The Lazarus Bell, an Irish Murder Mystery

by Patrick Dunne

  I tried to dismiss my anxieties, but a part of me still wished we had been more cautious about the whole exercise.

  Chapter Seven

  ‘Holly Blues,’ said Finian. ‘We’ve had an invasion of them since yesterday. Beautiful, aren’t they?’ He gave me a kiss on the cheek. ‘The same colour as your eyes.’

  I kissed him back. ‘You charming man,’ I said. We were taking the long way round to the summerhouse and were passing through the Ghost Garden when the light breeze sent a flurry of cobalt-blue petals dancing into the air. Then I realised they were butterflies.

  At Brookfield, Finian had created a suite of horticultural rooms, each with its own theme, mood, plants and colours. It was arranged like an unfolded chess-board over two hectares, with the diverted stream forming a placid water-feature along the central spine. The rooms ranged in temperament from the monk-like austerity of a Karesansui ‘dry’ garden to the natural woodland and stream, with its footbridge half a kilometre above the point where it flowed into the canal. And in colour they spanned the spectrum, from the Lava Field – its many varieties of bright- and dark-red flowers shot through with veins of incandescent yellows and flaming oranges – to my favourite, the Ghost Garden. This was an ice-cool room filled with whites, pale blues and mauves, and on moonlit nights it took on another persona, glowing spectrally in the dark. In between there were compartments featuring old roses, drifts of rustling grasses and herbaceous borders, all divided by box and beech hedges, flowering shrubs and allées of native trees.

  Finian had greeted me with a welcoming glass of prosecco when I arrived, and I strolled along with him, glass in hand, as he pointed out what was coming into bloom. As usual when not in his working clothes, Finian was in a combination of grey and black, matching his hair and beard. On this occasion he had chosen black jeans and a short-sleeved, patterned shirt that looked a bit like a Hawaiian shirt in a black-and-white film.

  I was looking forward to hiding away from the world with him over the next few hours. Quite often a foreign diplomat, a visiting celebrity, a leading gardener from overseas, secured a private showing of the garden after public viewing hours; it was something Finian enjoyed doing, but we both realised that in this, our first summer as an engaged couple, our evenings together were precious, since we both worked during the day. So, as often as possible, he encouraged his private visitors to come between five and seven.

  ‘Sorry I was so abrupt with you earlier; it was mayhem here,’ he said.

  ‘I understood that. But at least you set me thinking about Our Lady of Castleboyne. So when Father Burke claimed the statue was her, I was able to counter him.’ I described what had taken place. ‘I’m glad it’s out of my hands now, though. I don’t want to have a run-in with him – after all, he’s meant to be officiating at our wedding.’

  Finian stiffened ever so slightly, but sufficiently for me to detect it through our linked arms.

  I stopped. ‘What’s the matter?’ We had already agreed on a church wedding, even though Finian would have been just as happy with a registry office. It had taken quite a lot of negotiation – Finian could be extremely stubborn, a quality that had undoubtedly helped him in the herculean task of creating Brookfield.

  He unlinked my arm and set his glass down on a nearby garden chair. Then he held my shoulders, looking me in the eyes. ‘You know how we haven’t set a date yet…not exactly?’ Because my excavation ran into the high season at Brookfield, we had chosen the last quarter of the year as a suitable time for our marriage, and had long ago decided that the reception would be a low-key occasion with a small number of guests – an event that wouldn’t require the long-term advance planning that most weddings seem to demand. ‘Well, something has come up. A job offer. I’m trying not to let it interfere, but we may have to work around it.’

  ‘Interfere…work around it…what do you mean?’ Finian sometimes did consultancy work for people planning or renovating gardens, but this sounded like something more demanding.

  ‘I’ve been approached by the National Trust in England to participate in an unusual project, a garden based on a poem by Alexander Pope. There’s a letter on the way; I won’t know the details until I get it. But I take it you’re prepared to be flexible where dates are concerned.’

  I was relieved. ‘Sure. Within reason, of course. I don’t want you leaving the next day like a soldier going off to the front.’

  He kissed me on the cheek. ‘That won’t happen. Now let’s see what else has blossomed in the past while…’ He kissed me again. ‘Apart from our love, of course.’

  I linked him again and squeezed him close.

  A tunnel of scented lilacs, freshly in bloom, had taken us into the Ghost Garden. Leaving it, we passed under a laburnum arch that had been just plain green foliage a week before, but was now hung with long hanks of yellow flowers. It was the time of year for rapid change. Only last week, too, the fields beyond the garden had been sporting dandelions; now it was buttercups.

  Blackbirds and thrushes were hopping about the lawn as we crossed to the timber summerhouse. A rabbit munching his supper in front of it paid no attention to us until we were almost upon him, then jinked away to hide under the beech hedge behind the house, not entirely successfully – I could still see his tail.

  We climbed the steps onto the deck of the railed, octagonal building where we would be dining. The deceptive thing about the summerhouse was that, having reached it after exploring numerous rooms, you felt that you were quite a distance from the house, and that it was thoughtfully placed there to provide rest and shade for the tourists on their trip around the garden. This was partly true, because visitors had by this point completed half of the tour, but in fact the main house was right beside the summerhouse and accessible through a barely discernible gap in the beech hedge. The summerhouse was really an extension of the patio behind the house.

  Arthur’s golden Labrador, Bess, had waddled out from the house to greet me, and I patted her as I sat down. I noticed Finian already had the table set and the wine – two bottles – chilling in a bucket on one of the wrought-iron garden chairs.

  ‘How’s Arthur, by the way?’ I asked. I would normally have spent a few minutes chatting with him before going out into the garden, but we hadn’t been into the house.

  ‘He’s tip-top, as he says himself. He’s having a chat…’ He paused.

  Then I noticed the table was set for three. ‘Joining us, is he?’

  ‘Er…not exactly. Well, not him. Someone else.’

  ‘Oh? Who?’ I didn’t recall Finian mentioning a guest earlier. But, then again, I had been somewhat distracted when I’d spoken to him. And I hadn’t really dressed up, either – although after I’d showered, I’d changed into jeans and the palest of pink sweaters, and switched the hiking shoes for a pair of pink-and-white trainers.

  ‘Malcolm Sherry.’

  My mouth flapped open but nothing came out. It wasn’t that I was annoyed; it was just so unexpected. ‘How…why…?’ I began to find my voice.

  ‘He called to ask my father about finding the body in the stream, anything else he might have noticed at the time and so on. Dad seemed to take to him and suggested I give him a tour of the place, which I dutifully did. Then, out of the blue, he invited Sherry to dinner – with you and me! I could hardly say no.’

  I could imagine Arthur being impressed by Malcolm. Despite being in his late thirties, like me, Malcolm Sherry had the airs and interests of a man more of Arthur’s generation than of his own. He was ideal material for an old-fashioned country doctor, were such posts available outside of Sunday-night TV series. And there was one other drawback – he only attended to the dead.

  ‘Sherry also said he’d like to meet you again.’

  ‘Really?’

  Finian went back down the steps and exited through the hedge, accompanied by Bess. While I waited for him to return with our unexpected guest I poured myself some wine and took in the bouquet, which was almost overwhelmed by the
scent of some rambling roses wrapped around a post close to where I was sitting. Their perfume was so strong that it perversely reminded me of the earlier gut-wrenching stench at the cemetery. I wondered how Terry Johnston was. No doubt Cora Gavin would have contacted me if there had been anything amiss.

  A wren flew out from the hedge and whirred low across the lawn like a toy. Finian and Malcolm pushed through the opening in the hedge, each bearing a tray.

  ‘Ah, Illaun, good to see you again.’ Malcolm climbed the steps, put the tray on the table and leaned down to give me a kiss on the cheek. He was wearing a navy-blue blazer and grey trousers, with a white shirt and red cravat.

  ‘Hello, Malcolm.’

  Malcolm ran his hand nervously through his baby-thin blond hair, under which his scalp showed bright pink, evidently scalded by the sun earlier in the day. ‘Last time we met was under the roof of the old morgue at Drogheda hospital. Around Christmas, wasn’t it?’

  He stood awkwardly beside me as Finian set out the plates, which were topped with stainless-steel covers.

  ‘It was at Newgrange, actually,’ I said. Malcolm had twisted my arm to gain him admission to the solstice event at the renowned passage tomb, all to impress a new amour who had managed to insult me and a number of other archaeologists gathered there for the occasion.

  ‘Ah, yes, you’re right, of course.’ He blushed as red as the nearby roses.

  Finian picked up the trays. ‘I’ve a couple of other things to bring out. Won’t be a minute. Will you serve the wine, my love?’ He went back into the house.

  Malcolm remained hovering beside me.

  ‘Please…’ I said, gesturing to one of the bamboo chairs. I was genuinely trying to put him at ease. ‘Have some wine.’ I poured for him and Finian.

  ‘How’s Isabelle?’ I asked as Malcolm sat down.

  He reacted as if he’d just landed on a drawing pin. ‘Er…not sure, to be honest. Haven’t seen her for a while…’ He paused.

  I waited.

  ‘Didn’t quite work out between us, you see.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Malcolm.’ And I was. He was a decent sort, really. And yet I felt relieved. He had escaped somehow. Isabelle just wasn’t his type.

  ‘Yes. You recall we went to Germany for Christmas. Munich. We were invited to a medical dinner there. Isabelle chose the occasion to announce to all and sundry that ancient Egyptian medicine was superior to the modern variety – you know the way she expresses her opinions…’

  How could I forget?

  ‘I would have forgiven her that, it was innocent enough, but then she informed my friend Gudrun Walder – she’s an eminent neurosurgeon – that the physicians who practised trepanning of the skull in those days had more advanced knowledge of the brain. When Gudrun asked her how she was so knowledgeable about Egypt, Isabelle informed her that she was the reincarnation of an Egyptian physician. And that Gudrun had been an apothecary in her service.’

  I couldn’t suppress a smile.

  ‘I know. It’s funny now, but at the time… Anyway, enough of that – I believe congratulations are in order where you’re concerned.’ He was referring to my engagement to Finian at Easter.

  ‘Thank you, Malcolm.’

  ‘Ahem – it’s been a long time coming, I believe.’ Malcolm didn’t want to seem prying, but his curiosity was hard to disguise.

  ‘We’ve been close since I was in secondary school. Finian was my history teacher, and he encouraged me to do archaeology. When I went to college, he left teaching to work full-time on Brookfield. After I’d graduated, we went our separate ways, but in the past few years we’ve got back together again. Except both of us were too busy to consider marriage until now.’

  Malcolm smiled and took in the view – the expanse of lawn, the deep blue sky providing a backdrop for the tiers of shrubs and trees being highlighted by the rays of the evening sun as it withdrew across the garden. ‘It’s an impressive place,’ he said. ‘Will you be living here after you get married?’

  ‘I expect so,’ I replied. I heard Finian coming back. ‘But that won’t be for a while yet.’

  Finian arrived with a bowl of green salad and a pepper mill. ‘Time to see what’s lurking under those covers,’ he said, sitting down.

  Malcolm and I lifted the covers from our plates and found fried salmon steaks, served with crushed and buttered new potatoes. Finian doled out the salad.

  It had us all murmuring with approval as soon as we started to eat. I decided one potato wouldn’t do me any harm.

  ‘Finian said you made an unusual find today,’ Malcolm said.

  ‘Yes. A medieval statue of a Virgin and Child in, of all things, a lead coffin.’

  ‘How strange.’

  ‘At first glance I thought it was a perfectly preserved body.’

  ‘Not surprising. Sealed lead coffins create anaerobic conditions that can preserve cadavers astonishingly well. Ever hear of St Bees Man?’

  I had. Which was probably why I’d been prepared to believe the lifelike resident of the lead coffin in the graveyard was a corpse.

  ‘No, tell me,’ said Finian.

  ‘St Bees is a town in Cumbria. They found this man while excavating a Benedictine priory there in the 1980s. He was wrapped in what you might say was a lead shroud and – oddly enough, given the name of the town – in beeswaxed cloth as well. When they uncovered him they found that, despite having been buried for six hundred years, he was perfectly preserved. In fact, his tissues were still pink – including the liver when they sectioned it.’

  I glanced over at Finian, who was lifting a forkful of salmon to his mouth. He looked at it for a moment and put it back down in pretend disgust. At least none of us was squeamish, but it was hardly an ideal dinner-table topic.

  ‘There was also fluid in the pleural cavity that had—’

  ‘So who do you—’ Finian interjected, making it sound like an accident. Malcolm waved him right of way. ‘Sorry, Malcolm. I was just about to ask Illaun if she has any idea who was buried along with the statue.’

  ‘Not yet,’ I said. ‘But burial in a lead coffin in the Middle Ages would suggest a high-status individual, or at least someone who could afford it. It might have been an ecclesiastic, a noble, or a wealthy merchant, perhaps.’

  ‘I’m not with you,’ said Malcolm, blinking at us both in turn. ‘Do you mean there was a body in the coffin as well?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Malcolm, I should have explained,’ I said. ‘There were actually two coffins side by side in a smallish vault, which has since fallen in.’

  ‘And what was in the other one?’

  ‘Coffin liquor, I think it’s called; plus some hair and a few bones.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Lead coffins are prone to bursting. It’s from the build-up of what the Victorians liked to call “mephitic vapours” – gases, in other words. Decomposition ensues, but unpredictably. It depends on ambient conditions and the preservative qualities of lead itself.’

  ‘Would there be any danger of infection from the contents, even after hundreds of years?’ I asked.

  ‘Residual tissue and coffin liquor are potential health hazards, irrespective of age. That’s why cadavers in lead coffins are the highest risk category for transmission of disease from the dead. And of course the risk is greater if the individual died of an infectious disease.’

  I glanced across at Finian again. He gave me a worried look.

  Malcolm continued to eat his food with relish, unaware of the chill he had sent into my heart.

  ‘Any further thoughts on what the statue was doing there?’ asked Finian, trying again to guide the subject to safer shores.

  I went along with him. ‘Hiding valuables in a cemetery was a known practice, especially in times of upheaval.’

  ‘Such as the Black Death,’ said Malcolm, keeping us anchored in much the same place.

  ‘Good point,’ said Finian. ‘But the Reformation two centuries later was also a period of great turmoil. Maybe the statue was hidden then
, rather than destroyed.’

  ‘It can’t be Our Lady of Castleboyne. It’s too late in style,’ I insisted.

  ‘A replacement, then,’ said Finian.

  ‘Who’s Our Lady of Castleboyne?’ Malcolm asked.

  ‘A miraculous image. The reason why pilgrims came here in the Middle Ages.’ I looked at Finian. ‘We’re going to have to see what SIV can find for us. Maybe you can help me with that.’ I turned back to Malcolm. ‘It’s a desk-based data-mining tool we’ve developed. With a lot of help from Gayle Fowler, one of my staff.’

  ‘SIV stands for Search Inquiry Variables, but it’s really just a pun on the word “sieve”,’ Finian added. ‘And it works on the same principle: sifting through material using different widths of mesh. Basically, we’ve inputted as much information about Castleboyne as we could, from all sorts of sources, ranging from the Record of Monuments and Places to the Annals of the Four Masters.’

  ‘We’ve downloaded, scanned in, typed up – you name it – anything we could lay our hands on, up to the end of the nineteenth century, to give us our own in-house archive. We’ve fed in as much folklore as we could, too – that was one of Finian’s jobs. It can be an important source of information when no other records are available.’

  ‘And is there folklore about the Black Death in Castleboyne?’

  ‘There’s a ghost story about the Maudlins cemetery,’ said Finian. ‘It was said to be haunted by a woman in a long cloak. Every now and then she would claim a new occupant for her graveyard by seating herself behind some unfortunate horseman approaching Castleboyne and clasping him in her cold embrace. As they passed the gates of the cemetery, a black hell-hound with red eyes would run out onto the road and startle the horse. The rider would try to calm it, at which point the woman would alight and disappear. But soon afterwards the rider would fall ill and die, claimed by Lady Death for her palace of the dead.’

  ‘I’m petrified,’ said Malcolm with heavy humour. ‘But does it tell you anything?’

  Finian was well used to scepticism. ‘If you had nothing else to go on, it would tell you that people once believed that something in the graveyard had the power to kill some time after a person had come in contact with it – an infectious disease, in other words. And that’s a clue to its use as a burial ground for victims of the plague.’