The Darkling Bride

by Laura Andersen

  He would have laughed if he weren’t so tired. Just like Nessa to dismiss the Duchess of Cambridge as nothing but an ambitious commoner. And he thought he would gladly marry a woman like Kate Middleton, if it meant marrying a woman who looked at him the way she looked at William.

  “Your father was in his fifties when you were born,” he pointed out. “And my father was forty. I wouldn’t worry so much. No doubt there will be just as many willing girls in ten years as there are now.”

  “I will not let you evade me with flippancy, Aidan.” Just that easily his great-aunt could slip into the stern watchdog of his youth, the guardian who reserved her greatest warmth for the dead and had only patient responsibility to offer the living. Even the traumatized living, as he and Kyla had been. No wonder his sister married Philip almost the minute she turned twenty-one. If their parents had lived, would his sister have naturally grown out of that unsuitable passion?

  “Let us do one thing at a time,” he countered now. “Finish the catalog, deal with the National Trust, finalize the paperwork, and see this new investigation through to the end.”

  “Don’t forget the reception Friday night,” Nessa said.

  Aidan just managed not to roll his eyes. “How could I forget that you’ve invited the whole of Wicklow to tramp through the castle one last time? Do you really think it’s a good idea? None of us are feeling especially social.”

  “It’s not for us,” she answered sharply. “But hopefully the police will be finished long before then. Do you really think that young policewoman will find any answers?” Her tone was not as dismissive as her words. Nessa was an excellent judge of character; she would have recognized Inspector McKenna’s determination.

  Aidan shrugged. “It’s all guesses now, isn’t it? There’s nothing new turned up recently—so no, I don’t think we’ll find definite answers. I’ve learned to live without them.”

  That was a lie. He’d only learned to survive, not to live. And that, he mused later, before he finally fell asleep, would simply have to be good enough.

  Except, it turned out he had been wrong. There was something new to discover. Something revealed by a combination of the heavy winds and the night’s drenching rainfall and two lost hikers in the mountains. Something whose discovery spun a new angle on the tragedy of twenty-three years ago.

  The Irish antiquities stolen from Deeprath Castle on the day of his parents’ murders.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  June 1982

  If Lily had known what pomp and circumstance the baptism of a Gallagher heir would involve, she might have wished to have another daughter. Kyla’s birth and baptism had been a private joy allotted to her and Cillian, with family and ceremony secondary to the new parents and baby.

  But the newborn Aidan Cillian Gallagher was not just a baby—he was “the living embodiment of generations of Gallagher viscounts past and present.” To Lily’s surprise it was not her father-in-law, the current viscount, who made such a pronouncement, but his half sister. With no children of her own, and only a brief marriage in her past, Nessa considered herself the repository of all family traditions. One would think, if not for her age, that she was Aidan’s mother.

  Before Lily had even left the hospital—and that was something Nessa didn’t like, in her view all Gallaghers should be born at Deeprath—Father Hennessy had already been informed of the baptismal date and the names of the godparents. Lily gave in on the date, but no way in hell was she going to let someone else choose her son’s godparents. Nessa wanted Viscount Gormaston, whose peerage was the only one in Ireland older than that of the Gallaghers, and Eleanor Butler, widow of the last Earl of Wicklow. Lily knew neither of them beyond making small talk at various receptions.

  After a vicious battle between the two women (both Cillian and his father were of the school that preferred to stay out of emotional conflict), Lily conceded on the issue of Lord Gormaston in order to obtain the godmother of her choice: Maire Bell.

  “The housekeeper!” Nessa had been horrified.

  “My friend,” countered Lily. “Who has been my everyday companion for ten years, who loves my daughter as fiercely as any sister of mine could, and who will put the good of my son above all else.”

  Aidan’s baptism, like Kyla’s and his father’s and grandfather’s and great-grandfather’s, was conducted at St. Kevin’s Church in Laragh within sight of Glendalough. The chapel had been constructed during the Famine years in the Celtic style, small and severe in design, calling worshippers’ attention to the mysteries of God and the sacraments rather than earthly embellishments.

  Afterward, the Gallaghers welcomed their guests at Deeprath Castle while the guest of honor slept in the nursery and five-year-old Kyla darted through the gathering like a hummingbird. Lily made a point of thanking Father Hennessy for his patience in the face of changing orders for the baptism.

  He waved it off. “Not to worry. It comes with the territory. I think your choice of Maire Bell is very wise.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You know both she and her husband come from families that took refuge in the mountains during the Famine. It was the Gallaghers who helped feed and resettle them, once the worst of it was done.”

  “So you are enjoying being assigned to St. Kevin’s parish, I take it?”

  The young priest—no more than twenty-five—grinned widely. “I like the countryside. And the past. Glendalough and the mountains are a good fit for me. Legends and myths and history as far as the eye can see.”

  “You must let me know if you’d like to use our library. And no doubt Nessa would be more than happy to speak with you about local history. Though I must warn you, Father, it will be biased.”

  “I am well warned.”

  Cillian came over to add his thanks to the priest, and then husband and wife had a brief moment alone. “Tired?” he murmured.

  “A bit.”

  “Happy?”

  “I’m the mother of a future Viscount Gallagher. According to your aunt, I should spend the rest of my days giving thanks that I’ve been allowed such an honor.”

  He kissed her. “It’s Aidan and Kyla who are honored, to have you as a mother. It was a good day for the Gallaghers when I went to that awful New York party and met you.”

  She allowed herself thirty seconds more of pretending it was just the two of them, before sighing. “Kyla appears to be trying to make Lord Gormaston eat a daisy. I’d better intervene before disaster occurs.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Sibéal hardly said a word to Sergeant Cullen between Phoenix Park and the mountains. She’d chosen to drive down herself, and parked at the Glendalough visitors center, where they met the local officer and the rescue team that had made the discovery this morning.

  The lost hikers, three fraternity boys from America who deserved whatever punishment they’d taken overnight in the storm, had been questioned and taken to Rathdrum to make formal statements. They didn’t know much—it was a member of the rescue team who recognized anomalies in the hillside where one of the boys had slid down. Also something of an amateur archaeologist, he quickly realized that what appeared to be random stones beneath the earth slide were in fact meaningful.

  “Very old,” he told Sibéal as she followed him, legs aching from the unaccustomed surface, DS Cullen swearing softly now and then behind. “Not St. Kevin old, mind you, but medieval. Old enough to have been here when the monastery was a thriving city. Maybe eleventh or twelfth century.”

  “How far are we from Glendalough?”

  “Bit more than a mile. Close enough for communal worship, isolated enough for private prayers. I’m guessing the stones are from some kind of holy well. We’ve got a call in to the National Museum. They’ll want to send a team.”

  “They’re not to come any nearer than the Glendalough car park until the police are finished and I’ve given clearance,” Sibéal told him.

  “Of course.” He didn’t point out the obvious—that any evidence had
likely disappeared long ago. But Sibéal was not taking any chances. She’d been handed this case to ease her into SCR, expected to do little more than cover the same ground and, no doubt, reach the same conclusion. Unsolved.

  But now, if what this man said were true, she had something the police twenty years ago didn’t—the stolen treasures whose disappearance had allowed them to point responsibility for the murders away from the castle. Unless the inhabitants of these mountains made a habit of hiding valuable artifacts in out-of-the way places, this was a significant find.

  The well must have been quite wide originally, Sibéal realized after going down and crouching beside the dislodged box—a coffret, the rescue worker had called it—without disturbing it or its contents. However deep it had once been, it had filled up over the centuries so that now she stood only four feet below ground level.

  She leaned closer, her flashlight beam flaring briefly against the coffret. Two feet long and at least a foot wide, carved and inlaid with mother of pearl—she had studied a photograph of this box recently enough to be certain of its identity. It was the Victorian coffret last seen in the library of Deeprath Castle the day of the Gallagher deaths.

  With time and the fall of earth and stone, thanks to the hikers, the lid was half open with one hinge twisted back. She could see inside enough to identify several of the items listed as stolen in 1992: a Celtic mirror, a Viking-age dagger, the dull gleam of silver.

  “I’m coming up,” she called, and once out of the well, used the crime scene lights that had been delivered to illuminate the box below. “I want that up straightaway. Did you get photos in situ?” she snapped over her shoulder at the police photographer, who had arrived ahead of her and taken pictures of the well’s interior.

  “Yes, Inspector.”

  The amateur archaeologist protested about removing the coffret, but Sibéal shook her head when he claimed that history came first. “Not this time,” she told him. “If it eases your conscience, I promise you that this box hasn’t been down there long enough to interest an archaeologist.”

  Once carefully lifted to ground level with the help of Cullen and the techs, the police photographer took more photos, while Sibéal bounced impatiently. When every crime scene protocol had been fulfilled, she borrowed a camera cloth from the photographer and gently rubbed the tarnished oval plate set in the lid’s center. Silver cleaner would have been useful, but it shone up enough to convince her she was looking at the Gallagher crest: the mountain peaks, round tower, and distinctive griffin with its wicked claws.

  With care, she had Cullen hold the lid up enough for her to take a quick inventory. Everything was there. Every single missing item that had persuaded the local police the murders were committed by outsiders bent on profit.

  And one item that did not belong—not with these antiquities, at any rate.

  A marble Celtic cross, about a foot high, plainly carved and heavy-looking. And on one side of the distinctive ringed arms, an irregular stain. Sibéal caught her breath. “Light,” she called out.

  Someone thrust a flashlight at Cullen, who shone it on top of the cross.

  “Blood?” Cullen said softly, crouching next to her.

  “We’ll find out.”

  Leaving Cullen at the site to await the scene-of-crime officers—and ensure the local police did not intrude on her investigation—Sibéal went directly from Glendalough to Deeprath Castle. It was only ten minutes by car, even with the windy roads. The overgrown gate looked less menacing today and more…sad. As though the castle knew why she had come.

  Get a bloody grip, she commanded herself. Nessa Gallagher would eat her alive if she exhibited the slightest weakness. Such as kindness or sympathy.

  Directed to the music room where she’d done the interviews, Sibéal found the family gathered together: Aidan, Nessa, Kyla and her erstwhile husband, Philip Grant. She had not forgotten Mr. Grant, but his interview would have to wait a bit.

  “I know you have heard from Mr. Winthrop, your solicitor,” she told them. “I’ve just come from the site where the discovery was made. In what appears to be the remains of a medieval well, we found a coffret containing various items detailed as stolen in 1992. The coffret itself matches the description given to the police at the time as the one last seen in your library, including the silver plate with your coat of arms engraved on it.”

  “What does this mean?” It was, perhaps surprisingly, the non-Gallagher who asked.

  She studied Philip, but it was Aidan who answered him. “It means the odds of this being an outside crime are now astronomical. Professional thieves do not dump their take immediately and never come back. It means whoever stole those artifacts took them solely to divert suspicion from those of us in the castle at the time.”

  “But they’re just…things.” Kyla looked younger than before, and close to tears. “And my parents are still dead. What does any of this matter?”

  Aidan moved, as though to put his arm around his sister’s shoulder, then didn’t. Sibéal caught his eye, and he supplied the answer that any police officer would give. “Everything matters in a murder investigation.”

  “Especially a murder weapon,” Sibéal said, trying to watch all of them at once.

  “What do you mean?” Aidan asked.

  “The coffret also contained an object that may have been used to strike Lord Gallagher. We will let you know more when it’s been tested. I’m sure you’ll understand if I decline to be more specific.”

  “Waiting for one of us to know more than we should?” Aidan noted. “Am I to take it this discovery has narrowed your suspect list?”

  “Until we know for certain if it is the weapon that killed Lord Gallagher—and where it came from—I’m keeping an open mind.”

  She would leave her remarks at that. For the moment.

  * * *

  —

  After the emotional upsets of the previous night—not to mention the fact that the lights had come back on at four in the morning, startling her awake just when she’d managed to fall asleep—Carragh dragged herself out of bed feeling awfully like she was back in university. Once again she avoided the family, but snuck into the kitchen to see if she could find coffee. Maire Bell handed her a cup and a fresh scone but seemed preoccupied and unwilling to talk.

  Carragh entered the library and looked around the lofty space with something like despair. Four days she’d been here—and she still hadn’t even touched three-quarters of the shelves. She decided to forgo the fifteenth viscount’s catalog today and simply make her own general notes, marked on a roughly drawn map. She would use her camera phone to take pictures of each shelf so she could re-create sections as necessary.

  She began by taking the volume farthest left on each shelf, beginning at the top, to give her the roughest overview of subject (which, so far, had been the primary organizing principle). After recording the subject of each far left volume on the eleven shelves, she went back and randomly examined them to see if they conformed to the subject she’d marked down. When she pulled a book that seemed especially fine or old, she photographed the spine, the cover, and the frontispiece, and made a note of its precise location—fourth bay to the left, third shelf from the top, ten books in, for example. She was distressingly aware the whole time of how underqualified she was for this work. Why on earth had Nessa Gallagher chosen her?

  Carragh was on the wooden rolling ladder, examining the third shelf down from the top, when she heard someone enter. She looked down on Aidan, who was unaware of her presence, and saw a painful vulnerability to his face, which plucked at her sympathy and made her look away.

  He looked up. “Still hard at work. I’m trying to remember the point of it all.”

  From her perch on the ladder, she said, “The point is, I’m being paid. Unless you want rid of me?”

  “Why would I?”

  Because I’m criminally underqualified, I’m having a hard time focusing, and I care more about a lost Victorian manuscript than any ot
her book just now.

  To buy herself time to think of an answer she could say aloud, she descended the ladder, putting her at the disadvantage of being ten inches shorter than Aidan. But she had three much older, much bigger, brothers, so she’d learned early not to be intimidated by size. And all her instinctive sympathy came to the fore when she found herself close enough to see the misery in his eyes.

  “Aidan, what is wrong?” She touched his arm without thinking and felt the fine tremor of tensely held muscles beneath the skin.

  “They’ve found the items stolen from the library the day of my parents’ murders.” He must have seen her incomprehension, for he added, “A collection of especially fine Irish antiquities gathered by generations of Gallaghers. They were occasionally loaned to museums for special exhibits, but they were brought to the castle that last week because my mother wanted to examine them more closely.”

  Did she? Carragh thought. Did those antiquities have something to do with Jenny?

  “Where were they found?”

  “At the bottom of a medieval well in the mountains. Not two miles from here.”

  She thought aloud. “That means it wasn’t thieves, right? Not outsiders?”

  “Not outsiders,” he agreed grimly.

  “You must have considered that,” she said. “Most murders are domestic.”

  “So they are. Did you pick up that knowledge in your folklore classes?” His smile was so full of bitter mockery she almost recoiled. “Surely the question isn’t whether I want rid of you, but whether you want to stay. Being confined with possible murderers cannot have been part of the job description.”