The Shadow and the Night: Glenncailty Castle, Book 3 (25 page)

“Oh, Tristan.”

“
Mon ange
. Do you know what that means?”

“I think it’s ‘my angel’.”

“Yes. You are my angel. I have never met someone who I so fervently believed is doing God’s work.”

“Me? Tristan, I barely believe in a deity.”

“And I’d lost my faith until I met you. You gave me hope. Hope that Jacques’ soul is safe and no longer suffering. Hope that all the ghosts I’ve seen can be set free of whatever prison they are in.

“It would be my privilege to love you, to be the one who comforts and protects you, while you find justice for the dead.”

His words were the most beautiful, moving thing anyone had ever said to her. Tears spilled down her cheeks, and Melissa threw herself against him. Tristan gathered her against his chest, stroking her hair and whispering of her beauty and strength in French.

“I’m falling in love with you too,” she whispered.

“And if you weren’t, I would fuck you until you were.”

Melissa let out a startled laugh, then smacked his chest. “You ruined the moment.”

“Sex never ruins anything.” Tristan tipped his head down and grinned at her while wiggling his eyebrows.

Melissa rolled her eyes and lay down on his chest once more. He really was perfect for her. As she drifted back to sleep, she was smiling.
 

Chapter Fifteen

“Dr. Heavey!”

Melissa looked up as Victor came running into the church. She set aside the damaged skull she was examining.

“Victor?”

“There’s a man with a knife threatening Susan!”

“What?” Melissa stripped off her coveralls and tossed them in the bin. “You stay here. I’ll deal with it.”

She blinked as she emerged into the midday sun and jogged through the gardens to the kitchen. “What’s going on?” she demanded as she burst through the exterior entrance.

Susan, a tiny little half-Japanese girl, was standing protectively in front of a large stockpot with her arms spread. Tristan was looming over her, his arms crossed and a large knife clenched in one hand.

“Get that out of my kitchen,” he shouted.

“What are you doing?” Melissa demanded.
 

Tristan looked at her, then relaxed.

“Leave her alone,” she scolded him.

“Wait, you’re speaking to me? Asking me what
I’m
doing?”

“Yes.”

“I am trying to run a restaurant. I’m trying to cook food for the horde of morbid gossips who’re demanding to eat in my restaurant.”

Melissa waved that away. “You knew we’d need to clean some of the bones.”

“I did not know that, and if I had, I would have told you not to do it in my kitchen.”

“Well, that’s what I did before.”

“And I hated it then.”

“Just put that plastic back up.”

“
Non
. The pub is full, and there were so many people waiting we had to open the restaurant. I’m serving pub food—fish and chips!—in my Michelin star potential restaurant.”

Melissa pursed her lips. “So…we can use this section of the kitchen?”

Tristan turned and stabbed the knife into a wood butcher block. “
Non
. It is your fault all these people are here.”

“I really can’t see how it’s my fault.”

“They’re here to see you, you and those bones.”

Melissa narrowed her eyes. “They know?”

“Yes. I told you if you brought in these people—” he gestured at Susan, “—that it would not stay a secret.”

“Dr. Heavey, I didn’t tell anyone, I swear.” Susan looked panicked.

“It’s fine, Susan. What’s important is that we don’t have anyone tramping around trying to get a look. I’m calling the
Gardaí
.”

“What?” Tristan threw his hands in the air. “That is not what I want. More people…”

“I thought you like feeding people.”

“I like feeding them fine cuisine.”

“Then make them order fine cuisine. I’m still calling Detective Sergeant Oren. The bodies aren’t a police concern, and I doubt they’ll open a case about the vandalism, but we’ll need the protection. Is Sorcha here?”

“Yes, she’s with Elizabeth, in the lobby.”

“Really? Okay, good. I can talk to both of them. Well…sort of.”

Melissa marched past Tristan, who reached out and grabbed hold of her ponytail. She heard Susan gasp.

“We are not done, Dr. Heavey.” He took hold of her shirt and pulled her close. His eyes were bright, and his lips were firm.

He was so hot when he was angry.

“Of course not.” Melissa gave him the prettiest smile she knew how to make, fluttered her lashes, then raised her voice and said, “Kitchen people, could you put up the plastic and section off this counter? Also, if you could clear out any other large pots, that would be helpful. We have quite a few more bones that I’m going to need to clean.”

Tristan covered his face with one hand and cursed eloquently.

Melissa nodded to Susan. “Keep going. I’ll be back.”

Susan’s eyes were wide as she looked between Melissa and Tristan. Reminded that projects like this were meant to be learning experiences for students, Melissa patted Susan’s shoulder.

“Don’t worry about Chef Fontaine. When you’re out in the field, you’re often confronted by resistance. What we do is upsetting to a lot of people. However, it’s never okay for someone to manhandle you the way Chef Fontaine just manhandled me. The reason I’m okay with it and didn’t address his behavior is because I’m sleeping with him.”

She patted Susan a second time, then exited through the restaurant, going in search of Sorcha.

Tristan watched her disappear, then turned to look at the shocked faces of his staff. The grad student who’d defiled his kitchen giggled. He glared at her until she shut up. Jerking the knife out of the butcher block, he sighed and gave in.

“Plastic. Get it up. Seal off this section.”

The kitchen jumped into action, the sous chefs getting to work while the rest of them went back to filling orders. As Tristan called for a server and set a container of tartar sauce on a plate of fish and chips, he was smiling.

That woman was maddening.

He loved her.
 

“We have a problem.”

Melissa grunted, not really paying attention to the speaker. The clavicle she was examining had been broken and partially healed sometime before death. Broken clavicles weren’t uncommon, even in modern times. The bones were thin the way ribs were—they were for protection of organs rather than structural support.

“Dr. Heavey.”

This one had a spiral fracture more common in ankles or wrists, where the combination of weight and impact twisted the bones as they broke. The resulting calcification and new bone growth had created lumpy knobs that would have continued to grow as the bone healed. If this person had survived, the lumps of bone would have been visible under their skin.

“Melissa.”

She’d heard of instances where skiers and snowboarders had spiral rather than clean breaks of this bone, but she couldn’t imagine an equivalent activity that would have been common when this person was alive. Even being thrown from a horse wouldn’t cause this, unless it was a seriously odd fall.

“Melissa!”

Someone touched her shoulder, and Melissa looked up at Sorcha. “I believe this person was tortured,” she said.

Sorcha opened her mouth, then closed it.

“This break is unusual for this bone.” Melissa held up the clavicle to show Sorcha. The redhead paled and took a step back. “Though it’s possible that this person was injured in an accident and the angle of their fall was so uncommon that it caused this break.”

Susan, who’d been cataloguing bones at another table, came running over when Melissa started talking. She switched her attention to the student, who would appreciate what she had to say more that Sorcha did.

“Could it be a genetic deformity? The bone growth is huge,” Susan asked.

“I can see why you would think that,” Melissa said, “but in this case what you’re looking at is a badly healed and unusual break. This bone—” Melissa reached toward Sorcha, who was closest to her, intending to use her as a model. Sorcha batted her hands away.

Melissa shrugged, then pointed to her own clavicle. “Unlike a leg or arm bone, here there aren’t supporting muscles that will hold it in place as it heals. Clean breaks will set without too much excess growth, but this is a spiral break.”

“But that’s a sports injury.”

“Exactly. Now look at this.” Melissa set down the clavicle and motioned to the table, where she’d laid out the skeleton of this young man. He’d been seventeen or eighteen when he died, which might be an indication that his injury was due to an accident—Melissa had a cousin who’d broken ten bones by the time he turned twenty, most of them doing something stupid, but there was more to this story.

“What am I looking for?” Susan’s tone was sheepish, as if she was embarrassed to ask.

“The right wrist—bottom of the ulna and the triquetrum and the carpal bones.”

“Melissa, I need to talk to you.” Sorcha’s words and tone were polite, but she was grinning in a way that seemed more feral than friendly.

“What happened? Why are the carpal bones marked like this?” Susan had picked up a magnifying lamp and was holding it close to the table.

Melissa wanted to talk Susan through it so the student would experience the thrill of putting the pieces together, but based on Sorcha’s attitude, she didn’t have time.

“I believe he was hung by that wrist. Assuming his whole body weight was on his arm, after time the joint would have weakened and his shoulder would have dislocated. Once that happened, his clavicle took the stress and weight. It wouldn’t have taken much to cause a break like this, especially if he were attempting to get away.” Melissa raised her right arm in demonstration, rotating her torso side to side.

“He was hung by one arm and tortured until his shoulder dislocated and his bones started breaking.” Sorcha’s voice quavered and the grin was gone.

“That’s my supposition. Susan, I have to go do whatever it is Sorcha needs. Take a minute and look over the bones again. Note any other marks.”

“Any other evidence of torture.”

“No, just other evidence. My hypothesis is only that. What we collect next may point to an accidental death.”

Susan nodded. “I’m sorry. I won’t make assumptions. It’s just that it’s hard not to.”

“I understand, and at a certain point contextual evidence can speed up the process. When I’m working on a mass grave, I don’t assume that a broken tibia was the result of a bike accident. I assume it was pre-mortem torture and check for other common bone notations.”

With that, Melissa stripped off her gloves and gave Sorcha her full attention. “What do you need?”

“Can you come with me?” Sorcha swallowed, looking away from the multiple skeletons that were laid out for examination. Her gaze lingered on the first skeleton they’d pulled out—Tadhg, who’d had broken ribs, a fractured skull and knife marks in the bones of his left hand that indicated three of his fingers had been cut off before his death. “There’s a problem.”

They stopped at the door so Melissa could take off the suit, stashing it to use again. She made Sorcha detour to the graveyard so she could check on the progress. They had columns A through E of the grid cleared.

“How many?” Sorcha asked when Melissa was done speaking with Dr. Drummond.

“So far we have eleven. I’d estimate we’re about a quarter of the way through.”

“That’s it? It’s been a week.”

“A site like this should take months, if not years, to clear. We can’t go any faster.”

They made their way into the garden, then headed back to the castle. Sorcha had had the groundskeeper create a stone path that led directly from the garden gate to the rear of the castle. Considering how often people were walking back and forth, that was a better solution than tromping on the plants.

Melissa nodded to the patrolman who was leaning against the wall. He nodded back. Detective Sergeant Oren hadn’t wanted to send someone to guard the cemetery, but after some extended persuasion, and testimony from Tristan and Rory that someone had tried to rob the graves, he’d given in. They left out the part about who had been grave robbing, instead saying the person ran away.

“So what’s the problem?” Melissa asked.

“Two reporters showed up. They heard about what you’re doing.”

“How?”

“The glen is a small place. We’ve had far more people than normal coming through the pub and restaurant. I assume they’re curious.”

“I heard all about the extra people who keep showing up. Tristan is less than pleased.”

Sorcha’s lips twitched. “I heard he hasn’t been back to his apartment in a few days.”

“He’s staying with me.”

“I know. Congratulations.”