‘What do you mean?’ he said.
‘Dr Abdulmalik has had extensive experience with infectious diseases,’ said Cora, becoming officious with me.
I was getting angrier. ‘Look – I’m not a medical expert, but you need to put pressure on the people in CRID to get the coffin liquor that spilled on him analysed. Think about it – why would a corpse be sealed into a lead container and then buried beside a life-size statue of the Virgin Mary in a walled-up crypt? Don’t you think that’s just a bit over the top? You have to ask yourself, was it some form of disease control combined with a religious ritual of some kind? And what was in that coffin that required such measures? Don’t you think that’s relevant?’
Abdulmalik shrugged as if to say it was outside his frame of reference. I had one of those moments when I thought, Your imagination is working overtime, Illaun. Be careful here.
Cora stretched over and took my hand in hers. ‘I can understand where you’re coming from, Illaun,’ she said gently. ‘But you’ve just seen someone you knew dying, and I think part of you feels responsible. But it’s not your fault, believe me.’
This was a Cora I didn’t know. Her empathy reached right in and touched me. No doubt years of dealing with distraught people had perfected her technique, but it seemed to come from the heart.
‘I think you may be right,’ I said, and stood up to take my leave. ‘Thanks.’
‘There’s one more thing,’ she added as Abdulmalik held the door open for me. ‘Because his death may ultimately have resulted from the accident, we’ll have to report it to the coroner and there may be a postmortem.’
Far from worrying me, this was welcome news as far as I was concerned. It was another way of finding out what had really killed Terry Johnston.
My belief was that the Black Death was a highly virulent disease that had declined in strength over successive waves, until a form had evolved that no longer threatened to wipe out humankind overnight; a form that, by whatever means micro-organisms have of planning for the future – and some of them seem capable of doing just that – had worked out that it was not in the interest of its species to be so spectacularly lethal. And so, generation after microbe generation, the information was passed on until it became policy: don’t wipe them out. After what I had just witnessed, the question was: had we resurrected the original strain? The one that hadn’t heard the news?
In the car park I opened the doors and windows of the Freelander, which had been sitting in the sun and was too hot to get into. As I waited for it to cool down, I phoned Finian and brought him up to date.
‘I suggest you forget about the office today,’ he said. ‘Come out here and relax. I’ve got a bunch of gardening writers arriving shortly, but I should be finished with them by lunchtime. Maybe we could do some work with SIV then.’
‘That sounds tempting. I’ve a couple of things to do first, but I’ll get there eventually.’
I got into the car and phoned Peggy. ‘I’m at St Loman’s. Bad news, I’m afraid. Terry Johnston died this morning.’
‘Dear me. I saw Terry on Friday night. He didn’t look well, but I didn’t think… Oh, dear, how dreadful.’
‘The doctors at St Loman’s are anxious to locate his relatives. Do you know of anyone they could contact?’
‘I’m afraid not. He was an odd fellow. I never really got to know him, even though he often dropped into the office while the dig was in progress. He’d chat me up, usually before looking for an advance on his wages.’
‘I noticed that in his file.’
‘Terry was permanently short of money. He seemed to be always paying off one debt or another. I took pity on him, I suppose. So skinny – he didn’t eat well, either.’ Peggy had a soft spot for lame ducks.
‘He was HIV positive, which meant he was probably on an expensive drug regime. Did he say anything about that?’
‘No. But it would have been covered by the drugs payment scheme. No matter what the cost, he would only have paid a monthly flat rate.’
‘Am I right in thinking he got his bonus a few days ahead of everyone else?’
‘Yes. He said it was his birthday and he wanted to celebrate. I…I didn’t think it was out of order.’
‘I’m not accusing you of doing anything wrong, Peggy. I just wanted to confirm what I’d seen in the accounts. Where did he live while he was working with us?’
‘I think he shared a house in Navan with some other guys, but for his own reasons he never gave me the address. The one person who might know where he lives is Benjamin Adelola.’
‘Hmm…’ I hadn’t heard from Oisín McKeever. ‘OK, thanks. It’s unlikely I’ll get to the office today, but I’ll check in with you occasionally.’
I was about to drive out of the hospital when I received a call from Muriel Blunden. I told her about Terry Johnston’s death.
‘How sad that he died without any of his family being aware that he was ill,’ she said. ‘If there’s anything we can do in an official capacity to trace his relatives, let me know.’
That reminded me: Terry’s visitor. I wondered if he would turn up again. ‘Will do. So, what’s on your mind?’
‘I’ve been thinking about local interest in the carving.’
‘It’s been growing.’ I told her about the rector’s call.
She chuckled huskily. ‘Well, maybe we can work out a compromise to suit all parties.’
‘Who’s been on to you, Muriel?’
‘Nobody, I swear. It’s important to keep the locals on our side. So I was thinking, why not put it on exhibition in the Heritage Centre for a week?’
‘As it happens, there’s a heritage festival taking place here in a fortnight’s time.’
‘I’d been thinking of putting it on display straight away. We can’t leave it for two weeks without having it properly taken in hand.’
‘It’s too short notice, Muriel. You’d annoy as many people as you’d please. There’s not enough time to generate publicity, whereas there’s a chance of getting it onto the posters and flyers for the festival, and it’d be an appropriate context for it.’
‘Hmm. You’ve got a point. And I guess it would give us time to write up some material about why the Museum is the best place for it, maybe even send one of our conservators to give a talk. Let’s do that, so.’
‘I should tell you that the Corpus Christi procession around the town is taking place next Sunday. Father Burke is campaigning to have the statue included in it, as no doubt you became aware over the weekend.’
‘Ooh, that man and his primitive beliefs! No way is a precious artefact like that going into a procession to get manhandled and probably rained on into the bargain.’
There was something elitist, arrogant even, about her comment. But this volte face, after her initial determination to remove the statue immediately, was typical Muriel. So I knew there was no point in arguing with her – she would eventually revise her attitude without my intervention.
I mentioned something that had been preying on my mind. ‘Why not send down someone from the Museum who knows about medieval carvings – in the next few days, I mean? I’d love to get some other opinions on the statue.’
‘Is there anyone better qualified than yourself? People coming for interview often refer to your published work on ecclesiastical sculpture.’
‘I’ve been living off that since my thesis, Muriel. Which, by the way, was on a fairly narrow aspect of the subject, and didn’t really include wooden artefacts. So I really would like a second opinion.’
I could hear her taking a drag on her cigarette. ‘OK, how about this: I’ll organise one of our conservators to get there in the next day or two, you both can have a chat and then he or she can accompany the artefact back here. That way, we’ll have it back in time for the Heritage Week, but out of Father Burke’s grasp over next weekend.’
‘Well, I suppose—’
‘Sorry to interrupt, Illaun, but this won’t wait. The other reason I rang. There’
s a journalist, a guy called Darren Byrne, going on the Gerry Ryan Show this morning – in the next few minutes, in fact – to attack the Museum over this issue, I expect. They’ve been looking for me to go on, but this news would be best coming from a local source, don’t you think?’
‘You mean me?’ I was about to tell her that I was in no state, emotionally, to appear on a radio chat show; but then I thought a punch-up with Darren Byrne might be the very thing I needed. Muriel might be manipulating me, but I wanted a shot at the guy. Most of all, I wanted to do it for Fran.
I switched the radio to 2FM and heard Ryan concluding a conversation with Byrne about the finding of the African woman’s body and whether it was a ritual murder. The presenter was freewheeling on the possible uses to which body parts might be put, including the chance that the killer might have retained the skull as a trophy – ‘perhaps from which to drink magic potions or possibly to place in a shrine devoted to the tribal gods. One way or another, muti may be one of the less welcome gifts that newcomers to our shores are bringing us.’
‘That – and the occasional killer disease,’ said Byrne.
‘Well, you know my opinion on that. But let’s move on. You had a story at the weekend about Madonna and Castleboyne. And I don’t mean Madonna has retired and gone to live in County Meath. In fact, this particular Madonna is getting kicked out of the county. Explain, Darren.’
I dialled the programme line, listening with one ear as Byrne recited how the National Museum was about to ‘snatch’ the ‘sacred’ artefact away from the towns-people. The broadcasting assistant answered my call, and when I explained who I was and why I was ringing, the producer decided to put me on the air straight away. Ryan enjoyed it when the people who were involved in the front line of events got in touch with the show. I could depend on him to be sympathetic – for a few minutes, anyway.
‘Hold on, Darren. We have archaeologist Illaun Bowe on the line, and she has news for us about this statue.’
‘Darren’s information is out of date, Gerry,’ I said immediately. ‘The National Museum would like the people of Castleboyne to have the opportunity to view the statue and will be putting it on exhibition during the upcoming heritage festival.’
Byrne snorted. ‘Big deal. The festival is on for all of a week. But now that this particular lady is on the line, there’s something far more important that needs to be brought to your listeners’ attention. Staff at St Loman’s Hospital here have been treating a patient for a mysterious illness in the past few days. The victim is an employee of hers.’
‘Whoa, Darren,’ Ryan warned. ‘Let’s stick to the subject.’
‘Just let me finish, Gerry, this is really important…’ There was a long pause, whispering, a rustle of paper. I knew what was coming. ‘I’ve just been handed a note, Gerry. The man I’m talking about died an hour ago.’
‘Good God, that’s terrible news. And I’m not sure that this was the way to go about announcing it. I hope it hasn’t come as a complete shock to his family or to the lady who’s on the other end of the line. Are you still there, Illaun? Had you any inkling of this?’
‘Yes. I was with the man when he died.’
‘God of all Heaven, I’m sorry, Illaun. Condolences to you and the man’s family. And I have to say I admire your professionalism in coming on the phone to do your job despite the circumstances.’
That was not what Byrne wanted to hear, I thought. But he probably cared less. I sensed he had something else up his sleeve entirely.
‘Why don’t we ask Ms Bowe to tell us what he died of?’ said Byrne.
‘I’m not qualified to answer that,’ I said.
‘Do you deny that Terry Johnston was accidentally contaminated by a substance that leaked from a coffin in a plague graveyard last Friday?’
‘What, a plague burial ground?’ Ryan exclaimed.
‘Yes, Gerry. Here in Castleboyne,’ said Byrne solemnly.
‘And the coffin leaked?’
‘And then disintegrated, spilling the contents on the unfortunate Mr Johnston,’ said Byrne.
‘My God…what does our archaeologist have to say about that?’
At least I had been given a moment to think. ‘There was an accident at the graveyard all right. But no connection has been established between that and Mr Johnston’s illness.’ I cringed. I was talking in technicalities now that it suited me.
‘Oh, come on,’ said Byrne in his best hectoring voice. ‘A coffin leaks on the guy, symptoms appear almost immediately and he dies three days later. What kind of illness is that?’
I didn’t know what to do except repeat myself. Ryan decided at that moment to bring the conversation to a close, realising there could be legal implications for me if negligence was a factor in the man’s death.
But Byrne was reckless. ‘Gerry, I can tell you what killed him. Do you want to know?’
‘No time, Darren, we’re coming up to the news at twelve.’
‘All the tests carried out in relation to his illness had to do with bubonic plague. Do you understand?’
‘You’re saying that he died from plague?’
‘Yes. And, whether the disease was resurrected in a local graveyard or imported from another country, the truth is that the Black Death – the greatest mass murderer in history – is stalking the streets of Castleboyne as I speak.’
Chapter Fourteen
The programme ended. I flung my phone onto the passenger seat. ‘Dammit!’
I felt angry and humiliated. I had failed to deliver on behalf of the Museum, failed to prevent Byrne from ambushing me and failed miserably to defend myself when he did. The phone started chirping in the seat beside me. Muriel Blunden, I thought. I was too embarrassed to talk to her. I picked it up with no intention of answering it, then saw it was a local land-line number: Dominic Usher.
I gritted my teeth and took the call.
‘Darren Byrne phoned me earlier this morning,’ he began. ‘He told me your employee is critically ill – that he’s suffering from bubonic plague. The hospital denied it when I rang. Do you know—’
‘You obviously didn’t hear Byrne on the radio just now,’ I interjected. ‘Terry Johnston passed away an hour ago. And not only did Byrne announce his death on the airwaves, he also claimed that plague had broken out in Castleboyne.’
‘What! The fool will start a panic. I’ll have to alert the Health Service. They’ll need to make a statement.’
And the Health Service was likely to put pressure on CRID to complete their analysis of the coffin liquor. Some good might come of this fiasco.
‘Before you go, Dominic: Muriel Blunden of the National Museum has offered to loan us back the artefact we found. So we can exhibit it during Heritage Week.’
‘That’s big of her. Why not for longer?’
‘It will have to be properly conserved. If it’s been in an airtight container for several hundred years, you can’t be sure what exposure to the air could do to it. And at this time of year you can’t rule out the danger of insect infestation, either.’
‘We’d be able to hold on to it if we had a local authority museum in the town, wouldn’t we?’
‘If it had been granted designated status? Probably, yes. But that’s not about to happen.’
‘I’m sure you’re aware that County Meath doesn’t have one.’
‘Yes, I know. Strange, but true.’ Indeed, for an area that was dense with seven thousand years of archaeology and history, it was distinctly odd.
‘We’ve discussed the idea of upgrading the Heritage Centre and applying for designation. To make it the county museum, in other words.’
‘Good idea. But you’d need proper premises, and you’d have to employ a curator. And,’ I added jokingly, ‘you’d need to have a few more artefacts.’
‘We’re aware of all that,’ he said, chugging on. ‘We’re also conscious of the fact that a great number of artefacts of various kinds are turning up on motorway routes and urban developments throughou
t the county – and all of them are going to the National Museum. I guess if the Council doesn’t put up some show of resistance to them on this issue, we’ll be accused of letting the town’s heritage slip through our fingers.’
I felt like saying it had never been a problem for them in the past. ‘If you’re serious about seeking designated status for a museum in Castleboyne, then I’d suggest you accept the Museum’s offer and use the opportunity to make our local politicians, media and businesspeople aware of your intentions. Because you won’t be the only ones in Castleboyne making a case for possession of the statue.’ I told him about the claims being made by the two clergymen.
Usher chuckled dryly. ‘Well, they were certainly effective in getting the skeletons back – but they worked together on that one.’
The skeletons we had exhumed had been removed to the National Museum for curation, but in time the majority would be re-interred in the town cemetery with an appropriate ceremony. Father Burke and the Reverend Davison had campaigned for this and, showing sensitivity to local feelings, the Museum had agreed to retain only a selected few of the skeletons against the day when new scientific techniques could be used to extract more information from them.
‘They also helped to defuse the racial trouble a while back,’ I said. ‘Maybe the trick is to get them on your side. At least having the statue in the town – even in a museum – would be better than not having it here at all.’ Mentioning this reminded me that Darren Byrne and his newspaper had helped to inflame the situation at the time, by printing an article about the resurgence of illnesses like TB side by side with a report on the attempt to deport failed asylum-seekers from the town. That subject had obviously still been in Byrne’s mind on the radio programme earlier.
I had finished my conversation with Usher and was on the way out of the car park when Peggy called to say that the phone in the office had been ringing non-stop since noon with requests for interviews. I decided to give the place a wide berth and call in to the Heritage Centre instead.
First I went to the library to collect the key, which Usher had arranged to be left for me. Paula Egan, one of the librarians behind the desk, expressed a wish to take a look at the statue. ‘I read about it in the paper, but I haven’t even taken a peek at it,’ she said. She had a bright, cheeky smile, a frisky ponytail and a very mobile face that moved her blond fringe up and down her forehead.
The Lazarus Bell, an Irish Murder Mystery Page 10