The Lazarus Bell, an Irish Murder Mystery

by Patrick Dunne

  This was the view we had chosen to paint, and soon I was absorbed, mixing my pigments on the inside of the paintbox lid, sorting the world in front of me into patterns of matching colours and shapes: brown water breaking into white-flecked rapids around the rocks below the arches; patches of white and brown lichen on the arches merging into one another and in turn into the weathered limestone. The ancient bridge seemed to have become as much a part of nature as the river itself, an outcrop of rock that had been tunnelled into by the flowing water, a structure almost pre-ordained to be there.

  And then, by contrast, the other colours in the landscape: the several greens in the meadow, the yellow buttercups and the deeper yellow of irises – ‘flaggers’, as we called them – in a nodding column stretching along the river; a dark stand of reeds in midstream, and behind it, in the field beside the road, ranks of red poppies fluttering in the breeze. And arching over and under it all, the clear blue sky and its reflection in the smoother surface of the river upstream.

  Vehicles crossed the bridge regularly, but we became used to it. And as the afternoon wore on we were sometimes a focus of interest for people standing on the bridge, having walked there along the path from the Mayfly Bar and Restaurant further downstream. But nobody came near us in all the time we were there.

  We hardly spoke as we worked, Fran with her free-and-easy style, me with my much slower and more painstaking approach – nothing had changed in twenty-odd years. My finished work tended to confuse people because it didn’t fit their preconceived ideas about watercolours: to them it looked more like I’d used oils or some other medium, mainly because it was rich in colour and strong on detail. Yet I liked to think it still had the lightness of touch that only watercolours can provide. Fran’s painting, on the other hand, was very much the moment captured – that impressionistic look so characteristic of the medium.

  Eventually we called a halt, got up and stretched our legs and appraised each other’s painting, discussing the washes we had used for the sky and the details we had chosen to include or omit. Then, while I uncorked a bottle of red wine, Fran laid out the contents of her picnic basket: cold fried sausages, shelled hard-boiled eggs, slices of Emmenthal and Brie, fresh bread rolls and salad sandwiches.

  As we started to eat, we heard some children playing in the ruins behind us. Generations of Castleboyne kids had done the same, but in a recent conversation with Dominic Usher I’d learned that a compensation payout to a teenager who had stumbled over a gravestone and broken his arm while drunk was likely to result in the banning of visitors from the graveyard and ruins except on specific occasions. Ireland had become a topsy-turvy kind of place to live.

  I felt that enough time had passed to make it possible to talk about Daisy without upsetting Fran. ‘What was your row with Daisy about this morning?’

  ‘It was over her riding on that damn bike without a crash helmet. But it could have been about anything – we fight all the time.’

  ‘Who’s the guy with the bike?’

  ‘She won’t tell me. Except I got it out of Oisín that he’s much older than she is.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘He’s twenty-eight.’

  ‘And that worries you?’

  ‘Well, of course it does. She’s barely more than a child. And it’s what’s going through his mind that really worries me.’

  ‘I think you’re forgetting something, Fran. It’s the same age difference between Finian and me. And, what’s more, I was still in secondary school when I began to fancy him.’

  ‘Don’t think I haven’t thought of that. But you’re forgetting something: you loved him from afar. In fact, the two of you only became intimate these past few months, for God’s sake – after twenty years!’

  That was true. ‘Are you sure she’s having sex with him? He must know she’s under age.’

  ‘She won’t discuss it. Tells me it’s disgusting that I bring it up in the first place. But I’m in fear and dread that she’ll get pregnant. I’ve found condoms in her room, but that could be just for show; you know what peer pressure is like – you have to show the rest of the girls you’re cool. And yet I can’t bring myself to put her on the pill. It would be like an admission of failure or a sign that I approve of her behaviour. Apart from which, I think it could interfere with her hormonal development in some way. Or she could get an infection that would make her sterile, or—’

  ‘Daisy’s smart. She’s not going to mess up her life like that.’

  ‘Even if I believed that, the problem is she’s getting regularly out of her head on drink. For all I know, there are drugs involved, too. And all it takes is one occasion when she’s not in control. But, hey – we’re here to forget our worries, eh?’

  A fleeting shadow on my face must have registered with Fran. She peered at me intently. ‘What’s on your mind, Illaun? Something to do with Finian and yourself?’ Fran’s instincts where I was concerned had been honed over a quarter of a century.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ I said.

  ‘Having second thoughts about the wedding?’ She was being mischievous. Fran had never approved of Finian, mainly because she believed he had strung me along over the years. But, to be fair, she had kept her views in check ever since the announcement of our engagement.

  I shook my head. ‘No. In fact, it’s hard to have any thoughts about the wedding at all. In Finian’s mind it’s some kind of obstacle getting in the way of more important things.’

  ‘Are you surprised? He’s a man, isn’t he?’

  ‘I know. But it’s more of a self-centred thing with him. He’s wondering how he can fit it in with some project he wants to take on. I guess it comes from years of pursuing his own ideas, making his own decisions. He didn’t create Brookfield by consulting a committee.’

  ‘So what you’re saying is he’s ambitious and head-strong and likes to do things his way, yeah?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Recognise anyone else, Illaun?’

  Fran set herself up to start painting again. She wasn’t expecting an answer, but she knew I would give it some thought. Not just then, though. We were there to forget our worries, as Fran said. I left the bottle with the remainder of the wine beside her. I was driving.

  As I resumed painting I was joined by a red ladybird, attracted by a dab of cadmium yellow I’d been experimenting with on the lid of my paintbox. As it crawled about the dried smudge of paint the word ‘ladybird’ became suddenly strange to me, as though I’d never noticed it before – not just the odd choice of the word ‘bird’ to describe a beetle, but the use of ‘lady’ to associate the creature with the Virgin Mary. I recalled hearing that it stemmed from the days when farmers prayed to Our Lady to save their crops from insect attack, and the subsequent arrival of the little red pest-devourer earned it the name ‘Our Lady’s beetle’, which somehow evolved into ‘ladybird’. Even the familiar seven black spots were held to represent her seven sorrows and the beetle’s red wings her mantle. And that reminded me that the convention of dressing the Virgin in a blue cloak wasn’t always observed in the past.

  Losing interest in the strange yellow substance, the ladybird cocked its wingcases, extended its wings and – zip! – it was gone, no doubt to find better pickings on one of the many wildflowers growing in the field; possibly one of the flag irises associated, like itself, with the Virgin Mary, or perhaps a plant named after her. The chances were high. So many of them were to be found in meadow and woodland, along riverbanks and waysides, and my father had pointed out each one to my brother and me at some time or other, on our nature rambles: Lady’s bedstraw, Lady’s tresses, Mary’s milkdrops. Those named after items of her clothing were legion: her mantle, slipper, buttons even. Their names crossed languages and international boundaries, too: Léine Mhuire was Gaelic for Mary’s smock, and what we now call foxglove (once Lady’s glove) was gant de Notre Dame in French, Frauen Handschuh in German. The names evoked a time when Marian devotion was on a scale incomprehensible to us today,
when people were dedicating everything from delicate wildflowers to vast cathedrals to her. And the statue we had unearthed came from that period. As an image of the most beloved woman in history, it would have been an object of great potency. Which again raised the question: why had it been buried beside the other coffin and its inhabitant?

  An hour or so had passed since our picnic when I became aware that we were being watched. When you paint outdoors, people often come up and observe what you’re doing, but this was different. For a start, the watcher wasn’t even beside us. He was staring at us from the parapet of the bridge.

  I nudged Fran and she followed my gaze. The man started glancing up and down the road, then back at us, as though he was nervous about us being there.

  ‘I think I know that guy,’ she said. ‘Bit jittery, isn’t he?’

  ‘I know him too. His name is Ben Adelola.’ I looked at my watch. Four o’clock. He was keeping an appointment.

  We heard first the distant insect whine, then the approaching animal growl of a powerful motorbike. Seconds later the man on the bridge was joined by the motorcyclist, both of them squeezing into a recess originally designed for pedestrians to avoid passing carriages. We couldn’t see the bike, but as the rider pushed his black helmet up onto his head to talk to the other man, I noticed the smudge on his upper arm – a tattoo. His face was turned away from us.

  ‘That’s Daisy’s boyfriend, isn’t it?’ I said to Fran.

  She squinted, trying to get him in focus. ‘Could be – watch—’ Fran stuck the forefingers of both hands into her mouth and whistled loudly.

  The biker instantly turned to look, and I recognised his face. It was Ireland Today journalist Darren Byrne.

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘Er…is that…Miss Bowe?’ A hesitant man’s voice, polite.

  ‘Illaun Bowe, yes. Who’s speaking?’ I said out of the side of my mouth, having just bitten off a piece of an apple.

  I had been watching the six o’clock news and trying to resist thoughts of food when the phone rang. I’d decided on Friday morning that my hips were ballooning. The picnic earlier in the day with Fran counted as my main meal.

  ‘Ronald Davison, rector of St Patrick’s, Castleboyne. I think we’ve met on a couple of occasions.’

  The Catholic and Church of Ireland places of worship were both dedicated to Ireland’s patron saint.

  I tried to swallow some of the fruit before replying. ‘Yes, we’ve met before. What can I do for you, Rector?’

  ‘It’s about this statue you found. The reason I’m ringing is that Father Louis Burke claims it’s Our Lady of Castleboyne.’

  I swallowed the rest of the apple. ‘We can’t really say that yet.’

  ‘Hmm. Well, if it’s confirmed, then of course we’d like her returned.’

  ‘Returned?’ I expelled the word as though I’d been punched in the stomach.

  ‘Yes. You see, it was rescued from Our Lady’s Priory in 1538 and given sanctuary here. Not everyone agreed with Henry the Eighth’s destructiveness, even if they did recognise him as head of the Church.’

  Relax, Illaun, this is only your worst nightmare come true.

  ‘And what happened to it after that, according to your version?’

  ‘Well. It was too dangerous to acknowledge that we had it. The Catholics would probably have tried to take it back. Some of our own community might have misunderstood and denounced its presence. So it was eventually taken home by one of my antecedents, and hidden in the attic of his house.’

  ‘Where it was found by Cromwellian soldiers and used for firewood.’

  ‘That’s what we were led to believe. But a rumour persisted that it had in fact survived and was hidden away by some of our parishioners. The fact that it’s turned up in an old graveyard seems to confirm the truth of the rumour. So I think we can easily make a case for having it back. And since Castleboyne Heritage Week is starting in a fortnight’s time, it would be the ideal centrepiece of a display in the church here.’

  This was astonishing. It was as if issues that had been at the centre of religious turmoil hundreds of years in the past had just been resurrected along with the statue.

  ‘Pardon my ignorance, Rector,’ I said, overlooking the absurdity of the situation for a moment, ‘but aren’t there people of your faith who would still be extremely uncomfortable with a statue of the Virgin Mary in their church?’

  ‘Possibly. But we’re not as radical as some of the other Reformed Churches when it comes to the use of religious images, Mary included. Indeed, it occurs to me that this statue could play an ecumenical role in the community here, in the same way that the shrine of Our Lady at Walsingham in England has become a centre of reconciliation between Anglicans, Roman Catholics and Orthodox.’

  ‘Well, even if it is the Castleboyne image, its fate is out of my hands, I’m afraid. The National Museum is responsible for archaeological finds of this kind, and they’re determined that it should remain in their hands.’

  ‘Well, we’ll just have to see about that. Good evening to you.’

  I put down the phone and picked up the apple. I was munching another bite and thinking of what I’d just heard when the phone rang again. This time I swallowed before answering.

  It was Cora Gavin ringing me from St Loman’s. ‘First some good news,’ she said. ‘Terry Johnston’s blood is negative for Yersinia pestis. In other words, he doesn’t have bubonic plague. So we’re not sending him to Beaumont.’

  ‘And the bad news?’

  ‘He’s suffering from multiple disorders that have weakened him considerably, including diarrhoea and an acute lung infection with associated severe haemoptysis – he’s coughing up blood. We’re looking at TB now as a possibility.’

  ‘Dr Abdulmalik mentioned ulceration of the skin.’

  ‘Yes. Pus-filled lesions have been erupting on his face and upper body.’

  ‘Could it be pneumonic plague?’ This was a deadlier form of the disease, often carrying off its victims before buboes had time to appear.

  ‘As I said, Illaun, there’s no sign of the bacillus in his blood.’

  ‘Your colleague also mentioned some problem with his immune system?’ Might as well see if Fran was right.

  ‘That… I can’t say much about it right now, Illaun. I’ve got to talk to someone familiar with his medical history first – ideally a relation, partner or spouse. Which is partly why I rang. The man’s been more or less out of it since he was re-admitted, so we haven’t been able to get any information from him. He avoided even giving his own address when he came into A&E yesterday. Maybe there’s something in his personnel file.’

  ‘I’ll certainly take a look. One more thing – any results from CRID on the samples from the coffin?’

  ‘No. But I understand they’re doing PCR analysis, so if there’s anything lurking there, they’ll find it.’

  I was aware that the polymerase chain reaction technique had been used to analyse mummy tissue, even fossilised bone. Through it, a minute amount of genetic material could be amplified and studied, allowing even bacterial and viral DNA to be identified.

  I asked Cora to make sure I was informed of any change in Terry’s condition. I put down the phone and finished the apple, my thoughts now switched over to Terry. He might not have bubonic plague, but his symptoms were scarily like those described by the Franciscan friar, John Clyn of Kilkenny: ‘many were afflicted with spots, boils and ulcers…others spewed blood.’ He was writing an account of the Black Death as it began its journey through Ireland in the late summer of 1348.

  I went to the office to look up the personnel files. Terry’s was devoid of any useful information or any contact names, addresses or phone numbers. What I did notice among his fortnightly paysheets was a number of photocopied cheques made out to him, with the words ‘advance’ written beside them on the page by Peggy. It looked as if Terry had prevailed on her to part with occasional sums to tide him over until his next paycheck, and I could see th
at the amounts were correctly deducted and accounted for. I flicked through to the final paysheet for the week just ended, the one including the bonus, and saw Peggy had paid it to him ahead of time – on Monday instead of Thursday.

  In a separate folder was a record of Terry’s sick leave. He had taken a considerable number of days off over his three months working on the site. Beside one of the entries, a Friday, Peggy had scribbled a note. Terry J – day’s sick leave but OK for weekend security. Ben A to collect cheque.

  I knew they sometimes swapped nights doing security. Here was further evidence of their friendship. Perhaps Ben Adelola could fill in some of the gaps in Terry’s CV.

  I flicked through Ben’s file and found his address. He lived four doors down from Fran. That was why she had recognised him earlier in the day. I thought about his behaviour on the bridge. If he had been worried that we would see him with Darren Byrne, was it because he was passing information to him? But about what – the statue that for some reason scared him?

  I closed the drawer of the filing cabinet, remembering that Gayle had said Ben was starting a new job. If that was the case, he would have gone to work by now. I would have to call around to him the following day.

  Chapter Twelve

  After singing with the choir at eleven o’clock Mass on Sunday, I walked down the side aisle to the north transept to take a look at the stained-glass window dedicated to Our Lady of Castleboyne. The central light depicted her – with her left arm crooked under the Infant Jesus, interestingly enough – appearing to a group of pilgrims occupying the two side windows. I had never heard of an apparition of the Virgin occurring in Castleboyne, only of the miraculous image; but presumably it had been decided, when the window was being designed, that the statue must have been made to commemorate an apparition – and that it was safer anyway, on theological grounds, to suggest that this rather than the statue itself might have been an object of devotion. Our Lady wasn’t nursing the Infant – that would not have been to late-nineteenth-century taste either – and her mantle was blue, over multi-layered clothing of various hues.