The Lazarus Bell, an Irish Murder Mystery

by Patrick Dunne

  I got up and slipped on a silk kimono. Boo, who’d been lying upside-down on the bedroom floor, scooted out ahead of me, headed for the front door and made a tiny mew, requesting to be let out. He had a perfectly good cat-flap in the back door but liked to give me tasks to perform, to remind his human just who was in charge. But as I reached the door, he squatted down and sniffed the air coming under it; then he bolted back down the hall.

  I opened the door out of curiosity, and Groot was standing there, looking very neat, his chin shaved and shiny. There was a taxi idling noiselessly behind him and he was holding a large mixed bouquet of beautifully scented flowers.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, handing me the bouquet. The scents curled about my face, caressing it with their cool fingers, gently bathing my eyelids, which had closed involuntarily as I breathed in the heady perfume.

  I shook myself out of the trance, opened my eyes and smiled. ‘Come in,’ I said.

  Groot heaved a relieved sigh, waved the taxi away and followed me inside. I led him into the living room and asked him to sit while I found a vase for the flowers. Finian’s were still there and looking a bit wilted, but throwing them out just then would have been somehow unfair.

  ‘I’m leaving for Dublin tomorrow,’ he said. ‘And you should never let the sun go down on your argument, et cetera…’

  ‘Apart from which, I need you to bring me up to date on things,’ I said, coming in from the kitchen with another vase.

  He flashed one of his smiles, but only briefly. ‘I heard about your father from Matt,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you’re upset, but maybe relieved too.’

  ‘That about sums it up.’ I placed the vase on the coffee table and began to fill it with the flowers, snipping off the ends of some of the stalks to create the effect I wanted. ‘But come on. I want the update.’

  ‘OK. On the medical front, you probably know that Joseph Ngozi was found to have TB, not melioidosis – as I thought.’

  ‘I assumed that was why the quarantine was lifted.’

  He nodded. ‘The other news is that the remains you found are those of Latifah Hassan, as I understand we should call her. I’ll spare you the grim details.’

  ‘I’d appreciate that. Have you been able to establish whether she had melioidosis?’

  ‘Not yet. There was probably plenty of it in the pleural effusions in her chest cavity – CRID already had samples of those. I expect there’ll be news on that and the traces on the meat cleaver tomorrow.’

  ‘And if it’s confirmed, it will connect her with Terry Johnston.’

  ‘Which is what the note you slipped under my door already does, I think.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Simple. Well, simple once you know who Saartjie Baartman was, and being South African is a decided advantage there.’

  ‘Who is Saartjie Baartman?’

  ‘Let’s call her Sarah, as English-speakers do. She was the Hottentot Venus. But she’s been dead for nearly two hundred years now.’

  I sat down opposite Groot. ‘You’d better explain.’

  ‘She was from the Khoisan people who live in the Eastern Cape. They were called “Hottentots” and regarded as freaks of nature because of some unique physical attributes they had, especially their large, protruding buttocks. Sarah was taken from Cape Town to London in the early nineteenth century and put on exhibition. She became known as the Hottentot Venus, which was meant sarcastically, but in fact she had more beauty and dignity than most of those who came to view her. Anyway, the Khoisan women have another unusual feature: their labia minora are large and protrude beyond the outer lips. So Sarah was also expected to squat and show her vulva to the audience. This is the connection I believe Terry Johnston was making: he was meeting an African woman who, just like Sarah, was putting her body on display for money – as a lap-dancer. And, when you think of it, he was spot-on that nothing has changed in two hundred years, in terms of exhibiting women as sex objects and making them work in conditions of semi-slavery. I suppose the supreme irony is that both Sarah’s and Latifah’s private parts were stolen from them – Sarah’s by the eyes of total strangers, Latifah’s by the hands of her own people.’

  I was taken by Groot’s insight – and by the fact that he was crediting Terry with some decency.

  He continued, ‘So you’ve provided evidence that on the night of his birthday he was meeting a woman, more than likely a black African, and possibly a lap-dancer. We also know it was Latifah’s night off, so if it was her, it wasn’t to see her dancing in the club – as well as which, Gayle said he probably wasn’t leaving Castleboyne. I’ve got a theory about what he meant by this encounter “curing” him, but I’ll come back to that. So I’m prepared to believe that he was planning to have sex with Latifah Hassan that night. But did he kill her? I have my doubts. Talking to Ross has given me some idea of Terry’s personality. From what I gather, he was eccentric, a petty criminal, but unlikely to commit murder.’

  ‘How do you know he was a criminal?’

  ‘As I said, Ross filled me in.’

  ‘And how did you come to strike up such a good relationship with your pal Ross? It didn’t look promising at the start.’

  ‘A man thing, I suppose. We met accidentally in the bar of the hotel, two guys out of their normal habitat. I guess we clashed a bit at first, but it turned out he genuinely wanted to know what had brought about Terry’s death. And by the end of the night I knew why. By which time we were almost best buddies.’

  ‘Not bedmates, by any chance?’

  Groot’s eyes widened. His jaw fell open. He flopped back in the armchair, speechless. Eventually he sat back up and found his voice. ‘Me and Mortimer, eh? You had us in bed together? That’s hilarious.’ He started laughing.

  ‘It’s not true?’ I was laughing too.

  ‘Not true? It’s the most unlikely thing I’ve ever heard of.’

  ‘Well, what were you doing creeping along to his room with a bottle of wine?’

  ‘Oh, that? That was a little thank-you to him on your behalf.’

  ‘A thank-you? On my behalf? What the hell are you talking about, Peter?’

  He sighed and lay back in the armchair again.

  Suddenly my stomach rumbled in protest at my neglect. ‘No – before you say anything, I’m absolutely starving and I’m going to order a takeaway. How about you – have you eaten?’

  ‘I’m so glad you asked. If a great white shark came along right now, I’d snap him up first.’

  I went into the hall and found the menu for the local Chinese takeaway. We decided quickly what we wanted – Cantonese duck for Groot, peppery king prawn for me, both with fried rice – and I rang and ordered for delivery. Then I sat back down and asked Groot to continue.

  ‘The statue. It came up because we were discussing what had happened at the graveyard. I said you’d pretty much figured out why the statue was there, and what the symbols in the stained-glass window meant – not that I had any idea whether you had or not. So Ross said he’d been to see the rector and found out about a Miss Duignan’s connection with the whole thing. I had to spoof a bit; I said you were working along the same lines, but with a bit more focus, and had figured out a connection between the statue and the location of the treasure, blah, blah, blah. Was I right?’

  So that was why Mortimer had disappeared from view. He had been quietly doing his own research – and with some success, it seemed.

  I laughed. ‘More or less. But what was this “thank-you”?’

  ‘I said it would be best for you two to pool your knowledge and come to some agreement about the search for the treasure. He said I was right, but he was in his cups at the time – so I presented him with my best bottle of Sauvignon this morning, to remind him of what he’d agreed.’

  ‘But tell me, why did Ross Mortimer go to the rector in the first place?’

  ‘I don’t know. You’ll have to ask him yourself.’

  When the doorbell signalled the arrival of the takeaway, I pa
id the delivery boy and asked Groot to sort out the containers while I found plates and two sets of chopsticks. I suggested we sit on stools at the counter in the kitchen. While Groot ferried in the food, I filled tumblers with water and set out our places.

  As I got up on the stool, I caught Groot glancing at my chest and realised my kimono had fallen open. He reddened briefly but then regained his poise. ‘You’re an attractive woman, Illaun. When you smile – those blue eyes of yours… What can I say?’

  I wrapped the kimono tighter around me. I wasn’t sure where this was leading.

  We ate a few mouthfuls, and then he continued. ‘I’m doing it again. I can’t seem to stop myself coming on to you. And it’s unfair to both you and Finian. That’s why I was better off sticking to my work these past few days.’

  ‘With a bit of time off to find a new drinking buddy. You’re fond of it, aren’t you? The drink, I mean.’

  Groot ruffled his hair boyishly. ‘That’s an Irish way of saying, “You’re an alcoholic,” am I right?’

  ‘I’m not saying you’re an alcoholic, but drinking at work isn’t a good sign.’

  He waved a hand dismissively and smiled. ‘Put it down to unrequited love. Finding consolation in the bottom of a glass.’

  ‘You’re a chancer,’ I said. ‘That’s an Irish way of saying, “You’re a chancer.”’

  Groot laughed; then his expression became serious again. ‘Hey, let’s get back on track here, Illaun. About Terry Johnston, I mean. What I haven’t told you is he was Ross Mortimer’s brother – or, I should say, Ross Johnston’s brother. Ross picked the name Mortimer at random from a book on Castleboyne.’

  I was stunned. ‘You’re making this up, aren’t you?’

  Groot shook his head, put his chopsticks aside and took a long draught of water.

  ‘It seems to have been a bit like the relationship between Theo and Vincent van Gogh. And, like Vincent, Terry was an artist – a con-artist, to be precise, and not a very good one at that. Both of their parents were killed in a car crash and the boys inherited a thriving family antiques business while still in their teens. But Terry had no interest; he skipped off as soon as he could to lead a hippie lifestyle, living here and there, spending a few months in Nepal or Bali or California. But he always sent Ross a postcard from wherever he ended up. Within two years he was infected with HIV. He came back to this part of the world, where he took up a living as an itinerant digger. Mind?’ He was asking for one of my prawns.

  I nodded.

  ‘Mmm. These are very good,’ he said.

  ‘That’s why I keep ordering them,’ I said. ‘I really must try something else one of these days.’

  ‘Anyway, where was I? Then Terry tried to pass off a replica item as a genuine archaeological artefact on the black market. It seems he often tried to pull this scam when he was working on a dig – he’d pretend he’d found something valuable and offer it for sale. Then he’d disappear and move on to another site, here or in Britain. But in this case he’d come up against some tough guys who wanted their money back, or else, and Ross had to bail him out. So when Ross heard from him, a few weeks back, that he needed three thousand euro to invest in something here in Castleboyne, he assumed it was another scam gone wrong and said no. Terry said his fortieth was coming up and it would make a perfect birthday present. Ross refused again, but Terry had a last go by telling him it was something that was going to cure his illness. Ross insisted that unless Terry told him what it was he wouldn’t part with any money. Terry wouldn’t, so his birthday came and went – but then he rang Ross from St Loman’s last Friday with a story about a statue that might have been used to hide treasure. Ross was more concerned that his brother was in hospital, and he began to feel guilty. But by the time he got here on Saturday, Terry was in a coma.’

  ‘So what made him curious about the window?’ I picked a slice of duck from Groot’s plate with my chopsticks.

  ‘He says he called around to Terry’s digs in Navan and found various notes and drawings, including one of the stained-glass window. There was also a history of Castleboyne, in which Terry had highlighted a legend about the shrine’s treasure being hidden away. Terry was probably at work on a scam, and then, when the statue was found, he realised the treasure story might be true.’

  ‘So maybe Terry was looking for the money to set up some kind of hoax based on the legend. One that would net him enough to get treatment in some clinic or other.’

  Groot looked at me gravely. ‘That’s not what it was at all, Illaun…’

  I saw the lights of a car coming into the driveway.

  ‘We have a visitor,’ I said.

  ‘Expecting someone?’

  ‘No.’

  When I heard the key in the door I thought it might be my mother. But she had a separate entrance to her part of the house and would normally go in there first.

  ‘Hello,’ Finian called out cheerfully from the hall. Then I heard him go into the living room.

  ‘In the kitchen,’ I called.

  He arrived into the room and stopped in his tracks when he saw Groot. I realised it didn’t look good.

  ‘We’re just having a takeaway, would you like some?’ I said, trying to make little of it.

  Finian looked at me with a hardness in his expression I’d never seen before. ‘I came to tell you my decision. Thought I’d come in person. So, if you don’t mind, I’d like to tell you in private.’

  ‘Oh, sure. Of course. Excuse us,’ I said to Groot, and slid off the stool. When I got to the hall, Finian was already standing in the centre of the living room. He was white-faced with anger.

  ‘This is not what you think,’ I said, like a character from a TV soap.

  Finian put up his hand. ‘Illaun, I really don’t care,’ he said bitterly. ‘As I said, I’m here to tell you that I’ve decided…I’ve decided to accept the National Trust commission.’

  I knew from that moment of hesitation that he had actually come to make a different announcement. But the die was now cast.

  As he swept past me, he stopped for a second and pointed to the vase on the coffee table. ‘Nice flowers,’ he said.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Finian and I were sitting in a pergola at the end of the Ghost Garden. There was no moon, only stars, and the shrubs and flowers were emitting their own pale efflorescence, chalky whites, pale blues and dim lilacs. A stand of arum lilies looked like a procession of nuns with elaborate veils aglow.

  Then I noticed someone standing at the far end, a silhouette against the pallid radiance of the shrubbery. I turned to draw Finian’s attention to the figure, but he was no longer beside me. When I next looked, the man was shambling across the dark surface of the grass towards me. The scene reminded me of the night Terry Johnston had arrived at Brookfield, but the visibility was so poor I couldn’t make out any of the man’s features, except that he seemed to be wearing a suit.

  ‘Finian,’ I called, ‘is that you?’

  The man didn’t reply, but I could hear him humming in a tuneless monotone. The further he advanced towards me, the more familiar-looking he became. His progress was uneven as he paused every few metres to adjust his course, like something from a zombie movie.

  ‘That’s enough, Finian,’ I said.

  The man came closer. It was my father. He held his hands out towards me. There was something wrong with him, but he couldn’t speak, only hum this unwavering note.

  I shrank back in the seat as he came right up to me and fell onto his knees. I could see how thin he was, thinner than Terry Johnston had been. I could see how his paper-thin skin barely coated the bones of his skull. His mouth was tightly closed and he was still making the peculiar humming sound.

  ‘Dad, please say something,’ I said. I was becoming distraught.

  ‘Males feed on nectar,’ said another voice beside me. ‘That’s why he can’t speak any more.’ I turned to see who it was. Finian had returned.

  I turned back and Johnston was
standing over me. Suddenly his jaw fell open and I saw his mouth was filled with bees, a black buzzing swarm that began to expand like viscous liquid falling towards my face.

  I woke up screaming, pulling frantically at my hair, my heart threatening to hammer its way out of my ribs. I flapped blindly around for the bedside light, found it and switched it on. The buzzing was still in my ears as I sat on the side of the bed, trying to catch my breath.

  Groot had ordered a taxi and departed not long after Finian had stormed out. I had had to dissuade him from going to Brookfield to apologise, explaining that in a strange way he had brought about the outcome I had secretly begun to wish for – because I believed that, if Finian turned down the National Trust commission, he would ultimately resent being thwarted in his ambition, and I didn’t want that kind of poison to enter his soul.

  My mobile phone came to life on the locker beside me. I saw the time as I hit the Answer button with the side of my thumbnail: 10.25. I had slept in.

  ‘It’s me again,’ said Groot. ‘I’m calling from the hotel. I can confirm that Latifah Hassan had melioidosis and that it was her blood on the cleaver. So it looks like Terry Johnston picked up the infection from contact with her. Gallagher and I met at St Loman’s earlier, and he’s now having to look at the possibility that Terry had something to do with her death.’

  ‘Have you told Ross Johnston?’

  ‘Yes. It’s distressing for him, as you can imagine. I tried to make it seem more understandable by suggesting that Terry was unbalanced from brain lesions due to Aids.’

  ‘That was kind.’ It was the excuse the defence had made on behalf of his father’s murderer.

  ‘And true. I saw them when I did the post. The man must have been having periods of confused thinking even before his collapse. By the way, I told Ross you’d agreed to see him. As he’s leaving for Dublin airport at eleven-thirty, he suggested you meet at eleven at Oldbridge cemetery. You know where, apparently, and it will save time, he says. And could you bring along some photographs of the statue?’