by Erin Hart
“It was here, I know it was. I held it in my hand.”
“What?” Fintan asked.
“A hair clip. It belonged to Mina Osborne. I know because I saw her wearing it on the day she disappeared. And there are a whole lot of cuttings about her in here as well. Fintan, what are we going to do?”
Her implication took a moment to sink in. Una could see him resisting the notion, as she had, denying the possibility even as he remembered the look in Brendan’s eyes when the sickle blade had sunk into the table only inches from his own head.
“No, there’s no way,” he said, shaking his head. “He’s our brother. You must be mad.” Despite his protestations, she could see the idea burrow in and take root. But the fact that Fintan now shared this dreadful knowledge did not make it weigh any less on her own heart.
15
Nora was startled awake by a knock at the door of her room. She was momentarily disoriented, but the memory of the crow crashed back into her consciousness.
“Are you all right, Nora?” It was Cormac’s voice. “It’s after ten. Nora?” The handle moved, and she hadn’t time to react before he opened the door. He understood immediately that something was wrong, and quickly approached her.
“Nora, what’s happened? Are you all right?”
She hesitated. It all seemed so strange now. “I’m fine, Cormac.”
“Then what’s—” He gestured toward the stripped bed.
“When I came back here last night, I found something.”
“What? Please tell me.”
“A dead crow.”
“Jesus, Nora.”
“I didn’t want to raise an alarm. What good would that do? So I”—it seemed too bizarre in the light of day—“I threw it out the window. Bedding and all.” She got up and crossed to the window. “I know it was dead, and it wasn’t going to hurt me, but—” She stopped short. There was no sign of the crow, or its litter of bedding and dead leaves. She knew Cormac saw it too.
She turned to him. “It did happen.”
“I believe you. But Nora, why didn’t you come get me?” She found she couldn’t say a word, but could only look at him. Cormac put his arms around her, and neither of them spoke for a few moments. Then he asked: “Do you still have the card Devaney gave you?”
“What can he do now? I’ve nothing to show him.”
“But he asked us to tell him about anything out of the ordinary, and I think this definitely qualifies. Please, Nora.”
“I left my mobile phone out in the car.”
Cormac led the way downstairs. There was no one about, until they met Hugh Osborne at the front door. He looked strangely at them, and said: “I’m very sorry.”
At first Nora wondered how he knew about the crow, until she saw the cars parked in the drive. Cormac’s jeep was in the worst state, its wind-screen and rear window smashed in, and all four tires completely flattened. The whole thing had been smeared with mud, now dried into patterns showing the sweep of the vandal’s arm. The final insult, a fresh pile of manure on the jeep’s hood, had begun to dry in the morning sun; flies buzzed about in a swarm. Her own car had fared somewhat better: although it was streaked with the same thick brown muck, and appeared to have a couple of punctures and smashed headlamps, at least the windows were still intact.
Nora couldn’t help noticing that there was, in fact, a great stillness in the air—like the deep quiet she always imagined upon a battlefield after the calamitous noise of war. It was as if the morning itself could not countenance the violence done here lately. There was nothing but the mute testimony of the two ruined vehicles to bear witness to what had passed.
16
Devaney was at Bracklyn House not more than five minutes after he received the call from Dunbeg Garda station. He arrived to find Osborne, Maguire, and Gavin on the gravel drive with the damaged vehicles. Osborne’s Volvo was parked nearby, without so much as a scratch.
“Thank you for coming so quickly, Detective,” Osborne said. “I just got in from London this morning, and came home to this. We haven’t touched anything.”
Devaney took a closer look inside the jeep. Bits of safety glass lay scattered all over the vehicle’s interior. A load of surveying equipment was still in the back; he’d have to ask to make sure nothing was missing. A blue-and-white vehicle pulled up beside him; it was Declan Mullins from the Dunbeg station. The scene-of-crime officers would have to come from Galway, so it would be a while before they arrived.
“I’ll start the interviews here in the house,” Devaney said.
“Right, sir. What’ll I do, then?”
Devaney found himself envying the eagerness in his young colleague’s freshly scrubbed face. “Mark off this whole area and don’t let anyone touch anything. Get the scene-of-crime boys set up if I’m busy when they arrive. And see if you can’t get the vehicle owners to give you an inventory of what was in them, to make sure nothing’s missing.” He suspected that Gavin and Maguire knew more about the inhabitants of Bracklyn House than they had so far been willing to divulge. Perhaps this turn of events would prompt them to be a little more forthcoming. He spoke to Osborne first, in the library, while the other two waited outside.
Hugh Osborne had taken an early flight and driven up from Shannon this morning, he said, and arrived at about twenty minutes past ten. Devaney asked him about security around the house. The front gate was never locked, never even closed. The house only had the two entrances, the big front door, and a smaller door in the kitchen round the back. Lucy always made sure both doors were locked and bolted before she went to bed. Neither of the visitors had keys, since Lucy was generally here during the day, when they would be coming and going.
“I don’t want to alarm you unnecessarily,” Devaney said, “but I’m not concerned about this only as a property crime—it’s fairly serious as property crimes go, but I’m more concerned that this might be some sort of personal threat. Can you think of anything that’s happened recently—even something that might have seemed harmless at the time—anything at all that might have angered someone connected to you or your guests?”
“I can’t imagine, Detective. I’ve not had any unpleasant dealings with anyone. Maguire’s here doing a small job for me, the excavation at the priory, and Dr. Gavin’s just lending a hand. They’ve been around just over a week, and they’ll be finished in another few days. The work they’re doing is all very routine in the course of any development.”
“You haven’t run into any opposition to your project?”
“Nothing explicit.”
“What do you mean by ‘explicit’?”
“Well, no one has come right out and voiced any opposition. I mean, we’ve all seen the placards posted everywhere, all that nonsense about bog evictions, trying to stir people up with incendiary language. Knowing some of my neighbors, it’s hard not to take those as indirect criticism. I know they mightn’t believe it, Detective, but I had nothing to do with Drumcleggan being put up for the list of conservation areas in the first place. I supported the move, but I had no part in the decision.”
“So you’re saying there’s no relationship at all between your project and Drumcleggan being named a protected area?”
“Actually, I wouldn’t say that, Detective. The bog does adjoin the property I’m trying to develop. It’s not in the immediate plans, and I’ve not discussed it with anyone yet, but eventually I hope to offer some environmental education programs centering on Drumcleggan. We’d be foolish not to do so. It’s an amazing resource.”
Not to mention a dead handy place to get rid of a couple of bodies, Devaney thought. He changed the subject. “You’ve been away. Where?”
“London. I had meetings with my solicitor and with the group that’s going to handle the additional financing on my redevelopment plan.” Devaney pictured the name the Badger had given him, of Osborne’s banker friend, written in block capitals a few pages back in his notepad, and made a mental note to ring London and check the story. He
’d get Mullins to check out British Airways to make sure Osborne had been on the early-morning flight.
“As far as you know, there’s no apparent connection between this incident and the disappearance of your wife and son?”
“I’ve been struggling with that question myself, Detective. I can’t think of any possible connection.” He sat back in the chair and sighed.
“You’ll let me know if you think of anything further.”
“Of course. Surely this had to have been just some local hooligans,” Osborne said. “Some of them can’t resist taking the piss when they’re drunk. It’s happened before. Not recently.”
Devaney looked into Hugh Osborne’s bloodshot eyes. “You may be right,” he said. “I hope that’s all it was. I’ll see the professor next.”
Cormac Maguire had heard nothing in the night. “Dr. Gavin and I were out all afternoon; we came back to the house sometime between five and six. We washed up and cooked a meal, and afterwards we sat and talked in my room until about midnight.”
“And then?”
“And then Dr. Gavin left and went back to her own room.” There was something more he wasn’t saying. Why not? Devaney decided to try another approach. “What about Bracklyn’s other residents? Where were they all last night?”
“Hugh probably told you he was away in London; he just got back this morning. Lucy Osborne’s pretty much kept to her room since we’ve been here; I haven’t seen her at all except on the afternoon I arrived. I did see Jeremy twice yesterday, both times only briefly.”
“I happened to be here yesterday afternoon myself. The boy’s mother told me he was helping you and Dr. Gavin,” Devaney said.
“He has been helping with the excavation, but he wasn’t with us yesterday. We took the afternoon off to visit a Mrs. Cleary.”
“Ned Raftery’s aunt?”
“Yes, that’s right. Ned told us she might be able to shed some light on the story of that red-haired girl from the bog. We didn’t bring Jeremy along. Didn’t think he’d be interested, I suppose. He sort of latched on to us, Nora and myself, a few days ago, and started helping out with the dig. Apparently hasn’t many friends his own age. He might have felt left out, but that’s hardly enough to provoke such a vicious attack.”
“When did you say you last saw him?”
“Early evening, when we got back from Mrs. Cleary’s. I asked him to join us for a meal; he said he would, but he never showed up.”
“No one thought twice about him going missing?”
“He may have been with his mother. I can’t say I know what the boy’s usual behavior is.”
“You’ve no idea why anyone would want to do something like this? Could it have been intended as a warning?” Devaney could see that he’d struck a nerve.
“A warning about what, Detective?”
“Maybe someone doesn’t like the idea of yourself and Dr. Gavin being here. Perhaps someone who doesn’t want this development to go through. Can you think of anyone who’d object to Osborne’s plans for the site?”
“But in that case, why interfere with Dr. Gavin and myself? We’ve nothing to do with whether or not the project goes through. And there’s no equipment missing. Surely if someone wanted to delay the work at the priory, they could have just stolen or damaged the equipment. Or sabotaged the site.”
“Maybe delay wasn’t enough. Maybe someone wanted to bring it to a stop.” Devaney pressed further: “Did you know that the priory land abutted Drumcleggan Bog? And that it’s the subject of a rather heated dispute at the moment?”
“Hugh did mention it, but only once, when we first arrived. I’d seen the signs posted along the road—you know the ones I mean—and when I asked what they were about, he told me, but didn’t seem particularly worried. Then the day after we arrived, I was out at the site. Brendan McGann and I had a few brief words. He’s evidently not keen on the plans for the priory. He said if I were smart, I’d pack up and go home to Dublin, and not get mixed up in things that had nothing to do with me.”
“Why didn’t you mention this before?” Devaney asked.
“It just seemed like idle talk. Bluster.”
“What’s your impression of Brendan McGann?”
“I’ve only met him a couple of times. He seems to me an unhappy sort of man. Doesn’t like Hugh Osborne; that much is very clear. But you live here, Detective; you probably know the why of it better than I do.”
“I appreciate your honesty,” Devaney said. “As I told Osborne, in all likelihood this isn’t related to his wife’s disappearance, but until we know more, we can’t rule anything out. May I offer some advice to you and Dr. Gavin? Mind yourselves—this may not be an isolated incident.”
“No.”
“Was there something else you wanted to tell me?”
“When I went to call Dr. Gavin this morning, she told me someone left a dead crow in her room last night. We were actually on our way to phone you when we found the cars. I only hesitated telling you because I didn’t actually see the thing—it’s probably better if you ask her directly.”
“I will,” Devaney said, excusing him.
Dr. Gavin was eager to talk. Devaney indicated one of the overstuffed armchairs. “Shall we start with last night? Just describe what happened from, say, late afternoon onward. Whatever you can recall.”
“Cormac and I came back from Mrs. Cleary’s about five-thirty, I suppose. We had a bit of a mishap on the road, so we were both pretty well covered in mud. I had a bath, and Cormac got cleaned up as well. Afterwards, we had supper in the kitchen, then sat in Cormac’s room and talked.” Both of them were holding something back about that conversation, Devaney thought. “I must have gone back to my room around midnight, I think.”
“And where were Lucy and Jeremy Osborne?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t actually see anyone.” She stopped suddenly. “I thought I heard someone in the stairwell when I came out of Cormac’s room. But when I looked, there wasn’t anyone there, just an empty bottle on the floor.”
“What sort of a bottle?”
“A whiskey bottle. I threw it away when I got to my room.” Devaney waited. “I could tell there was something wrong; the bed was rumpled. When I pulled back the covers I found that someone had left me a message. There was a dead crow in the bed. My first thought was to call you—”
“You should have.”
“Yes, I know. But whoever left it there meant to frighten me, and I wasn’t about to give them any satisfaction. So I threw it out the window.”
“Excuse me?”
“I wrapped it up in the bedsheets and threw it out the window. And when I looked out this morning, it was gone.”
Devaney felt a sharp twinge just behind his eyebrows. “Who would want to frighten you?”
“I’m not sure. But I don’t think it was the first time. I got a strange phone call when I was home in Dublin last Monday. It was late at night, and the person—I couldn’t tell who it was, or even whether it was a man or a woman—just said, ‘Leave it alone. They’re better off.’”
“You’re absolutely certain those were the words?”
“Yes, I’m sure. I tried to get the person to say more, but whoever it was hung up.”
“Is there anything else you can remember from the past few days, any little thing that seems amiss or odd in any way?”
“When I came back from Dublin a few days ago, I found broken glass all over the floor of my bathroom. At the time, I thought it must have been an accident. Now I’m not so sure. When I went to get a broom to sweep it up, I came across Lucy Osborne, down on her knees scrubbing the floor in the front hall. All done up like a cleaning woman, head scarf and everything. I don’t know, it was just odd. She said her cleaner, Mrs. Hernan, was down with a flu, but for some reason, I don’t really know why, I didn’t believe her. It was something in the way she handled the brush and the bucket—like she was used to it.”
“Let’s go back to the crow for a moment. Whoever p
ut it in your room had access to this house. Hugh Osborne says he was in London last night and didn’t get back until this morning. If his story checks out, that leaves Lucy or Jeremy, and why would either of them want to warn you off? What have you been doing here?”
“Nothing. I’ve done nothing to provoke anyone, unless—” Dr. Gavin began absently fingering the brass nail heads that stood out on the arm of her chair. She continued: “I was wandering around upstairs one day—by the way, did you know there’s a painting studio way up on the top floor?”
Devaney nodded. “It’s Mina Osborne’s.”
“I came downstairs when I heard a child’s voice—it turned out to be a video of Mina and Christopher Osborne. And I found Jeremy sleeping in the next room, a nursery, in a child’s bed. That’s when Lucy came in. She wasn’t happy to see either of us in that room.” She paused again, and Devaney could see that she was wrestling with whether to tell him any more. “Cormac probably told you that Jeremy is helping with the work at the priory. I’ve caught him a couple of times, staring at me.” She sighed. “He may be upset because he thinks Cormac and I don’t want him around.”
“And do you?” Devaney asked. She was flustered by his question, and colored deeply. “I don’t mean to pry; it’s important that I have all the facts.”
“We weren’t actually trying to get rid of him. I just can’t see Lucy Osborne putting a rotten animal carcass in someone’s bed; it’s so completely out of character. I wish I could be so sure about Jeremy. But he doesn’t strike me as the kind of kid who’d go around bashing things. And the other thing is, if the damage to the cars was meant to scare us off, it was a pretty poor job, since we can’t leave without them.”
Devaney was with her on that point. It seemed unwise to assume that all of the previous night’s events were somehow related.
When he opened the door for Dr. Gavin, Devaney found Lucy Osborne sitting in the foyer, waiting to give a statement. Although her windows faced the drive, she had little to add.