"And you know nothing about a dead crow turning up last night in one of the bedrooms upstairs?"

"No!" The boy appeared genuinely taken aback, even horrified by this bit of news, and Devaney pushed a little further.

"Maguire tells me you've been helping him with the excavation at the priory."

"Well, I'm finished with it." Hurt and anger flashed in the boy's eyes.

"And why's that?"

Jeremy Osborne looked down, and tried valiantly to regain control of his emotions. When he'd succeeded, he raised his face to address Devaney once more: "b.l.o.o.d.y boring work, isn't it?"

17.

Devaney wasn't sure what he expected to find out by speaking to Brendan McGann. He remembered what Maguire had told him, of McGann's veiled threats at the priory. The information didn't surprise him; everyone knew Brendan had a short fuse, and bickered with his neighbors--over livestock gates left open, property markers and fences, the usual small irritations between farmers. Devaney would wager that every perceived indignity, every slight that Brendan McGann had suffered over the years had been banked and kept alive in his belly like the embers of a turf fire. Eventually, those things either ate away at you from the inside--he had seen it happen to his own father--or they came bursting out. On the murder squad, he'd seen the consequences of the latter far too often.

Brendan's statement in the Osborne case file had been true to form: few words, grudgingly delivered. He'd offered no alibi for the time of the disappearance, said he'd been driving cattle home from pasture. Devaney pulled into the drive, feeling the Toyota vibrate dangerously as it rumbled over the cattle grid. Jesus, something was going to fall off the f.u.c.king car any minute. No one answered when he rapped at the door, which was shut, and locked, when he checked the handle. Something popped under his foot, and he looked down to see several shards of dark brown gla.s.s on the footpath. Looked like a piece of a broken Guinness bottle. He flipped it aside, and was just stepping away from the door when he saw Brendan McGann round the corner of the house, wiping his hands on a bit of a rag.

"Devaney," he said curtly. It was a greeting.

"How are ye, Brendan? Thought I might have a chat with you about what happened last night at Bracklyn House."

"What happened there? I've not been to town today."

Now there was a strange thing, Devaney thought. For all his roughness, Brendan McGann was known as a regular churchgoing man, and he'd been to confession last night. "Bit of a shemozzle over a couple of motorcars."

"And I'm meant to know something about it, am I? I'll tell you once and for all, anything going on at that house is nothin' got to do with me." Brendan jerked a thumb in the direction of the shed. "D'ye mind? I'm in the middle of something here."

"Maybe I can give you a hand," Devaney said. Brendan's face was expressionless; he said nothing, but turned on his heel and headed for the shed. When Devaney reached the door, he could see that Brendan had been struggling to get a new tractor tire on a rim and could probably use his help.

"Fine collection of old tools you have here," Devaney said, kneeling to hold the wheel rim steady, and looking about him at the astonishing a.s.sortment of hay forks, scythes, thatching tools, and sleans that hung from the walls and rafters of the shed. "By Jaysus, I haven't seen a billhook like that in years. It's the very same as the one my father had. You still use all these?"

"I do. Lift."

As they wrestled the tire upright and laid it down again, Devaney's nostrils took in the smell of turf mold and damp, and yet Brendan's tools seemed wondrously untouched by rust. Given the right provocation, Devaney imagined any one of these gleaming metal blades could cut a person's throat as cleanly as they severed slender stalks of oats and hay. Brendan strained to pry the tire over the rim, and Devaney was close enough now to smell the sour reek of sweat that came off the man, mingled with his stale, beery breath. Strange. Everybody in town knew McGann wasn't much of a drinker. On the rare occasions he was seen in the pub, he had a quiet pint or two on his own, and then went home. It took more than a couple to leave you stinking like a brewery the next day. As he held the tire in place, Devaney looked around the shed once more. His eyes grew accustomed to the dim light that made its way through the one tiny window, and he could see a makeshift cot in the corner, with an ancient straw mattress. His eyes returned to Brendan, registering the creases in the man's clothing and the few bits of dirty yellow straw that clung to the back of his shirt.

"I stopped to see if you saw or heard anything out of the ordinary last night," Devaney said.

"No," Brendan replied. He must have seen Devaney's chagrin at the curt answer. "I stopped for a jar at Lynch's last night. Left around nine. I saw no one coming or going, and went straight to bed when I got home."

"Is there anybody who might vouch for you? Your sister wouldn't be at home by any chance?"

"No."

"Well, that's all right, I can talk to her later. She's fairly involved with Osborne's new craft workshop, isn't she? But you're not too keen on it yourself, I understand." Brendan just looked at him, and Devaney's eye was attracted to a stack of plastic bucket lids that stood on the workbench behind him. These plain, white rounds were identical to those used in making the signs that had appeared on the roadsides around Dunbeg.

"Some people say you have good reason to resent Hugh Osborne," Devaney said. "They say--"

"It's no secret I don't like the b.a.s.t.a.r.d," Brendan interrupted, the volume of his voice rising ever so slightly. "That's not against the law, and the reasons for it are me own. But I was home in bed last night, Detective." Brendan gave the iron another mighty push, and the ma.s.sive tire finally snapped into place on the rim. "And you'll never prove otherwise. I'm obliged to you for helping me here. But I've nothin' more to say."

18.

After the cars had been towed away, Hugh Osborne proposed a trip to the excavation site.

"I've been so busy, I hope you don't feel as though I've been ignoring your work," he said as he drove them the short distance to the priory. "I'm really interested in how you're getting on, that is, if you don't mind showing me around."

"Of course," Cormac said. They each took a hand carrying some of the equipment, and when they reached the site, Nora began to set up for the day while Cormac gave Hugh a guided tour of the several trenches they'd dug so far.

"At the moment we're working on an area that appears to have been some sort of midden or rubbish dump. Archaeologically speaking, middens are like treasure troves. They have so much information, not just for the purpose of dating a site, but about what people ate, what kinds of tools and vessels they had, all kinds of details about their everyday lives." Cormac jumped down into one of the pits just barely within earshot, and Hugh crouched above him to have a look.

The day was overcast, with a strong wind pushing billowy, moisture-laden clouds eastward. Between gusts of wind, Nora heard Cormac's murmuring voice and watched him point out for Hugh the dark layer of a charcoal deposit, and the brown stain that marked where a wooden support had been sunk into the soil. He also showed Osborne the sheets they used for describing what turned up in each test pit.

"What we're doing here is really keyhole archaeology," Cormac was saying. "It's like trying to do a big three-dimensional jigsaw puzzle without any picture to go by." Hugh was standing with his arms crossed, asking the occasional question and nodding appreciatively. Nora could see that they had become friends, and worried what would happen if it turned out that Hugh Osborne had been involved in his wife's disappearance.

She hadn't even told Cormac the worst part of her story last night. That her parents wouldn't do anything to help convict Peter Hallett, despite the suspicions and the intensive police investigation, despite everything she told them about what the man had done to their own daughter. Her father simply refused to listen, and had taken an adamant position on his son-inlaw's innocence. Nora could see that her mother had instinctive doubts, but wouldn't allow herself to contemplate any action as long as Peter had sole custody of their only grandchild. Please try to understand, Nora, she'd said. We've already lost Triona. If we do anything, anything at all, he could take Elizabeth away from us as well. Forever. And then what would we have? But he had taken Elizabeth away. So what did they have now?

Nora watched the two men deep in conversation in the far trench. Cormac was right: they knew little about Hugh, and still less about the circ.u.mstances of his marriage and family life. He seemed like a decent guy on the surface. But so did a lot of disturbed people. What was that expression her gran had? She could see the old lady's shrewd eyes, the set of her lips as she p.r.o.nounced the words: street angel, house devil. The first time she heard those words was the moment Nora realized there were plenty of things grown-ups never told children. Who could say that Hugh himself hadn't lost it and smashed up their cars? He said he'd only returned this morning, but the guy looked like h.e.l.l, as if he hadn't slept at all. It was all very well to go about their work and to keep telling themselves that they weren't really involved here, but they were involved. Deeper and deeper, it seemed, first with the anonymous phone call, and now with all the events of last night.

Hugh took his leave, and a few minutes later, Cormac was in the trench they'd begun at the rubbish dump, about four feet down, wielding the pickaxe with a ferocity Nora hadn't seen before.

"Cormac, did you tell Devaney about that light you saw out at the tower? I couldn't really say anything; you're the one who saw it."

"No. That is, not yet. I'm not sure it's significant."

"He's supposed to decide what's significant. That's his job."

Cormac was silent for a moment. "I asked Hugh about the tower."

"What?"

"Just now. I asked him about the tower. Why it's locked up. He said he didn't want kids climbing around in there and getting hurt."

"Did you tell him you'd been out there?"

"No." He stopped digging and looked up at her. "I'd like to go back. Just to have another look."

"I'm coming with you this time."

He pressed his lips together and nodded briefly. Nora could see the clash of conflicting emotions in his face, doubt and curiosity battling his sense of loyalty and fair play. He had obviously thought about everything she said the night before. She felt somewhat guilty for tarnishing his opinion of Hugh Osborne, but as she studied the warring impulses that pa.s.sed over Cormac's dark features, a sense of elation washed away any regret.

19.

Delia Hernan's house was on a small lane off the main road about a mile past Drumcleggan Bog. As Devaney approached he observed the general air of neglect about the place. The whitewashed stones that lined the path were out of place; the choppy hedge in front was overgrown, and thick moss grew on the tile roof. He knew Mrs. Hernan had been widowed over the winter, but it looked as if the place had been suffering for at least several years. Devaney had heard there were a couple of sons off in England who didn't often get home.

Mrs. Hernan didn't seem at all surprised to find him at her front door. While he took a seat at the kitchen table, she began to fuss about making tea, and Devaney used the opportunity to look around. The house had a look of hire-purchase shabbiness about it: the loud wallpaper, the wobbly chairs, the cracked oilcloth on the table where he sat, the cheap, faded souvenirs from Ireland's holiday spots, even the new strip of flypaper that hung from the smoke-stained ceiling next to a bare lightbulb. The patterned linoleum on the floor was worn away in places, and the lace curtains that hung in the windows had not been white for many years. A yellow enamel cooker in the corner had been scrubbed clean in spots, but remained blackened with sooty grease around the edges. Three pots of busy lizzies on the windowsill pressed their faces to the light outside and shed their shriveled blossoms onto a growing pile on the floor. The room felt closed in, its warm, damp air permanently flavored by decades of cigarette smoke and the sour smell of cabbage. He spoke over the sound of running water as she rinsed the teapot in the tiny makeshift scullery off the kitchen.

"I'm here to ask about your work at Bracklyn House. How did you first come to be working there?" Mrs. Hernan emerged from the scullery with the teapot, into which she spooned a great quant.i.ty of loose tea from a tin, and then filled with water from a huge steaming kettle that rested on the corner of the cooker. She was a plump, full-bosomed woman of about sixty, with a frizz of mouse-brown dyed hair about her face. The fingers of herright hand were stained and leathery from nicotine, and she was apparently unaware of the cigarette ash that clung to the front of her shapeless woolen skirt. As she spoke, Mrs. Hernan went about slicing several cuts of brown bread and thickly slathering them with b.u.t.ter.

"My Johnny, G.o.d rest him, always did the firewood for the house. Shortly after Missus...o...b..rne--the elder Missus...o...b..rne, that is--and her young lad arrived over from England, Mr. Hugh asked my Johnny did he ever know anyone who'd be interested in helping out with the cleaning once or twice a week. I went there the very next day. Of course yer wan thought she was in charge, acting the grand lady, but I told her, seeing it was Mr. Hugh that paid me, it would be him that gave the orders. Oh, she didn't like that. Not one bit."

"And when Mina Osborne came to Bracklyn?"

"Ah, now, she was a dote. Always very lighthearted. And a real lady she was, too, but not above pitchin' in now and again, not her. The little lad, Christopher, was a pure angel, used to love going around with me while I was cleaning. I'd give him a bit of a rag--" Mrs. Hernan's voice quavered, and tears sprang to her eyes. "I know it's dreadful to think the worst. I can't help meself." She shook her head and sighed. "And Mr. Hugh has taken it terrible bad, poor man."

"How would you say they got on, Hugh Osborne and his wife?"

"Ah, a pair of lovebirds, those two. Couldn't get enough of each other, if you know what I mean. Are you married, Detective?" Devaney nodded. "You know yourself, then. Of course they hadn't been married terribly long when the baby came along. I suppose they were still getting used to each other, like. I'm sure everyone has their ups and downs. They might have had a few small disagreements now and again, but they never went so far as throwing the delft or any such thing like that--not like meself and Johnny. Oh, Janey, we used to go at it sometimes. And I'd surely know if they had. You learn an awful lot about people from what's in their bins, I always say. I'm trying to think now if I ever heard them arguing at all. There was one time I heard her giving out to him about how much work he was doing, leaving her alone there in the house. And he said he understood how she felt, but they needed the money." Mrs. Hernan swirled the pot around a few times and poured the tea. Devaney opted for two spoons of sugar and plenty of milk.

"So you were working at Bracklyn at the time Mina Osborne and her son went missing?"

"Not on the very day. We had to get the bus, you see, Johnny and me, up to the doctor in Portumna that day."

"That reminds me. How's your flu?"

"What flu?"

"Lucy Osborne mentioned to someone that you weren't able to come and clean at Bracklyn House last week because you were down with a flu."

Mrs. Hernan was stunned. "Well, of all the--I never had any bit of a flu in me life. And as for the reason I wasn't there last week, she should know b.l.o.o.d.y well enough--it's nearly three months since I was sent packing."

"By whom?"

"By herself, Mrs. High-and-Mighty Lucy Osborne, who do you think? She's a right b.i.t.c.h, that one, accusing me of stealing. I never was so insulted in all me life."

"What did she accuse you of stealing?"

"A scarf belonging to Mr. Hugh's wife. I never took anything. Now, I'm not saying I never opened a drawer or two while I was cleaning, but I never took anything, and I'll swear it on me own mother's grave."

"Why did she think you'd stolen it?"

"That's what I'd love to know. When I showed it to her, she starts givin' out stink, accusing me, running me out of the house like a common thief before I can even tell her where I found the f.e.c.kin' thing."

"Was there something strange about that?"

"Well, didn't I find it in young Mr. Jeremy's room while I was hoovering under the bed? Stuffed under the mattress, it was, as if he was trying to hide it, like."

"But you never mentioned that to his mother?" Devaney asked. Something about this didn't sit right, but he couldn't say what, not just yet.

"How could I? I was out the door with her foot up me backside before I could get a word in."

"And you didn't find any other items of clothing?"

"No, nothing else. And you may be sure I got down on me two knees and looked everywhere under the bed. What was her young fella gettin' up to with a lady's scarf? That's what I'd like to know."

"You've not mentioned your dismissal to anyone?"

"And have her spreadin' lies about me? No, thank you. Better to say nothin' at all, turn the other cheek, as Our Lord said to do. Ah, ye couldn't pay me to set foot there ever again."

Devaney changed his tack: "Mrs. Hernan, how would you say the Osbornes get on with their neighbors?"

"Ah, sure, not great. But Brendan McGann's always been a bit mad, if you ask me. And you could see his sister playing the innocent, trying to sink her hooks into Mr. Hugh the minute his poor wife was gone. She's got some awful neck, that Una McGann. No shame at all. Oh, it'd sicken ye."

"What gives you the impression she's out to snare Hugh Osborne?"

"Sure, didn't I see them often enough when I'd be coming and going on me bicycle, her getting a lift off him, or chatting to him through the window of his car? This was going on all the time, mind you, even after he was married. But she'll never get him, not for all her tears and her sweet smiles."

As he took his leave and filled his lungs with the fresh air outside Mrs. Hernan's house, Devaney had a claustrophobic vision of her sitting in that room day after day, drinking tea and chain-smoking, boiling bacon and cabbage for her dinner, marking the hours until Coronation Street came on the telly, and winding the clock at bedtime so that it would continue slowly ticking away the remaining minutes of her life.

20.

"Have you got a torch?" Cormac asked. Nora patted the pocket of her jacket. It was Monday evening; they had put in almost a full day at the excavation, and were now on their way to the tower, before Hugh Osborne returned from Galway. The late afternoon was as the day had been, overcast but temperate, with a faint taste of the lake in the air. But for the occasional birdcall, it was quiet as they made their way along the demesne wall toward the woods. Nora led, with Cormac following close behind.

"Watch where you step as we get closer," he said. "You could break an ankle if you aren't careful." He'd been solicitous since yesterday morning, and hadn't wanted her to stay alone in her room last night. She'd finally persuaded him that she'd be fine on her own, but decided that she didn't mind his consideration. They had traveled about a hundred and fifty yards when she stopped. Through the thick cover of leaves and branches, she could just make out the tower's outline. Cormac was pointing out some of the tower's features when he suddenly fell silent.

"What is it?" she asked.

Cormac raised a finger to his lips, then pointed wordlessly to the door of the tower. The hasp was open, as was the padlock, which dangled from the staple.

"What should we do?" she whispered. He gestured to her to keep back against the wall, then indicated that he would approach the door. Cormac looked behind him, and picked up a stout tree branch that lay near the cleared area, turning it to find the surest grip, and using the cudgel to push against the stout wooden door. To her surprise, it swung open easily, as if the hinges had recently been oiled. There was no response from inside, no sound or movement, so they exchanged a glance, and began to walk slowly through the doorway. It was dark and damp inside. The narrow slits in the thick walls didn't let in much air or light. Cormac's torch beam revealed a stone stairway that wrapped around the room and disappeared up into the heavy, cross-timbered ceiling. Nora reached in her pocket and switched on her own torch, whose light fell on a stack of large books and a pile of woolen blankets that lay on the dirt floor to one side of the room. She nudged the blankets with her foot, and saw that one was not a blanket at all, but a large shawl or something similar, shot through with gold threads. The floor looked as if it had been swept. Beside the blankets stood a crate covered with what appeared to be puddles of melted wax and burned candle ends. In fact, there seemed to be half-burned candles everywhere they could see: a few tapers and pillars, but mostly tiny votive lights. A jumbled pile of brand-new candles lay on the crate nearest the makeshift bed. As Cormac turned, his torch flickered over a stack of crates against the far wall, and he trained the beam more carefully to see what was there.

"Nora, look at this." She added the light of her torch to his, illuminating what appeared to be an orderly collection of small animal bones: among them she recognized long-toothed skulls of rabbits and st.u.r.dy-snouted badgers, the delicate skeletal remains of stoats and birds. The next crate held the road-flattened carca.s.s of a fox, with its bushy tail intact, and the severed wing of a crow, with its jet-black feathers fanned outward.

"What do you make of all this?" Cormac asked.

"I don't know. Hey, what are those?" Nora shone her light on several large sheets of paper that lay on the floor beside Cormac's feet. He crouched to examine them.