‘He could have paid someone to do it,’ said Fran, springing back up again.
‘I got the impression the only thing he’s interested in paying for is Terry Johnston’s funeral,’ said Gallagher. ‘That’s why he’s still here, he says. He’s been making arrangements with the rector and Gilsenan’s funeral home for when the body is released.’
‘Did you ask him why he was so curious about the statue?’ I said.
‘Yes. He admitted that Johnston told him he believed it contained, quote, “the chief treasure” from the Virgin’s shrine at Castleboyne. Mortimer says he’s since learned that’s highly unlikely.’
‘Hmm. What does he know that we don’t? Could that be why he was poking around Oldbridge cemetery today?’
‘Maybe he’s investigating the legend,’ said Finian, coming to the table with the bottle he had chosen and picking up a corkscrew. ‘Except he’s nearly two hundred years too late. Now – I have a nice pinotage here. Let’s—’
‘Which legend is this, Finian?’ said Fran dryly.
‘That there’s treasure buried in SS Peter and Paul’s – the ruined cathedral at Oldbridge. There’s meant to be a set of steps leading underground to a vault beneath the high altar. If you go down there, two golden candlesticks appear – they can’t be touched, on pain of death – and beyond them lie two sleeping bishops. If you wake them, they’ll hand over the keys of two small chambers, one full of silver, the other of gold. I suppose the two bishops could be interpreted as Peter and Paul. In the early nineteenth century, hundreds of people descended on the place one night and started digging under the high altar, until the police arrived and broke them up. No treasure was reported found, and nobody’s been able to find it since, either.’
He uncorked the bottle and placed it on the table. ‘On the other hand, Mortimer could be tracing his ancestors. With a name like that, he’s come to the right place.’
‘I don’t think he’s piecing together the family tree,’ I said. ‘He was also in the Catholic church on Sunday, examining the stained-glass window I was sketching.’
‘What’s in the window?’ asked Gallagher.
‘Our Lady of Castleboyne. And there are some symbols in the panels of the rose window overhead – flowers, for example: there’s a yellow flag iris and what I think is a fritillary…’ I looked at Finian. ‘Those chequered purple flowers.’
‘Fritillaria meleagris,’ he said.
‘Yes, I think it’s one of those. The iris can be associated with the Virgin, but I’m not sure if the fritillary symbolises anything.’
‘Other names for it are the leper lily, because of its colouring,’ Finian explained, ‘and the lazarus bell, as it’s supposedly shaped like a leper’s bell – names connected with disease, which is a pity because it’s such a beautiful flower.’
I knew we were onto something. ‘Hey, that’s also a connection with where the statue was hidden – the leper graveyard.’
‘I thought it was a plague burial ground,’ said Gallagher.
‘Yes, it was. But before and after the Black Death, and to this day, it’s been known as the leper graveyard. It’s as if people wanted to deny the plague ever happened.’
‘What were the other symbols? Put them all together,’ said Fran.
‘A sword and a key… I can’t remember the other one. I was working fast.’
‘If you tried to sketch them again, they might all come to you,’ said Finian. ‘Here—’ He handed me a folded-over newspaper that Arthur had left on one of the chairs after trying the crossword. The only space not covered in his spidery attempts at the answers was, paradoxically, a scribble box.
My shoulder bag was on the table; I took a pencil from it and started to draw the rose window from memory. ‘Only four of the panels, at the points of the compass, had things in them. The other petals in between are just coloured glass. At the top is the fritillary, then the key and sword together – the key of heaven for Peter and the sword of martyrdom for Paul, giving the name of the old cathedral. Then it’s the flagger, and then – now I remember…’ I drew it in. ‘It’s a jar with a pointed lid. That’s the last one.’ I held the drawing up for them to see.
‘But how do you figure out how they’re connected? Do you read them clockwise, and where do you start?’ Gallagher wondered.
‘My guess would be clockwise, starting at three,’ I replied. ‘It’s the most significant hour of the day in Christian tradition, as it’s the time when Christ was meant to have bowed his head and died. Which gives us Peter plus Paul and then the flag iris. When I think of it, that could mean the location of the old cathedral – it’s a riverbank plant. SS Peter and Paul’s by the river.’
‘Then it’s the jar – could that represent another person?’ said Finian. ‘Someone whose symbol is a jar?’
‘Oh, it’s Mary Magdalene, of course! An alabaster jar of spikenard, the ointment she used to anoint the feet of Jesus. Which gives us the Maudlins chapel. Then there’s the second flower, the fritillary, which guides us to the leper-graveyard side of the chapel. The place containing the vault with the coffins.’
‘OK, so we’ve got two locations: the cathedral at Oldbridge and the leper graveyard at the Maudlins,’ said Gallagher. ‘The second one’s where you found the statue, so is there any chance that the first one is also a place where some valuable religious object was hidden?’
‘The treasure Finian mentioned?’ suggested Fran.
‘But, as I’ve explained, it was never found despite a concerted effort to dig it up,’ said Finian. ‘And now that’s sorted, let’s down this bloody Afrikaner.’ He started to pour the wine. Neither of the others realised he was sniping at me. It was best to ignore him.
‘Or maybe it was found but never reported,’ Gallagher suggested.
‘In which case, Illaun and Mortimer are in the same boat,’ said Finian.
‘Hmm, that’s true, I suppose,’ I said. ‘Why did you say earlier that he had come to the right place if he was looking for his ancestors?’
‘I thought you’d never ask. And, frankly, I’m surprised the name didn’t ring a bell with you.’
At that moment it began to dawn on me – not fully, but sufficiently that I knew it was a name familiar from history, and the history of Castleboyne in particular.
‘The Mortimers were not only Lords of Castleboyne for a hundred and twenty years,’ Finian explained, ‘they were also one of the most powerful families at the English court. They even contributed their bloodline to the Plantagenet dynasty – Edward IV was the grandson of Anne Mortimer.’
‘And Joan Mortimer was Lady of Castleboyne at the time of the Black Death. How the hell did it not register with me?’ I was about to blame the amount of alcohol I’d had with Groot for making me giddy the previous night, but I decided it was best not to mention that.
My mobile phone rang inside my bag, which was next to Finian. ‘Grab it, please, will you?’ I asked him.
Finian rummaged in the bag and found it. ‘Illaun’s phone,’ he said into it. Then he frowned and handed it to me.
It was Peter Groot, ringing from St Loman’s. It was as if I’d conjured him up by merely thinking of him. ‘Nice evening for a braai,’ he said. ‘Matt told me Finian was having one. He also told me about what happened today. You OK?’
‘A bit stiff and strangely coloured, but otherwise fine. Hold on a second…’ I excused myself and stood up from the table. I thought it best to move out of earshot. ‘We had to cancel,’ I said, as I walked out of the kitchen and along the dimly lit hall.
‘I couldn’t have come anyway.’ Gallagher must have asked him along; in fairness to Finian, I hadn’t issued him an invitation. ‘Seeing as nobody can be shipped into St Loman’s, I got the go-ahead to do a post on the boy who caught the infection. It’s definitely the same thing. The evidence is even clearer because there were no underlying diseases. I’ve also identified a possible site of entry – a cut on the boy’s finger.’
‘So what abo
ut the quarantine? Is it necessary?’ A flash of lightning lit up the half-moon of the hall door fanlight. I headed up the stairs towards the first landing.
‘I’ve been checking up on recent melioidosis outbreaks. Worldwide, it seems to be moving beyond areas where it was endemic, and guess what? Outbreaks are often associated with heavy rainfall. If the organism’s in the soil it brings it to the surface.’
I stood at a picture window on the landing and looked out. Steam rising from the warm earth and mingling with the rain had turned the garden into a blur of colours, like watercolours smudged on damp paper.
‘So you think it could become an epidemic?’
‘I’m not sure.’ He chuckled. ‘But I’m certainly not going down in history as the guy who suggested we unleash the Doomsday bug. Anyway, must go. I’ve got a report to write up.’ Thunder crackled through our telephones. ‘Wow – I feel like Dr Frankenstein when the storm was raging overhead. Which reminds me – the analysis of the coffin liquor finally came through. CRID found no evidence of Yersinia DNA, or that of any other pathogen, in it or in the soil samples. This outbreak wasn’t caused by the spillage in the graveyard.’
‘Hey, Peter – that’s the first good news I’ve heard in days.’ I felt the weight already lifting.
‘Glad to be the bearer. And it was naughty of me to leave it till last to tell you. For me, the downside is that I have to look elsewhere to find the source of the infection. Which involves figuring out what the two victims had in common apart from coming into contact with the spillage.’
‘You mentioned Stephen had a cut on his finger. His pals said they were playing with a big knife in the graveyard – an imaginary one, mind you, but they said that one of them, a boy called Aje Ngozi, had a real knife at home.’
‘He’s African, I take it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Hmm…interesting. Anyway, must soldier on.’
I said goodbye to Groot and headed for the bathroom. In the mirror, I could see the multi-hued bruise had crept up my neck as far as my ear, like the work of a psychotic tattooist. And to see it properly, I had to stand sideways – my neck had gone from stiff to rigid.
On my way back down the stairs, the warm smell of baking pizza wafted up to me in welcome contrast to the damp air that was starting to bring a chill inside the house. They were all on their feet, Fran slicing pizza, Gallagher serving dollops of salad onto plates and Finian pouring red wine.
‘Some wine, my love?’ He sounded perfectly polite, but my antennae informed me there was something forced about it. Perhaps I should have stayed put and talked to Groot in front of him, to allay his suspicions.
‘Please.’ I waited until they sat back down, Fran and Gallagher now side by side. Only then did it strike me that they both had red hair, albeit from different ends of the spectrum. ‘Groot had some good news. It’s been confirmed the outbreak of this illness wasn’t caused by the spillage in the graveyard. I’m so relieved.’
They gave a cheer and a little round of applause as I sat down next to Finian. He raised his glass. ‘Here’s to the end of this quarantine nonsense, so.’
‘Agreed,’ said Gallagher. ‘And here’s to Pete Groot. He seems to be sorting out all our problems.’ He lifted up his glass, as did I, without giving it much thought, as did Fran, who was a little tipsy at this stage; but Finian put his down firmly on the table. The others didn’t notice – they were immersed in each other. Fran McKeever and Matt Gallagher seemed to be hitting it off.
‘How did Daisy get on yesterday?’ I asked Fran, and added, by way of explanation to Gallagher, ‘Daisy is Fran’s daughter.’
‘I know who Daisy is. I’ve been told all about her,’ he said, looking admiringly at Fran.
‘You mean with Darren Byrne?’ Fran said. ‘She gave him his marching papers, I’m glad to say. She’s pretty gung-ho for a girl her age.’
‘He’d have got more than marching papers from me, I can tell you,’ said Gallagher. ‘Messing around with a wee fifteen-year old girl…for that he deserves the shit kicked out of him. If I’d only known when I saw him earlier.’
‘Where was this?’ I asked.
‘At the hotel. I went to the gents’ before I left, and I saw him as I was passing by the bar on the way out. He was talking to Ross Mortimer.’
Finian and I were sitting together in the conservatory with the lights out. I had a rug over my lap and Bess was lying on my bare feet. Although the rain had stopped, the air was still damp and chilly. We had gone there to enjoy the electrical storm, but it had rumbled off into the night, flashing intermittently in the far distance like a faulty light-bulb.
Gallagher had received a call from one of the murder team that seemed to puzzle him. ‘Something’s come up,’ he said. ‘Not strictly to do with the case, but I’ve got to attend to it.’ A squad car had come to collect him shortly after, and I’d been relieved when Gallagher suggested he drop Fran home.
As we sat there, I was thinking of how Gallagher had inadvertently joined up another link of the human chain I’d envisaged – Byrne with Mortimer. And, via Mortimer, it now went full circle back to Terry Johnston. But what did it imply?
I was hauled back from my speculations by Finian giving my hand a squeeze. It was time to clear the air with him. ‘Finian, about Groot…’
‘It’s OK, my love. Fran told me, when you went out to the hall to talk to him.’
I sat up straight. ‘Told you what?’
‘That there was nothing between you and him. That you were going through some other issues in your head right now. That I can understand, Illaun. I just couldn’t take the thought of you being unfaithful. And I’m sorry, I still can’t forgive him for going behind my back like that.’
I didn’t know whether I’d thank or throttle Fran when next we met. And I wasn’t too keen on Finian’s developing sense of ownership.
He continued, ‘I’m dealing with some issues myself, and it’s probably best that it happen now, rather than after we’re married, eh? In fact, I think I’m a bit envious of the way Groot can up and leave when it suits him. I’m tied down by having to look after my father and Brookfield day in, day out. And when the old man goes, this will still be here.’ He gestured towards the garden. ‘Up to last year I was travelling more, getting to see other gardens and acting as a consultant too. It came to a head last week when I heard from the National Trust.’
‘Have you got their letter yet?’
‘Yes, this morning. I’m still not sure I want to take it on, but it’s an intriguing project. Pope was a keen gardener, you see, and before he died in 1744 he wrote a five-hundred-line poem describing his ideal garden. He sent it to one of his gardening friends, rather than any of his literary circle, and it just disappeared from history. But it came up for auction with the contents of a house about five years ago, and it was bought by the National Trust. They’ve decided that it would be possible to construct Pope’s garden, right down to the planting, from his poem. And they’ve selected a site for it near Twickenham, where he lived.’
‘It sounds like an interesting challenge. But I didn’t think that period would interest you. Wasn’t it all landscape design, Longwood House style?’
‘No. That’s the point: he was before that era. This was on a more intimate scale. And taking it on would also get me out from under the influence of my heroes like Vita Sackville-West for a while.’
‘You’d really love to do it, then?’
‘Yes, but it would mean staying there for the best part of three months. I’d have to ask my sister Maeve to look after Dad, of course.’
‘Well, I’m glad it’s not our wedding that’s stopping you,’ I said sarcastically.
‘I don’t mean to hurt your feelings, Illaun, but I don’t think getting married should be an obstacle to our careers. After all, if you got a chance tomorrow to manage a project abroad, would you turn it down?’
Before I could answer, Finian had put his arms around me. ‘That came out very sharply, I
’m sorry. It’s just…something else has been eating me these past few days, and I’ve been working up to telling you…’
My heart was pounding.
‘I’m closing Brookfield to the public indefinitely. I don’t mean tomorrow – at the end of the summer. It’s not fun any more. I want other challenges. I’ve also had a request to do a series of books. There’s a decent advance on offer, some travel involved – in fact, if I don’t take on the National Trust commission we could both go together, maybe combine it with a honeymoon…’
I pushed him away. I was finding it hard to breathe. ‘Sorry, my shoulder hurts,’ I said, and that was true. It was also true that I was taken aback by what he was contemplating and the way he had reached the decision on his own. I stood up, feeling my neck and shoulder. ‘Apart from which, I’ve got a bruise the size of a small country on my face, and my neck is stiff and sore. I’ll probably have to lie on my back all night, so I’d prefer to sleep alone, if you don’t mind.’
‘Of course. I understand.’ He looked away as a faint flash lit the sky. ‘I understand perfectly,’ he murmured to himself.
It was the first time in months that I hadn’t slept with Finian while staying over at Brookfield. And, while it was partly because I was feeling less than positive towards him, it was also true that I was physically in real discomfort, so much so that I woke up frequently during the night. Threaded through these waking states, for some reason, was my mind’s fevered attempt to figure out if there was a connection between the symbols in the window and the reason why the statue of the Virgin and Child had been hidden away. We had established that, although it wasn’t the miraculous image, there might well be some connection between the statue in the graveyard and Our Lady of Castleboyne: her window pointed to its hiding-place. Medieval symbols could be interpreted on different levels – we had already seen how the stained-glass window pointed to both people and places. There was also the medieval love of symmetry and of opposites to be considered: the key to heaven and the sword of martyrdom could be contrasted with the leper’s living death on earth; the Virgin Mary compared with Mary Magdalene.
The Lazarus Bell, an Irish Murder Mystery Page 19