“The Daily,” Andrew said.
“In that case, I hope you have the courage to write what you witness.” He pulled out a silver pocket watch as the horses were drawn to a halt. “Quite late, I’m afraid. Good day to the two of you, and sir, I wish you better returns.”
The physician’s dire description was corroborated the moment they entered through the sweeping doors of the fortification. The stench of feces, urine, and vomit emanated from every pore of the building.
Having passed by the hallways of the woman’s wing, Clare had already heard and seen enough slivers of horror to have drained herself completely of whatever enthusiasm she had to see Maggie. In its place now was unfiltered dread.
Never in full sight of visitors, but caught in glimpses around bends and far ends of hallways, they saw pale, thin arms reaching out of cells, patients restrained in hideous buckled jackets, and the haunting sounds of clanging chains, moaning, frightful laughter, and emotional agony.
In Clare’s mind one clear thought was paramount: She would not leave this place without her sister.
After many false turns, they were finally directed to a processing chamber, where an ogrelike woman behind an imposing wooden counter greeted them with the callous disinterest of someone who loathed their position.
They were ignored as she scratched away on paperwork. After a while, Andrew cleared his throat. When that didn’t work, he tapped on a bell that caused her to raise her head with some clear irritation.
“We’re trying to find a patient.”
“And you are?”
“I’m Andrew Royce from the New York Daily and this is . . . Clare.”
“And on what authority?”
Clare handed Andrew their paperwork and he placed it before the woman, who pulled out spectacles attached to a chain and perched them on her nose.
After a few moments, the woman looked up from the papers. “What name?”
“Margaret Hanley.” Clare stepped forward.
The woman dragged over a large leather-bound book, opened it, and thumbed through pages. “Hanley, you say?”
Clare’s anxiety rose with each page turned, and she watched with intensity as the women’s finger slid down the list of names.
“No, I’m afraid not.” The woman closed the book and shrugged.
“What do you mean you can’t find her?” Clare said. “She has to be in there.” However, fear crept into Clare. Maybe they had it all wrong. Perhaps Greta met Maggie somewhere else.
“What about your uncle’s name?” Andrew said to her. “Could it be under that?”
“Yes,” Clare said, her hope flooding back. “Try in the name of Margaret or Maggie Feagles.”
The clerk gave her a wry expression. Then grudgingly she opened the tome, and sifted through the pages. “I’m afraid. She’s not here. No one here by any of the names you mentioned.”
Clare’s lips began to quiver and she fought to hold back the tears.
“Are you certain?” Andrew asked. “It’s quite important.”
“Yes. I am sorry for you.” The clerk’s tone had softened. “But there is nothing else I can do.” Then she raised an eyebrow in suspicion. “I thought you were here for the newspaper? Is this someone you knew personally?”
“Thank you,” Clare said, defeated.
Andrew pulled her into him and put his head close to hers and then turned to leave.
“Wait.” Clare thought of something insidious and in some ways hoped she wasn’t right. “Excuse me, miss. Can you look up one last name for me, please? The name is Margaret O’Riley.”
The book opened again, pages were turned, and Clare scrutinized the clerk’s every slight facial expression.
Please, God. Let me see Margaret. Let me see her once again.
The woman paused and pursed her lips in surprise. “Well, there is a Margaret O’Riley, after all.” But then her countenance fell. She looked up to Clare with an expression of charity. “Perhaps this is not the same woman.”
“Tell me,” Clare said. “What does it say?”
“We get quite a few O’Rileys in here, as you can imagine.”
“What is it?”
“It’s all right, Clare,” Andrew said.
“It’s not all right. Tell me what it says.”
The woman glanced to Andrew and then back to Clare. “The record shows a Margaret O’Riley being admitted on January 17th of 1845. Over two years ago. Checked in by her husband, a Mr. Gorman O’Riley, based on his claims she tried to kill him with an ax. This was witnessed by a Mr. Patrick Feagles.”
“I want to see her. Now.” Clare felt her blood rushing to her head.
The clerk kept reading, her lips moving as she did. Then she closed the book, this time for the last time. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible.” She removed her spectacles. “It says she was inconsolable in confinement and refused to eat. I’m sorry. But she died six weeks later.”
Clare sank into Andrew’s arms. There was profound grief in her pain. She had believed with all her heart she would see Maggie today.
Almost immediately, the hope of expectation was replaced by something deep and onerous, bubbling to the surface of her being. Black . . . black.
It was approaching.
Chapter 39
The Chamber
Clare’s dreary discovery had throttled her soul. Entangled by the putrescent cobwebs of her circumstances, she struggled to find a doorway out of the darkness, but there was no light to be found.
This journey down the chasm of melancholy shifted direction after a few days and veered through a landscape more sinister in nature. She drifted through murky waters to the banks of another emotion, depraved and tenebrous, tentacles that slowly reached into the forgotten caverns of despair.
There, billows of anger sifted in through the haze and in the distance a building drumbeat summoned a beast of murderous intentions: hatred, unforgiveness, and the sweltering shadows of revenge.
Depravity streamed through her veins. She yearned to rage wildly against her oppressor. To feel the blade of revenge to penetrating flesh.
Despite all efforts of encouragement from Daphne and Andrew, Clare curled in bed, knotted in grief, motionless and without purpose, begging to be left alone in her misery.
Most revolting to her was Andrew’s desire to pray over her, to read her Scripture, and to speak of God’s promises. Clare wanted only to spit out the very thought of a benevolent God existing in this corrupt world. She knew what He was now. He had played her the fool and abandoned her for the last time. He was no different than her father and now she would trust no one.
Through the fog of her depression, Clare had some awareness that Andrew was intending to preserve her life before the bottom fell out of her dreams. He was keeping her byline in print, conducting interviews, and writing her stories by day, working at the newly launched mission at night, and sharing the duties of caring for her with Daphne and even Cassie at times, insisting that she never be left alone.
Through the blurred vision of the world outside, all filtered through her misery, Clare could vaguely discern that Andrew was wearying under the burden of this task. Perhaps it was her concern for him, or maybe it was the silent cries of her remaining family back home that helped her to pierce through her veil of gloom. Regardless of the source, after a few weeks, the winds began to blow away the haze, and the burden of waking up lessened with each day.
It was a particularly bright morning when Clare felt inclined to rise from bed, slide out the drawer of her oak wardrobe, and pull out Maggie’s drawings, something Clare thought she would never again have the courage to do.
The sight of Davin, Ronan, and Caitlin sketched by Maggie’s hand caused her to choke with emotions, but the sight of her brothers and sister caused her to smile a
s well.
Then she noticed something.
“Oh, you’re up, Clare,” said Daphne as she came out from her room with her shoes in her hands. She saw the drawings and put her arm around Clare’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, dear. I didn’t know.”
“No, I’m fine.” Clare arranged the drawings side by side. “Do you see something odd about these?”
Daphne shrugged. “I just think they are beautiful.”
“The background. They are all the same. They each have the same trees. The same gate. And look at this structure.” Clare tapped her finger on each of them.
“I don’t . . . ?”
“My sister was trying to tell us something. She must have believed one of us would come after her to America, but she didn’t know which one of us it would be. So she drew all of us and asked Greta, who must have been about to be released, to deliver some kind of message.”
“Well,” Daphne scratched her head, “let me think. That does look familiar, now that you are pointing it out.”
“Think, Daphne. Where is this?”
“Those trees. They could be anywhere. But that structure. It looks like . . .” Daphne stopped as if she didn’t want to say anything.
“Go ahead,” Clare said with ardency.
“Well. It looks like one of those . . . what do you call them . . . you know, those little stone buildings you would see at a graveyard?”
“The key!” Clare went to the cabinet and pulled down the gold key she had found in the apartment.
“What’s that?” Daphne seemed perplexed.
“I know what the key is for now.”
It was the third cemetery they had visited, but they knew instantly as the carriage pulled up and rolled them to a stop that they had arrived at the precise location. Maggie’s drawings didn’t have detail. There were no gravestones, no shrubbery, no flowers, nor any of the surrounding buildings. But she had charcoaled in by memory an almost perfectly drawn perspective of a thin grove of trees at the far end of the yard, which framed the precise mausoleum depicted on the paper.
As they dismounted the cabin, Andrew handed a few coins to the driver.
“Should I wait for you, sir?” said the tall man who was bent at the waist as if he had been leaning over a team of horses all of his life.
“That won’t be necessary.”
It pained Clare to wait for Andrew, as she was anxious to unearth what had been so important for her sister to share. At the same time, Clare was hesitant to discover more dark secrets. There remained a fragility in her soul, one which had her at the precipice of her inner strength.
Passersby crossed before the iron gates of the cemetery with disinterest, going about their daily business. Though the gates were closed, the latch was open and they fumbled with it, before a man with a rake in his hand assisted them from the inside.
“Need to keep the swine out,” he said. “All types.” He greeted them with a warm countenance and with the respect due those in grief.
They nodded and, trying to be circumspect, walked toward the mausoleum with their heads down and holding hands.
“This is your first visit here, is it not?”
Andrew turned and spoke in a measured voice. “Yes. As a matter fact, she’s visiting relations for the first time.”
The man tilted his head. “Then how do you know where you’re going?”
Andrew took the drawing of Davin from Clare and showed the image to the man.
“Ah yes. The Hanley vault. Mr. Feagles is here often to pay his regards.”
“This is Clare Hanley,” Andrew said. “From back home. I think the lady would appreciate some privacy.”
“Oh yes, of course.” The man put his gloves back on. “Get’s a bit lonely here on the job. Not much conversation . . . as you can imagine. If you need of anything, just let me know.” He returned to his raking, but Clare sensed they were being watched from behind.
They came up to the stone structure, which was bruised and cracked by weather and time. Vines grew like veins all around it and were barren of leaves. A few worn stairs led down to a splintered and faded wooden door with large, rusted hinges. Engraved above the door was a stone placard which read:
The Hanleys
Branlow, Co. Roscommon, Ireland
Tomas Hanley 1798–1842
Margaret Ames Hanley 1817–1845
“Are you sure you want to go through with this?” Andrew asked.
Clare pulled the key from her pocket and handed it to him. “No more lies.” Clare covered her mouth and nose with her scarf.
Andrew inserted the key and giving it a twist, the lock responded with a firm click. He pulled on the door handle, and though jammed, it freed itself following a few determined tugs, sighing with the pains of age as bent beams of light penetrated the interior.
“Wait here,” he said firmly.
He slipped in and following a few anxious minutes, he stuck his head out. “Come inside, love.”
Her knees wobbled and the faintness of having not eaten well for a couple of weeks made her flush, and Clare stepped gingerly.
Andrew shut the door behind them, and it made her uneasy as it snapped to a close, sealing them from the outside.
Oil lamps, which Andrew must have lit, hung from either side of the cramped stone chamber draped with cobwebs. Oddly, instead of caskets or even urns, there was a wood table in the center, and pressed up to it was a solitary chair.
A tallow candle was propped in a wooden holder, and Andrew lit the wick with one of the tall matches that lay scattered beside it. On the table there were a few papers, an inkwell, and a quill pen.
“What is this?” Clare said.
“It appears to be a place your uncle comes to work. A secret office.”
She fumbled through the papers and they seemed insignificant—some notes, a letter that had barely been started. “This can’t be it.”
“It appears so. Maybe he realized the key was missing.”
“But it must have been a spare,” said Clare. It looked like it hadn’t been moved for years. “There must be something else.”
“All right then.” Andrew took down the oil lanterns and handed one to her. “Let’s look for a hidden chamber. But we must hurry. Every minute we remain will draw the curiosity of our friend outside. He may have already sent for your uncle.”
Clare hovered the lamp close to the floor, searching for any clues in the patterns of the dust, her fingers probing to discover some sort of loose stone. Andrew ran his palms along the walls, seeking out anything that appeared odd.
Yet after scrambling for several minutes, they came up empty, their hands blackened as their tension was rising. Disappointment flooded through Clare. She never should have let herself hope that they would find something. She pulled out the chair and sank into it, watching Andrew as he continued to probe and poke.
“It’s no use.” She let out a heavy sigh. “I’m not sure what I expected we would find.”
Andrew’s face was chalked with dust and grime. She could tell he was desperate to give her some sort of victory, and he looked at her with eyes of apology. Then his countenance shifted abruptly. “Stand up.”
“I’m finished,” Clare said. “I can’t do this anymore.”
“No. Off the chair.”
Confused, she got up and he swept the chair from her and set it against the wall. He stepped on it, pausing as the wobbly legs of the chair caused him to stumble. Bracing his hand against the wall, he raised the amber glowing lamp above him, as the wick danced shadows in his glasses.
“There’s a ledge here,” he said. “And it appears to go all around. It’s difficult to see.” With his tall frame bent slightly to keep from hitting his head on the ceiling, he slid his hand around as far as he could reach, and then moved the chair
and continued the process.
After repeating this a few times, he suddenly froze and looked down at Clare with joy in his eyes. “I’ve got something.”
Stepping down carefully from the wobbly chair, he had a small wooden chest in his free hand. He set it on the table and slid the candle close to it while Clare hovered over it, now holding both lamps.
The chest was of modest proportions, with a pale wood frame with cracked corners and leather straps fastened with a tarnished buckle. A lock with a slender keyhole kept its contents sealed from them.
Before Clare could ask about a key, Andrew put his coaled hands in his pocket and pulled out some slender tools. “I haven’t yet taught you all of the tricks of a journalist.”
He slipped a pick and small angled rod through the aperture of the lock, and in a few moments it clicked. He paused to make sure she was ready and then expectantly lifted the lid.
To Clare’s disappointment, it was a cracked leather book.
Andrew pulled it out and the words Irish Society were imprinted on the cover. He untied the leather string that bound it, and as he lifted the cover, she could see lines and handwritten numbers on the pages within.
“What is it?” she asked.
“It’s a ledger. Financial records. Labeled as the Irish Society. It dates back from almost four years ago.” He thumbed the pages with interest.
“What else is in there?” Clare said with impatience.
Andrew reached in, pulled out a stack of envelopes, handed them to her, and returned to his close examination of the book.
Clare gathered the envelopes, and as she began to arrange them, her breathing stopped. Her mouth opened with dread as she recognized the handwriting and the address they were being sent. “Oh no. Oh no, no, no.”
“What is it, Clare?”
She tore open the envelopes one at a time and withdrew the letters she had so meticulously and lovingly penned for her family back home.
“Clare?”
“These are . . . my letters. They are all here. They were never sent.”
Flight of the Earls Page 30