The Book of Killowen (Nora Gavin #4) (28 page)

“Be quiet! I don’t want to hear about it.” Anca covered her ears with both hands and continued pacing back and forth in front of the tree. “Don’t talk to me. You had to get away from your father, and I—” She dropped her hands and pulled the sleeves of her jumper over her balled fists. There was something strange going on, Deirdre thought. Something Anca wasn’t telling her.

She’d been fast asleep last night when Anca came into her room.
Get up
, she said,
we have to go. Be quick about it and don’t make any noise.
So Deirdre had gathered up some clothes and a few nappies in a couple of carrier bags, and they’d set out across the fields in darkness. It was no use asking what happened; the few times she’d tried, Anca had got very angry. Deirdre didn’t want to make trouble. Anca was the only
friend she’d ever had, so she had kept quiet and followed along. But now she was beginning to feel frightened. She’d never seen Anca so upset. They’d gone as far as the chapel and waited there for first light. Deirdre looked at her friend now. The mascara had gone all splodgy around Anca’s eyes, and she looked like she’d kill for a cigarette. Cal seemed to catch their restlessness, pulling at Deirdre’s hair as he nursed. Why hadn’t she thought to bring him anything to eat? She reached for the handle of her carrier bags and realized that she’d only one. Where was the other? She had no nappies at all if she’d lost that other bag, and Cal would be needing a change very soon.

They’d have to turn around and go back to Killowen. Why didn’t Anca want to go there? Deirdre knew her father might get angry and drag her home again like he had last night, but Claire and Diarmuid did say she could come to them whenever she needed a place to stay. Her da wasn’t that bad, really. Mad as a snake, right enough, but he’d never hit her. Well, never before last night, anyway. And she had gone against him, after he warned her more than once about going to the farm. He said again last night that Claire and her crowd were not to be trusted, that he was just looking out for her, and maybe he was. Hard to tell sometimes who exactly he was looking out for. She looked over at her friend, stripping the bark off a thin branch. There was something wrong. Why wouldn’t Anca look at her?

“Did you see my da last night?” Deirdre asked. “Did you speak to him?” Anca just glared straight ahead and continued breaking bits of dry bark from the stick and pegging them at the ground. “Does he know where I am?”

Anca threw down her half-stripped branch. “Stop talking about him! Why do you care about him, anyway? Look at your face! He gave you that, didn’t he?”

“He never did it before.”

“So that makes it all right?” Anca made a face as if she’d swallowed something that was shredding her insides. She gripped her stomach as the words burst from her lips: “You don’t know what he was doing, how he was using you, and Cal.” She buried her head in her arms.

Deirdre felt cold all over. The baby stopped nursing and pulled away. She looked down at him and watched his mouth make a perfect O before his loud wail pierced her eardrums. She tried to soothe him, patting his back and murmuring little comforts. He always got an air bubble, that’s
all it was. An air bubble. If she only walked him and rubbed his back, it would go away, stop bothering him. She climbed to her feet, trying to keep the child balanced on her hip.

They were deep in the oak wood now, the far side, no place she recognized. She had played in this wood as a little girl and had never been afraid, but now there seemed to be strange noises around them, shadows stealing up from all sides. What did Anca mean, that her father was using them?

All at once Deirdre found herself running through the woods, Cal bouncing heavily on her hip. She didn’t know which way to turn, so she just kept running. The baby had stopped crying, his arms tightening about her neck as she ran. She could hear someone behind her, crackling noises of branches breaking, feet pounding the earth, and heavy breathing, but she dared not stop or even look back.

Mairéad Broome answered the door to Stella this time. Her face looked pallid, as if all emotion had been wrung out of her over the past several days. Seeing who it was, she left the door open but turned and walked away. Stella stepped into the sitting room. The cottage was slowly taking on the look of a squat, with cups and plates, clothing strewn about, along with a few empty wine bottles. It was as if the two people living here had given up on appearances and surrendered to whatever was troubling them.

Mairéad Broome said nothing, sinking onto the sofa and pulling her loose jumper close about her. A cigarette burned in the ashtray beside her on the table, next to a nearly empty wineglass.

Graham Healy came in from the other room. “Why are you here, Detective? We’ve told you everything we know.”

“Forgive me, but that’s not quite true, is it now? It’s actually you I’ve come to see, Mr. Healy,” Stella said. “I had a question about your conversation with Vincent Claffey yesterday afternoon.”

The young man’s face betrayed his alarm, but Mairéad Broome’s voice broke in before he could answer. “Graham did have a brief conversation with Vincent Claffey after we arrived here. What about it?”

No immediate denial, then. Stella kept her focus on Healy, who was clearly unnerved. “You were seen passing Mr. Claffey a brown envelope. I have to ask you what was inside.”

Healy hesitated, thinking.

“Our witness said it was quite obviously a transaction. Mr. Claffey took a thick envelope from you, said he needed more time to think about what you were asking—I think those were the words he used—and then he rode off on his motorbike.” Cusack considered her bargaining position. She really had nothing beyond Dr. Gavin’s statement that would compel this suspect to say any more. Not yet, anyway. “So what were you asking of him? Shall I tell you what I think?”

Mairéad Broome leaned forward in her chair, her mouth set in a grim line. “You don’t have to say anything, Graham.”

“I’ve been imagining all the possibilities, why you’d be paying off Vincent Claffey. For instance, what he might have known about the two of you that would be worth a significant amount of cash.”

“I’ve told you, Detective, neither Graham nor I had anything to do with my husband’s death. I can’t help it if you don’t believe me, but that’s the truth.”

Healy’s eyes grew defiant. “If you need to know what was in the envelope, why don’t you ask Claffey?”

“I certainly would, except for one small detail—he’s dead.”

Mairéad Broome looked up. “What? How?”

“His body was discovered this morning. He was murdered.”

Graham Healy’s mouth dropped open, but no words came out.

Stella continued, “So I have to ask where each of you were between the hours of one and five o’clock this morning.”

“We were here.” Mairéad Broome’s voice was adamant. “We stayed in all night. And as far as the contents of that envelope are concerned, Graham was acting on my behalf, Detective. Vincent Claffey had done some work for me, and—”

“What sort of work?”

“Pardon me?”

Stella repeated: “I asked what sort of work he did for you.”

“Odds and ends, mostly, framing and stretching canvases, that sort of thing.”

Stella turned to Healy. “I thought those sorts of jobs were handled by your assistant.”

“They are, usually, but Graham’s got a lot on his plate at the moment, dealing with galleries and all the exhibition planning. Things have been busy lately, so we needed some help with . . . some of the more basic tasks. And Vincent Claffey always needed money.”

“So you’re quite certain it wasn’t blackmail? I understand that Claffey was here last night, making threats. He claimed to know the secrets of everyone here at Killowen. I presumed that might include yourselves.”

“If that’s true, we’ve heard nothing about it. I told you, we’ve been here at the cottage since we arrived.”

“I probably ought to inform you as well that Claffey’s daughter and
grandson have gone missing. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that?”

“Deirdre and the baby are missing? Since when?”

Stella thought she detected a note of increased tension in Mairéad Broome’s voice. “All we know is that she was gone when her father’s body was discovered. We’re searching for her and the child now.”

“You have to find them, Detective! It’s bad enough that she should have that odious man for a father—”

“Mairéad.” Healy shot an imploring look.

“I can’t help it, Graham. He was. I’m not sorry he’s dead.”

Stella’s phone pipped. “Cusack here.”

Molloy sounded breathless. “We’ve got them, Stella. The two girls and the child. They’re all right. Uniform are bringing them in.”

Stella felt a surge of relief. “Where were they?”

“Just the other side of the oak wood at Killowen. Like you said, they hadn’t got very far. Had to keep stopping to feed the child, to keep him quiet.”

Stella turned around to find Mairéad Broome’s gaze fixed on her.

“Was that news about Deirdre? Is she all right?”

Stella decided to probe further. “She’s physically fine. But I am concerned. I mean, if the girl happened to witness what happened to her father, or if she were somehow involved—”

“
Involved?
For God’s sake, Detective, she’s a child.”

“Old enough to have a child of her own,” Stella said. Mairéad Broome turned away abruptly, as if she’d been slapped. There was some deep, unspoken link here, but what was it? Stella filed this information away, next to Deirdre Claffey’s reaction to news of Benedict Kavanagh’s death. “We discovered that Deirdre was traveling in the company of a Romanian girl, Anca Popescu. What do you know about her?”

“Not a lot. She’s been living here for the past year or so, working as Martin Gwynne’s apprentice. He’d know more about the girl, you can ask him.”

“I have a few more questions, about your husband’s visit to this area,” Stella said. “We’ve found the B and B where he was staying when he disappeared; some of his personal effects were still there. You’ve no idea what he was doing in this part of the country?”

“Not the foggiest.”

“Did he know that you were a regular visitor at Killowen?”

“I sincerely doubt it. He didn’t really pay me that much notice.”

“Doesn’t it seem odd that he’d come to this remote, rural area—to a place that you happened to frequent—and that his visit had nothing whatever to do with you?”

“Lots of things seem odd, Detective, when examined under a microscope. The only thing my husband was interested in was his research.”

“But he never happened to mention a connection to Killowen? What about Faddan More?”

“As I told you back in Dublin, he mentioned a breakthrough, but he offered no details. All I can think is that he was interested in medieval manuscripts, and this place was once a monastery . . . ” Her voice trailed off, as if she’d just realized something significant, but the recovery was swift. “Then again, this whole bloody country is peppered with monastic ruins. I have no idea what brought my husband here. I wish I did.”

“All right, let me ask you this: in your husband’s belongings, we found a few interesting items. There was a gold cross with an inscription,
From Mum
. Not familiar to either of you?”

“No.”

“There were also some handwritten notes. In one of them your husband mentioned a person—at least I’m assuming it’s a person—with the initials
IOH
. Do those letters mean anything to you?”

Mairéad Broome gave a short, bitter laugh in reply. “Only the object of my husband’s affections, my nemesis—my only true rival.”

Not quite the answer she was expecting, Stella had to admit. “You’re saying that your husband and this IOH were involved?”

A tiny, cryptic smile played across Mairéad Broome’s features. “That’s a good word for it—involved. Most definitely.”

“In that case, I’ll need to speak to—”

Mairéad Broome cut her off. “That won’t be possible, I’m afraid, since he’s been dead for a thousand years. I am sorry, Detective, I’ve been toying with you. The initials belong to the ninth-century philosopher my husband studied. It was more than just study, if you want the truth. Benedict was completely besotted with the man—his intellectual hero, the great mind he tried to emulate. I know that level of devotion is hard to understand; in my experience, it seems to be a disease peculiar to academics.”

“So the manuscripts he consulted—”

“—were all to do with Eriugena, yes. He was obsessed.”

Stella paused for a moment.
Eriugena
. That name from Kavanagh’s papers again. Someone else had mentioned it as well—Martin Gwynne and the conference in Toronto. “How do you get Eriugena from the initials
IOH
?”

“That was evidently how the man signed his work. Don’t ask me why. I don’t know.”

Stella’s mind returned to the handwritten note mentioning IOH and his great unfinished work. “Do you think your husband’s remarks about turning the world of philosophy on its ear had something to do with this . . . Eriugena?” Stella nearly stumbled over the strange name.