“Been away?” the inspector asked.
“Only overnight.”
“I believe Lord Gallagher just went in to dinner. You’re in time to join them.”
More like she would be unable to avoid them, what with the dining room opening off the Great Hall. Carragh’s heart sank. She was itching to continue transcribing the enlarged photos and reread Lily Gallagher’s letters to her grandmother. She was also itching to keep as far away from Philip as possible.
Uncannily, Inspector McKenna asked, “Why does Philip Grant dislike you?”
“Did he say so?”
“He didn’t have to. He tried every trick he knows to get me to take a closer look at your role in all of this. Which is beyond absurd. That can only mean he has a vindictive wish for you to be put to questioning. So again—why does Grant dislike you so much?”
“You said yourself I can’t possibly have anything to do with the Gallagher murders.”
“That’s not what I asked, Miss Ryan.”
While Carragh fumbled for a response, the inspector smiled knowingly. “However, that doesn’t mean I don’t have other questions for you. I’m interested in the family and their current state of mind. I’m curious about what you think of it all—being an outsider, as you are. Can we speak again tomorrow?”
“I’ll be working flat out after taking today off.”
“I’ll come to you, in the library. Nine o’clock?”
One could hardly say no to the police. She would just have to think up some good stories from the Gallagher history to keep the inspector from asking about Philip again.
As expected, she was not ten steps inside the castle before her presence was noted and Nessa directed her to join them at the long table. Carragh tried to sit at the end next to Kyla’s little girls, so Ellie and Kate would be between her and Philip, but Nessa insisted she come to the other side to help balance things. At least that didn’t put her next to Aidan.
The conversation at the table, already tense, required little from her. They were discussing the etiquette of going ahead with the reception planned for Friday night. “In light,” as Nessa said delicately, “of the unforeseen situation in the mountains.”
“You mean everyone will be wondering about the stolen antiquities that weren’t actually stolen?” Aidan asked. “What a pity we couldn’t wait to mark ourselves as the chief suspects until after the party.” She’d never heard him talk this way before, and suddenly realized he’d been drinking even before dinner.
“There’s no need for sarcasm,” Nessa replied calmly. “I feel it would be wrong to cancel things at this late date. It’s not as though we will have another chance to bid goodbye to the district before you sign away their castle to strangers.”
“Their castle? It’s my castle, aunt. For as long as I care to keep it. And no one can have anything to say about when and how I choose to give it up.”
“Your father would never have indulged in such selfishness.”
“My father is dead.”
Like magnets, the two non-Gallaghers at the table locked eyes, Philip for once appearing as uncomfortable as Carragh felt. But only for a second, before his expression slid into its usual provocative look. Kyla did not notice. Pale and furious, she said to her brother, “I agree with Aunt Nessa. You may not care about our responsibilities here, but I do.”
“Is it responsibility you care for, sister? Or the opportunity to complain to a larger audience that I am robbing you of your precious business plan?”
“Aidan.” In just two stinging syllables, Lady Nessa Gallagher infused eighty-eight years of privilege and position into a reprimand sufficient to make Aidan’s mouth snap shut and the spines of everyone else at the table straighten automatically.
“No one,” Nessa continued, “disputes your legal rights so far as the property is concerned. It is not entailed—you may dispose of any asset as you so wish. But this castle is not merely an asset, Aidan. It is your home and the home of nearly eight hundred years of your ancestors. Gallaghers who have fed and protected and served the people of these mountains for all of those centuries. Do you really wish to sneak out of here like a thief in the night?”
Carragh wished she dared look at Aidan without fear of being caught. But she thought if she did look, she would have seen that queer vulnerability edging his eyes when he answered, for his tone had softened considerably. “We will keep to the date and the arrangements for the party. But you know as well as I do we won’t be able to keep yesterday’s discovery quiet until then. By the time people gather here on Saturday, the rumors will be flying.”
“Then all the better to meet them head-on and set the record straight.”
How? Carragh wondered. Did they even have a straight record yet? But she reluctantly admired Nessa’s nerve. She imagined it came from a heritage of upper-class disdain for other people’s opinions.
As though they were all children, Nessa dismissed them from the table. Though Ellie and Kate had remained commendably quiet through dinner, only fidgeting a little, they now claimed Carragh with insistent voices.
“Play with us, please,” pleaded Ellie. “You’re ever so much more fun than Louise.”
The maligned Louise kept a blank expression, and Carragh began to wonder if the au pair spoke any English.
Kate, who seemed the naturally more suspicious one, unbent enough to add graciously, “We don’t have to play hide-and-seek. You can choose the game if you like.”
Philip seized the opportunity. “I’ve no doubt Miss Ryan is very fond of games.” He smiled at Carragh. “Will you be at the party Friday? After working you so hard, the least my brother-in-law can do is let you out for a little fun.”
Aidan abruptly said, from so close behind Carragh that she could swear she could feel his breath, “Of course she’ll be there. Miss Ryan is not my servant. But while she is in this castle, she is my responsibility.”
“Is that a warning, my lord?” Philip asked with deadly civility.
“Do you need one?”
Kyla swung her gaze between her brother and her husband, while Carragh devoutly wished she were elsewhere. Beneath the humiliation of it, she felt a spark of anger at being used in a power play between the two men.
She spoke up firmly. “No one needs warnings. And if you’re going to fight, do it over someone who cares.”
At that dramatic moment, thunder crashed and the lights flickered and went out. Carragh flinched, wondering if ghosts could control the weather.
“For goodness sake,” Nessa said irritably. “Mrs. Bell!”
Carragh didn’t dare sneak away in the dark, for it was difficult enough finding her way around with light. But she grabbed the first candle she could when the housekeeper appeared and—with a moment’s pity for the little girls she was so ruthlessly abandoning—left the Gallaghers behind, icily ignoring one another.
Her plan was to bathe by candlelight and then go to sleep as soon as she could. She couldn’t transcribe the photos with any accuracy, even with her strong flashlight, and the tension of the day, heightened by the almost nonsensical squabbles at dinner, had worn on her. Best to sleep and wake up to a new day’s work. The way things were going, she wouldn’t be surprised to be bundled out of Deeprath at any moment, so she wouldn’t waste her daylight hours with anything but work.
But someone at Deeprath—breathing or not—had different plans for her. Once in her room, she used the candle she carried to light those on the mantel and the table and gratefully stretched her arms and neck. And froze.
Jenny Gallagher stared at her from the pillows, the portrait placed on the bed exactly as it had been the last time the power went out. Why the hell couldn’t the damn thing stay in one place? And who, exactly, was sneaking in and out of her room for such a bizarre reason? She had half a mind to put it out in the corridor, but didn’t want to be scolded by Lady Nessa. Or worse—turn around to find it back on her bed once more. Her brothers had once made her watch a horror movie in which the m
an being haunted threw a ball into the river just to keep it from moving about…and came back home to find the ball—the wet ball—rolling down the stairs at him.
Gingerly, she approached the bed and put her hands on either side of the gilt frame. She meant to simply lean it against the wall as she had before but could not look away from the combined weight of the two women staring out at her. Jenny and the Bride—one real, one not—one lost, one found—both beautiful, both loved, both tortured—
We are the same.
Part of Carragh wanted to drop the portrait, but the other part refused. There was a singing in her blood, whispers along the beat of her heart, the sense of a hand in the small of her back pushing her forward, leading her on to…what?
“What do you want me to see?” she murmured, only half aware that she spoke aloud.
She sat on the bed, angling the portrait to get as much light as possible from the candles. But she searched by touch as well, hands running all along the frame as her nerves pulsed and twitched. Nothing. She hesitated, imagining Lady Nessa’s horrified exclamation if she could see her, then let her fingertips touch the surface of the painting. The curve of Jenny’s cheek, the gloss of the Bride’s hair, the falling leaves and deep water of the pool…She didn’t know what she expected, but there was nothing there except paint.
Carragh sighed and gave up. She grasped the painting by the frame, and in her frustration one side slipped out of her hand. She made a desperate grab for it, fingers splayed wide against the back, making the glued paper backing crinkle. And a bolt of inner energy surged through her.
“You’ve got to be joking!” she exclaimed, even as she turned the portrait over and laid it facedown on the bed. This was ridiculous. She’d already been warned about moving or touching the paintings. What on earth would they do to her if she started tearing one apart on a hunch?
It’s okay, she imagined assuring Aidan. The thought of explaining to Nessa was beyond even her imagination. I took the framing apart because the ghost of Jenny Gallagher told me to. Or possibly, you know, the mythical Darkling Bride.
She should wait until morning, sleep on the idea before acting. Wait until she had sufficient light. Wait until she could move with care and precision.
She didn’t wait. Thank goodness for the old-fashioned nature of the castle—her desk held crested notepaper and a wickedly sharp letter opener in the shape of a long sword. Offering a silent prayer to whichever saint was the patron of absolutely insane ideas, Carragh began to work on the top right section, since it appeared to be the least firmly attached.
Carefully, centimeter by centimeter, she inserted the sharp point between the backing paper and the frame. As she worked, she realized the backing could not possibly be as old as the portrait itself. Victorian paper would surely be more brittle, easily split if not shattered by too-vigorous movement. This paper was thicker than she would have expected, more pliable and resilient. It seemed that at some point in the last, say, thirty years, the portrait had been repapered.
She labored away at the backing, eyes straining against the flickering candlelight, until she had made an opening across the right corner, three inches down and three inches across the top. Dropping the letter opener, she began pulling the paper backing away with one hand while cautiously reaching in with two fingers of her other hand.
She almost snatched them back again at once for there was something inside, something more than just the back of an oil painting. Even though that was why she’d done all this work, the confirmation was shocking…
Then the lights came blazing back on. She was pretty sure she hadn’t left them on when she’d gone to Dublin…She swore, beginning to feel that the castle was playing with her. As if, now that she knew something was inside the painting, Deeprath had decided to give her the necessary illumination to accomplish the task.
“Fine!” she said aloud. And jumped at the echo of her own voice.
With anger fueling her curiosity, Carragh proceeded to remove the rest of the paper backing—with a little less care than before. Now that she knew it was not original, she didn’t feel so bad about damaging it.
But having been trained to handle archival documents—part of her graduate studies—her native respect for the past combined with her training to ensure that she didn’t just rip the backing off, despite the temptation. When the last of the glue finally came free, she screwed her eyes shut to release the tension she felt and shook her head to loosen her neck muscles. Then she opened her eyes and removed the backing entirely.
Inside, she found a sealed A4-size envelope. On it was written, in the hand Carragh now recognized as Lily Gallagher’s: CLUE #1.
She knew she should take it straight to Aidan. Instead, she used the miniature long sword to rip open the top of the envelope. It contained four sheets of paper, the first page handwritten, the remaining ones photocopies of what looked, on first glance, to be newspaper articles. Carragh read the handwritten page.
Happy birthday, Cillian! What to get the viscount who has everything for his 50th birthday? How about a Gallagher mystery solved?
You know how fascinated I’ve become with the portrait of Jenny Gallagher/the Darkling Bride. Jenny’s story had such a tragic end…but was it really the end? Jenny left her son, after all. And a writer-husband who seemed to decide if he could no longer be a husband, then he could no longer write, either.
Do you know that the literary world is still interested in Evan Chase’s time at Deeprath? Do you know there are those who hope that some version of his final book will be found after all this time? And where else could such a search begin than here, my darling?
I will not tell you what I have found. But I have found…something. Of greatest interest to all the Gallaghers. And for your birthday, you will follow the trail I have laid for you. With sighs and rolling eyes and mock boredom, no doubt, but I know you too well to believe in them. You love my mysteries.
And here is the first—on the following pages, you will find the necessary hints to lead you to the next step and the next clue. Good luck, dearest!
Love always,
Your Lily
Her throat tight with emotion, Carragh lay the page down gently on the bed without looking at the photocopies. She knew about sadness, she knew about untimely death, she knew about unfinished business…but this was a voice speaking from the grave. She didn’t know how close to his fiftieth birthday Cillian Gallagher had died, but clearly he had never made it to the first clue of his wife’s whimsical fantasy of a gift. Carragh was interested in Victorian violence and its aftermath. But there was more recent violence here, the kind that still wreaked its way amongst the living, leaving behind children damaged by early grief and fear. If she had known that searching for Evan Chase’s lost manuscript would entwine her in the lives of those Gallaghers still living—
Who was she kidding?
Her native honesty brought that sentimental train of thought to an abrupt end. Even if she had known, she would still have gone looking. For her, there was something talismanic about the lost Darkling Bride story. And for certain the castle seemed interested in her search. The castle—or someone in it. With the lights back on, Carragh knew her sensitivity to the possibility of spirits had as much to do with her dislike of darkness as any actual direction from the beyond.
If the beyond were going to speak to her, then why would it be in the voices of strangers and not that of the woman whose death was so intimately tangled with her own early life? Was that why she was so stubbornly involved in this house and this search? Because if she was going to hear the voices of the dead, better those of strangers than her own?
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
June 1880
DIARY OF JENNY GALLAGHER
15 June 1880
Several years ago my father gave me a volume of Tennyson, including “The Lady of Shallot.” “I am half sick of shadows,” says Tennyson’s lady. For five years shadows have been the essence of my life. Until I stepped into th
e lamplight of the library and saw Evan looking at me as though I were…real. Solid. Flesh and blood, not fear and sorrow. And because of him, I stayed solid for months and months until I had dared to think myself well.
That I am not—that I will never be—wholly well is the bitterest pill I have faced since my mother’s death, and if it had not been for Evan, I might well have stayed in the tower for months out of sheer lassitude. As I have so often before. But my husband—my husband, my mind sings in an echo of remembered joy—would not let them keep him from me.
Evan will pull me from the shadows.
At first Evan did little but sit by the bed and hold Jenny’s hand. For the first few days, she was only hazily aware of his presence, wrapped as she was in laudanum and the fog that apparently followed her episodic outbursts of mania. But then he began to talk, trying to reach through the fog and wrap her in a storied web of his own design. And when he stopped talking, her eyelids fluttered open and she said, “Tell me more.”
He blinked back tears, and obligingly continued his stories. He had legends from all over the world to tell her—from as far as the China Sea and the African deserts and the American plains. Evan’s success and popularity lay in the fact that he was a master storyteller.
Eight days after their return from Dublin she got up from her bed voluntarily so that, when Evan came, she was waiting for him in the chair in which he usually sat.
He kissed her, gently, and hesitated when she pressed herself against him. “I do not want to hurt you, love,” he murmured.
“You won’t. Take me downstairs, Evan. Please.”
He wavered, but paternal and medical warnings avail little against both love and instinct. So he took her to bed for the first time in the room with the coffered ceiling and blue-and-white linens that Jenny had so carefully decorated for this purpose weeks before.
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