The Darkling Bride

by Laura Andersen

  “I’ll see you later, Aidan,” she said, and retreated back into the keep.

  So this was the archivist Nessa had hired. Not quite what he’d been expecting.

  * * *

  —

  What was wrong with her? Safely back in her room, Carragh closed the door and leaned against it. Why the hell hadn’t she jumped at the chance to see the library she’d been dreaming about for weeks? And why, when Aidan Gallagher flung open that door in her face, had she been momentarily terrified of confronting something else?

  Carragh did not believe in ghosts, not in the traditional sense. She was not afraid of the Woman in White or the Darkling Bride or any number of ancient monks who might drift down the slopes from Glendalough. She was not afraid of the dead, however uneasily they might lie, for her earliest memories encompassed death.

  But in all her eager research into the Gallagher family, she had deliberately ignored a simple truth: tragedy casts a long shadow. Prying into the life and death of the Victorian Jenny was one thing. Meddling with a man whose mother was believed to have murdered his father and then jumped off the same tower as Jenny Gallagher? That was an entirely different matter.

  Especially when the man in question was sexy as hell. Seriously, who looked like that? She’d seen a few pictures of the viscount as she’d scrolled the Internet looking for information on the Gallaghers, most of them of Aidan paired with various formidably fashionable women. But the combined effect of his height and dark hair and those bright blue eyes narrowed suspiciously at her…

  Carragh shoved herself away from the door and glared at the painting of Jenny Gallagher. “I’m here for the library,” she said aloud. “Not for men, and not for ghosts.”

  In the painted pond’s reflection, the Darkling Bride stared back at her in warning.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “This is the catalog my grandfather had made just after World War Two.”

  Carragh flinched as Aidan dropped a leather-bound book that must be nearly a foot thick on the long library table. “Looks thorough.”

  “Typed, at least,” he replied. “For any gaps in that report, you’ll have to go further back, which puts you at the mercy of individual handwriting. First thing, check the general categories and locations and see which are still relevant. I don’t think my father made many changes in layout, but those are a child’s memories. He might have decided to shelve everything according to his favorite color, for all I know.”

  “Is there anyplace in particular you would like me to start?”

  “Do you need direction?” he asked. “Look, whatever my great-aunt told you, I’m not interested in the library as such. My only concern is locating personal documents—diaries, travel journals, letters. I expect to find most of those on the smaller shelves against the road screen. For the rest, you are free to go on as you think best.”

  In contrast to yesterday’s wariness, Aidan was perfectly polite. And perfectly inaccessible, walling himself off behind impeccable manners. Was she quite sure she hadn’t stumbled into the past? She imagined his Victorian and Edwardian ancestors had given off that same air of self-possession.

  But as she kept insisting to herself, she was here to work. Nothing else. “I’ll start with a look at your grandfather’s catalog and see if I can locate at least general categories on the shelves.”

  Of course, the look was not all that quick. Though Carragh was itching to prowl through the library itself, she had been hired to work, not to satisfy her curiosity and book lust. Also, Aidan Gallagher’s presence at the far end of the nave kept her professional. And the catalog was itself a fascinating artifact of the past. Typed on canary-colored onionskin, just turning the translucent pages required a degree of care that meant by the time she had marked the ten most general categories of organization, Mrs. Bell had delivered tea and biscuits.

  “I didn’t hear her come in,” Carragh said.

  Aidan arched an eyebrow, a trick she’d seen before and always viewed with suspicion. “I doubt you’d have heard anything short of an explosion.”

  She leaned back in the chair and stretched her arms above her head. When she had taken a sip of tea, Aidan asked, “How are you getting on?”

  “Good. Ready to start checking whether your grandfather’s main categories are more or less in the same places. If they are, then I can start sorting by content and age. How’s your search?”

  “More or less as I expected.” Like turning on a light switch, he smiled disarmingly. “I’m sure you’ll be happy to have the library to yourself this afternoon. I’ve a meeting in Rathdrum with the family solicitors.”

  “About the trust?”

  “It’s almost as difficult to divest oneself of a castle as it is to build one in the first place.”

  Which wasn’t actually an answer. “Then why do it?”

  “Do you have the faintest idea what it costs simply to keep the roof from falling in?” he asked. “It’s a waste of money for a place that hasn’t been lived in for twenty years.”

  She picked carefully through her reply, knowing it was none of her business but hopelessly curious all the same. Aidan was trying to get rid of a house, she was trying to hold onto one…“Does your family support the donation? You have a sister, don’t you?”

  “My sister has no more desire to live here than I do. She has a perfectly beautiful home in Kilkenny. And I don’t see why any of us should be shackled to this castle simply because of our name. Would you like to live in a house merely because it had once belonged to your family?”

  “I would. Actually, I do. I live in a Dublin townhouse owned by the Ryan family for two hundred years.”

  “Really?” In only two syllables he managed to convey a wealth of polite scorn.

  “So it’s not as impressive as a castle, but I love it because of family memories. My grandmother knew I appreciated our history, so she left it to me when she died.”

  “And were your parents murdered in that house?” She felt the blood leave her face, and instantly Aidan apologized. “That…I’m so sorry. That was a stupid thing to say. I’m afraid coming home has rattled me more than I expected. It’s not fair to take it out on you.”

  “Is this the first time you’ve come back?”

  “Yes.” He looked around the library as though seeing it anew. “It feels like ages. And also, like it was just yesterday.” A brief laugh. “I’m not acquitting myself very well. The Met would be disappointed with my people skills.”

  “The Met?”

  “The Metropolitan Police. Scotland Yard, and all that.”

  “You’re a police officer.” It wasn’t a question; Carragh had read about him online.

  “I work Arts and Antiquities thefts. Or I did. Like all institutions, they’re cutting budgets and personnel. When I return to London, I’ll be working Sexual Crimes.”

  “Depressing.”

  “Someone has to do it.” He uttered the platitude without conviction, then smiled at her once more. “I believe I was getting out of your way. If you need anything, you can let Mrs. Bell know.”

  Carragh stared at the door after Aidan left, until the catalog, precariously held open with paperweights, closed itself with a thump. Right, she thought. Back to work.

  * * *

  —

  Aidan walked away from the library cursing himself. He’d been at Deeprath less than twenty-four hours and already every habit he’d developed over the last twenty years to cope with his past was crumbling. He was polite, he was reserved, and he was always controlled. So why had he nearly confessed: I want rid of Deeprath because it turns me into a frightened ten-year-old who has no control over his world. Not the sort of admission he could ever make, least of all to a stranger.

  Instead he had managed to insult a perfectly nice woman in a handful of sentences—must be some sort of record, even for him. Not that he made a habit of insulting women. Deceptive charm and an ability to confine his relationships to the surface of his London life ensured that very
few dared trespass on his inner world. Even Penelope, psychology degree and all, had picked her way warily along that path.

  He’d known coming back here would test his control. He just hadn’t guessed how quickly it would begin to unravel.

  He had spent the morning skimming through the shelves and cabinets that held family documents. Birth, death, and marriage records. Property sales. Business investments. Georgian and Victorian travelogues written by Gallagher women with both money and time on their hands. Daily accounts of estate management. What one would expect to find in a family library of its age.

  What he hadn’t found were records of his immediate family. Aidan could still see in memory the distinctive peacock-blue binding of his mother’s journals. He imagined most of them would be in her bedroom. But already Aidan suspected he wouldn’t find the particular journal he was looking for. Not the one that had been left unfinished in 1992. He may have only been an Art and Antiquities officer, but he knew police procedures. Everything recent and personal that might have had a bearing on his parents’ deaths would have been taken into evidence long ago. If he wanted it back, he would have to go to the police.

  And that was his purpose for going to Rathdrum today. He had allowed Carragh Ryan to think it was about the trust. Instead, when ushered into the family solicitor’s office he asked as soon as could be decently managed, “Who should I speak to about having my parents’ papers returned to us from the police?”

  Gerald Winthrop—of Murphy, O’Byrne, and Winthrop—answered with the customary caution of solicitors everywhere. “I would advise any such request to go through me, and not come directly from the family.”

  “Why?”

  “Because for over twenty years I have been the family liaison with the police. You understand, it is an unsolved crime. It is wiser to have a buffer between what you say and what the police hear.”

  Aidan scoffed. “Because I might be a suspect? I was ten!”

  Winthrop avoided answering—also in the tradition of solicitors everywhere. “Besides, the evidence has long since left the county. As it remains an unsolved case, it is in the hands of the Siochana Garda. I can speak to them, if you like.”

  “Fine, you speak to the Garda.” But Aidan felt a faint stirring of unease. Dealing with the local police was one thing. Even those who didn’t know him personally had known or knew of the Gallaghers and Deeprath. They would understand. They would be…accommodating. But strangers in Dublin? That could be trickier.

  “Lord Gallagher.” Trust the man who had known him since birth to use his title now. A reminder that Aidan was more than an individual—he was the embodiment of a long history. “If it is information you are seeking, there are some papers in my possession you might find useful. I have copies, for instance, of the initial police report. And the transcripts from the inquest.”

  “That would be helpful, thank you.”

  “I’ll have my clerk make copies. And I will let you know my progress with the Garda.” As Aidan shook the man’s hand, Winthrop added, “It is good to have the family at Deeprath again.”

  Don’t get used to it, Aidan nearly said. But he retained enough of his manners to simply smile noncommittally.

  * * *

  —

  Sibéal McKenna was lost. To be fair, Phoenix Park was an enormous place to navigate. But if one were not inclined to be fair, one might wonder about an inspector who could not even manage to find her own office.

  Inspector McKenna. She still couldn’t say or even think the title without grinning inwardly. There’d been a time when a woman could not have hoped to reach that level in the Garda, and certainly not at the age of thirty-five. But Sibéal was tenacious. And smart. And, galling though it may be, she knew how to manipulate men’s expectations to her advantage. If she had to play games, she’d make sure that she won.

  Which was why she gritted her teeth, pasted on a smile, and asked a passing constable to show her to Serious Crimes Review, making light of her directional difficulties. Before she knew it, she was in the first office she’d ever had all to herself. That it was little bigger than a broom closet and had apparently been furnished with pieces left over from various historical eras didn’t matter. She enjoyed the space for all of five minutes before being summoned by Superintendent O’Neill

  “Settled in, McKenna?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. On to your first assignment. An unsolved double murder from 1992 in County Wicklow. The family is about to donate their home—which was the crime scene—to the National Trust. I want you to review the case as thoroughly as possible before that happens. This is the first time the family has been in residence since the murder. That might shake some things loose.”

  And with just those few words, Sibéal was launched on her first independent investigation.

  She returned to the new office where she met her new partner, Garda Sergeant Derek Cullen. He appeared to be a year or two younger than she was, and had been in Serious Crimes Review for three years. If he had reservations about reporting to someone new—and a woman, at that—he kept them concealed for now. But she could feel him weighing her up even as he sketched the outline of their case.

  “Family called Gallagher. The late Viscount Gallagher was found dead in the library in September 1992. Cause of death, blunt instrument to the head. When the police arrived, they also discovered the body of Lady Gallagher at the foot of an ancient tower. She died from the fall, however it occurred. By all accounts theirs was a happy enough marriage—at least, no one offered a plausible motive for a murder-suicide.”

  “With the wife imagined in the role of killer and then suicide?” Sibéal asked.

  “Seeing as her husband could hardly have hit himself in the back of the head, yes. But there was another significant fact. Being not only an amazingly old family but also an amazingly wealthy one, the Gallaghers had accumulated a number of historically significant Irish artifacts. They were usually kept securely off-site or on loan to museums. At the time of the deaths, the artifacts were purportedly at Deeprath Castle. Except they weren’t. When the police arrived they had vanished from the library.”

  Sibéal leafed through the reports until she found the itemized list of stolen valuables:

  Three gold neck rings (late Bronze Age)

  Celtic mirror (1st century BC)

  Two Viking seax (10th century AD)

  Book cover of carved whalebone (12th century AD)

  Two silver and jeweled reliquaries (14th century AD)

  She whistled when she saw the estimated value of the stolen items. “What’s a seax?” she asked Cullen.

  That he could answer promptly boded well for their partnership. “Viking dagger.”

  “So, robbery gone wrong? Except it must have been an extremely specialized crime. Deeprath Castle is not an easily accessible location. And a common thief looking to make ready cash would hardly take such antiquities. I don’t suppose any of these items have ever resurfaced?”

  “They have not. In the absence of other evidence, the inquest returned an open verdict of murder by persons unknown. And that’s where it’s stayed for twenty-three years.”

  “The family has never complained at the lack of resolution?”

  DS Cullen shook his head. “Not formally. Read the file for yourself. I’d say the local police stuck to the surface of the case. They were glad to leave it unsolved rather than risk tarnishing the family name. They didn’t even call in help from Dublin. But you will find in the case notes that at least one officer was dissatisfied with the casual nature of the investigation. A lowly constable in his first year, so no one paid him any mind. His name was Jack O’Neill.”

  Sibéal’s head shot up from the case file opened before her. “Superintendent O’Neill?”

  “One and the same.”

  Interesting. Why hadn’t the super told her that himself?

  “Well, O’Neill told me the castle is about to be donated to the National Trust, so we have a deadl
ine if we want to get into the place without having to make official requests in triplicate and waiting months. Let the local force know we’re coming. Ask them to keep it quiet. I don’t want any solicitors getting word and prepping the family in advance.”

  Cullen nodded and they each set about their tasks. Sibéal was deep in the depressing story of Cillian and Lily Gallagher when her sergeant returned. He looked bemused.

  “What?”

  “You know how you didn’t want any warning going to solicitors? Well, there’s one on the line, name of Winthrop. He called us, completely out of the blue, asking to speak to whomever could tell him about the Gallagher evidence still in hold.”

  “Put him through,” she said.

  Sibéal closed her eyes, did two rounds of yogic breathing, then opened her eyes and with the sort of brisk expression she would have used with someone sitting across from her, picked up the phone. “Mr. Winthrop. I’m DI McKenna in Serious Crimes Review. What can I do for you?”

  “I represent the Gallagher family. My client would like to know the status of the physical evidence taken from Deeprath Castle in 1992. There were personal papers, letters and journals, that must be of only limited interest to anyone outside the family. And if they have not been of evidentiary use in the last twenty-three years, what realistic reason can you have to hold onto them?”

  As a daughter, sister, niece, Sibéal was sympathetic—when missing the dead, of course one wanted as many of their words as possible. But as Inspector McKenna, her suspicion piqued. It seemed too coincidental that within an hour of being handed the case, a lawyer came calling wanting a portion of the evidence returned.

  “As it happens, Mr. Winthrop, this case is currently under active investigation. I’ve been assigned to review it. As such, I require to hold onto the evidence for now. I should like nothing better than to finally close this case. Surely your client would agree.”

  There was a wary, calculating silence. “I see. Do I take it we will soon have the pleasure of your company in Wicklow?”