“Think nothing of it,” O’Grady said. “And come round to me pub later and have a pint on me,” he said kindly.
Heath and I headed back to the inn and found Gilley typing furiously on his keyboard, attempting to locate the mysterious Alexandra. We left him to his task and Heath and I busied ourselves getting ready by laying out warm clothes and double-checking the supply of magnets. Gilley had graciously lent me the use of his sweatshirt, as it was too tight on Heath and he planned to carry the backpack of spikes anyway.
We also went over our plans at the dining room table, drawing a rough outline of the castle from memory. As Heath was sketching it out on paper, the front door to the B&B opened and Mary from the library stepped into the hall. “Oh, hello! ” she said when she saw us. “I’ve been looking for you two.”
“Mary!” called Anya, coming out of the kitchen to greet the newcomer warmly. “I was just putting the finishing touches on some supper for my guests. Would you care to stay for a warm meal?”
Mary blushed. “Oh, thank you, Anya, but I really can’t. I must get home to my Charlie. You know how he hates it when his supper’s late.”
“Oh, very well, then, dear, I won’t beg you to stay. But have you come round for a cup of tea with me, then? Any new gossip to share?” Anya’s eyes were sparkling with interest.
Mary eyed Heath and me uncomfortably, her blush deepening. “Oh, that’s so lovely of you, Anya, to offer me a cup of tea, but I’m afraid I can’t stay long and I’ve actually come round to speak with those two.”
Anya’s head swiveled curiously to Heath and me. “Oh, of course!” she said warmly. “I’d forgotten you two were at the library earlier. Well, I’ll leave you three to it, then. I best get back to the kitchen. That meal’s not going to cook itself.” And off she padded.
Mary came into the dining room and swept a hand in the direction of a chair at the head of the table. “May I?”
“Of course,” Heath and I said together.
Mary sat down across from us. “After you left the library, I remembered something I should have thought to mention, but I believe I was still a wee bit distracted by those naughty lads,” she began. “I know someone who has a copy of the blueprints to the castle.”
“Who?” I asked anxiously.
“Bartholemew Mulholland. Bertie for short.”
My eyebrows shot up in surprise. “There’s a living Mulholland heir to Dunnyvale?”
“Aye,” said Mary. “And Bertie’s a lovely chap with a wonderful sense of adventure. He used to write travel books, you see, and his writing took him all over the world before an accident many years ago robbed him of the use of his legs. Hasn’t stopped him from enjoying life, though, no. He still gets up every morning and tends to his garden and writes a few articles here and there. I believe you’ll find him lovely company.”
“And he has a copy of the blueprints?” I said, wanting to be sure.
“Oh, aye! I made it for him myself several years ago. Bertie loves history and maps and such. He’s quite a scholar on Irish folklore and myth too. I’m sure he’ll want to help you in whatever way he can.”
Heath smiled. “Where can we find him?”
“Oh, Bertie’s house you can’t miss. It’s at the very top of Marney Lane, within walking distance actually. If you turn left at the end of this street and just follow the road up a wee bit, you’ll find it. Just look for the blue mailbox with the name Mulholland on it.”
We thanked Mary profusely and saw her out. “Should we go now?” I asked Heath the moment the door was closed.
“Supper’s ready!” Anya called from the dining room.
I heard Heath’s stomach grumble almost at the same moment I heard Gilley’s fast footfalls on the stairs.
“After dinner,” he promised.
“Okay,” I agreed.
We ate a quick but delicious meal and left Gilley in the middle of his second portion. I didn’t want to mention it then, but he was looking a little rounder to me, and I wondered if he might be stuffing all the anxiety of this bust down with a few too many calories.
The night was chilly, but otherwise clear, and Heath and I walked along the road without passing a soul. “Everyone must be eating supper,” I said.
“Do you think it’ll be okay to ring Mulholland’s doorbell during the dinner hour?”
I eyed my own watch nervously. “I think it’s a mistake to wait too late. Gilley says the low tide will crest around nine p.m. If we hit the causeway by then, we’ll have two full hours to search the castle and hustle back home.”
“What time is it now?”
“A little after seven.”
“If we interrupt his dinner, we can always say we eat early in America.”
“We do?”
“No. But he might not know that.”
“Good point.”
We continued along the road as it wove around to point toward the sea before angling up at a steep slope. From there it wound a bit more in an S curve until we rounded the last bend and there, in front of us, was a huge home sitting atop the peak of a cliff overlooking the channel.
“Whoa,” I said, seeing the house and marveling at both it and the view. It was so large compared with all the other quaint little gingerbread houses we’d seen dot the village that both Heath and I stopped midstride.
“Is that Mulholland’s place?” he asked.
“Has to be,” I said, pointing to the blue mailbox.
“I thought his family was broke.”
“Guess there’s more money in travel books than I thought.”
We moved quickly to the door, anxious to see the inside. Heath rang the bell and after a few moments we heard someone call, “Coming!”
We waited a few more moments before the door was opened and I had to drop my gaze a bit. Bertie Mulholland was sitting in a mechanized wheelchair with a plaid blanket thrown over his legs. “Good evening to you,” he said with a smile.
He didn’t appear the slightest put out by the appearance of two strangers at his door, so Heath and I quickly introduced ourselves before getting right to the point. “We’re here because Mary from the library said you might be able to help us,” I told him.
Mulholland’s smile broadened, and I realized what a handsome older gentleman he was. “Well, I shall certainly do my best to help you in any way I can,” he said warmly, motioning for us to come in.
We followed him into the home and I sucked in a breath. The back of the house was made up almost entirely of windows, and the view of the ocean and the dusky pink horizon was spectacular.
Heath whistled appreciatively. “That’s some view, there, Mr. Mulholland.”
Our host puffed his chest out a bit. “Thank you,” he said graciously. “And please, call me Bertie. Everyone else does.”
We nodded and continued to follow him down a short ramp to a spacious living room with a crackling fire. “Might I offer you some tea and bikkies?”
“We don’t want you to go to any trouble,” I said.
“No trouble a’tall,” he said with a wave of his hand before wheeling himself down a corridor, which, I assumed, led to the kitchen.
Heath and I took a seat on the overstuffed couch and looked around while we heard the sound of china rattling and cabinet doors opening and closing.
I had a chance to take in the many beautiful artifacts filling every shelf, nook, and cranny. By the looks of it, Bertie favored Asian and African art, but there were things that appeared to be from his homeland too. I noticed on the small desk sitting next to me a beautiful mother-of-pearl antique letter opener in the shape of a cross with an Irish crest at the tip of the handle.
Moving my gaze upward, I took in the many framed antique maps, some showing crude renderings of the continents, and I wondered how old and valuable a few of them must be. Along one wall was a series of star charts, and an antique-looking brass telescope rounded out that corner of the room.
I longed to get up and poke through Bertie’s vast a
nd varied collection of antiques, but I figured it was safer to stay put and merely observe from the couch.
“This place is totally cool,” Heath whispered from beside me.
I nodded. It really was.
Bertie came back to the living room with a tray balanced on his lap. “I’d just finished the dinner dishes when you rang, and this gives me the perfect excuse for a bit of dessert.”
Heath and I both thanked him as he handed us each a steaming cup of light green tea and set a large plate of delicious-looking cookies in the center of the coffee table.
“Now, how is it that Mary has suggested I might be of assistance to you?”
I reached for a cookie to dunk into my tea and let Heath begin the discussion.
“M. J. and I are part of an American television show that investigates haunted locations. We came to Ireland to do an episode on Dunlow Castle, but on the first day of filming, we lost our producer.”
Bertie looked taken aback. “Lost him?” he asked, before his face visibly paled. “You don’t mean ...”
I shook my head, knowing he thought the worst. “As far as we know, he hasn’t been killed, but we do think the phantom has taken him or has chased him somewhere deep inside the castle.”
Bertie’s hand moved to his mouth. “Oh, heavens,” he said. “I’m relieved to hear that you don’t think he’s been killed, but that is still very bad news, my dear. Very bad indeed.”
The anxious feeling in the pit of my stomach that had formed at the start of this bust intensified. “Yes. I know, sir, which is why we’re desperate to try and rescue him.”
Heath set his teacup down on its saucer and took a deep breath. “M. J. and I are going back to search the castle tonight at low tide, and we don’t plan on leaving Dunlow until we find our friend.”
Bertie looked down at his lap, and when he spoke next, his voice was very soft and sad. “I’m sure I cannot talk you out of your expedition, but you would be risking both your lives to enter Dunlow, and I cannot stress enough how dangerous that phantom truly is. I have personally lost two dear friends, not to mention the use of my own legs, to that monster.”
I gasped, and reflexively stared down at the limp form of Bertie’s legs underneath the blanket in his lap. “Mary told us you’d been in an accident,” I said. “But I thought she was talking about an auto accident or something similar.”
Bertie shook his head from side to side. “No,” he said. “’Twas the phantom that made me a cripple.”
Heath’s hand reached for mine and gave it a gentle squeeze before he asked, “Can you tell us what happened?”
Bertie sighed and took a sip of tea. “It was nearly twenty years ago,” he began. “I had opened my home to a man named Gaston Bouvet, a Frenchman who was obsessed with finding the gold one of my ancestors was said to have hidden at Dunlow.
“Gaston was such a charming man, and he quickly became a treasured friend. We talked for hours about the castle and its history, and he relentlessly picked my brain for any hint about the gold bullion said to be hidden there.”
“Do you believe the legend?” Heath asked. “I mean, do you believe that Lord Dunnyvale found Spanish gold on that ship and hid it away?”
Bertie smiled sadly. “No.”
That surprised me, as I was convinced by now that Dunnyvale had told me the truth about hiding it somewhere in his keep.
Still, Bertie clearly doubted the legend. “My ancestor Lord Ranald Dunnyvale invented that story to help keep his two brutish sons in line.”
“You seem so sure,” Heath said.
“Aye,” Bertie agreed. “I have reason to be. You see, before I lost the use of my legs and when I was quite a bit younger, I traveled extensively in Spain. As Dunlow used to belong to my family, I had a particular interest in the legend, and so I made it a point to research the archival shipping logs for the Spanish vessel that crashed on these very shores.”
“Did you find the ship?” I asked.
“Oh, indeed I did,” he said proudly. “And along with it, I also discovered the truth, which was most disappointing, but not terribly surprising. The cargo log indicated that the ship was carrying only soldiers, armament, and food supplies. I don’t believe there were more than a few dozen gold coins aboard, and all of that was likely in the pockets of the higher-ranking soldiers.”
“I’m assuming you told all of this to Bouvet?” Heath said.
“Oh, but of course I did!” Bertie exclaimed. “However, he would not be dissuaded. The thought of discovering real treasure was too much for him to resist. His first venture to Dunlow yielded him several clues to the treasure’s location—or so he boasted.”
“Where did he think it was?”
Bertie shrugged. “I’ve no idea. Gaston loved to tell a tale, and I believe that he rather liked the attention his boastful claims ignited. I also believe that he eventually convinced himself that the treasure was real and hidden in a spot only he and his friend Jeffrey knew.”
I leaned forward. “Did you also know this Jeffrey?”
Mulholland looked surprised. “Of course I knew him!” he exclaimed. “He was also a dear friend of mine, the poor man. He lost even more than Bouvet, I think.”
“Wait—what?” I asked. I wasn’t following.
“Jeffrey lost his closest friend when Bouvet fell to his death, and he lost his mind for a time to that dreadful creature. Then, sixteen years later, after he learned that his son had come here and also lost his life, I’m afraid it was too much for poor Jeffrey and he committed suicide. Such a tragedy.”
My jaw fell open, but it was a moment before I could say anything because I also noticed how Mulholland’s eyes had misted and he turned away from us, clearly upset and attempting to compose himself.
Heath nudged me with his elbow and I sneaked a peek at him. “Jeffrey Kincaid?” he whispered in my ear.
I nodded, and mouthed, “I think so.”
When Bertie turned back to us, I asked, “Just to clarify, Mr. Mulholland, are you saying that Jeffrey Kincaid was the friend that accompanied Bouvet from France?”
“Aye,” he told me, discreetly wiping at his eyes and then taking a sip of tea. “Jeffrey and Gaston were old friends. They met on safari, I believe, in South Africa. Jeffrey was a lovely man, so generous. Always bringing back trinkets for Gaston from all the places his mining business took him. He had mines all over the world, you know. A very wealthy man, and obsessed with treasure of any sort. I believe that is why Gaston asked him to come along. Jeffrey could have given Gaston a true appraisal and the best price for the gold if they found it, but it was not meant to be, I’m afraid.”
I stared again at Bertie’s legs. “And you went with them that day, didn’t you?”
Bertie nodded reluctantly. “That I did,” he said sadly. “And what a terrible day it was, although it didn’t begin that way. That morning was clear and beautiful and I remember it like yesterday. But I suppose the last day you spend on your feet before you become a cripple is always memorable.”
I winced. The poor man.
“We arrived at the castle just after eleven in the morning. Gaston and Jeffrey raced up the stairs, anxious to get to the treasure, but I still held my doubts about it being there, so rather than chase after them, I spent nearly an hour walking all the way round the island, marveling at the beautiful morning. When I was halfway round, I thought I heard someone calling or shouting from the top of the rock. The wind and waves obscured the noise, and so I never assumed something could be amiss. I thought only that Gaston or Jeffrey might be worried about me because I hadn’t come up to the castle yet. I now know that was likely when my friend Gaston was sent plunging to his death, but as I was on the far side of the island, I had not a clue that anything so awful had happened.
“I do remember, however, thinking that I should make haste to finish my walk, and when I reached the stairs, I saw that my friends had left a set of pulleys and a length of rope behind. I thought they might need it, so I beg
an the rather difficult task of carrying it up the stairs.
“As you know, it is a very long way up, and just short of the top, I believe, I was panting so hard from the labor of carrying the heavy pulleys and rope that I took a moment to set the equipment down, and take a bit of a rest. That was the moment when my dear friend Jeffrey appeared at the top of the stairs and began racing down as if his very life depended on it!
“He was so distraught, holding his head in his hands and crying out for Gaston. I attempted to catch him as he passed me, but he was clearly out of his mind and he shoved me aside as he ran by, never even looking back. That was my first inkling that something terrible must have happened, and I was still of the mind that my friend Gaston was up at the castle. So I took a step or two up when the most vile feeling crept over me like a great horrible tide and in the next instant ... it appeared.”
“The phantom,” Heath whispered, his attention totally focused on the old man.
“Aye,” said Bertie, his hands shaking slightly as he took another sip of tea. “It took us all by surprise, you see,” he continued after a bit. “None of us knew what was happening until that creature was directly on top of us. I only know that I was so stricken with fear that I froze and horrible images began to cloud my thoughts. Scenes from my worst nightmares.”
I nodded. I knew exactly what he meant.
“What happened then?” Heath asked softly.
“Well,” Bertie said, adjusting the blanket covering his legs. “I wish I knew. My vision was compromised, you see, but I believe I’ve been able to put the pieces of what came next back together. I remember being hit by a strong force, and I know that one of my legs became entangled in the rope around my feet, which knocked me off-balance, and I was sent tumbling down those stone stairs, where I lost consciousness. The next thing I knew, I was being carried down by several men on a stretcher, and I’ve never been able to feel my legs since.”
“So the phantom physically attacked you?” Heath asked.
Ghouls, Ghouls, Ghouls Page 17