The Godforsaken Daughter

by Christina McKenna

  “There it is, dear. That apple tree will be there long after we’re gone.”

  “Oh, Vinny, don’t be so gloomy. Here, have some water. All that digging’s thirsty work in this weather.”

  She saw him swoop down and gather up Ruby. “But Ruby here will see it. Won’t you, sweetheart?”

  Then a window being thrust open above them. A voice: sharp, demanding. “Vinny, can you come up here a minute?”

  Vinny putting Ruby down immediately.

  “You don’t have to run to her every time like a puppy dog.”

  “She’s my mother, Martha, and she’s not well.”

  “I’m your wife, and there’s not a thing wrong with her. She just wants attention.”

  “Now who’s being gloomy? I’m sorry . . . have to see what she wants. I’ll not be long.”

  Edna! For the last two years of her life, and the first two of their marriage, she’d tried to drive a wedge between them. She’d never expected her son to marry. That was the problem. With her husband and little Declan gone so early, she clung to Vinny for dear life. His marriage was a betrayal too far.

  Against her will, Martha pushed further back in her memory, to the first time she’d met Vincent. Had his car not broken down all those years ago their paths might never have crossed. They’d boarded the same bus. He’d been on his way to collect his car from a garage in Killoran. She’d been on her way home from work. Thirty-three-year-old Martha sitting covertly weeping, wondering how she could have made such a terrible mistake. But the boyish young man in the gabardine coat had seen her distress.

  They got off at the same stop.

  “Miss, are you all right?”

  She turned. There was genuine concern in his voice.

  “Yes . . . yes. It’s nothing . . . I’m fine. Think I’m catching a cold, that’s all.”

  “Where do you live?”

  She looked about her, only then realizing she’d got off the bus two stops too early.

  They’d walked the short distance to the garage. He’d insisted on tea at Mooney’s Hotel before dropping her home. How kind and thoughtful he’d been!

  A raft for her to cling to.

  “Anybody home?”

  Martha jolted back to the present at the sound of Father Kelly’s voice.

  “Father, I was miles away there.” She made to rise but the priest stayed her with a calming hand.

  “Don’t stir yourself, Martha.” He took the other chair. “Sure isn’t it a grand evening to be sitting out, altogether. And where’s the lady herself?”

  “She went down to the woods, Father. Picking blackberries to make some jam, she said.”

  “A bit early for blackberries, is it not?”

  Martha’s face took on a troubled look. “I know, Father, but that’s what she said and I dare not confront her, in case . . .” She broke off, not wanting to think about the reality too much, and checked her watch. “I expected her home long before now. She’s away an hour at least.”

  Ruby lighted the candles, kindled the herbs in the censer dish, and stood up. Spreading her arms wide, she intoned the invocation to the Goddess she had learned by heart.

  “O Great Mother, Gracious Goddess, Crescent One of the Starry Skies, Flowered One of the Fertile Plain, Flowing One of the Ocean’s Sighs, Blessed One of the Gentle Rain! Listen to the woes of your daughter. Shine your—”

  “Ruby, are you there?”

  A man’s voice.

  Startled, Ruby spun round. To her consternation, she saw Father Kelly in his long coat, pluntering over the field.

  Had he seen her?

  In a panic, she snuffed the candles out, stamped the burning herbs into the ground, and had everything out of sight and in the bag by the time he’d gained the clearing.

  “Your mother . . . your mother said I’d find you here, Ruby. Hope you’ve got enough for a few pots?”

  “Hello, Father . . . What?”

  “The jam, so. You’re pickin’ the berries, I hear. What’s that smell?”

  “Oh, the blackberries. I-I didn’t get so many . . . not many, Father. There’s a . . . there’s a blight on them this year.”

  “Is that so . . .” He sniffed the air. “Were you burning something?”

  “No, Father.”

  He hunkered down, inspecting the spot where she’d flung the herbs, picked up a partially burned leaf.

  “Hmm . . . I’m not so well up in my plants, Ruby, but I know this one. Vervain, I’d say.”

  “Is it?”

  “Aye. Them pointed leaves . . . they say they were used to stanch the wounds of Christ.”

  He gazed in reverence at the leaves, made the sign of the cross, and looked pointedly at Ruby.

  “I-I didn’t know that, Father.”

  “Your mother’s worried about you, Ruby . . . says you’re not yourself.”

  Ruby put her thumb and forefinger together. She really needed the Goddess’s help now. But on this occasion no voice came. She was on her own.

  “She . . . she worries too much, Father. There’s nothing wrong with me.”

  Father Kelly stood up again and looked about him. “God’s good, aye. God’s good, so . . .”

  Ruby wanted to say, “You mean the Goddess,” but that flash of confidence she was hoping for refused to come. Something was staying her tongue. She felt confused. Why couldn’t she say what she believed?

  Why was the Goddess not helping her?

  She felt the weight of the bag on her shoulder. The bag containing her blessed things. It was because he had come along. He’d interrupted a sacred rite. It was his fault. This man in the black clothes and white collar.

  “. . . sure we’ll go up to the house,” Father Kelly was saying. “Say some prayers with your mother . . . just to put her mind at rest, so.”

  Ruby nodded and, against her will, found herself meekly following the priest out of the woods.

  Chapter nineteen

  Belfast, 1983

  Henry Shevlin studied the houses on Mountview Terrace. A drab line of crumbling, brownstone dwellings that had seen better times. He didn’t like the look of the place and felt uneasy. This was clearly Republican territory. Some houses had tricolors draped from upper-story windows. Other residents had chosen to mark their territory by painting the curbstones green, white, and orange. Several boys kicking a ball about stopped and eyed him sullenly. He double-checked the address that the hotel receptionist had written down for him. Yes, it tallied with the house he stood facing. A three-up, two-down, with a hall door crying out for a fresh coat of paint.

  The doorbell wasn’t working. He knocked twice and braced himself for an unpleasant encounter. After a lengthy wait, he heard several bolts being disengaged and the sound of a key turning. The door creaked open. An elderly little woman in a checked pinny stood blinking up at him. She was plainly nervous.

  “He’s not here,” she said, glancing up and down the street.

  “Mr. Halligan?”

  “Aye. They said you’d be comin’ round today. You’d better come in.”

  He was mystified. Clearly he’d been mistaken for another. Who that other could be was impossible to say.

  But Henry Shevlin was no coward. The stakes were high: Connie was uppermost in his mind. This old woman and this dilapidated old house on the wrong side of town were his new and unexpected links to her possible whereabouts. If risks had to be taken, he was ready to take them.

  The hallway smelled of mildew and the odors left by cheap cooking. The room the little lady led the way into was tiny, dim, and cluttered. He saw coverings of faded rose-print, photos from a bygone age, religious statues set about. Henry did his best not to stare too much. The tiny window frame rattled disagreeably as a British Army armored personnel carrier roared by out on the street.

  “I didn’t t
hink they’d be sendin’ a plainclothes detective,” the little woman said. “Mr. Halligan must be very important.”

  Henry paused before replying.

  That night, having dinner in his living room and replaying the events of the day, he thought again of the incredible stroke of good fortune that had caused his beeper to sound at that exact moment. With an instinct born of habit, he plucked the little instrument from his breast pocket and checked the readout.

  Sure enough, it was Bill Bachman. He’d suspected as much. His locum therapist was requesting his help for the third time that day. Bill was a cautious young man; he seldom made a decision without the backup of a superior.

  Henry nodded slowly and returned the pager to his pocket. He could see that the old lady was impressed.

  “That was the station, Mrs. . . . ?”

  “O’Leary,” she said at once. “Mrs. O’Leary. Would you be going to . . . eh . . . ?”

  “I’ll need to ask you a few questions, Mrs. O’Leary.” He hoped to blazes she wouldn’t demand to see ID but guessed she would not. He could tell she was used to detectives nosing about the place. Nevertheless, he’d have to tread carefully. One slipup and she’d be onto him. “Impersonating an officer”—wasn’t that what they called it in those American cop shows? “I must caution you, however.”

  “Yes, Inspector.” She was more nervous now. “What is it you’d like to know now?”

  “Halligan. He lodges with you, does he?”

  “That’s right, Inspector. He rents a room. But y’know, I hardly know if he’s in or out. He comes and goes.”

  “When did you last see him?”

  She thought hard. “A week ago . . . maybe two. It’s hard to know ’cos he doesn’t take meals here. He pays me a retainer, y’see. Oh, he pays very well . . . and him hardly ever sleepin’ here.”

  “The last time you saw him, did he have a woman with him?”

  “No . . . no. I don’t think so.”

  It was an odd answer. “You don’t think so?”

  “Well, yeh see, women call here lookin’ for him all the time. He’s very popular with the ladies.”

  So Connie’s not the only one. How could she be so gullible?

  “And why would that be, Mrs. O’Leary?”

  “Oh, he’s very handsome, Inspector . . . eh . . . What did you say your name was?”

  “McKenzie.” The name had come almost instantly. He’d been thinking of an ex-colleague with that surname, who’d been popular with the ladies, too. “And . . .”

  “And a real Yankee. Always dresses well. Ladies like that in a man, so they do.”

  Henry was aware of a little worm of jealousy wriggling its way into his psyche. He squashed it immediately. This was no time for such distractions. He sensed that he was closer to Connie than he’d been since the evening of her disappearance. It was vital that he kept a cool head. Mrs. O’Leary could turn out to be his greatest ally in the search. He had to play the hand she was dealing him—and play it well.

  “How much are yins gonna pay me? It’s just that it’s dangerous for me and I’m takin’ a risk, like.”

  What on earth was she talking about? He had to be extra cautious. “Don’t know. You’ll have to speak to the boss. I would like to see his bedroom, if I may.”

  Mrs. O’Leary hesitated.

  “You’ve been most cooperative, and I appreciate it. A young woman may be in danger . . . and you can help her.”

  “Oh dear!” The landlady put a hand to her mouth. Henry was sorry he’d frightened her. But he really needed to see that room. “He’s not a murderer? Mr. Halligan.”

  “No, he’s not a murderer, but he may be playing with fire. These Yankees don’t know how dangerous this city can be, that’s all.”

  She got up and peered through the lace curtains, looking from right to left.

  “By rights I should return with a search warrant but something tells me that a lady like yourself won’t stand on ceremony, so I’ll—”

  “That’s all right, Inspector.” She went into the kitchen and returned moments later with a bunch of keys. “He usually keeps his door locked, but I’ll let you in.”

  “That’s very good of you.”

  She mounted the stairs ahead of him.

  Henry stood staring at the spartan room. It contained a small four-poster bed with a threadbare eiderdown, a bedside locker, an ancient closet, and a dressing table.

  “I’ll leave you to get on.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. O’Leary. I’ll lock up when I’m done.”

  He listened to her uncertain tread on the stairs, and waited until he heard the kitchen door shut with a light click. Reluctantly, he turned his attention back to the room.

  Why was the wealthy American living in a dump like this? It just didn’t add up. And what was Connie doing with him? He doubted he’d find the answer here.

  The bed looked as though it had seldom been slept in. He checked the closet. Nothing. The drawers in the dressing table yielded nothing, either.

  He was about to leave when he realized he hadn’t checked the bedside locker.

  A lonely biro rolled to the front of the drawer as he yanked it open. There was a torn sheet of notepaper, too.

  Blank, alas.

  He turned it over. There was something scribbled on it. Maybe nothing. But best to make sure. Any clue was better than leaving empty-handed.

  He took the page to the window to have a closer look.

  Thanks for everything, Harry.

  Best of luck,

  Holly

  Harry was obviously Halligan.

  But, Holly . . . ?

  “Well, you see, women call here lookin’ for him all the time. He’s very popular with the ladies.”

  Holly could be anyone. But that handwriting, that handwriting. There was something about it. The right-leaning slant, the disconnect between letters, which showed a sometimes impractical mind, the high-pressured hand. Those Rs always capitalized, even within words.

  He took one of Connie’s notes from his wallet, placed it under the writing.

  Yes, it looked very like hers. The similarities were striking.

  Could it be? Could this piece of paper be the first real link to her disappearance? He was uncertain.

  What he was certain of, however, was that the elusive Mr. Halligan frequented this place. And that Connie had been seen in his company.

  He could not but conclude that, strange though it seemed, this little house with its doddery old resident was trying to tell him something.

  He put the note to Harry in his pocket and exited the room, the idea for his next step already taking shape.

  Chapter twenty

  Ruby was troubled. Father Kelly had upset her ritual and turned off the voice inside her—Dana’s voice, or was it Edna’s voice? That positive, decisive, powerful force she knew and respected so well, had been silenced by a man in a long black coat and clerical collar.

  Why had it deserted her at that crucial moment?

  Was it the fact he was a priest?

  Was it because he’d invaded Dana’s sacred space? Spoiled the sanctity of her ritual? Well, very, very soon Ruby would be enacting the real ritual: the midsummer ritual. And this time she’d make sure no one disturbed her.

  Yes, she’d resolved that no one—not even Father Kelly—would stop her. At that special hour, under the light of a silvery moon, he’d be fast asleep, dead to the world in his shuttered house on the outskirts of Tailorstown.

  Ruby in her bed, restless, was replaying what had happened when she’d followed the priest out of the woods. The confusion she’d felt. And the guilt she carried as she trudged in his wake, through the furze and the ferns, under a quickening sky, toward the farmhouse.

  He strode ahead of her, as if anxious to put some dis
tance between them.

  Odd.

  He’d always liked to talk.

  She saw him glance in the direction of Beldam Lake, then raise his right hand and swiftly make the sign of the cross.

  “Why did you do that, Father?”

  He stopped and turned.

  She’d had the question out before realizing how impertinent it sounded. You never asked a priest why he did things. Most especially holy things.

  “I act on God’s prompting, Ruby. And you must do likewise.”

  On their return to the house they’d said a decade of the rosary together, in the kitchen along with the mother. Then he’d taken some holy water from a bag and announced that he’d bless the bedrooms. Ruby’s heart had skipped a beat. Edna’s case? What if he looked under the bed?

  She tried to stall him. “But why, Father?”

  “What sort of question’s that?” Martha, staring at her, incredulous. “Why wouldn’t you want your room blessed?”

  She saw her mother and Father Kelly swap looks. Closed, unreadable.

  “Well . . . it’s . . . it’s just that . . . I didn’t have time to tidy up my room this morning, and . . .”

  “Father Kelly won’t mind what state it’s in. Isn’t that right, Father?”

  “Not a bit of it, Ruby. But, if it makes you feel better, you run on there—”

  She was up and in the room almost before he’d finished the sentence. But where else to conceal the case? The wardrobe?

  A voice behind her made her jump.

  “Sure your room’s grand, Ruby.”

  Father Kelly in the doorway, looking grim. “Now you go down and make your mother and me a nice cuppa tea.” He draped a stole about his neck and smoothed it down. “And let me get on with God’s good business.”

  Ruby squeezed her eyes tight now, recalling the pain of having to leave him in the room, alone.

  Please, Dana, don’t let him find the case and take my dreams away.

  “The Father likes a strong cup,” her mother said. “Put four spoons in the pot.”