Mina offered vividly detailed descriptions of every room at Bracklyn House, no doubt in case her mother would never have the opportunity to visit. She marveled at its age, the comfort of its furnishings, the profusion of books in its library, the sweetness of the roses in the garden. The newly married Mina also painted a glowingly affectionate portrait of Hugh Osborne, and shyly confided to her mother the surprise and delight she found in being married. Devaney felt his face flush as he realized it was an indirect way to tell her mother how much she enjoyed s.e.x. "I'm glad after all that you persuaded me not to join the Sisters of Mercy. I was so keen on it, too. How did you know it wouldn't be the right thing?"

But if her view of Hugh Osborne was softened by love, she was able to observe other people with a less clouded eye: "Lucy is not the warmest person, I'm afraid, but she's put on a brave face and is obviously making an effort to get used to me. I sometimes catch her staring, when she thinks I'm not paying attention. I know that my arrival has changed things for her, but I hope one day we may become friends." Of Jeremy she wrote: "He's such a sad, beautiful boy that I feel like weeping when I look at him. At times he's not like a child at all, so serious and thoughtful. But sometimes I also get a feeling he longs to be held and comforted like a child again."

Subsequent letters contained details about Hugh's teaching, how her work in the studio was coming along, the progress of the herbs she'd sown in the kitchen garden, the dismal lack of variety in the fruits and vegetables available at the little market in Dunbeg. There was always a lively description of whatever book she was reading at the moment. Devaney was amused by her fond characterization of Father Kinsella: she genuinely liked him and valued their exchange of ideas, especially on spiritual matters, but Mina Osborne was also aware of the effect the handsome young priest had on most of his female parishioners. The picture that emerged from the letters was that of a highly intelligent young woman, acutely observant, and yet somehow completely guileless. She knew so much, saw so much, but remained almost painfully innocent about the motivations of those around her, interpreting their actions as if all shared her open-hearted spirit.

In the first few letters there was scant mention of the child she carried. And only once did she express apprehension about having a child so early in the marriage, before she and Hugh had come to know one another sufficiently. But as the pregnancy progressed, Mina began to provide her mother with more regular updates on doctor visits, and marked how her own enthusiasm and energy for painting and letter-writing seemed to flag.

"I sometimes feel quite depressed when I don't have the inclination or the energy to work," she wrote. "But then I consider the millions of cells dividing inside me, and I think that nurturing a new life is one of the supreme acts of human creativity."

Devaney tried to keep in mind that he was looking at Mina Osborne's life in a drastically telescoped, condensed fashion, and also through the medium of letters, which could lead to a somewhat heightened impression of reality. He found a noticeable gap in the letters from just before Christopher was born to about six weeks after. No doubt learning to care for a newborn left little time for the kind of expansive letters Mina was used to writing, but he made a note to ask the mother if they'd had contact by phone during that time, or if there really had been no communication at all.

The next letter contained photographs, fuzzy close-up shots of the tiny newborn Christopher, all wispy curls, plump cheeks, and tiny slits of bright, dark eyes. Mina acknowledged her long silence, and promised she would not neglect letter-writing again. She described the surreal days and nights following her son's birth, the blur of feedings, the sudden seesaw between wakefulness and fatigue, and the intensely physical experience of motherhood.

Mina's letters began to grow more relaxed again as the weeks went by, as she and the baby got used to one another. Her husband's presence began to fade ever so slightly into the background, details about his academic work displaced now by Christopher's exploits, the walks Mina took with him in the pram. Hugh occasionally stayed late in Galway to work, a thing that seemed to disturb her somewhat. Ordinary adjustments, Devaney thought. Jeremy began to have a larger role in her letters as well, growing curious about the baby, and becoming involved in his care. "He's very gentle," Mina wrote, "and looks so sweet holding Christopher with a nappy over his shoulder." Devaney tried to picture this from what he'd seen of the boy, and had trouble conjuring the image in his mind. Jeremy would have been what age then? About fourteen, he reckoned. Christopher's sitting up on his own, his first tooth, his first steps were all doc.u.mented in the letters, along with photos showing him asleep in his cot, long dark lashes lying like shadows on his cheeks. There was nothing so far that seemed remotely disturbing or out of balance. Hugh Osborne was only mentioned in the most loving terms. In one letter there was mention of a dust-up about Jeremy going to Ma.s.s with Mina. From what she said, Devaney gathered that the boy's mother didn't approve and had evidently put a stop to it. Later missives confirmed what Kinsella had said, that Mina was anxious to reconcile with her father. The separation from home and family seemed to weigh upon her more heavily as Christopher grew.

It was nearly five o'clock when Devaney reached the last few letters; there was a note clipped to the last two: "Received these after October 3." That meant Mina mailed them just before she disappeared. Devaney opened the first one and read the now familiar hand, searching for some hint, some trace of information in the words, or between the lines, but all he found was astonishment about the rate at which Christopher had grown, a mention of Hugh leaving for a conference in Oxford, and Mina's hopeful spirit continuing to press toward reconciliation with her father.

"The subject of our visit remains under discussion. Hugh still thinks it would be ill-advised, but he doesn't know Pa. You and I know Papa's secret, that he's not really the hard man he pretends to be. How could the embrace of our beautiful, innocent child not change his heart?"

Devaney slipped the last letter back into its envelope. Did she not have a clue what people in the town were whispering about her husband and Una McGann? He supposed she could have been ignorant of the town's idle gossip. Or simply unwilling to discuss such a subject with her mother. There was not enough in these letters to implicate Osborne as a suspect, nor anything to suggest Mina Osborne had simply run off.

It was only then that Devaney recalled the telephone ringing during the meal. He picked up the receiver and heard the broken signal indicating a waiting message. The call had not been for the children after all, but for him: Dr. Gavin, with news that she and Maguire had found something that might be of interest, and asking him to ring back. f.u.c.king h.e.l.l. He'd told them to ring at any time.

Devaney looked at the letters and photographs stacked on the table before him. As he gathered them into the envelope, and climbed the stairs toward his bed, he contemplated the lightness, the seeming insignificance of this small package that held a few scant remains of Mina Osborne's earthly existence.

He snapped awake when the phone rang. It was still dark, and he heard Nuala answer from her side of the bed. "Yes, he's here," she told the caller. His first thought was that it might be Dr. Gavin, but it was Brian Boylan's voice on the line.

"We've got a lucky break on your arson case, if you're interested." The superintendent's tone made Devaney think someone might have tipped him off on the Osborne thing.

"What's happened?"

"Night watchman in Killimor caught your firebug--up to his eyeb.a.l.l.s in petrol." Wonderful, thought Devaney, just what he needed. Some gombeen with a torch stumbles onto the arsonist at work, and in the process manages to make the officer in charge--himself, as it happened--look like a totally incompetent gobs.h.i.te. But it wasn't as if Boylan had far to go to be convinced on that score anyway. He could tell the superintendent was waiting for a reaction.

"Well, apprehending the suspect is really the main thing, isn't it, sir?"

"We'll need you up in Killimor as soon as possible," Boylan said.

"I'll be there in twenty minutes." Devaney turned to his wife, slipped an arm around her, and kissed her lightly on the temple. G.o.d, she was so warm, and she smelled wonderful. "Nuala, I've got to go."

Her voice was slurred with drowsiness. "I missed you, Gar. I woke up and you were gone."

"I was downstairs. Couldn't sleep. I was doing a bit of reading."

"Mmmm," she responded, and pulled his arm around her more tightly. Devaney cursed Brian Boylan and the Killimor firebug as he gently extricated himself from her grip.

22.

Hugh Osborne insisted on driving them to the session on Tuesday evening. As Cormac looked over at the tall figure in the driver's seat, he could feel a difference in the way Osborne had engaged with them in the past couple of days. Had he seen them coming back from the tower yesterday evening, or perhaps overheard Nora leaving the message for Devaney? Or was Cormac letting his attraction to Nora color his a.s.sessment of the whole situation? Then he remembered the violence to the cars, and in the pencil strokes of the sketches in the tower. They had done the right thing in phoning Devaney.

"How's the work coming along?" Hugh Osborne asked.

"We should be able to finish up by the end of the week, I think," Cormac said.

"Good, good, that's good. We'll be able to move ahead, then."

"You will. There's nothing significant enough to hold up the plans."

Nora had been conspicuously silent, but finally spoke up from the back-seat: "I'm sure you'll be glad of a little peace and quiet once we're out of your hair."

They drove in silence the rest of the way to Dunbeg. As they climbed out of the car, Osborne said, "Give me a shout when you're ready, and I'll come collect you."

The punters were three deep at the bar at Lynch's. From the dark suits, Cormac guessed there was a crowd in from a funeral up the road somewhere, and from the look of them, decked out in brand-new Aran sweaters and tweed caps, a tour bus full of Yanks as well, stopping in for a pint and a bit of the local color, G.o.d help them. The air was already thick with smoke, and the din of voices overlaid with tipsy laughter. The players were in their corner, with full pints but instrument cases shut tight, no doubt waiting for a bit of a lull in the commotion. Cormac surveyed the half-familiar faces and nodded to Fintan McGann, who lifted his gla.s.s and shrugged. No sign yet of Devaney.

He turned to Nora, and had to shout to be heard. "What'll you have?"

"Small whiskey and a gla.s.s of water."

"Nora!" came a voice from a few feet away. "Over here!" She turned and scanned the crowd, until she recognized the jubilant face of a fair-haired, bearded giant of a man making his way toward her.

"Gerry!"

"How are ye, gorgeous?" The man's merry blue eyes seemed to devour Nora; it was only then that Cormac noticed that she was wearing a touch of dark lipstick, and that the clean soap scent of her hair lingered in the air before him. Despite the crush of the crowd, the man proceeded to lift Nora off her feet and plant a sloppy kiss on her neck, which she wiped away in mock disgust.

"G.o.d, Gerry, you're an awful messer. Do you know Cormac Maguire? Gerry Conover."

"Delighted to meet you," Conover said, straightening up and grasping Cormac's hand. "Nora's told me nothing about you at all, but I'm guessing that's a good thing. She has to keep a few secrets from me, I suppose."

"Don't make me sorry I came down here, Ger," Nora said. "What are you doing here?"

"Ah, it's a sad occasion."

"Are you part of the funeral, then?" Cormac asked.

"I am. We buried my uncle Paddy this afternoon. Ninety-four years old, G.o.d rest him. We're giving him a good send-off." The drinks arrived, and Cormac handed Nora her gla.s.ses over the heads of their fellow bar patrons.

"Do you mind if I steal her away?" Conover asked. "I'm dyin' to show her off to the relations."

"Be my guest," Cormac said.

"Back shortly--maybe you can find Devaney," she shouted into Cormac's ear as Conover lifted her whiskey gla.s.s and led her away by the hand through the crowd.

Cormac took a long swallow from his own pint, and wondered how long he could stick the noise level. He ventured over to Fintan McGann, who moved down to offer a seat on the bench.

"Welcome to the Wild West," Fintan said. "Jaysus, didja ever see the bate of it?"

"Do you suppose anyone's actually going to play?"

"Well, I am, funeral or no funeral, and Yanks or no f.u.c.kin' Yanks. Got the machine there, yourself?" Cormac patted the flute case he'd stuck in his coat pocket. He could see Ned Raftery down the way. The woman sitting beside Raftery waved to catch Cormac's eye, and asked her neighbor to pa.s.s a folded piece of paper down to him. This must be a copy of the letter Raftery had promised. The blind man raised his gla.s.s. Cormac made another quick scan of the room, but Nora was nowhere to be seen.

It was nearly half-ten by the time Devaney arrived. Cormac quickly drained his gla.s.s to indicate that he'd come up to the bar for another drink and a chat with the policeman. From where they stood, leaned over the bar, Cormac could see Nora at the center of Conover's group, the funeral party. As he described to Devaney what they'd seen in the tower, his eyes kept returning to the sight of Conover's arm draped casually around her shoulder. He heard Devaney's voice, but his attention was elsewhere.

"Sorry?" Cormac said, turning to him. "What was it you just asked me?"

"No sign of whoever it was had been in the tower?" Devaney repeated.

"None that we could find. But we got chased out of the place by a belligerent crow."

Devaney pulled at his chin. "I'll have to think about this. It's all right for you to be going out there, but for me to go stickin' my nose in, it's probably got to be more--official, if you like. But I'm glad you told me. I'll check it out as soon as I can. Right, seeya." The policeman took his drink and his fiddle case and plunged into the crowd. Cormac knew Devaney was aware of who might be observing them, and was determined to make their conversation brief.

"Ciunas, ladies and gentlemen, ciunas!" a booming voice shouted over the noise. "Let's have a bit of quiet. We're going to have a song." A silence fell, broken only by a few drunken giggles, until the singer began, and Cormac immediately recognized Nora's voice. He squeezed through the crowd to where he could see her better.

Through bushes and through briars, I lately took my way, All for to hear the small birds sing, And the lambs to sport and play.

I overheard my own true love, His voice it was so clear: "Long time I have been waiting for The coming of my dear."

Cormac watched Nora's upturned face as Conover grasped her hand between his own burly paws, and all the carousers sat with bowed heads and closed eyes as they listened to the sound of her liquid voice: Sometimes I am uneasy, And troubled in my mind, Sometimes I think I'll go to my love, And tell to him my mind.

But if I should go unto my love, My love he may say nay, And if I show to him my boldness, He'll ne'er love me again.

Through bushes and through briars, I lately took my way, All for to hear the small birds sing, And the lambs to sport and play.

There was a brief silence when the song finished. Gerry Conover lifted Nora's hand to his lips and kissed it. "By the Jaysus, that was gorgeous!" he shouted, and the spell was broken; everyone could go back to drinking and swearing and telling stories at the top of their lungs.

Nora eased her way past a pair of black-suited mourners and made her way to Cormac. Her face felt flushed and damp from the heat of the crowd, and she fanned herself with both hands. "Did you see Devaney?"

"He says he'll check it out as soon as he can," Cormac said. "Listen, I was thinking of heading off. You can stay, if you like. I'm sure Gerry would see you home."

"I'm sure he would, but I'm fed up with this place."

"I was going to walk back. You don't have to come along."

"Ah, but I want to."

The night was fresh and cool after the stifling atmosphere of the pub. They were a good way outside the town before either of them spoke.

"Did you get that letter from Ned Raftery?" she asked. Cormac patted his breast pocket. "And have you read it?"

"I was waiting for you."

"I didn't think it'd be so black out here. I didn't even think to bring a torch."

"I dropped mine at the tower."

Nora felt something brush against her legs, and stumbled over a st.u.r.dy branch lying across the roadside. Cormac reached out to keep her from falling. "I'm all right," she said. "It's only a stick or something."

"Take my hand." She hesitated briefly, then slipped her hand into his. As his warm fingers enfolded hers, Nora wondered if Cormac understood what it meant for her to actually feel safe with someone. They were pa.s.sing by the tower, and she could barely distinguish its ivy-shrouded outline against the inky night sky.

"I suppose you've known Gerry Conover a good while."

"Only about three months. We met in Dublin when I started going down to the singers' club at the Trinity Inn. That's where I first met Robbie as well, before I realized that you and he and Gabriel all knew each other. Sometimes I'm still amazed at what a small world it is here." She knew that wasn't really what he was asking. "Gerry's a lovely guy," she continued, "but he's a singer, you know, and I'm finding that I'm more partial to flute players. I'm not even sure why. Maybe I'm just a sucker for a nice embouchure--"

She couldn't say any more, because Cormac had pulled her close and was touching his lips to hers, at first gently, then more urgently, until Nora felt dizzy, even slightly delirious.

"Let me stay with you tonight," he said. "I can't stand the idea of leaving you alone in that room again. I'd sleep on the sofa."

"You wouldn't have to do that, Cormac."

"I don't want to take advantage."

"You wouldn't be taking advantage. You'd be welcome."

She took his hand once more, and they turned into the gate at Bracklyn House. Their feet made a rhythmic crunching in the gravel as they ambled up the long drive.

Cormac tried the front door. "Locked. We'll have to ring the bell."

Now that their feet were silent, Nora could barely hear a faint noise in the distance, like a motorboat propeller idling underwater. "Cormac, do you hear something?"

His hand dropped from the bell. "I hear it. Seems to be coming from the garage." The old stable building where Hugh Osborne kept his car was set perpendicular to Bracklyn House, thirty yards from the doorway, but they both covered the ground in a few seconds. Through the window on the side door, they could see the black Volvo inside the garage, enveloped in gauzy clouds of exhaust. Cormac tried the doork.n.o.b.

"Locked." He used one elbow to break the gla.s.s, then reached in to unlock the door. The billowing fumes made them both cough as they made their way to the car. "See if you can find a way to open the garage door," he shouted as he pulled at the car door. "This is locked as well." He searched around the floor for something heavy enough to break through safety gla.s.s, and finally came up with a sledge from the corner. She couldn't see him swing it, but heard a dull thud and the rain of shattered gla.s.s as it fell into the car. Cormac pulled open the door and struggled to lift the slumped figure from the driver's seat. It was Hugh Osborne.

"Turn it off," he said, "then come and help me." Nora reached in to switch off the ignition, and heard something roll off the seat onto the floor. She felt around the floor mat until her fingers closed on a small plastic cylinder, and held her breath as she read the label. She ran quickly to where Cormac was kneeling over Osborne's still form.

"Cormac, let me have a look at him; he may have taken sleeping tablets as well." She held up the pill bottle. It was empty.

23.

Two hours later, after the flashing lights had disappeared and the ambulance had taken the unconscious Hugh Osborne off to hospital, Bracklyn House was quiet again. Lucy had rung for the ambulance and insisted on going off to hospital with Hugh. In all the chaos, Jeremy was nowhere to be found. Unable to sleep, Cormac lay on the sofa in Nora's room, revisiting the troubling events of this night and the past few days. He looked over at her, lying on the bed, and saw that she was asleep. Nora was convinced the case was closed, that Osborne would confess if and when he ever awakened. Cormac didn't feel sure. He'd begun to regret this whole episode, everything that had taken place since he had answered the phone call in Dublin and agreed to come to Dunbeg. Well, almost everything. He couldn't regret coming to know Nora better. He still felt a certain kinship with Hugh Osborne, despite Nora's suspicions about the man. He also felt bound to Jeremy Osborne, in whom he could see so much of his younger self. But how much of that understanding was real, and how much was based on illusion?

Responsibility. His father had felt it for complete strangers more than for his own family--the people for whom he should have felt truly responsible. Cormac had always told himself that he wanted no part of his father's abstract notion of responsibility. But wasn't that what had brought him here in the first place? What was the word Nora used in talking about the cailin rua? Obligation. He had understood exactly what she meant, and felt it acutely when he first laid eyes on the girl's small ear exposed in that cutaway. The thought of it pierced him through, along with the memory of the expression in Hugh Osborne's haunted eyes out on the bog, and Nora's laughing, tearstained face on the road from Tullymore. He felt exhausted, and lay very still.

The next moment he was awakened by Nora's voice in his ear. "Cormac. Cormac, there's someone out there. I saw the light." What was she talking about? The tower. She was talking about the tower. And then she was out the door. Cormac threw off his blanket and stepped hurriedly into his shoes, fully awake now. He couldn't let her go out there on her own. He only realized he'd forgotten his gla.s.ses as he left by the kitchen door.

Nora was about fifty yards ahead of him. He watched as she vanished beyond the end of the demesne wall, and followed, unsure whether to call out or keep silent. He plunged into the brush at the place he'd seen her disappear, only conscious of the danger she was in, not of the branches that whipped at his chest and face. He plowed through the wood before stumbling and falling hard, his ribs taking the brunt of the blow against a jagged stone. The pain in his side took his breath away, but he got up and forced himself to continue through the rocky maze of the chevaux-de-frise, until he came to the tower house. Nora stood outside the door, and as she swung it open, a golden light spilled out and seemed to surround her. The glow came from a hundred or more flickering candles inside the tower. Each of the tiny flames cast a wavering light, and the undulating shapes on the walls seemed to take on life and movement, an effect further exaggerated by his astigmatism. He stood for a moment, transfixed, before stepping inside. Jeremy Osborne sat at the foot of the stone staircase, arms wrapped tightly around his knees, rocking rapidly back and forth, as if he were in a trance.

"Jeremy," Cormac said, "are you all right?"