I could see why Finian had mentioned Lady Death to me earlier. Did the image of a deadly female ghost haunting the graveyard have something to do with the statue?
‘We didn’t find any plague victims at first,’ I said. ‘Just south of the chapel there were fourteen leper burials – the graves were deep and well separated, so the people had died when their time had come, not in an epidemic. Then we came across another group of burials a little further away from the chapel – ten or so, side by side in what we call string burials. They were also in separate cuts, but the graves were shallower than the leper burials and were all evidently made at around the same time. So from that we knew there had been a catastrophic event, which—’
‘Which could have been a battle,’ Malcolm interjected.
‘Except there are no signs of violence on the skeletons,’ I countered. ‘Nor of leprosy. Plague leaves no marks on bone.’
‘So you think they were the Black Death’s first victims.’
‘Yes. Also, their skeletons were relatively intact, and the way the long bones were positioned suggests that the bodies were secured at the hands and feet – so they must have been prepared for burial and maybe wrapped in shrouds or winding sheets. The point being, when the Black Death struck Castleboyne, the townspeople tried to cope with it as best they could, tried to give the victims the proper burial rites – even the Magdalene Hospital inmates, who were mostly pilgrims. But then it all began to break down.’
‘Break down?’
‘We don’t know what happened within the town itself, but the result at the Maudlins was the digging of two mass graves – plague pits – just behind the burials I’ve mentioned. Each of them contained about thirty bodies, some heaped on top of each other, others with just a thin layer of earth between them – like lasagne, as an Italian witness to the Black Death said. Many of the skeletons were disarticulated, and those that were intact tended to be splayed out, some with their arms flung to one side, showing they’d been literally thrown in with little attention to funeral rites. It had obviously become impossible to provide individual burials – probably due to a combination of the number of victims and a shortage of manpower. We’ve designated seventy-five out of ninety bodies in one small graveyard as plague victims, most of whom were just passing through. And probably all in the late summer of 1348.’
‘What dating evidence do you have?’
‘No radiocarbon dates yet, but we found some coins called jettons that can be dated to the mid-fourteenth century, which is enough to be going on with for now.’
Malcolm finished his glass. ‘You know, it’s remarkable how close what you’ve been doing is to my line of work,’ he said approvingly. ‘Cause of death, position of skeleton, items found with it, and so on.’ He sat back and dabbed his lips. ‘I have to say, Finian, this is excellent fare.’
‘More wine?’
Malcolm gestured his assent, and Finian topped him up.
‘You say most of them were pilgrims. What makes you so certain?’ Malcolm took a sip from his replenished glass.
‘We found their badges.’
‘Pilgrims wore badges?’
‘They were sold as souvenirs at every pilgrimage site in Europe. Pilgrims sewed them onto their hats and clothing or wore them around their necks. Some were little ampoules for carrying drops of lamp-oil or holy water, but the best known weren’t man-made at all: they were scallop shells that pilgrims collected from the seashore on their way to Santiago de Compostela in Spain. We found a number of them and a few metal badges, including one from the shrine of St Thomas Becket at Canterbury.’
‘So some of the pilgrims would have travelled from England and the Continent?’
‘Yes. Those jettons I mentioned also point to a place. They’re not coins, exactly; they’re brass counters, used for calculating and gaming. The ones we found originated in the Low Countries, and they were in one of the pits, with a group of three skeletons that were laid side by side together. There was also a piece of multi-coloured fabric that we believe may have come from a hood, which may indicate that the victims were buried in their clothes. That could also account for the jettons; they might have fallen out of a bag or a pocket. We also found two pilgrim badges of a kind associated with northern mainland Europe.’
I decided not to mention that the badges were of a type usually called ‘profane’ – depicting sexually explicit images. Their place in medieval society wasn’t very well understood. There was also a question mark over the way the three individuals had been buried. The orientation of every other burial, single or multiple, was east-west – these were facing north-south. I had intended looking into the possible reasons for this after the excavation had finished, but I would have to put it on hold for now.
‘Presumably all of these pilgrims were coming to see Our Lady of Castleboyne?’ said Malcolm.
‘Yes. And, unfortunately, when the plague broke out this would have helped it to spread. The disease may even have been brought by pilgrims in the first place. Strangely enough, though, we haven’t found a single badge that might have originated in Castleboyne. Nothing to tell us what the image of Our Lady looked like.’
I shivered. The dusk had settled into the garden and there was a damp chill in the air. I looked over at Finian. He had his elbows on the table and was leaning his chin on his hands, with his eyes half-closed. He had been less talkative than usual, I thought, and not just because Malcolm had wanted to know so much about the excavation. Finian always found a way to introduce his garden into the conversation.
I reached over and nudged his arm. ‘Hey, my love, are you with us?’
His eyes widened. ‘Yes, yes, of course.’ He looked about him. ‘Let’s throw some light on the subject,’ he said, getting up and switching on the lights: a string of lanterns encircling the eaves and a series of outdoor beacons illuminating the lawn and shrubbery. He rubbed his hands together, then leaned on the railing and peered out onto the lawn, like the captain of a ship. ‘It’s a lovely evening, but I think we should move back to the patio and put on the heater.’
‘Ah, the Irish summer,’ said Malcolm. ‘I was just saying to Peter Groot that he’d be advised—’
‘Who’s that?’ Finian interjected.
‘A South African pathologist who’s coming to—’
‘No – who the hell’s that?’
I followed his gaze and saw a man lumbering towards us across the lawn.
His progress was interrupted as he staggered sideways and then halted. He was wearing jeans and a red singlet. He mumbled something I couldn’t make out before heading once more in our direction. I could finally see his face. It was Terry Johnston. And he was very drunk.
‘I know who it is,’ I said to the others, getting up and stepping down onto the lawn.
Terry tried to speak again, but his skinny frame was racked by a fit of coughing. Catching his breath, he made one more attempt to reach us and pitched over onto the grass about five metres away.
I ran to him, with the others following close behind. Malcolm knelt beside me and we turned Terry onto his back. He had his eyes open.
‘What brings you here, Terry?’ I asked gently, leaning over him. I could see sweat glistening on his forehead.
Malcolm held up his arm and felt his wrist for a pulse. I saw Finian at the far end of the lawn, checking about for other intruders.
Terry looked past me, raised his other arm and pointed to the roses festooning the summerhouse. He smiled crookedly. Then he began to sing. ‘Ring-a-ring-a-rosy, a pocket full of posies…’ I could smell the whiskey on his breath.
Malcolm laid the back of his hand on Terry’s forehead.
‘You know this guy?’ Finian asked, arriving back.
‘His name is Terry Johnston – he’s the digger who was under the coffin when it gave way.’
Malcolm stood up. ‘Well, he’s not just drunk. He’s delirious. He’s got an extremely high fever, and his pulse is off the scale. He should be in hospital.�
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‘He was,’ I said. ‘We’ll have to get him back there.’
‘…A-tishoo, a-tishoo, we all fall down.’ Terry finished the rhyme and cackled.
‘What’s this about a coffin?’ asked Malcolm.
‘It’s why I was asking you earlier about the risk of infection from lead coffins,’ I said. ‘One of them spilled on top of this man earlier today.’
Malcolm’s normally boyish face turned grim.
‘I’ll call an ambulance,’ said Finian.
‘No, it might be better if Malcolm talked directly to the hospital. Then they’ll know what to expect. You get him a blanket.’
Finian ran back to the farmhouse. Malcolm took out his mobile phone and asked directory inquiries to put him through to St Loman’s.
Terry had another bout of coughing that made his eyes red and watery. I waited until it passed, then knelt down beside him.
‘What made you come here, Terry? You should have stayed in the hospital.’
‘Met Peggy…said you’d be here…’ He began to sing hoarsely, ‘Yes, I met with pretty Peggy-o…’
Peggy usually knew where to find me even outside of business hours.
‘Yes, I met with pretty Peg…’
As he ran out of steam, I overheard Malcolm talking to someone in St Loman’s A&E. He recommended barrier nursing and asked that Terry’s blood be tested for the presence of Yersinia pestis – the organism responsible for bubonic plague.
Terry gained renewed strength from somewhere, leaned up on his elbows and began to belt out ‘Carrickfergus’.
I’m drunk today and I’m seldom sober
A handsome rover from town to town…
Ah, but I’m sick now, my days are numbered,
Come all ye young men and lay me down…
He flopped back down again, grabbing my arm as he did so. ‘I needed to tell you something…had a few hot whiskeys on the way, though.’ He smiled wanly, then closed his eyes and drifted off, his jaw dropping open. I noticed some flecks of blood in the sticky threads of spittle attached to his lips.
Finian arrived with a blanket and a pillow. Malcolm came across and gave me a thumbs-up.
The grass was damp. I shook Terry’s shoulder. ‘Terry, can you get up? It would be better if you sat in one of the chairs. The ambulance will be here shortly.’
His eyes popped open. ‘Staying here,’ he grunted. ‘…Sick if I stand up.’
I nodded to Finian and he handed Malcolm the pillow, which he slipped under Terry’s head as Finian laid the blanket over him. Terry’s eyes closed again.
‘What did you want to tell me, Terry?’
There was no response. I decided to leave him in peace.
We went and sat on the steps of the summerhouse.
‘What were they testing him for at the hospital, do you know?’ asked Malcolm.
‘Leptospirosis and hepatitis A,’ I replied.
‘It will take a while to culture his bloods fully,’ said Malcolm. ‘But anything significant should be noticeable by tomorrow evening.’
‘What neither of you is saying is, it could be plague,’ said Finian, looking at me. He shook his head. ‘And yet you put yourself at risk collecting samples of that stuff.’
‘Ffff…’ Malcolm made a disapproving noise through his front teeth. ‘Finian’s right – not very wise, Illaun.’ He turned to Finian. ‘The only thing is, if it is plague, it can be treated.’
For a moment I felt like a little girl among grown-ups.
‘Bubonic plague, that is,’ I said.
‘Isn’t that what the Black Death was?’ said Malcolm, somewhat superciliously.
I didn’t get a chance to reply. The blue lights of an ambulance were flickering behind the trees as it drove silently up the avenue to the farmhouse. It had taken less than ten minutes for it to come.
Finian went to meet the ambulance crew, and soon the paramedics were on the lawn, lifting Terry onto a stretcher. The movement woke him up and as they passed us he raised his head and began to speak to me, but his voice was very weak. I asked the paramedics to stop for a second and approached the stretcher.
‘It’s not what you think,’ he rasped, his tongue dry and clicking inside his mouth. A look of fear had invaded his eyes. I came as close as I dared. His voice dropped to a barely detectable whisper. ‘It’s worse…far worse.’
Chapter Eight
‘Let’s go into the house,’ said Finian. ‘I think we could all do with another drink.’
We trooped through the patio and into the conservatory, which was still warm from the heat of the day. Finian suggested we stay there to enjoy our nightcap. He asked us our preferences and went for the drinks, and Malcolm and I sat in bamboo chairs.
Then we heard Arthur’s stick pounding across the wooden floor within.
‘What was all that about?’ he inquired, coming into the conservatory but staying on his feet. He had the top of his green pyjamas stuffed into a pair of cavalry twill trousers, their red braces hanging down.
‘Won’t you join us?’ I said.
‘No, thanks. I was just going to bed when I saw the lights of the ambulance. I thought it had come for me.’
Malcolm and I both laughed.
‘One of my excavation team was paying us a visit and took ill,’ I said. ‘We thought we should get him to the hospital.’
‘A bit more drama, eh?’
‘Yes, you’ve all had your fair share of it today,’ said Malcolm.
Arthur glanced over at me. ‘Finian told you about it?’
‘Yes, he did. It must have given you quite a shock.’
‘I think it’s harder to be shocked at my age. I was more upset that the poor lassie had drowned. She probably didn’t know how dangerous even a stream can be.’
Malcolm murmured something in agreement, and Arthur turned to leave; but then he leaned back into the conservatory and looked me up and down. ‘No wonder he was keeping you out of sight tonight. You look very fetching in pink.’ He winked at me and nodded in the direction of the bedrooms. ‘Any chance?’
‘Not while there are guests in the house,’ I said flirtatiously.
Arthur guffawed loudly and pounded back inside.
‘He seems none the worse for his experience,’ I said to Malcolm.
‘A tough old boot, I suppose. And I guess believing that she accidentally drowned makes it easier for him to accept.’
‘So what are you saying – that it wasn’t an accident?’
‘I’m saying that she didn’t drown.’
‘You mean her body was dumped in the river after she died.’
‘After she was murdered, to be more precise.’
Finian came back with a tray of drinks. ‘Aha. So she was murdered,’ he said, handing them out: a gin and tonic for Malcolm, a still water for me, a glass of Banyuls for himself.
Malcolm looked around the windows of the conservatory as if checking for eavesdroppers outside. ‘Strictly between us…you do understand?’
‘Of course,’ we said in unison.
‘You see…it could be quite explosive, politically speaking. Especially here in Castleboyne.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m satisfied the dead woman is probably African. Establishing her racial identity would have been more difficult if she’d remained in the stream much longer. The outer layer of skin, which contains melanin, was sloughing off and taking the pigment with it.’
‘So she’s black. But what makes you so sure she’s African?’
‘Because of how she was killed, or what happened after she was killed. It’s unlikely that someone outside the African community would have been selected for the purpose. You see, the head, hands, breasts and genitals were cut off – and, most telling, the atlas bone at the top of the neck was removed. It’s the first cervical vertebra, where the skull attaches to the spine, and it’s particularly prized because it has the strength to support the head.’
‘Prized? Prized by whom?’ ask
ed Finian.
‘By the kind of people who harvest body parts to make medicine.’
‘God Almighty,’ said Finian. ‘As in magic or voodoo?’
‘Yes. I think we may have a muti killing on our hands. Remember the boy’s torso in the Thames a few years back? He was believed to have been killed for that purpose. The subsequent investigation involved the UK, Ireland, Germany and Nigeria. As a result of that and some other suspicious cases here, the Department of Justice sent me to a seminar in South Africa to learn a bit more about it. It’s not that Africans have any more inclination to murder than we have; it’s just that, as they come here in greater numbers, this muti thing is being encountered more often.’
‘But why are you suggesting it could have political implications?’ I asked. ‘I know we had some racially motivated incidents in the town a few months ago, but if this is a ritual murder then racism doesn’t come into it.’ After the deportation of a number of asylum-seekers, a mixed-race group of protesters had been attacked by youths with stones and bottles, and petrol bombs had been thrown at a number of homes.
‘Because those already uncomfortable with immigrant cultures might use her death to call for further tightening of the law on immigration, or it might provoke another oubreak of violence.’
‘And you have no idea who the victim is,’ said Finian.
‘No. And we have no teeth to check against dental records, no fingerprints to check against the asylum-seeker database, no recognisable marks or tattoos, and the internal organs were too badly decomposed to tell us anything. There is one odd thing, though. She had painted her toenails, but not all of them. The middle toe on each foot had been left untouched.’ He looked at me. ‘Not a fashion statement I’m familiar with.’
‘No. Her own little thing, I’d say. What shade?’
‘Shade? Oh, yes – purple. We’re holding back that information, as well as the unusual pattern, from the press for now. It could be useful to the investigation.’
The Lazarus Bell, an Irish Murder Mystery Page 6