White Bones (12 page)

“I’m sorry,” said Katie, and immediately regretted it, because it sounded so patronizing.

“It was a bit of a surprise. One day she said she loved me and the next day she said she didn’t. Women! I don’t think I’ll ever understand them.”

Katie looked at him with his combed-over hair and his folded raincoat and his little hands like
crubeens
, and she thought to herself, why is it that we can never tell people the truth?

Only an hour later, Dr Reidy called her, and he sounded deeply grumpy.

“I sent your dollies in for analysis, and I’m not at all pleased that you’ve already closed this investigation without having the common courtesy to inform me.”

“I’m sorry, Dr Reidy. I was under the impression that Chief Superintendent O’Driscoll was going to get in touch with you.”

“O’Driscoll? That fathead! He wouldn’t tell his proctologist if he sat on a jamjar. As it is we’ve spent serious time and budget for no purpose whatsoever.”

“Did you find out anything interesting about the dolls?”

“Oh, yes, even though it doesn’t matter two hoots now, does it? We’ve got a very talented young lady here at Phoenix Park who’s an expert on fabrics. She dismembered a number of your little effigies and she says they’re made out of torn strips of linen, some of which have lace edging. In other words, she thinks they were made out of a woman’s petticoats, ripped into pieces. The lace, though, isn’t Irish. It’s a pattern she’s never seen before.”

“What about the screws and the hooks?”

“We’ve made a provisional identification. They were probably handmade in a workshop just off French’s Quay in Cork in 1914 or thereabouts. They were in common use in Cork City; in fact, you could probably find quite a few of them now, in some of the older houses.”

“So, what do you think, Dr Reidy?”

“I don’t think anything, my dear, not unless I’m paid to think and not unless there’s some specific purpose.”

“I’d like to see your full report as soon as possible.”

“My dear, those poor women have already waited eighty years. You don’t think that a couple of days more is going to make any difference?”

“Well, I don’t know. But I think it might.”

Dr Reidy wheezed in and out, saying nothing for a while. Then he said, “You’ve got a feeling about this, haven’t you, detective superintendent?”

“It depends what you mean by a feeling.”

“You’ve got a feeling that this business is going to turn out very black.”

“How do you know that?”

“I’ve been the State Pathologist for twenty-two years, my dear. I saw it in your eyes. I heard it in the way you spoke to me.”

Katie didn’t know what to say to him. But it was like listening to somebody recount a very old nightmare that you hadn’t ever told to anyone.

“Thank you,” she said. “I’ll see if I can have some of the lace samples analyzed here.”

Dr Reidy said, “I’m not a superstitious man, superintendent. I don’t believe in signs and wonders. But my knees tell me with great reliability when the weather’s going to be wet; and my scalp tingles when there’s any kind of evil around; and there is.”

That afternoon, Katie took one of the dollies out of its evidence bag, removed all the hooks and the screws, and carefully unfolded it. It had been fashioned out of a long strip of linen, roughly torn, with a lacy hem. She tucked it into an envelope and took it around to Eileen O’Mara, who ran a
Victorian-style
lace shop in what had once been the old Savoy Cinema, in Patrick Street. Katie opened the door to her little triangular shop, with all of its period nightgowns and its lace pillow-covers and its bowls of pot-pourri, and the bell jingled.

Eileen came out of the back room with an armful of embroidered bathrobes. She was only 24 but she had taken a course in Brussels on lacemaking and needlework and she was an expert on anything sewn or embroidered. She had wavy brown hair and fiery red cheeks and she always reminded Katie of a souvenir doll, too Irish to be true.

“Katie! Haven’t seen you for months.”

“Oh, well, I’ve been busy enough. How’s business?”

“It’s quiet now, but that’s what you’d expect in the winter. I saw you on TV, all those old skeletons up at Knocknadeenly. That must have been desperate!”

“That’s partly the reason I’m here.”

“I didn’t kill anybody, honest!”

“No,” said Katie, and took the strip of linen out of her purse. “There was some fabric found up there, quite a few pieces of it, that looked like a woman’s petticoat. It has a lace edging on it, if you look here, but it’s not Irish, that’s what they say in Dublin anyway. I was wondering if you knew where it might have come from. Bearing in mind, now, it’s probably eighty years old.”

Eileen picked up the fabric and held it up to the light. “I don’t know. It’s very old, I’d say. Not a pattern that I’ve ever seen before. You’ll have to give me a little time on it. But I can tell you straight away that it’s handmade and that your man in Dublin has got it right, it certainly isn’t Irish.”

“My woman in Dublin, actually.”

“I might have guessed. But this lace isn’t based on any machine-made patterns, like Alençon or Chantilly or
Valenciennes
. And it certainly bears no resemblance at all to anything I’ve ever seen in Ireland. My first guess is that it’s Belgian, or German.”

“Well, I don’t know what that tells me,” said Katie.

“All it tells you is that whoever it belonged to, she was probably quite wealthy. This is very fine work, and it would have cost a lot of money, even eighty years ago.”

“I see.” Katie took the lace back and held it up to the light. If it had been really expensive, then the likelihood that it had been taken from any of the women who had died up at Meagher’s Farm was extremely remote. She didn’t have a complete list of all the women who had gone missing in the North Cork area between the summer of 1915 and the spring of 1916, but those whose names had appeared in the
Examiner
had been farmers’ wives and shopgirls and (in the case of Mrs Mary O’Donovan) a postmistress. Not the sort of women who would have been wearing petticoats of handmade Continental lace.

So whose was it? And where had it come from? And if it was such fine lace, why had it had been ripped up?

Katie left the Savoy Center and walked across Patrick Bridge, back to her car. Two crows were sitting precariously on rotten wooden posts in the middle of the river. She was beginning to feel that they were watching her, following her, like a witch’s familiars.

John Meagher was standing outside the front door of his farmhouse when Katie drove into the courtyard. It was almost as if he were expecting her. The rain had stopped but the morning was still gray, and the clouds were almost as low as the tops of the elm-trees.

“Hi,” he said, opening the car door for her. He was wearing a navy-blue waterproof jacket and tan corduroy pants. He looked more like a model from a men’s casualwear catalog than a Cork farmer.

She climbed out. “I just came up to tell you that the case is officially closed and you can carry on with your building work.”

“That’s it, then? We never get to find out who did it?”

“Well, I hope we do. We’re not pursuing it as an active investigation, but we haven’t closed it completely. Everybody deserves justice, even if it’s eighty years too late.”

“Sure, I guess they do.”

She looked around the courtyard. “If you do happen to come across anything else… maybe not bones, but anything that strikes you as out-of-the-ordinary…”

“Oh, sure. I won’t hesitate. You gave me your number. Listen – I’m being very rude here – how about a cup of tea or a cup of coffee?”

Katie hesitated, but then she smiled and said, “All right. That’d be welcome.” John Meagher had an air about him that really attracted her. It wasn’t just his looks – even though she had always liked men with dark, curly hair and chocolate-brown eyes. It was his quiet, amused, self-contained manner, and his cultured West Coast accent. She felt that he would always be interesting, and protective, too.

He led her into the house. His mother was sitting at the kitchen table, sewing, with a cigarette dangling between her lips.

“You remember Detective Superintendent Maguire, don’t you, ma?”

Mrs Meagher lifted her head and peered through her thicklensed glasses. “Of course. It seems like time caught your man before you could.”

“Yes, I’m afraid it did.”

John said, “You should switch the light on, ma. How can you see what you’re doing?”

“I can sew on buttons with my eyes closed.”

“I can eat hamburgers with my eyes closed, but why would I want to?”

“Get away with you. Ever since you went to America, you’ve been talking Greek.”

“What would you like?” John asked Katie. “Tea? Coffee?”

“Tea would be fine. No milk, thanks.”

He switched on the electric kettle. His mother coughed and crushed out her cigarette and went to the larder for shortbread biscuits and fruitcake.

“I didn’t realize you were such a celebrity,” said John, pulling out a chair so that Katie could sit down.

“Oh, yes. I get wheeled out for TV interviews every time somebody wants to talk about the New Irish Woman.”

“Couldn’t have been easy, though, getting as far as you have.”

“It wasn’t. As far most gardaí are concerned, women officers are there to direct traffic, comfort grieving widows and go out for sandwiches – and if they’re not too ugly, to have their bottoms pinched at every opportunity.”

“Somehow I can’t imagine
you
putting up with that.”

“I didn’t, and I don’t. But I was lucky, too. At the time when I applied to become a detective, there was very strong pressure from the Commissioner’s office to promote more women to the upper ranks. Not only that, I had a chief superintendent who happened to be a close friend of my father’s. Then about two months after I graduated as a detective garda, I solved a double murder in Knockraha, two women drowned in a well, mother and daughter. All I did was overhear a drunken conversation in a pub, but I still got the credit for it.”

“You’re very modest.”

“Well, I try to be efficient, John, as well as modest.”

John laughed. “How’s your tea? Are you sure it’s not too strong?”

“It’s fine. It’s hot, that’s all.”

Mrs Meagher shuffled out of the kitchen, leaving them alone. They sat and smiled each other for a while, then John said, “What happens now?”

“About the skeletons, you mean? We’ve commissioned somebody from the university to see if he can find out how and why they were killed, but there’s not much else we can do.”

“It was a ritual killing though, wasn’t it?”

“Ritualistic, yes.”

“My grandfather always used to say that this farm was possessed.”

“Possessed? Possessed by what?”

“He never really explained. But he always used to say that if you knew where to look for it, and you knew how to get it, and you were prepared to pay the price, you could have anything your heart desired.”

“That’s interesting. Professor O’Brien at the university said that this farm was called the Hill of the Gray People because a witch called Mor-Rioghain was supposed to have used it as a way through from the underworld. Mor-Rioghain would give you anything you wanted, so long as you fed her on the bodies of young women.”

“That’s a pretty gruesome story.”

Katie sipped her tea. “I don’t take it seriously, not for a single moment.”

“Of course not. But, you never know… eighty years ago,
somebody
might have believed it.”

“That’s one of the possibilities that Professor O’Brien is going to be looking into.”

John offered her a shortbread biscuit. “Go on, spoil yourself… they’re all home-made. My mother still bakes enough for half the population of Ireland.”

Katie accepted, and snapped the biscuit in half. “How about you? How are you coping with the farm?”

“Not as well as I thought I was going to. Everybody back in California said they envied me because I was really getting back to nature. But, I don’t know. There’s Californian nature, like orange groves and grapes and sunshine, and then there’s Knocknadeenly nature. Which is mainly mud.”

“You’re managing all right, though, aren’t you?”

John shook his head. “Not too well, to tell you the truth. The economics don’t really work out. Cattle-feed costs almost as much as caviar, but the price of milk is so low that it’s cheaper to pour it down the drain than it is to bottle it. The plastic trays I pack my chickens in cost more than the chickens. Apart from that I need a new differential for my tractor and a new diesel generator, and two-thirds of my winter wheat has gone rotten in the rain. I sold my business in the States for a very good profit, but at this rate I calculate that I’m going to be pretty close to bankruptcy by the beginning of July.”

“Why don’t you cut your losses?”

“Family pressure. I’m the head of the Meagher family now, and what would they think if I sold Meagher’s Farm to some developer?”

“That’s it? Family pressure?”

“Well, pride, too. I’m not the kind of guy who likes to admit defeat.”

Katie smiled. “That’s one thing that you and I have in common, then. Blind stubbornness in the face of overwhelming adversity.”

John looked at her for a long time, his chin resting on his hand. She looked directly back at him, and for some reason neither of them felt any particular need to talk. Katie hadn’t felt so immediately comfortable with anyone for a long time, and it was obvious that he felt comfortable with her, too.

“So what do you do when you’re not being a detective superintendent?”

“I don’t get much time to do anything. But I like to cook, and take my dog for a walk on the beach.”

“You’re married.”

She twisted her wedding-band. “Yes, well.”

“No children?”

She shook her head. She was still smiling but her smile was a little tighter. John must have realized that he had touched a sensitive spot because he raised his hand in a gesture that meant, okay, I won’t ask you any more.