The Darkling Bride

by Laura Andersen

  God bless the Bells and their practical years of stewardship—Bell thrust a commercial-sized fire extinguisher into her hands when she reached the storeroom behind the kitchen and carried another two himself.

  “Tie something over your mouth and nose,” he shouted to her just outside the library door. The corridor was already beginning to feel warm. Carragh pulled off the cardigan she’d fallen asleep in and wrapped it snugly just beneath her eyes. Bell looked at her, nodded once, and opened the door.

  Smoke—thick, black, choking—rolled into them like ocean waves seeking to pull them under. She coughed and plowed on, looking for a source.

  There were two—the family cabinets at the former altar end of the space, and the doorway leading to the Bride Tower. Bell headed for the cabinets. Carragh tackled the flames that were now up the shelves on either side of the tower door.

  She had barely finished emptying the canister when another one was thrust into her hands by Maire Bell. It was enough, thankfully, to extinguish the last of the active burning. And it seemed her husband had managed to put out most of his fire, using a heavy blanket his wife had dragged in to smother the last bits.

  The family cabinets were little more than ruins of wood and paper and ash. The door to the tower keep still stood recognizable, though blackened and warped. Almost half the length of each bookcase flanking it—a good five or six feet on either side—was either burned or covered in chemicals. Not to mention the smoke, which must have permeated every precious volume in here…the damage to material goods was severe. The damage to history was worse. Carragh’s eyes were tearing from the smoke, her lungs heavy and thick, and she felt like crying over the destruction.

  Sibéal returned, with Sergeant Cullen in her wake, and regarded everything grimly. The two police officers began to help the Bells and Carragh move what they could of the relatively undamaged books. Silently, they stacked them in the corridor and the ground floor of the tower keep. Nessa came down at some point, wrapped in a dressing gown, her face carved in deep lines and dark with shadows. She said nothing at all.

  The fire truck arrived, bringing official order to the scene. Not far behind was a sour-looking man who eyed Inspector McKenna with distaste.

  “What are you doing here?” she snapped in a manner that made Carragh’s head swing around in curiosity. Clearly Sibéal did not like this man.

  “This is my district,” he answered sharply. “You can investigate a twenty-year-old crime to your heart’s content. But a possible crime committed today? That’s my business. The fire chief thought I should know.”

  “Inspector Burke.” Nessa rose from the chair Mrs. Bell had set for her in the corridor. “It’s quite clear to me, as no doubt the firemen will confirm, that this blaze was deliberately set. For one thing, the castle has not had power for more than two days, so it could hardly be an electrical accident.”

  She turned on Carragh, her upper-class face and voice both devoid of emotion. “I would appreciate it greatly, Inspector, if you would arrest Miss Ryan on charges of arson.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  July 1881

  Everything at Deeprath changed in the weeks after James’s birth. He wasn’t a particularly quiet baby—he seemed often to be complaining about something, usually at the top of his lungs—but with his mother he mellowed. Jenny insisted on nursing him herself, despite her father’s objections, and nothing could have shown more clearly what her delivery of a grandson had bought her than his easy acquiescence to her wishes. When she sat with James for a photograph, her father beamed with pride.

  As for Evan, he was writing at a furious pace. Finally. Charles had been hounding him for months, as Evan’s promise of a finished manuscript continued to be just that—a promise. A chapter here, a telling scene or two there…it gave him the comforting illusion of working on it. The illusion burst one month after James’s birth, when Evan sat himself down in the library and looked over what he had. The pages were depressing in both amount and quality. He’d always been a fast and careful writer, and at first he feared Ireland had swallowed that. But once he began forcing words onto the page, he realized that he could still do it despite the “entanglements of a wife and child,” as Charles put it despairingly.

  His Bride was not, whatever others might think, a thinly veiled portrait of Jenny. That’s not how he wrote. Sure, aspects of her colored the story, but no more than aspects of himself always did. So the wicked Bride of legend carried with her a touch of melancholy, a fear within herself that she could not banish. And the resilient heroine, Anna, faced her own terrors with kindness and a little humor.

  Then Jenny fell ill. At first no one thought it more serious than a cold, until she fainted while nursing James. Within twenty-four hours she had a serious rash that the doctor proclaimed as measles.

  Her immediate concern was for her son. “He must go away. Promise, Evan, to take him somewhere safe. Measles would be dangerous for him, he’s so small. Promise me.”

  He didn’t have to promise—his father-in-law had already taken James away. “He’s safe, love,” Evan assured her. “Your father has found a wet nurse for him in Wicklow. The nanny is with him as well. He’s only a day’s ride away, and we’ll bring him home as soon as you’re well.”

  For almost a week Jenny was very ill indeed. She could not bear the light because of the pain it caused her, so Evan stayed with her in a darkened room. Her fever spiked, causing a delirium that he feared meant she was tipping into a dangerous mania, but when her temperature came down those symptoms eased. Even after the doctor pronounced her out of danger, her lingering cough turned into bronchitis. Though she would not hear of James’s return until she was in perfect health, the separation weighed on her spirits. To pass the time, she took to writing in a floral cloth-covered notebook, different from her usual diary.

  “My mother gave it to me when I was a child,” she told Evan. “I never used it for more than copying out verses I liked.”

  She would not show him what she wrote, or talk about it, which he conceded wryly was fair enough considering his own writerly reticence. But she began to lose herself for hours at a time in writing, and though this was something with which Evan was intimately acquainted, there was something…eerie about it. As though, each time she emerged from the fog, she left a piece behind her. Or maybe brought back a new one.

  Once, he heard her talking to someone as he entered the room—the otherwise empty room—and when he asked about it, she said, “The Bride likes it when I talk to her aloud. She’s been lonely for so long.”

  Uneasily, he let it pass. And determined to bring James home as soon as possible.

  It had been a full twelve weeks of absence before Lord Gallagher made the trip to Wexford to bring his grandson home. Evan was hard put to keep Jenny calm until their return. She could not settle to anything, not even listening to him read from the new manuscript. Every time the story mentioned the original Darkling Bride, Jenny would interrupt with, “That’s not what she said,” or, “She would never be so silly.”

  So he put the manuscript away and prayed that James Michael would be the medicine to put her right.

  Jenny dashed outside the moment she heard carriage wheels, barely waiting for the nurse to emerge before snatching James out of her arms. “My child, my heart,” she cried, and whirled him around while both the nurse and Lord Gallagher tried to stop her. But James loved it, gurgling in delight at his mother’s enraptured face.

  Because Evan was watching so closely, he was the first to see the light in Jenny’s eyes flicker and dim. She shook her head hard, as though dislodging a bee, and stared and stared at James. Then, with a violent suddenness, she thrust him back at the nurse.

  “What have you done? Take him away, I don’t want him, what were you thinking bringing him here…”

  It was like the theater night in Dublin on their honeymoon, all panic and mania and a torrent of words that made no sense.

  “Jenny,” Evan intervened desperat
ely, keeping hold of her shoulders. “Jenny, my love, come inside, please. Come in and take a breath. You need to calm down.”

  Latching onto him with a grip that hurt, she implored, “Promise me you’ll take him away. Promise me, Evan. Take him away!”

  “Love, you’re frightening James. Come away and calm down and all will be well.”

  She dropped her hands, and all her violence and fury stilled into a moment of utter calm, so that no one would guess she was anything but perfectly lucid. “That is not my son. Take the changeling away and bring me my son.”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  After a considerable amount of arguing (between Sibéal and the Rathdrum inspector, Burke) and icy orders (from Nessa), Carragh was taken to the Rathdrum police station. She was not under arrest, merely “helping police in their inquiries.” She knew what that meant: Inspector Burke wanted to oblige the family by removing her, but was covering himself since there was no evidence, only Nessa’s assertion that Carragh disliked the family.

  She fell asleep in the interview room where they stashed her, probably intending to leave her long enough to grow increasingly nervous as time passed. Inspector Burke regarded her with dislike when she jerked awake upon his entrance. Her neck and shoulders were sore from laying her head on the table, but her mind was working better now than it had since leaving St. Kevin’s Bed after the storm.

  Though his expression was unpleasant, he spoke neutrally enough—and with perception. “Why is Nessa Gallagher so eager to get you out of Deeprath Castle?”

  “Is this an official interview?”

  “If this were an official interview, I would have someone with me and we would record it. This is simply a conversation.”

  “Which means I am not required to answer.”

  “No, Miss Ryan, you are not.”

  She studied the man, thinking hard. Despite his abrasive personality, he seemed intelligent enough, and he wasn’t falling over himself to fulfill Nessa’s outrageous demands. But Carragh knew something about jurisdictions, however hazy, and certainly he and Inspector McKenna were at odds if their shouting match earlier were any indication. And whatever the library fire had been meant to accomplish, it surely had everything to do with the murders of the past. That made it Sibéal’s case.

  “Lady Gallagher,” she said, navigating her answer with care, “will always look to an outsider when blame must be laid. No doubt she is correct that the library fire was arson—it could not have simultaneously started in two separate areas otherwise. And also, the fire extinguisher kept in the library itself was missing.”

  “I know,” the inspector said. “It was found in your bedroom.”

  A bit obvious, that. But then, Carragh was coming to understand that her opponent—Surely enemy was too strong?—had no objections to big red flags waving in her direction. Through personal dislike, or a desire to confuse, or both. Because Carragh knew that as long as she was being examined, the past was not.

  “I suppose you’ve considered that Philip Grant was more or less forced to leave Deeprath Castle yesterday after a…family argument. He might have cause to want revenge.”

  What she wanted was the inspector to not only agree that Philip had cause, but to somehow let her know if he also had opportunity. She didn’t know where he’d gone after Kyla and Aidan left. He appeared to have left Deeprath, but he could have made his way back in the dead of night.

  Beneath what seemed to be Inspector Burke’s perpetual scowl lurked thoughtfulness. “I am not entirely unaware of that situation, Miss Ryan. For now, you are free to go. I would advise you to stay nearby for the next few days. Leaving the area might be seen as prejudicial. There’s a solicitor outside waiting to tell you the same, no doubt.”

  A solicitor? Carragh followed the inspector to the reception area wondering who on earth was waiting for her. It took her a moment to recognize the older man with stooped shoulders dressed in an inoffensive gray suit. Behind his wire-rimmed glasses, however, his eyes were sharp. It was the Gallagher family solicitor.

  “Mr. Winthrop,” he confirmed, shaking her hand. “I was asked to come down and ensure you were not being unduly harassed in any manner.”

  He handed over her purse, which they had taken from her. “I believe you will find on your mobile telephone a message from Inspector McKenna.”

  Bemused, Carragh turned on her phone.

  “Carragh, it’s Sibéal. I’ve gone back to Dublin, but you’ll be fine. They’ll probably ask you to stay in Rathdrum and I’ll be in touch as soon as I’ve got things sorted with my superintendent. An archivist at the National Library has opened the document case found with the bones. I don’t entirely understand what he found, but I think you might and I think it matters. I’ll tell you about it when I get back to Rathdrum. Let me know where you are.”

  Really? That’s all she was going to leave her with? Mr. Winthrop regarded her with an air of endless patience. “Sorry,” she said. “It’s very good of you to go to all this trouble.”

  “It’s my job to do as my clients wish.”

  “Your client?” But there could be only one answer.

  “Lord Gallagher was notified by Inspector McKenna, I believe. Concerning both the fire and the unfortunate accusation against you. He wished me to ensure your good treatment. And he asked me to take you back to Deeprath Castle when you were released.”

  The castle? Had Aidan lost his mind?

  With a smile that hinted understanding, Winthrop said, “He told me to tell you that he trusts you. And that you should trust him in turn. Lord Gallagher also said that he will meet you at Deeprath as soon as he is able.”

  She wondered what the mild-mannered solicitor would do if she flat-out refused. Not that she would. Even without Aidan’s request, curiosity would have driven her back to Deeprath. Curiosity—and sheer bloody-mindedness. Whatever was inside that document case Sibéal had taken away, it was the castle that surely held the final answers. And Carragh was determined to be there when they were revealed.

  * * *

  —

  After Inspector Burke had taken Carragh away, Sibéal, still fuming, gathered up her few belongings and hiked back up the drive to where her car had managed to sit out the storm without damage. Stowing her belongings, she phoned Aidan Gallagher and, just as everyone else had when trying to reach him for the last twenty-four hours, reached only his voicemail. Her message was terse: “Your great-aunt is accusing Carragh Ryan of trying to burn down your library. She’s been taken to Rathdrum Garda station for questioning. You might want to consider coming out of hiding.”

  As she started back down the drive, the coroner arrived. Sibéal delivered her to the site to begin the delicate task of finding and removing as much of the skeleton as could be identified after its undignified fall to earth. Not far behind the coroner came the National Library employee, eager and talkative.

  The conservator finished quickly, for Sibéal asked him not to open the case until back in Dublin. “I wouldn’t have, anyway,” he answered. “This isn’t the best environment for old documents.”

  He cast a wistful, covetous eye at the library’s exterior. From where they stood, the only visible damage was the priest’s door, which had been wrenched wide for the fire hoses. “I hope we can get in there soon,” the young man said. “There’s been too much damage done already.”

  Sibéal had expected to deal with at least a few questions from the castle—no matter how reduced the current household—but the experts were left strictly alone. Once she’d seen the librarian off with the case, she headed back to Dublin.

  Her instinct was to go straight to Phoenix Park, but she had enough of a sense of self-preservation to go home first. A shower, clean clothes, and a mix of sugar and caffeine got her ready to face whatever was coming at her from O’Neill.

  “What the hell is going on down in Wicklow?” the superintendent demanded the moment she walked into his office. “I’ve had zealous officers and I’ve had cold cases solved because o
f that zeal, but I swear by the sweet Virgin Mother I’ve never had anything like the maelstrom you’ve stirred up in those mountains. Fires, holy wells, lightning-struck towers, bones tumbling out—”

  “It’s not like I knocked over the tower battlements myself,” she protested. “And if the Gallaghers had taken care over the years to bury all of their dead properly, there would be fewer bones.”

  “Tell me what you have,” he commanded. Beneath his furious air, Sibéal could see the intelligence and genuine interest that made him a superb officer.

  She led him through the last few days—Philip Grant’s history of alleged statutory rape and her subsequent interviews with him, Lily Gallagher’s fascination with the family history immediately before the murders, Nessa’s eagerness to bring the investigation to a hasty conclusion—and ended with the early morning library blaze and Carragh Ryan being escorted to the Rathdrum police station for questioning.

  “I believe more than ever, sir, that the Gallagher murders were a domestic affair. And that the family’s return to Deeprath Castle has begun to crack the killer’s composure. Why else would Miss Ryan be a target of vandalism and accusations? It’s a literal smoke screen.”

  “Belief and instinct are all well and good, McKenna, but there can be no charges laid without evidence. So I must ask—is there any reasonable prospect of getting the necessary evidence to make an arrest? Most cold cases are resolved because of DNA evidence or confessions. And the Gallagher case has no DNA to test, beyond confirming that the marble cross was the weapon used on Lord Gallagher.”

  “So I need a confession.”

  He shrugged. “That’s about the way of it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Sibéal retreated to her office and summoned Sergeant Cullen to help devise an interview strategy that would make one of her three prime suspects crack and confess. Philip Grant and Kyla Gallagher, either alone or together, and then the long shot…Nessa Gallagher. The first two had plenty of motive between them to encompass a crime of passion or greed. What the old lady’s motive could have been, Sibéal had little idea. But Nessa’d had the opportunity. And she’d gained by the crime in the sense that she became guardian of Aidan and Kyla and had access to their trust funds.