"Maybe we'd better talk about something else," he said. But when he looked at her, Nora could see that he was at war with himself, unsure whether to venture into that uncharted, dangerous place. "I've always told everyone he was dead."

She wasn't prepared for this response. "He's not?"

"No." Cormac seemed to be trying to form the words in his head. "When I was nine, he volunteered for a few weeks at a South American mission run by an old friend, and became very involved in the human rights work they were doing. He went back again, and happened to be part of a delegation visiting Chile when the generals took over. The six weeks he was supposed to be there turned into six months, and after that, I think my mother knew he wasn't coming back. It was hard for both of us, but especially for her, I think. She could never be officially angry with him; the man was a humanitarian hero."

Cormac knelt and reached for the poker to stir up the fire. "He did come home for a time when my mother was ill, but after she died he went back to Chile. I've tried to put myself in the place of all those people who lost someone. It's hard."

"Where is he now?"

"He came back to Ireland two years ago, to his family place up in Donegal. He wrote me when he was coming home, but I couldn't--I haven't seen him since the funeral." She understood now that this was the first time he'd ever told anyone the whole truth.

"Cormac, I'm sorry."

"Yes. Well. It's my own choice." He changed the subject. "Would you like to hear that tape now?"

"I would." She didn't want to press him any further. Was he sorry that he'd told her all this? "Maybe we can keep an eye out for your willie-the-wisp while we have a listen," she said. "Where were you when you saw it--just there in the alcove?"

"Yes. But listen, if you're coming away from the fire, you'd better have this." He pulled a small blanket off the bed and draped it around her shoulders.

"Thanks. Won't you be cold as well?"

"I'm very warm," said Cormac, and he pressed the backs of his fingers to her cheek to prove the point.

"So you are."

Nora sat with her knees pulled up to her chest on one of the deep, cushioned window ledges in the tower alcove as Cormac pushed the b.u.t.ton on the tape recorder. They sat looking out into the darkness, listening to the background noises of conversation and chairs being rearranged. The sound of Mrs. Cleary's croaking voice affected her almost as much the second time she heard it. When the old lady's song ended, she asked, "Why wouldn't the song just say the girl's name?"

Cormac switched off the tape. "Too dangerous. Besides, at the time, everybody in the locality would know who it was talking about. Lots of songs were written in code. It was pretty common convention during dangerous times."

"I suppose you're right, like all those allegorical songs with the veiled references to Napoleon coming to save Ireland. Robbie has a song that doesn't mention the lady's name, only gives a cryptic anagram of her initials--I'm still trying to figure it out. But you know, there are a couple of things that don't fit. Mrs. Cleary's song is about a soldier transported for fourteen years, and Cathal Mor wasn't a soldier; he was an outlaw, and transported for life. And the song says, 'they've murdered thee,' but there's pretty good evidence to say our red-haired girl was executed--she couldn't be both." Nora had been slouching in the window ledge, but now sat forward abruptly to peer through the gla.s.s.

"What is it? What do you see?" Cormac joined her at the window.

"It's just the new moon. There, do you see it?" She murmured under her breath: "'I see the moon and the moon sees me--'" To her surprise, Cormac joined in: "'G.o.d bless the moon and G.o.d bless me.'" He was close beside her, and his warm breath stirred in her hair. There was something strange about the sound of their voices joined in the darkness, as if this harmless, whispered prayer were a sort of spell or incantation. Perhaps that's what it was, an ancient attempt to harness the frightful power of the moon, and to use that power for good and not for mischief. Nora shivered, and suddenly felt anxious having him stand so close. If she weren't careful, the voices of reason and temperance could so easily be drowned out by the sound of her own pulse. And yet for some reason, she couldn't move.

"Nora? Could I ask you something?" She didn't answer, but could sense his unease as he sat down beside her on the deep window ledge. "That very first day, when we were out on the bog, something Devaney said seemed to upset you."

The silence between them grew, but he waited, unmoving. He'd shared with her his most private thoughts, things he had never revealed to anyone else. What could she do but answer?

"It wasn't anything Devaney said," she began. "At least not at first. It was the red-haired girl. My sister Triona had the most gorgeous red hair, ma.s.ses of it, thick and wavy. I was always so envious. When I was twelve, and Triona was seven, I had to brush her hair every morning before school. It was one of my ch.o.r.es. I grumbled a lot, but I secretly enjoyed it. You've no brothers or sisters?"

"No."

"Those five years between us were like a gulf at the time. They seem so insignificant now. When I saw that red hair coming out of the turf...Everything that reminds me of Triona also reminds me that I was at least partly responsible for her death."

"Why would you think that?"

"Because I was the one who convinced her to leave her husband, and the very next day she disappeared. It wasn't just coincidence, Cormac. When I had to identify her body, the way I knew that it was Triona was all that lovely red hair. I couldn't look at her face, you see, because she didn't have a face anymore."

"Ah Jesus, Nora."

"And I was the only one who knew it was Triona's husband who killed her. I knew it. The police believe it now as well, but they can't do anything. He's been questioned, but there's never been enough evidence to arrest him. It turned out that Triona never told anyone but me about how Peter got some sort of twisted pleasure from hurting her. She said she was too ashamed to tell anyone. He was smart enough never to raise a hand to her in public. Why should anyone suspect him? He's rich, he's handsome, he's on the boards of dozens of worthy charities. He had everyone actually feeling sorry for him because of the theory he put forward, that some crack-head carjacker must have killed my sister. He swore she never once mentioned leaving him, so that made it my word against his, and lots of people started to think I was crazy. He told the police that he and Triona spent the evening at home, then she went off to the health club for a ma.s.sage the following morning and never came back. Her car turned up in a parking ramp four days later. Her body was in the trunk."

"And there was nothing to link her husband, no physical evidence at all?"

"Nothing, despite the fact that he had no real alibi. Through all of it, I kept telling myself that I didn't want revenge, that all I wanted was justice. I'm not even sure what that means anymore. When Triona's case was put in the drawer with all the other unsolved murders, Peter filed the claim on her life insurance. Of course the insurance company denied it, since he was still the main suspect, but he sued and they eventually had to settle out of court. He took the money, and he took my niece, and he moved as far away as he could get. I haven't seen Elizabeth for nearly four years; she'll be eleven in October." Nora paused and looked up at Cormac. "She's already lost her mother, and I would gladly have taken her father away as well. If I'd had a chance in h.e.l.l. But it seems I didn't."

"Is that why you're here?"

"Desperately trying to patch together what's left of my life and my sanity."

"I'm so sorry, Nora."

"I might have been okay about the red-haired girl if Hugh Osborne hadn't shown up, looking for his missing wife. With no alibi, and no evidence against him."

She could see by Cormac's expression that something had finally clicked into place. He hesitated. "It seems unfair to a.s.sume that Hugh Osborne is guilty when we don't have all the facts."

"Then why not help me find some? We could just as easily exonerate him."

"Nora, we can't just go charging through people's lives like--I mean, maybe the light I saw out there is somehow related to Mina Osborne's disappearance, but there's a better chance it's not. It must have been so terrible to lose someone like that; I can't even begin to imagine. But they're two totally separate situations. You can't let your own anger and frustration make you jump to conclusions about people. You must see that."

"I saw something in his eyes, Cormac, the first night I came here. I can't even describe it, except to say it was almost a challenge. Like he was saying, 'Prove it,' right to my face. You were out of the room at that point. You didn't see."

"I just wonder how much of it can be put down to the fact that you want him to be guilty."

"Next you'll be saying that I've come unglued." As she spoke, Nora found the elevated pitch of her voice disconcerting, almost unrecognizable.

"I don't think that." Cormac's voice softened. "Jesus, Nora, I don't. It's just--" He reached for her, but she pushed past his hand and crossed to the door, shedding the blanket he'd given her. When she reached for the door handle, she felt Cormac's hand cover hers. "Please, Nora, you don't have to leave."

"I do." Her voice was even. "Please let me go." Cormac removed his hand from hers and took a step back.

When she was alone in the hallway, Nora slumped against the wall and drew in a long breath. What the h.e.l.l was going on with her? Everything he'd said was perfectly rational. Hadn't she been telling herself the same things over and over again for the past few days? She'd become so b.l.o.o.d.y defensive, and n.o.body deserved that, least of all Cormac. Remembering his gentleness, Nora felt overwhelmed by a sudden, hollow ache of desire. At precisely the same moment, she heard a clattering noise in the stairwell only a few feet from where she stood.

She pushed open the stairwell door. "Who is it? Who's there?" No one. But someone had been there, watching her--perhaps watching them. When she turned to go back to the hall, her foot struck something that rolled and clinked against the wall. She stooped to pick it up--an empty whiskey bottle. As she made her way down the hall to her own room, Nora raised the bottle briefly to her nose, remembering her first chance meeting with Jeremy Osborne, and the same sweet, strong whiff of his breath against her face.

Instead of enlisting their help, she'd managed to alienate both Cormac and Jeremy in the s.p.a.ce of a single day. She was especially sorry about Cormac. Why did everything have to be so complicated? Nora's stomach was in knots as she switched on the light in her room and dropped the whiskey bottle in the trash. She lingered by the door another few seconds. Something felt wrong. She scanned the room, looking for anything out of place; her eyes came to rest on the bed. The cover was disarranged. Had Jeremy been sleeping in her room this time? She crossed to the bed, threw back the covers, and had to stifle a cry.

Atop a pile of dirt and leaves lay the huge carca.s.s of a crow. The bird's dead eyes were dull and sunken in their sockets; its large claws grasped empty air. The broken gla.s.s might have been an accident, but there was no mistaking the warning in this message.

Her first reaction was to phone Devaney. But as she rummaged through the pockets of her jeans, looking for the card he'd given her, Nora realized that calling the policeman meant that she and Cormac might have to leave this house before they discovered anything. Probably exactly what the perpetrator wanted, and she wasn't about to be so easily manipulated. And that meant calling Devaney was out of the question.

Who could have done this? And more to the point, why exactly was someone in this house trying to scare her off? Hugh Osborne was out of town--gone to London, he'd said--and she wondered whether the story was true. She also remembered Jeremy's cold look, and wondered whether he'd been upset enough to pull a prank like this.

Nora returned to the bedside and looked down at the crow. The filthy thing was crawling with maggots. She couldn't just leave it here, not if she was going to have to spend the night in this room. She gathered up the corners of the sheets and carefully rolled the bedding into a tight bundle. Then she opened the cas.e.m.e.nt as far as it would go, and pushed the whole thing out of the window into the garden below, and turned to face the room again. Sleep seemed impossible, and it was cold in the room. Nora wrapped herself as best she could in her raincoat and settled onto one of the sofas near the fireplace, contemplating what she ought to do next.

14.

Una McGann was awakened by the sound of pounding at the front door. She hurried down the stairs in her nightdress and bare feet, and stood on the other side of the door, unsure who was making the commotion. Then she heard Brendan's voice.

"Una, open the door, I've dropped my key. Una!" She stood frozen to the floor, trying to work out how to respond. He pounded again, with the flat of his hand.

"Una! Let me in. I know you can hear me. Come on, open the f.u.c.kin' door."

"Hush, Brendan, you'll wake Aoife." It suddenly dawned on her what was wrong with him. "Brendan, are ye drunk?"

"S'none of your f.u.c.king business how I am. Open up, I said." He gave the door a vicious kick, and then another. "I built this f.u.c.kin' door with my two hands; you've got some f.u.c.kin' neck using it to bar me."

"I can't let you in when you're like that. You're frightening me. And you needn't bother trying the back door. It's locked as well."

She winced as Brendan swung wildly at the door, but its stout wood received a rain of blows from his fists and feet without so much as a shudder. There was a brief respite, and she could hear him moving away from the door. But her momentary relief was shattered when she heard an explosion of breaking gla.s.s against the door and the side of the house. He must have brought home a few bottles from the pub. Una sat crouched on the floor, her arms clasped around her knees in a posture of self-protection, and though she knew the door would hold against this onslaught, the sound of each heavy pint bottle hitting the house made her jump. Fintan appeared beside her, dresssed only in his underpants. "What's going on? Is that Brendan? What the f.u.c.k is he up to?" They listened, but could hear no more than a low muttering from beyond the door. Fintan lifted a corner of the curtain in the kitchen and peered outside. "It's all right. He's heading off."

"Brendan's drunk. He's drunk, Fintan. He never drinks."

"We'll leave him until he's sober. He can go sleep in the shed."

"Fintan, what are we going to do?"

"He's just angry about us wanting our shares of the farm. He'll get over it. We can't let it change what we've planned."

"There are things you don't know, Fintan." She looked at him, but couldn't find the strength to speak.

"Tell me. Una--you must tell me what it is."

"Come," she said, and led him down the hall to Brendan's room, where she pulled the bed from the wall, and showed him the hiding place she'd discovered on the day of the bird's intrusion. She reached in and lifted up some papers, searching for Mina Osborne's hair clip. It was gone.

"It was here, I know it was. I held it in my hand."

"What?" Fintan asked.

"A hair clip. It belonged to Mina Osborne. I know because I saw her wearing it on the day she disappeared. And there are a whole lot of cuttings about her in here as well. Fintan, what are we going to do?"

Her implication took a moment to sink in. Una could see him resisting the notion, as she had, denying the possibility even as he remembered the look in Brendan's eyes when the sickle blade had sunk into the table only inches from his own head.

"No, there's no way," he said, shaking his head. "He's our brother. You must be mad." Despite his protestations, she could see the idea burrow in and take root. But the fact that Fintan now shared this dreadful knowledge did not make it weigh any less on her own heart.

15.

Nora was startled awake by a knock at the door of her room. She was momentarily disoriented, but the memory of the crow crashed back into her consciousness.

"Are you all right, Nora?" It was Cormac's voice. "It's after ten. Nora?" The handle moved, and she hadn't time to react before he opened the door. He understood immediately that something was wrong, and quickly approached her.

"Nora, what's happened? Are you all right?"

She hesitated. It all seemed so strange now. "I'm fine, Cormac."

"Then what's--" He gestured toward the stripped bed.

"When I came back here last night, I found something."

"What? Please tell me."

"A dead crow."

"Jesus, Nora."

"I didn't want to raise an alarm. What good would that do? So I"--it seemed too bizarre in the light of day--"I threw it out the window. Bedding and all." She got up and crossed to the window. "I know it was dead, and it wasn't going to hurt me, but--" She stopped short. There was no sign of the crow, or its litter of bedding and dead leaves. She knew Cormac saw it too.

She turned to him. "It did happen."

"I believe you. But Nora, why didn't you come get me?" She found she couldn't say a word, but could only look at him. Cormac put his arms around her, and neither of them spoke for a few moments. Then he asked: "Do you still have the card Devaney gave you?"

"What can he do now? I've nothing to show him."

"But he asked us to tell him about anything out of the ordinary, and I think this definitely qualifies. Please, Nora."

"I left my mobile phone out in the car."

Cormac led the way downstairs. There was no one about, until they met Hugh Osborne at the front door. He looked strangely at them, and said: "I'm very sorry."

At first Nora wondered how he knew about the crow, until she saw the cars parked in the drive. Cormac's jeep was in the worst state, its wind-screen and rear window smashed in, and all four tires completely flattened. The whole thing had been smeared with mud, now dried into patterns showing the sweep of the vandal's arm. The final insult, a fresh pile of manure on the jeep's hood, had begun to dry in the morning sun; flies buzzed about in a swarm. Her own car had fared somewhat better: although it was streaked with the same thick brown muck, and appeared to have a couple of punctures and smashed headlamps, at least the windows were still intact.

Nora couldn't help noticing that there was, in fact, a great stillness in the air--like the deep quiet she always imagined upon a battlefield after the calamitous noise of war. It was as if the morning itself could not countenance the violence done here lately. There was nothing but the mute testimony of the two ruined vehicles to bear witness to what had pa.s.sed.

16.

Devaney was at Bracklyn House not more than five minutes after he received the call from Dunbeg Garda station. He arrived to find Osborne, Maguire, and Gavin on the gravel drive with the damaged vehicles. Osborne's Volvo was parked nearby, without so much as a scratch.

"Thank you for coming so quickly, Detective," Osborne said. "I just got in from London this morning, and came home to this. We haven't touched anything."

Devaney took a closer look inside the jeep. Bits of safety gla.s.s lay scattered all over the vehicle's interior. A load of surveying equipment was still in the back; he'd have to ask to make sure nothing was missing. A blue-and-white vehicle pulled up beside him; it was Declan Mullins from the Dunbeg station. The scene-of-crime officers would have to come from Galway, so it would be a while before they arrived.