The Sin Eater (21 page)

‘If not Restoration comedy,' said Owen. ‘But people have had odder names. She might not have actually owned the place, though. She might have been renting it. Or it might have belonged to a pimp.'

‘I don't think,' said Michael, ‘that Benedict told me everything. I think there was more about Romilly that he wasn't disclosing. But what he did tell me spooked me quite a lot.'

‘You're too easily spooked,' said Owen breezily, and Michael thought:
but you'd be spooked if you'd seen a dark-clad figure looking out at you from your own mirror.
‘I thought you were quite at home with spooks anyway,' Owen went on. ‘Didn't you encounter something a bit peculiar at that old house in Shropshire last year?'

‘Yes, but that was in another country and besides the wench is dead,' said Michael irresistibly.

‘And keep your bloody sonnets for your adoring female students.'

‘It's not a sonnet; it's Marlowe,' said Michael.

‘I don't care if it's Groucho Marx. Now listen, Michael, there's one very strong lead you seem to be overlooking.'

‘What?'

‘Trace the priest.'

‘My God, yes, of course,' said Michael. ‘Nicholas Sheehan.'

‘Well, he wasn't named in that account we found about the Earl of Kilderry, was he?' said Owen. ‘But didn't the wicked Earl play chess with a priest from Galway, using the “devil's chess set”?'

‘Yes. And it was the set itself the priest was after. It was a bit Gothic, that tale – the wind screeching round the ruinous castle, and the priest appearing out of the blizzard.'

‘Well, let's suppose there was a grain of truth in it. Let's suppose the priest might have been Nicholas Sheehan. Does that fit with this account of the enigmatic gentleman living in the watchtower?'

‘It could,' said Michael. ‘The dates are about right. Could the priest be traced? Either as a nameless Galway priest in the 1860s or 1870s, or as Father Nicholas Sheehan living in a watchtower around 1890?'

‘He might be traceable. There's the equivalent of Crockford's Directory – it covers the Catholic Church and Ireland. Hold on, I think I've got a copy.' He got up to scan his shelves, and Michael waited. ‘Thought so,' said Owen, pouncing. ‘The Irish Almanac and Official Directory of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland. Compiled by one Alexander Thom and published pretty much every year for – well, certainly for the last half of the nineteenth century, which is all we're bothered about. It contains ecclesiastical directories for major religions – including Roman Catholics in Ireland, although I shouldn't have thought there were many other religions in Ireland. I can't remember where I got this and I certainly can't remember why. It probably won't be the right year – it's 1895.'

‘Too late for Nicholas Sheehan,' said Michael, but leafing the pages anyway. ‘It sounded as if he'd been in Kilglenn for at least ten years by the 1890s.'

‘You might have to look in several editions, but if Sheehan really was a priest he ought to be listed in Thom's Almanac. Especially if he had a parish of his own at any time.'

‘It sounded as if he'd been defrocked,' said Michael doubtfully.

‘It wouldn't matter if he'd been excommunicated and consigned to the outer darknesses of Hell,' said Owen. ‘Once he was printed in Thom's Almanac he couldn't be unprinted.'

‘Can I borrow this?'

‘Certainly.' Owen reached for the wine he had opened earlier and refilled their glasses. ‘Of course,' he said blandly, ‘if all else fails, you could simply brave the rigours of the Irish Sea and go to Kilglenn and see if it's got a burned-out watchtower. Or any families living there called Rourke or Doyle.'

‘Rourkes and Doyles are most likely ten a penny in Ireland,' said Michael. ‘And the watchtower is probably a tourist centre by now. In any case I can't spare the time at the moment. It's the start of the new term – and I've got an editor's deadline to meet.'

‘OUP or Wilberforce?'

‘Wilberforce,' said Michael. ‘I had to rewrite the haunted house scenes because they thought it was too frightening for seven year olds.'

‘You could go to Ireland at Easter or half-term,' said Owen. ‘Take Nell.'

‘Have you ever been to Ireland?' said Michael to Nell, over a plate of pasta in the small trattoria that had become one of their favourite eating places. She looked up, as if the question had startled her, and he said, ‘I sometimes have to remind myself that there are a lot of things I don't know about you. One of the things I don't know is whether you've been to Ireland.'

‘I haven't, as it happens. Why?'

‘Only that I thought about going there this spring,' said Michael, offhandedly. ‘Just for a few days. It was only a half-idea, though. I thought it might be nice to see the west coast. Would you like to come with me? We could go at half-term if we can fit round Beth. We can take the ferry, or we could fly over and hire a car there.'

‘It's supposed to be a lovely part of Ireland,' said Nell. ‘Yes, it might be nice sometime. Maybe at Easter if the shop isn't too busy. Did I tell you I'm hoping to set up an antique evening with Henry Jessel at the silversmith's? This wine's nice, isn't it? Could I have another glass?'

Nell hoped she had deflected Michael's suggestion about Ireland with sufficient tact. There had been a moment when she had wanted nothing more than to say yes, of course she would love to go to Ireland with him – a moment when she had seen the two of them bucketing across the wild Irish landscape in a hire car, perhaps getting lost but not caring, enjoying the company of the people they would meet and the food they would eat, sleeping in remote inns . . .

But then the images vanished as if an invisible hand had wiped mist from a windowpane, and she could only hear that silk and velvet voice telling her to come back to Holly Lodge . . .

When?
he had said. And when Nell had said the eighteenth, he had said,
Yes, come on the eighteenth.

One week to go, thought Nell. Seven days, that's all.

B
enedict had told Michael Flint almost everything about Declan and Colm. He had described in detail what had happened in the Kilderry watchtower, and how the two boys had later gone to London to find Romilly. But he had not told him how they had tried to trace the men who had been her clients, and he had not said his great-grandfather had been a killer who slaughtered five people and escaped justice.

When Michael said, ‘Did you find anything in the house – Holly Lodge – that we could use? Any letters or documents that might have dates or names?' Benedict simply said no, there had been nothing. The lie made him feel guilty, so to cover it up, he said, ‘I thought I'd get the Title Deeds for Holly Lodge from the solicitor, though.'

‘Yes, that would be a good lead,' said Michael. ‘And since Holly Lodge is your house, you're presumably entitled to ask for the Deeds – or at least photocopies of them.' He paused, then said, ‘But it's a pity there's nothing in that house that will give us other clues.'

Clues. Such as newspaper cuttings describing a vicious serial killer with Declan's face?

‘It is a pity, isn't it?' said Benedict.

Nina had been all set to accompany him to his next consultation with the neurologist, until she discovered it was a day when she was booked to provide a celebration lunch for a firm who had just won a PR Award. So she had gone breezily off to Soho that morning, amidst explanations about collecting two live lobsters on the way. Benedict ought not to be surprised if he heard of a traffic hold-up in Charing Cross Road, as a result of the lobsters trying to escape their fate en route.

Benedict, guiltily grateful to the PR company, was therefore able to attend the consultation on his own. He was not really surprised when the neurologist recommended he delay his return to Reading University a little longer.

‘I'd rather you remain on sick leave until we're sure we are dealing with DPD,' he said. ‘Let this Oxford friend delve around a bit to see if any names or places match up. After that we can think about how we proceed. We still have to get the balance of medication right, for instance. You're only on mild tranquillizers at the moment, which is really an interim measure.'

‘You don't think Dr Flint will find anything, do you?' said Benedict, taking the neurologist back to the real issue.

‘I think,' said the man carefully, ‘that it's unlikely this particular alter ego – or any of the people surrounding him – will turn out to be based on fact. They rarely do, Benedict. But,' he added kindly, ‘I'm still keeping an open mind.'

Benedict had not expected anything else, but he was disappointed at not being allowed back to university. He wanted to surround himself with normality as soon as possible: he wanted to be in his room in the friendly, untidy house, where the other students would be grumbling about essays, exchanging gossip, and complaining about their tutors.

When he returned from the hospital the flat was empty, which probably meant Nina was still engaged in combat with the lobsters in the depths of Old Compton Street. This gave him a clear field to phone the solicitors handling Holly Lodge, to ask if he could have a set of photocopies of the Title Deeds. No, he said, he did not need the whole shooting match and he thought he had better not have the originals, which would be safer in the solicitors' keeping. But if he could have a copy of the Abstract of Title and of all the conveyances? Well, yes, he did mean dating back to when the house was built, and if there was a Land Registry certificate . . . ? No, there was no need to post it, he would call. Would tomorrow be all right?

As he rang off he had the feeling that he was thrusting his hands deep into a past that might be better left undisturbed, and he was aware that Declan's world was starting to thrum on the rim of his mind, like a powerful engine revving up. For the first time, there was a physical pain connected to it, not precisely a headache, but the sensation of pressure on a bruise.

Would you just let me in for a few moments, Benedict
, said Declan's voice in his mind. (Or was it in his mind? Wasn't it whispering in to the quiet bedroom?)

Let me explain to you how it happened . . .

I don't want to hear, said Benedict. You don't exist except in my own mind – and maybe a bit in my family's memories. You're a chimera and I don't want anything to do with you. I don't want to know about the murders or Romilly or any of those other people.

But aren't you trying to prove that all those people existed? Aren't you trying to track down the plucked fowl in the waistcoat this very minute? God, he was a poor specimen of a man, that one . . .

‘He didn't deserve to be murdered, whatever he was,' said Benedict angrily, and this time he spoke aloud. His words lay loudly and harshly on the air.

For a moment he thought the sudden burst of anger had driven Declan back, and he waited, not daring to hope he could have succeeded so easily. But then the familiar ripple went through his mind, and his great-grandfather said sadly,
No, Benedict, no one deserves that.

The painful pressure increased on Benedict's mind, and a dreadful apprehension started to unfold. This is it, he thought. He's set out most of his story for me – the childhood in Ireland, the encounter with Nicholas Sheehan – but now we've reached the killings, and he's going to force me to see them all happening. Five people . . . Whatever's real or unreal about this, those murders happened – they were reported in the newspapers. And I'll have to stand and watch while they die and there'll be nothing I can do – nothing I can do to save any of them . . .

When Colm banged out of the bedroom at the lodging house, Declan assumed he was going to Romilly's grave – that heartbreakingly new grave that looked like a deep wound in the churchyard of St Stephen's. That morning, after the funeral service, Colm had said he could not bear to leave her here, in this grey, unfriendly place, where she knew no one, and Declan had had to take his arm and pull him along the church path. Surely if Colm was going anywhere, it would be there? He reached for his own jacket, turned up the collar, and went down the stairs and out into the rain-drenched streets.

But even though he was only minutes behind Colm, there was no sign of him, and Declan paused, irresolute. St Stephen's Church was a fair distance and he had no money for an omnibus. He would have to walk. It would take a long time and he was not sure of the way, but Colm would be walking as well so Declan would probably catch him up. He set off.

There was no sign of Colm, but he found his way to Canning Town in the end, getting lost a couple of times and asking passers-by to direct him. They were incurious, these London people; they had their own lives and their own worries, and they were not interested in an Irish boy trying to find a church. Declan, his jacket already rain-soaked, his scarf sodden and his hair wet, had never felt so alone in his whole life.

When finally he reached St Stephen's the daylight was draining from the day and he was aching in every bone from a mixture of hunger and exhaustion. Several times he had to stop and lean against a wall because he felt sick and dizzy, and people passing by glanced disapprovingly at him. Declan realized they thought he was drunk, which was a wild irony when he had not even the money for an omnibus.

The cemetery was deserted and it did not look as if anyone had approached Romilly's grave since the morning. Declan hunched up his shoulders against the cold, then went inside the church, grateful for the warmth and the chance to sit for a while on one of the pews. He had expected to find the church reassuring, but the faint scent of incense on the air and the massive silence in the church was painfully reminiscent of Kilglenn.