Ursula slouched against her car, looking up only occasionally; Cadogan paced the ground in front of her, arguing a point perhaps, but without much apparent success. All at once he stopped and raised one hand to Ursula’s throat. It was impossible to discern at first whether the gesture was a caress or a threat, but when Ursula tried to move, he pinned her to the car with one quick motion. Nora felt a surge of adrenaline as she started from her seat. The only thing she could think to do was to slam her fist against the window. Cadogan lifted his head at the sound, and when he saw someone standing inside the hut, he dropped his hand and slowly backed away. Nora could hear the complaint of grinding gears as he drove off.

  She left the hut and approached Ursula, who stood beside her car, one hand rubbing the place where Cadogan’s fingers had rested on her throat.

  “Are you all right? I realize it’s none of my business—”

  Ursula stopped her with a chilly glance. “You’re right; it’s absolutely none of your business.” Nora felt as though she’d been slapped. She could only watch as Ursula turned her back and walked away.

  6

  The cottage wasn’t difficult to find, with the directions Cormac had provided. The gate was open. As she pulled into the drive, Nora caught a whiff of turf smoke and saw a pale gray smudge rising from the chimney. Evelyn hadn’t used the place in months, and yet it looked well cared for. Someone was making sure that the flues were cleaned and that damp and mold had no chance to set in. The rough exterior walls were painted a dull yellow ochre, the trim rusty blood-red. She could see the tail end of Cormac’s jeep parked behind the house. It had been easy enough to put off thinking about their situation as the events of the day unfolded. Now she had no excuse—apart from being famished and thirsty, windburned and exhausted from all the fresh air out on the bog. What she really needed was a quiet evening without emotional upheaval. Nora gathered up all the resolve she could muster and opened the car door. As she lifted her case from the trunk, she checked the second-story window above; no movement, no indication that anyone was about. As she turned the corner, her bag brushed against the flowers in the window box, releasing a raft of dark crimson petals. She knocked three times.

  The door swung open, and Cormac stood before her. He studied her for a moment, as if trying to decipher the day’s events from her appearance. She tried to imagine the sight that greeted him. She’d taken off her waterproofs, but her work clothes were still a muddy mess.

  “Nora—what happened? Your eyes—”

  “Oh—I got caught in a dust storm first thing this morning. I’d almost forgotten about that. It’s been an incredibly strange day. Another body turned up at the site, only it’s not as old as the other one. The police were there, and the state pathologist. They think it’s a murder.”

  Cormac’s face clouded. “Jesus. And you were there when they found it?”

  “Yes. I’m supposed to go along to the postmortem tomorrow morning too.”

  Cormac’s eyes fixed her with a questioning look. He stepped forward to slide the bag from her shoulder, then reached out and brushed her face with the backs of his fingers, the way he had first touched her, outside the bar in Stoneybatter. The inner turmoil she had managed to keep at bay all afternoon seemed to rise to the surface in response to this simple, compassionate gesture. But her arms hung inert at her sides; she sank forward, exhausted, to rest her forehead against his chest.

  “You must be knackered,” he said. “Why don’t you come upstairs straightaway and have a bath? Then you can tell me what happened.” He took her by the hand and led her up the narrow stairs, into a comfortable room with a low, sloping ceiling and a deep window that looked out into the treetops in the orchard. He set her bag on the broad double bed. Knowing what she had to do before she left this house, she felt something false in the prospect of sharing this bed with him tonight. It raised a pain in her stomach that wasn’t remotely related to a lack of food.

  “Bathroom’s through that door,” he said. “There are clean towels in the press, and there might be some drops in the cabinet to help your eyes. I’m very glad you’re here, Nora.” He leaned down to kiss her, but for some reason she couldn’t respond; her whole body felt wooden. He could feel it too, and he began to back away.

  She wanted to reach out for him, but instead she said, “I’ll be in a better mood to tell you everything after a nice long soak, I promise.”

  “Take as much time as you like. I’ll fix us something to eat—is an omelette all right?” She nodded. He turned from the doorway, and Nora heard his quiet footsteps receding down the carpeted stairs. She started the water running in the bath. Maybe a little warmth would help melt away the stiffness in her limbs. She opened the nearest container from the row of bath salts on a shelf above the tub and threw a handful of powder under the tap, watching it bloom into a froth of soap bubbles. Returning to the bedroom, she stowed her case on the floor by the night table. She decided not to unpack; she wasn’t going to be here long, and there was certainly no point in hanging her work clothes in a wardrobe.

  Nora quickly stripped off, leaving her dirty clothes in a heap on the bathroom floor for the moment, and eased herself into the steaming water. It was almost hotter than she could stand, but she slid down to immerse herself completely for a couple of seconds, closing her eyes and holding her breath. The heat was too much; she burst through the suds, gasping for air, her chest heaving with the first tightness of a sob. There was no relief, no respite from the grinding dissonance of her two impossible realities. She lay back in the tub and let the tears flow down her wet face onto her throat.

  She remembered the first faltering steps that she and Cormac had made toward each other. Even as it happened, she hadn’t been at all sure it was a wise or prudent th
ing. She’d denied the voice in her head, the one that kept warning her not to go there. Sometimes she felt like the selkie, the seal woman who comes ashore in human form, knowing that she cannot stay, that she must eventually return to the sea. She’d been on such tenuous ground, and he’d been so solid, so substantial. And now she was going to deliberately tear herself from his side, where she had felt so safe. She didn’t know if she could take another keening, another period of mourning. Was there anything she could have done about the way things had unfolded between them? She was sure that Cormac had been as surprised as she by the rediscovery of desire, something she could only ever describe as a kind of wild, secret sweetness, like the fleeting taste of nectar on the tongue. It was far too late for any regrets. But every minute that went by sealed them together, and would make it that much more difficult when they had to part.

  Two days earlier, when she had first received news about the Loughnabrone bog man, she’d dug around the high shelves in the bedroom closet for her waterproofs, unused since the previous summer. One of the shelf supports must have been weak; a box full of dog-eared files had upended, knocking her backward and sending a flurry of loose papers to the floor. She’d sat for a moment, dazed by the fall, looking around at the scattered documents. It was her own case file on Triona’s murder. She had read and reread every one of the papers in the file, scouring their neat typescript and scrawled ciphers for any pattern, any particle of information that might help the police prove who was responsible for her sister’s death. She had felt a stab of remorse, remembering that when she first arrived in Dublin, this box had held a place at the center of her kitchen table. It was the constant reminder of what she’d left behind, unfinished. It had eventually shifted to the floor to make room for Cormac at the table. A few months later, she’d moved this box to the bedroom, but she had no memory of putting it up on the shelf in the closet. Was that how far she’d pushed Triona out of her life?