The Book of Killowen ng-4

by Erin Hart

  Nora leaned forward and peered up into the branches. She could, if she wished, step from one limb to another and vanish up into its leaves. Testing her balance, she set one foot gingerly on the lowest limb, then stepped quickly up the ladder of branches. Soon she was fifteen feet above the ground, lost amid the rustling foliage. Their thick leaves gave oak trees a particular sound, a deeper timbre than the music of sycamores or beech trees or firs. Nora glanced down and felt a little dizzy. What was she doing, acting like a child? And how on earth was she going to get down?

  A growing murmur of voices came from back along the path. The slouchy young man walked beside Mairéad Broome. Her cottage must be along this path, but they seemed headed back to the main house, passing under the oak where Nora was hidden.

  “I had to give him the money,” the young man was saying. “Coming here like that, in broad daylight? It’s not like I had a choice, Mairéad.”

  Mairéad Broome stopped just under the tree, and Nora held her breath. How could they not hear her or at least sense her presence above them? She hung on tight, pressed against the oak’s mighty trunk.

  “No, you did the right thing, Graham.”

  “The trouble is, he’ll just keep asking for more, unless we do something.”

  “What can we do? We’d all be in jeopardy if he says anything, and I won’t risk that.”

  “But he’s using you, Mairéad.”

  “I know he is. Just leave it be, please, Graham—”

  He stopped her saying any more with a fervent kiss, pressing her back against the oak.

  Nora nearly had to stifle a cry as a fat acorn dropped from a branch directly in front of her eyes, glancing like a stone off Graham’s unprotected head.

  “Ow!” he yelped, jumping back. “Jesus!” One hand reached up to rub the spot where the acorn had made contact, but to Nora’s relief, he glanced up only briefly and didn’t see her. The acorn had provided sufficient disruption, however, and the pair moved on and were soon out of earshot.

  Nora slowly let out her breath and started to climb down the same branches that had been her ladder on the way up. Reaching out to find a grip, she noticed a small branch bearing a spray of leaves and a marble-sized brown sphere. There was no hole in it, like those she’d seen in Martin Gwynne’s studio, but the thing was definitely not an acorn. Nora felt the lump in her pocket and looked around, spying other brown galls on the branches all around her. She hadn’t even noticed them on the way up. She plucked the false fruit from the tree, slipped it into her pocket, and climbed carefully to the ground.

  It was difficult to imagine that anyone she’d met so far at Killowen could have been responsible for Benedict Kavanagh’s death, but the oak galls must be a significant clue. From what she’d seen in the morgue, Kavanagh’s death had been planned in some detail. And the anger felt personal. What could Kavanagh possibly have done to warrant such a dreadful vengeance? A little research might be in order.

  She found Joseph and Eliana in the kitchen. “I’m back,” she said. “Thought it might be time to give Eliana a well-deserved break.”

  The girl shrugged. “I don’t mind.”

  “Wouldn’t you like to take a walk or read a book, anything?”

  Eliana finally nodded, eyes downcast. She headed for the door and turned as she crossed the threshold. “One hour?” It sounded as if she was being forced to stay away for an hour, rather than being granted her liberty.

  “I’m sure you’ll find plenty to do,” Nora said. She turned back to Joseph. “You and I are going to do a bit of research. Stay right here—I’ll be back.”

  Nora fetched her laptop from upstairs. She reached into her pocket for the oak galls she’d collected from the studio and the wood and showed them to Joseph. “Here’s what we’re looking for,” she said, setting them down on the table in front of him.

  His eyes seemed to light up. “Bugallas,” he said. “Tinta, la tinta! Uncle!”

  Nora wondered if he made as little sense in Spanish as he did in English.

  “Uncle!” Joseph said again. He moved his right hand, miming the act of writing.

  Nora looked at him. “Do you know what this is?” He nodded slowly, reaching out for the gall she held in front of him.

  “Bugalla,” he said. He held up the second gall as well. “Dos bugallas-uh-uh-duh—roble.”

  “You’ve seen something like this before?”

  “Sí, sí, la medicina.”

  Nora couldn’t quite believe her ears. “La medicina—for medicine, you mean?”

  Eliana’s voice came from the doorway. She was back already. “And ‘la tinta’ is ink—or perhaps, em, what do you call this… for changing colors.” She gestured to her clothing.

  “You mean dye?” Nora asked.

  “Yes, dye, that’s it.”

  “What about ‘bugalla’? Is that a real word?”

  “I don’t know,” said Eliana. “I never heard it before.”

  Nora swung her laptop around and found an online translation engine. She typed bugalla, set the boxes for Spanish to English, and pressed Translate.

  The answer came in a flash: oak gall. Was it possible Joseph had come across these odd little things in Chile?

  “Amargura,” Joseph murmured. He was looking now at Eliana. “Mi dolor. La cara de mi dolor.”

  Nora observed them both. “I can see that you understand. He is speaking Spanish, right? Is it something about a friend?”

  The girl shook her head. “No, no—he says amargura, em… ‘bitterness,’ and…” She hesitated.

  “What is it, Eliana?” Nora asked. “What else did he say?”

  “He said, ‘My sorrow. The face of my sorrow.’”

  “What does that mean? Is it some sort of expression?”

  “I don’t know.” The girl seemed bewildered and suddenly close to tears.

  “Will you excuse us for just one second?” Nora asked Joseph. She took Eliana aside. “I’m so sorry about all this. We ought to have warned you. The stroke seems to have made Joseph’s emotions a bit more volatile. I know he’s not saying or doing things on purpose to upset you. I’m not sure where all these cryptic phrases are coming from, and I’m not sure he knows either. If you’re finding it too much, we can try to contact the agency and see if they can send someone else.”

  “No! I’m not upset. Please, don’t send me away.”

  “No one wants to send you away, Eliana. I know you’re trying your best. But if he upsets you, if you’re not comfortable, we can ask for someone with more experience—”

  “Please don’t get someone else. I will try harder. Please!”

  Nora looked into the girl’s dark eyes, and something clicked. There was one advantage Eliana had over someone with more rehab experience, and it had just been demonstrated before her eyes. “You know, I’m not sure whether Cormac mentioned that his father lived in Chile for many years. He’s only recently come back to Ireland. It’s possible that English feels strange to him, especially after the stroke. It’s hard to know. But if you can understand him, I don’t know, maybe you could try doing the flash cards in Spanish.”

  Eliana’s face brightened immediately. “I could do that, yes, let me try!” She went off in search of the cards, and Nora returned to Joseph and her laptop in the kitchen. She typed “oak gall” into the search box. The first entry that appeared was from a very old medical text:

  Galls or gallnuts are a kind of preternatural and accidental tumour, produced by the Punctures of Insects on the Oaks of several Species; but those of the oak only are used in medicine. We have two kinds, the Oriental and the European galls: the Oriental are brought from Aleppo, of the bigness of a large nutmeg, with tubercles on their surface, of a very firm and solid texture, and a disagreeable, acerb, and astringent taste. The European galls are of the same size, with perfectly smooth surfaces: they are light, often spongy, and cavernous within, and always of a lax texture. They have a less austere taste, and are of much less value than the first sor
t, both in manufactures and medicine. The general history of galls is this: an insect of the fly kind, for the safety of her young, wounds the branches of the trees, and in the hole deposits her egg: the lacerated vessels of the tree discharging their contents form a tumour or woody case about the hole, where the egg is thus defended from all injuries. This tumor also serves for the food of the tender maggot, produced from the egg of the fly, which, as soon as it is perfect, and in its winged state, gnaws its way out, as appears from the hole found in the gall; and where no hole is seen on its surface, the maggot, or its remains, are sure to be found within, on breaking it. [See also: Serpent’s Egg.]

  Nora stared at the last two words, her memory flashing back to Benedict Kavanagh’s distorted face and bulging eyes. The name—serpent’s egg—offered yet another meaning, altogether unforeseen. Filled with bitterness, the gallnuts were the imagined spawn of serpents. How many of these were forced into Benedict Kavanagh’s mouth—a half dozen? All at once she could taste the bitterness, the rancor, and the resentment contained in each one.

  She thought of Kavanagh destroying a youthful Niall Dawson in that debate so many years ago, saw again in slow motion the scene from this morning: Kavanagh’s wife pulling the sheet from her husband’s body, such a primal, visceral reaction. Nora shook her head, trying to erase the memory of the expression on Kavanagh’s face, the bulging eyes and distended cheeks. She looked down at the gall in her hand once more, a chilling message from a vengeful killer.

  11

  There were a few more signs of life when Stella returned to Killowen in the late afternoon. With their morning chores out of the way, the farm’s residents were now pursuing their own work. Stella heard the tap-tap-tap of a chisel on stone as she rounded the corner of a small shed across the yard from the main house. Inside, wearing a leather apron and holding a hammer and chisel, was a fortyish man, his jaw elongated by a dark beard, his large blue eyes framed by shaggy brows and a floppy fringe of hair. His hands moved deftly as he chased a groove along a round stone into which he was carving a spiral design. One knuckle bled a bit where he had scraped it.

  Stella waited until he’d finished before she spoke. “Excuse me, I wonder if I could have a word?”

  He turned, unstartled by her presence, and began to lay down his tools as soon as she produced her Guards ID. “I expected you’d turn up sooner or later,” he said. “Saw the cars out on the bog yesterday.”

  “Just routine questions,” Stella admitted. “I’m talking to everyone at Killowen, Mr.—”

  “Lynch,” he said. “Diarmuid Lynch. What can I tell you?”

  “Well, we’ve received confirmation that the second body in the boot was this man, Benedict Kavanagh.” Stella held up the photo of Kavanagh. “He and the car went missing about four months ago. So, for a start, did you know him?”

  “No,” came the terse reply. Lynch barely glanced at the picture and instead picked up a rag from the bench beside him and began to wipe the stone dust from his tools, moving slowly and deliberately, replacing each in turn.

  “How long have you been here, at Killowen?”

  “Eighteen months.”

  “And before that?”

  “Knocked about. I was living in Spain for a while.”

  “Working?”

  “At a vineyard for a time, then another farm. ‘General labor,’ I think they call it.”

  “How did you come to this place?”

  “When I came back after being in Spain, I didn’t really have a home to go to. My parents were dead, the farm sold. I’d no other family. So I did whatever work I could find. Spent a good bit of time sleeping rough. Just my good fortune to fall ill so near to this place. I have Martin Gwynne to thank, for finding me out on the bog. I was in pretty bad shape—pneumonia, they said. Martin brought me here, and they managed to nurse me back to health. I decided to stay on after that.”

  “We’re trying to find out what Mairéad Broome’s husband, Benedict Kavanagh, might have been doing in this area at the time he was killed. Any thoughts?”

  “I really couldn’t say. I never met the fella.”

  “Can you tell me what sort of work you do here at the farm?”

  “The same as everyone else: tilling, planting, cultivating, harvesting, the odd bit of construction—and my own work here, of course.” He gestured to the stone before him.

  “You don’t happen to have experience operating heavy machinery?”

  “We have a small loader that we use for moving stones like these and for building projects. I drive it sometimes, as do Martin and Claire and Anthony and Shawn. Never operated an excavator, if that’s what you wanted to know.” He calmly continued wiping his tools with a rag, checking their edges, replacing them on the bench.

  “Do you remember anything unusual happening last April, anything at all out of the ordinary?”

  “Well, we got the new heat in last April—had lashings of hot water for the first time. That was unusual. And that’s when Shawn Kearney—the archaeologist—came to stay with us, attending the excavation on the heating coils. She turned up a few interesting bits, as I recall. I really don’t remember much beyond that. Everything else was pretty normal.”

  He finished with the tools and turned his gaze upon Stella once more. For some reason, she had a sudden urge to put his name through the system.

  12

  Martin Gwynne looked up at Stella Cusack as he worked the flaws in a sheet of parchment with a short, sharp knife, scraping away rough patches. “Ask away,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind if I keep working; this commission is due in a few days, and I’ve still a lot of work to do.” He set aside the knife and reached for a sheet of fine sandpaper, scouring in a circular motion.

  Stella studied his hands at work, the fingers long and sensitive, the fingertips floating over the vellum’s pale surface. Gwynne saw her glance at the text he was working from, a formal commemoration of a wedding, no doubt suitable for framing. As if he’d been reading her thoughts, he said, “Yes, decidedly less elevated than transcribing the word of God, but the written word has lost some of its mystique in the modern world, I’m afraid. This is what pays the bills nowadays.”

  “I’m here about a second body found in the boot of that car out on the bog.”

  Gwynne didn’t look up, but the sheet of sandpaper in his hand stopped dead at the center of the vellum. After the briefest pause, it continued, making circles within circles.

  Stella continued, “I’m trying to reconstruct the victim’s last known whereabouts, to find out what could have brought him to this part of the country.”

  “And you think I might know what he was doing here?”

  “You shared an interest in manuscripts, from what I understand. His name was Benedict Kavanagh. That name ring a bell?”

  Martin Gwynne put down the sandpaper and ran his fingers across the calfskin again, like a blind man, feeling rather than looking, paying close attention to the sensations that passed through his fingertips. “I knew Kavanagh. We met once, long ago, at some conference or other. As you said, he studied old manuscripts, and he was sometimes known to consult with persons such as myself about some of the finer nuances of ink making or handwriting.”

  A very carefully couched reply, Stella noted. “And did he happen to consult with a person such as yourself last April?”

  “No, he didn’t. Now, as to whether he was on his way to see me, I couldn’t say. But we had no arrangement or appointment. He never came here to consult with me.”

  Again, the way it was phrased, Kavanagh could have come to Killowen for some other reason than to consult Martin Gwynne. Was he being deliberately evasive?

  “Had anyone mentioned him being in the area?”

  “Not that I recall.” He began riffling through a jam jar full of white goose feathers, examining each shaft minutely before selecting the stoutest and cutting through it with his small, sharp knife, so that it was about ten inches in length, with a V-shape at the top. He got
a firm grasp on one end of the V, and in a single swift motion stripped the lower barbs from the shaft. He repeated the motion on the other side, again leaving a few inches at the top of the quill.

  “What do you recall about last April?”

  Gwynne stopped to consider. “That’s the time for sowing leeks and onions. And Anthony—our neighbor, Anthony Beglan—was working on a new batch of calfskins for me. It might help if I just consult my diary.” He set down the half-made quill and crossed to the desk beside her. “I keep a note of deadlines and other important dates in here.” Quickly flipping back a few months, he found April and began looking down the entries. The small book was filled with a calligrapher’s careful hand, a rainbow of different-colored inks. He saw her taking in his handiwork. “If something is important enough to write down, it’s important enough to write properly. It’s a mark of respect for the person who will read what you’ve written.” Gwynne replied absently, repeating words he must have said a thousand times. “What sort of time frame are we talking about?”

  “We only have a few details. Mr. Kavanagh taped his last television program on April twenty-first. We believe he might have come here shortly after.”

  Martin Gwynne perused the entries in his book. “Well, we had the workmen in for the new heat, from April twentieth through the end of the month. No visiting artists during that time, with all the upheaval from the construction.” He paused to consult the diary once more. “What else? Ah, yes. I always prefer to work in daylight, but I had a commission due at the end of the month, quite a large piece, so I was working late. Burning a lot of midnight oil, as they say.”