The Book of Killowen (Nora Gavin #4) (31 page)

Beglan crossed to an open lean-to against the shed, where he took an eel from his basket. Cormac looked away as Beglan held a nail to the creature’s head, and he flinched as the first hammer blow drove the nail through its skull. Cormac looked up to see the eel’s tail flex once and then lie still. Beglan took a knife and scored around the creature’s neck, then used pliers to peel back its skin. Finally he slit the belly and gutted it, paying close attention to the entrails and carefully separating out one small portion, which he slipped into a cup on the nearby bench. The eel went into a bucket at his feet.

As he watched Anthony go about his work, Cormac wondered about the conversation he’d overheard here the other night between Beglan and Anca. Shawn Kearney said the Killowen residents were trying to protect the Romanian girl. So why had she run away with Deirdre
Claffey? Why not flee to Killowen? If Niall had been set up by Vincent Claffey, the girl must have had something to do with arranging the incriminating photos of her and Niall, either as coconspirator or unwilling pawn. Either made her a possible player in Claffey’s death.

Cormac had no more time for rumination. Anthony Beglan was such a practiced hand that the half dozen eels in his creel were skinned and gutted in the space of about twelve minutes. He rinsed off his hands under the tap in the shed, reached for the bucket of eels and the small container from the workbench, and set off down the lane toward Killowen.

Anthony never slowed or turned around. As Cormac struggled to keep up, it occurred to him that the old spelling for Beglan would have been Ó Beigléighinn—
beag
for small, and
léighinn
from the word
léigh
—to read or to study—scholarship, in other words. Put it all together and the name meant “descendant of the little scholar.” In all the conversations about Cill Eóghain, they’d gone back and forth about what sorts of scholarship might have been carried on at the monastery here more than a thousand years ago. Was it possible that Beglan’s family had some connection to this place from that time? Centuries had passed, to be sure, but it was true in Ireland—as it was true everywhere, in fact—that artifacts, roads, structures, and even people sometimes did not stir from where they’d remained for generations. There was clearly some powerful force that connected human beings to their ancestral places.

Cormac watched Anthony Beglan fifty yards ahead of him. Here was a man far removed from the bookish pursuits of his presumed forebears. How ironic it would be if this descendant of the little scholar could himself neither read nor write.

Arriving at Killowen, Beglan went first to the kitchen, where he dropped the bucket of eels, then crossed to the north wing of the house, where Martin Gwynne kept his studio. Still in Beglan’s left hand was the small cup from his workbench, with whatever he had taken from the eels’ insides. He stuck his head through the door and spoke to Martin Gwynne. Cormac could hear a few words of the conversation:

“ . . . like you asked,” Beglan said.

“Very good, Anthony, I appreciate you going to the trouble,” Gwynne replied.

“Nuh-no trouble, really,” Beglan said. “All for a guh-good cause. I’ll get some more gallnuts as well.”

Beglan left by the outside door of the studio, and Cormac tried to get close enough to peer in through the window.

Martin Gwynne fished something out of Beglan’s cup, a small bluish organ, and held it steady over a glass jar. He lanced the thing with a sharp scalpel, releasing a bright yellow liquid into the jar. Gwynne carefully repeated the same procedure five more times. What could it be? Best to ask the anatomist—surely Nora would know.

Stella Cusack decided to begin by interviewing Deirdre Claffey. The girl was in one of the two tiny, airless rooms they had for talking to suspects and witnesses. The uniforms had taken the baby away for the moment. Deirdre had appeared exhausted when they brought her in. The circles under her eyes were dark as bruises, and she obviously hadn’t slept.

Getting information from people wasn’t as difficult as everyone imagined. Most of them wanted to speak. Deirdre’s head was on the table when Stella entered and took a seat across from her.

“Before we begin, do you need anything, Deirdre, cup of tea, a biscuit, maybe a sandwich?”

The girl didn’t raise her head but rocked it side to side. “Where’s Cal?” came a small voice from the tabletop.

“He’s being looked after by a very nice
bean garda
just outside. He’s fine. They’re giving him a bit of dinner while you and I have our little talk.”

“They won’t give him peas, will they? He doesn’t like peas.”

Stella checked her watch. Where was that bloody child advocate? It was getting late, and whoever Social Services had assigned to the case was taking her own sweet time in getting here. But those were the rules. She’d just have to wait.

Molloy stuck his head in. “She’s here, Stella, the advocate.”

Five minutes later, Stella sat across the table from Deirdre Claffey, now with the child advocate by her side. “I just need you to tell me what happened last night, Deirdre, in your own words. Take your time. We’re not in a rush.”

The girl’s hands were tucked underneath her. She stared at the table and mumbled her story, about going to Killowen yesterday evening, her father bringing her home, going straight to bed, and being awakened in the middle of the night by her friend Anca. They’d stayed in the chapel until first light and then moved on. Anca seemed anxious about getting away.

“You don’t know why Anca wanted to run away?”

“No. I asked if she’d seen my da, and she started shouting at me.”

“And what did she say?”

“That we couldn’t go back.”

“Why did you go along with Anca?”

“I was afraid. She said my da was using us, me and Cal—what was she talking about?”

“Do you know why you’re here, Deirdre?” Stella asked as gently as she could.

“Something’s happened to my da,” the girl whispered. “I know it, something bad. He’s dead, isn’t he?”

“Yes, Deirdre. I’m afraid he is.”

Deirdre put her head on the table and wept. Impossible to know if it was genuine sorrow or relief. The advocate tried to comfort the girl but was pushed away.

As she waited, Stella pulled a gallnut from her pocket, one of the pair Dr. Gavin had given her. When Deirdre looked up again, she set the gall on the table between them. “Do you know what that is, Deirdre?”

“Is it a seed?”

“Not exactly,” Stella said. “It’s a gallnut, from an oak tree. Some people call them serpent’s eggs.”

“I used to see them in the wood, where I played when I was little.”

Her wrist was exposed as she reached for the gall, and Stella winced at the sight of the fresh bruises—raw, distinct marks of an adult hand.

“Can you tell me how you got those bruises, Deirdre?”

The girl dropped the gallnut, and both hands went immediately back under the table. “Working the chipper,” she lied.

Stella tried again. “What about your lip—is that from the chipper as well?”

“Fuck you!”

Stella was unprepared for such vehemence. This girl’s father had been killed, possibly for abusing her, had quite likely made her pregnant, and here she was, still trying to defend him. The world really beggared belief.

Through the small window in the door, she saw Molloy out in the corridor. “Will you excuse me?” she said to the advocate. “I’ll be back.”

There was no sign of Molloy when she got outside. Stella took a deep
breath and started to bang her head slowly against the wall. She felt a presence behind her and heard Molloy’s voice in her ear. “Hey, everything all right, Stella?”

She turned, surprised to see his look of concern. He leaned closer. “Anything I can do?” How had she never noticed his long lashes, those dark irises flecked with gold?

“Everything’s fine,” she said. “Just let me know when you’ve got Anca Popescu set up in the other interview room.”

“She’s there now,” Molloy said.

“What’s the word from Interpol? Anything?”

Molloy shrugged. “You know how things are on the Continent—they don’t work weekends. Did you want me to finish up with Deirdre?”

“No, let her stay put for a bit. I may want to talk to her again.”

Stella pushed through the door of the other small interview room. Anca Popescu sat at the table, smoking, hands toying nervously with a bit of cigarette wrapper. Stella noted some red marks on her wrist, the ankles twined together under the table. The girl’s eyes had the look of a cornered animal. Not the most trustworthy source of information, in Stella’s experience. Better to try to calm her first. Stella took a seat, moving deliberately. She had no file or notebook in front of her, no recording device. All conscious choices, to say this was just a conversation. She waited perhaps thirty seconds for Anca to glance up and offered a slight but reassuring smile.

“First of all, I want to make it clear that no one’s accused you of anything. We need to learn what happened last night. We’d really like to be able to help you, Anca, but you’ll have to give us a little information before we can do that. Do you understand?”

Anca didn’t respond, just pulled a fresh cigarette from the pack. She lit up with the old butt, then savagely stubbed it out. “I don’t have to tell you anything.”

“No, you don’t. But it may help you in the long run. If you cooperate with us now, we may be able to help if you’d like to stay in Ireland. You would like to stay?” No verbal response, but Stella could see the hunger in the girl’s eyes.

“Why don’t we start with last Wednesday, when you were still working at Killowen? We understand that your friends there were trying to protect you, to keep your name and picture out of the press.” Anca stared at the table, took a drag on her cigarette.

“I know you may be wondering what will happen to you, and to Deirdre. If you answer our questions, and we have no reason to hold you, you’ll be free to go.” Still no reaction. “If you’re concerned about the people who brought you to Ireland, we can offer accommodation at a safe house when we’re finished here. We’ll protect you. That’s one thing I can promise.”

Anca’s eyes flicked toward the door. It was the first time she’d lifted her gaze from the table, and Stella’s heart leapt just a little. She was in.

Claire Finnerty had left a cold supper for Cormac and her three other guests on Saturday evening. Everyone else seemed to have retreated into their private spaces. The atmosphere was quiet but slightly on edge, almost as though the house or the people in it were waiting for something. After dark, a couple of lights glowed from upstairs windows in the opposite wing.

As Cormac passed Dawson’s room, he saw that the door was open. Still not back from Dublin. Nora came up behind him. “Where’s Niall gone?”

Cormac tipped his head toward the door to their room. When they were safely inside, Cormac stretched out beside Nora on the bed. “Niall’s gone home to talk to Gráinne. It seems when he was here last April that he . . . well, he had a very brief thing with that Romanian girl, Anca.”

Nora sat up. “Niall Dawson? Jesus, Cormac, what on earth was he thinking?”

“Well, he wasn’t thinking, that’s the point. He said he felt sorry for her.”

“No wonder he was so anxious whenever her name came up.”

“From what he said, it also seems clear that he was set up. Vincent Claffey had photos. Niall paid him, but Claffey wanted more. Niall thinks Claffey might have coerced the girl.”

“That doesn’t excuse him, Cormac.”

“No, of course it doesn’t, but remember what Shawn told us about Anca running away from that Romanian gang? Claffey may have been threatening to reveal her whereabouts if she didn’t do exactly as he said.”

“You realize what this does—it makes Niall a prime suspect in Vincent Claffey’s murder.”

“He swore to me he’d nothing to do with it, but—”

“But what?”

“He did admit that he was there—at Claffey’s place—early this
morning. Claffey was dead when he arrived. I have to believe him, Nora. Niall’s one of my oldest friends, and he’s going to tell Cusack everything as soon as he’s spoken to his wife.”

“And you have to believe that as well?”

“He’s not a liar—”

“Except about blackmail, apparently.”

“—and he’s certainly not a killer.”

“Well, if Niall didn’t murder Vincent Claffey, then it’s likely someone else around here did. And if we’re going to help Niall, we have to figure out why. You know, I keep thinking about those gallnuts in Kavanagh’s mouth—and Claffey’s as well. Martin Gwynne said they were used for making ink. If you look at the other items recovered so far, we’ve got a wax tablet, a stylus, a satchel. But there’s still something missing: a manuscript.”

Cormac was pleased that Nora had hit upon the same thing he and Niall had realized this afternoon. He wasn’t sure he should share what Niall had told him today, but his friend’s whole future was at stake. “Niall said he was here in April following up on a tip about a group of treasure hunters. The caller mentioned that they were after a manuscript. Something very old and very rare, like the books at Trinity.”