"Oh, he is," Robbie agreed, following her into the kitchen. "Promise you won't hold that against him?"

"Robbie, I'm anxious to hear what you found out."

"And I'm just as anxious to tell you. But hang on, hasn't he got a biscuit or something to go with the tea?" Robbie asked, opening a cupboard and rummaging around until he found what he needed, an unopened packet of plain chocolate wheatmeal biscuits. "Doesn't even fancy these, but keeps a few on hand because they're my favorite. Commendable, isn't it?"

"Very touching," Nora agreed. "But, Robbie, what did you find out?"

"You understand that what I was doing was only very general research."

"I do. Go on."

"Well, it's interesting," he said, through the crumbs of his first biscuit. "Beheading was generally reserved for people of some importance. Old-fashioned hanging was considered sufficient for most crimes, and for most criminals, right up through the nineteenth century." He was warming to the subject now. "And hanging generally meant slow death by strangulation. I found several reports of people being resuscitated after a half hour on the rope." He spoke with some amazement at this fact. "Of course, we have a couple of Irish doctors to thank for the long drop. They took into account the prisoner's weight, and how much force it would take to break his neck. It was all very scientific; they had tables for calculating the length of the rope. Though it seems the main reason for the change wasn't to put the condemned out of their misery any more quickly, but to spare witnesses the discomfort of watching them dangle."

"Absolutely fascinating," Nora said, hoping that her exasperation wasn't starting to show.

"But back to beheading--you'd have to be a fairly high-born person to get your head chopped off. Not only that, but you'd have to have done something pretty terrible, treason or regicide, or something equally heinous. That's why not a lot of women would have been beheaded; I'm having trouble coming up with any actual historical accounts. But--and here's what I found most interesting--" he said, leaning forward, "starting in the Middle Ages, beheading became a sort of standard punishment for infanticide. I suppose it's always considered the worst sort of abomination to kill a child--"

Nora could hear Robbie's voice continuing, but the noise in her head crowded it out. There was a dinning sound, like the beating of dustbin lids in her ears. She felt a p.r.i.c.kling sensation down her neck and on the backs of her arms.

"Robbie," she said suddenly, "we have a date now, or at least a rough time frame. Remember that piece of metal in the X rays?"

"I do."

"It was a ring, possibly a wedding ring. And it was inscribed with a date--1652. How many women could have been executed in East Galway since then? If we were looking for a needle in a haystack, I'd say the needle had just grown larger."

"Ah, but you're forgetting that a large portion of the haystack itself went up in smoke," he said. "Lots of doc.u.ments from that period were destroyed when the Public Records Office was sh.e.l.led during the Civil War back in 1922."

"But surely not everything burned. There are other sources, aren't there? I just can't believe that would be the only place to look. What about the National Archives? Or the Public Records Office in London? And couldn't the initials from the ring help somewhat? Maybe there are marriage records, or at least census records for the area somewhere that could give us a clue." Nora was surprised at the urgency in her own voice. "Don't give up on me now, Robbie."

3.

St. Columba's Catholic Church was a severe-looking gray stone monstrosity, built in the nineteenth century, and now serving Dunbeg and several small neighboring communities. Father Kinsella was evidently just finishing up with the cleaners, a small brigade of nondescript, slightly doughy middle-aged women armed with mops, buckets, rags, and polish. Their beaming faces and collective posture told Devaney that the handsome, curly-haired curate knew exactly the effect he had on female parishioners of a certain age, and felt no compunction about using it--all to the advantage of the Church, of course. Devaney stood inhaling the atmosphere--that mixed scent of furniture polish, incense, flowers, and candle wax peculiar to a church--and waited for the priest to finish with his fan club and herd them off in the direction of the sacristy.

Despite its familiar essence, this modern s.p.a.ce felt strange to Devaney, not at all like the ancient and mysterious church of his childhood. Perhaps it was the changes in the Ma.s.s since he was a boy; perhaps it was just that the rituals and accoutrements of faith no longer impressed him.

"Ah, Detective," Kinsella said, rubbing his hands together like an eager young businessman when he turned and caught sight of Devaney. He paused to genuflect briefly in front of the altar, then came sprinting energetically down the center aisle to shake hands. "Garrett, isn't it? I know your family, of course, Nuala and the children, but we haven't had the pleasure of your company." When Devaney offered no visible reaction, the priest was politic enough to press no further.

"Is there somewhere we could talk that's a bit more out of the way?" Devaney asked, pulling a small notebook from his breast pocket.

Kinsella led the way to the baptismal chapel, and offered Devaney a seat on one of the benches that lined the walls. "Now, Detective, what can I do for you?"

"I'm going through the file on the Osborne case, talking to some of the original witnesses, just on the chance that anything new has come to mind."

The priest's helpful demeanor changed to a look of thoughtful resignation. "I had a feeling it might be that," he said. "I try to keep hoping for the best. It's getting more and more difficult. But I do pray for them every day."

"You said in your original statement that Mina Osborne wasn't a regular parishioner when you first came here."

"That's right. She only started coming to Ma.s.s after Christopher was born."

"I was surprised to find that she was a Catholic," Devaney said. "Coming from India--"

"There's actually quite a large number of Catholics in India, Detective. Ever since the forcible ma.s.s conversions by the Portuguese in the fifteenth century. Not the most commendable period in Church history, I grant you. That's when Mina's family would have taken the surname Gonsalves."

"Strange how they kept the faith, if it was only forced upon them."

"Yes, that does seem curious, doesn't it? But I suppose by the time they did have any choice in the matter, it was already something of a long-standing family tradition."

"I think you said Mina spoke with you the week she disappeared, and in fact had been to see you more than a few times in the previous couple of weeks."

"Yes, that's right, there were things she wanted to discuss about her own spiritual life, but she was also thinking about her son. Whether he ought to be brought up in the Church."

"You say she was trying to decide. Was there any disagreement between Mina Osborne and her husband on that point?"

"I don't know that I'd call it disagreement. They were discussing options. Christopher was still very young. I don't know that Hugh Osborne had a terribly strong opinion, to tell you the truth. It was more a matter of Mina trying to resolve some questions of her own about her faith."

"Did she say anything that seemed out of the ordinary, anything to indicate her state of mind? Was there anything troubling her that day?"

"I hope you're not trying to insinuate--" Kinsella began. "Because I'm certain that Mina would never have harmed herself or Christopher."

"I'm not insinuating anything; what I am trying to do is to find Mrs. Osborne. Please, just tell me what she said." The edge of exasperation in Devaney's voice seemed to give the priest pause.

"The reason the whole question of religious education had come up was that Mina wanted to take Christopher to India to meet his grandparents. She wanted to be able to tell them, truthfully, that her son was going to be raised in the Church. And her husband evidently had some reservations. There's always tension when the couple come from different traditions. There were a few issues they'd not really resolved before the marriage--one of them was how the children would be raised--but it was nothing that couldn't eventually be worked out. Mina had been estranged from her parents--her father, at least--since she married Hugh Osborne. They'd chosen not to be married in the Church, you see, and it mattered a great deal to her father. His family had always been strict Catholics, loads of aunts and uncles in religious orders; one was even an archbishop, I think. Anyway, Mina believed that such a gesture on her part might ease things with the father. Personally, I think there was more to it than that. We see it all the time. People fall away when they come of age, but when they have children, when they need something to connect with, something meaningful and profound to pa.s.s on to their children, they're drawn back to the Church. The pull of tradition is much stronger than we realize."

"Do you remember exactly what she said?"

Kinsella looked as though he wasn't quite ready to part with the information. "I've gone over and over our last conversation. It was a couple of days before she disappeared, but I never saw her after that. Just as she was leaving, she said, 'Hugh's against the idea now, but he'll come around. He's hardly going to try keeping us here under lock and key.'"

"Excuse me, but I don't recall any reference to 'lock and key' in your earlier statement," Devaney said.

"She was only joking, Detective. There was no fear in those words. She'd come to a decision, and was joyful about it." He added, as if to excuse his sin of omission, "I knew it would be taken the wrong way."

Devaney gave the priest a questioning look. "Anything else you've suddenly remembered?"

"I swear that's the only thing I might have left out of my original statement."

"Would she have made the trip without her husband's approval?"

"I believe she would have waited. She'd never have deliberately done anything to hurt him. That's why her disappearance has been so troubling. You don't know her, Detective. Mina's spirit was filled with light, unlike any other person I've known."

Devaney studied the priest's face. "Sure you didn't fancy her yourself? You wouldn't be the first."

"Contrary to what you might read in the papers, Detective, there are a few of us who do take the vows seriously. I don't deny that Mina confided in me. I don't even know why, really. I suppose there weren't many people around here she could consider friends. But we were just friends."

"What did you talk about?"

"Oh, I don't know--books, music, the nature of G.o.d, the life of the soul. I think she was just starved for conversation."

"And she couldn't talk to her husband?" Devaney asked.

"Of course she could. I'm not saying that. But an intelligent person like Mina needs a very high level of intellectual engagement. She told me once that when she came here she couldn't paint all day and all night as she'd done before. I think she needed other outlets."

"What was your impression of the Osbornes' marriage?"

"I think it was fairly solid, despite their brief courtship. She was certainly committed to the marriage. Of course she knew that her husband had other...women friends, before they married. He is somewhat older, and she wasn't completely naive. But I got a sense that--"

"What?"

"Well, she never actually put it into words, but I think she may have had...some worries. Probably completely unfounded."

"Can you recall what it was that gave you that sense?"

"I remember her asking rather pointedly in our last conversation about G.o.d's forgiveness of sin. Hating the sin, but loving the sinner."

"Maybe she was thinking of herself. You know that she was pregnant when they married?"

"Yes. Oh, don't worry, I'm not divulging any secrets of the confessional. She didn't try to hide it. Sometimes I think that may have been the real source of her doubts."

"You don't believe Osborne had a bit on the side."

"I don't know, Detective. I can't say I really know the man." Kinsella looked steadily back at Devaney. "He comes here, you know. Shows up at an early Ma.s.s and just sits in at the back. I've tried to find him afterwards, a couple of times, but he's always gone."

For a brief second, Devaney thought he glimpsed what failure felt like to a priest. "Thanks for your time, Father. I think that's all for now."

"Tell Nuala and the children I was asking for them."

"I will." Devaney turned to leave, and was about to push open the door at the back of the church when he heard the priest draw a tentative breath.

"You know, I wonder, as long as you're here," Kinsella said. "It's hardly worth mentioning, really...."

"What is it?" Devaney asked.

"Well, we've had a rash of petty thefts recently, nothing serious, just somebody nicking offertory candles from one of the side chapels. I know a few candles might not seem like much in the larger scheme of things, but every penny counts in a small parish like this, and it's all quite mysterious."

"Can you show me where?"

Kinsella escorted him to a small, shadowy chapel just off the altar. A stained-gla.s.s window filtered a gloomy light into the alcove, where a painted plaster statue of the Virgin stood upon an altar. A metal crown of stars formed a halo around her head, and a half-dozen flickering candles illuminated her face from below. Devaney suddenly remembered being in thrall to a similar statue as a child. With her outstretched arms draped in that sky-blue robe, her face a portrait of radiant kindness, he had thought her the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. He'd have willingly saved a thousand pennies just to light one candle at her feet. He turned his attention to the priest.

"So this recent theft wasn't the first."

"The first time was about six months ago, then again a few months later, and, finally, last weekend. The candles are usually kept here." Kinsella indicated an empty shelf below the row of burning votive lights. "I might not have noticed, even, except that we'd just put out a whole rake of new candles on Friday, and on Sunday morning they were all gone. I've held off saying anything, but now it's becoming a rather regular habit. I'm not sure we'd want to prosecute, but I'd surely like to know who feels the need to steal from the church. It may be a cry for help."

"How many entrances to the building?" Devaney asked.

"The main doors, of course, and two side doors, one through the sacristy, and the other through this side." The priest indicated a door just around the corner from where they were standing. "But that's locked most times, only used for funerals and the like."

"Do you ever lock up entirely?"

"I'm afraid we have no choice," Kinsella said. "I only say Ma.s.s here two days a week; I have two other parishes to look after. Unless the cleaners are here, like today, or we have some evening function like a wedding rehearsal, the building is locked up tight. And Sat.u.r.day evenings, of course, when I hear confessions. I'm almost sure that's when it's happening."

"Why do you say that?"

"Well, it occurred to me that each of the thefts happened on an evening we had a visit from the 'phantom penitent.'" Kinsella's face betrayed slight embarra.s.sment. "Not very respectful, I'm afraid."

"Why do you call him that?"

"I'm not even sure it's a him," Kinsella said. "This person--whoever it is--waits until the last one before him is in the confessional, then comes in at the other side. Never says a word. At first I just waited; I understand it sometimes takes a few moments to order your thoughts. I've tried speaking up as well, but there's never any response. After about five minutes, whoever it is gets up and leaves. I haven't gone so far as opening the door to try and find out who it is."

"How many times has this happened?"

"I don't know. Four or five times, I think."

"Could I have a look at the confessionals?"

"Surely, right over here," Kinsella said, leading the way to the opposite side of the church.

"Do you hear confessions every week?"

"I do. Always a rush at Christmas and Easter, but there's generally not a great demand." Kinsella gestured for Devaney to open the door to the confessional and look into the central compartment, which he did, noting the red velvet cushion for the priest, and the small sliding wooden doors. The one to his left was open, and he could see where the confessor heard sins through a grille covered with black cloth.

"I wonder if you'd mind stepping inside for a moment," Devaney said. "Which side does the person come in?"

"Always the right side. My right, that is, when I'm inside. Does that make a difference?" Devaney thought he detected a touch of excitement in Kinsella's voice, the kind of enthusiasm an ordinary citizen feels when involved in some aspect of a police investigation--the kind of enthusiasm the police were often better off without.

"It might," Devaney said. He stood just outside the confessional door, looking up and down the length of the church. "Who are your regulars?"

"I don't know if I ought to say."

"It's possible someone might have seen your phantom."

Kinsella seemed to consider this point. "There's Mrs. Phelan, who lives just beside us here, in the lane. Tom Dunne, since he's been retired, has been coming every week, and Margaret Conway. A few others as well."

As harmless a bunch of wretches as ever there was, Devaney thought to himself. A h.e.l.l of a lot they'd have to confess. "And where do they queue up?"

"In the pews, just opposite. But as I said, whoever it is always waits until the last one of them is inside the confessional before coming in the other side. I doubt whether any of them have seen who it is."

Devaney opened the door and went into the confessional on the side the phantom penitent used. The last time he'd been in one of these places, he'd been Padraig's age, a brainwashed altar boy fairly saturated with impure thoughts. He pulled the door closed, to get the full effect. He half smiled at the idea, remembering with clarity the exact moment when he'd rejected the notion of G.o.d. It had been no more complicated than flicking a light switch. He'd been better off since. He knelt at the leather-padded prie-dieu, and did not adopt the prescribed posture of supplication, but examined the interior of the tiny s.p.a.ce, hearing in his head the whispered sins of mult.i.tudes, a running inventory of gossip repeated, losses of temper, drinks taken, as if G.o.d were some miserly bookkeeper, logging every minor offense. But maybe there were a few major offenses as well. What was it Houlihan always said? He could hear his old partner's nasal East Clare accent digging into the pithy syllables: Debauchery, skulduggery, fornication, and witchcraft. No shortage of them, anywhere you look. Devaney was aware of dampness on his palms, and he could feel his breath becoming shorter, but he remained in the compartment, the only illumination coming from a small barred opening at the top of the door. He felt the air stopping halfway down his windpipe, no matter how he tried to draw it in. He was starting to feel light-headed, and knew he should get out. He reached for the prie-dieu to pull himself to his feet, and, although he was almost overcome with panic, felt a roughness with his thumb below the ledge. With great effort, he stood, and burst out of the confessional, gasping for air. Kinsella was right behind him.

"Are you all right?" The priest's face showed genuine concern. Devaney sat at the end of the nearest pew and tried to get his breath.

"Touch of a flu coming on," he said when he was able, wiping his face with the crumpled handkerchief from his back pocket.

"Are you sure? I can phone for the doctor."