Echoes Through the Mist: A Paranormal Mystery (The Echoes Quartet Book 1) (18 page)

Sean looked confused, but then the fog of incomprehension lifted and he was able to beam a smile of unimaginable brightness onto his little friend. Reaching his large paw down with lightening speed he snatched up the coin.

“Hey! Whatcha do that fer?” the young man shouted.

With remarkable cheerfulness Maher said, “See, me boyo, first you had me thanks and a lovely coin. Now you have me thanks, but unless you take yourself off right now, you’ll have me boot up yor buttocks.”

Sean sighed deeply and thanked God for being born a poor country fellow. He was secure in the knowledge that his young guide would receive a flea in his ear from his father for having lost the coin through cheekiness.

Sean chuckled to himself and entered the Squire’s mudroom leading to the kitchen. “Good day to ya, Cook. ’Tis the master wishes to see me on a matter of grave importance,” he bellowed.

“Speak up, you eejit. Did you say ‘matters of importance?’ With the likes of you, Sean Maher? The Squire may be in his dotage, but he would never be such a fool as to talk to you about anything of value,” she shouted.

“Ah, your kind words warm me soul as only a lovely woman such as your fine and upstanding self or a jar of poitin can. Although Oi believes Oi’ll take the poitin first, the better to look upon yourself. Oi do thank ye and will be seeing myself into the presence of his Lordship.”

“Bahhhhh!” the cook said. “The devil take you for all Oi care.”

Sean followed the dark hallway from the kitchen into the formal dining room and from there into the house’s foyer. Sean was faced with three sets of closed doors and a wide sweeping stairway leading off to the right to the upper reaches of the house. Light drifted from under one of the doors and it was this door Sean opened.

The Squire was pulling shut a black drape over a picture that hung above the large fireplace. A boisterous turf fire warmed the room and cast a limited radiance in a half moon around the hearth.

“Maher, come in. It is good to see you or as good as it can possibly be to see a large ugly creature like yourself,” the Squire said with a smile. “Pour yourself a brandy to warm your bones and come sit by the fire. It is conspiracy and treason we’ll be talkin’.”

Although the day was undeniably underway, it was still undeniably too early to be drinking. Still, Sean figured, it was at the behest of the Squire who was simply offering his brandy for medicinal purposes.

“Since ’tis you what asks, Squire, and since me poor old bones do have the rheumatics, I’ll do them a kindness.”

“That’s a good fellow. Now sit yourself by the fire.

“You are a direct fellow, Maher. I like and respect that so I’ll waste neither your time nor mine and so come to the point. Your partner, Mr. Blessing, has been busy.”

“Now, Squire, there was just that one incident when he became a little tetched in the head and said a lot of nonsense to a lot of people…”

“No, not that. Truth be told, his nonsense made more sense than anything I’ve heard in a long time. It is a discussion for another time of course, but it escapes me entirely how a man like Blessing can be so bright while not having the sense God gave a duck.”

The squire continued. “As I say, that is for another time. For now it has to do with his handbills.”

“Handbills – aye, the drawing of the wee white truck.”

“The very one. Well, little escapes me as you know and as I explained to Mr. Blessing, he made me a proposition and I accepted. I would keep my antenna out for information and in return he would talk that boy of yours into training those filthy beasts of mine.” At this the Squire pointed toward the shadows at the side of the fireplace. His two dogs lay on a neatly folded blanket alert and alive to any word from their master.

“That son of yours is a wonder. He worked but for a short time with my dogs and now they will hardly draw breath unless I give them leave. And where I would have tried to accomplish the same by laying a birch switch liberally about their hind quarters until my arm fell off, what does your boy do? He simply looked or whispered a word and those animals turn to liquid. Speaking of liquid, will you have another?” the Squire asked.

Swelled with pride, Sean shook his head and said, “Thank ye, but no, Squire.”

“Well then you won’t mind getting me another. I’ve not yet warmed my bones sufficient to the task of getting up.”

Sean smiled, took the Squire’s tumbler and refilled it from the sideboard.

“Thank ye, Maher. Now to the matter. I don’t have anything firm yet, but your white truck has been seen frequently on the furthest edge of County Louth right on our shared border with Meath. It is only a matter of time until I get the exact location from my spies.

“I want you and Mr. Blessing to know something. Those handbills don’t come without risk or cost. You are meddling in the affairs of others and they’ll not thank you for your thoughtfulness.

“Sadly, Ireland is a nation of heroes, poets and spies,” the squire said. “Thanks be to God we’ve always had more of the two former than the latter. It’s the spies who will run a copy of your handbill directly to the – what should we call them – culprits? I warn you to have a care Sean and to pass along the warning to your Mr. Blessing. Mark my words, there’ll be ugly and violent business before this is over.”

“It’s a mystery to be solved, Squire, and laws to be upheld,” Sean Maher said.

“True, true, but be careful how you go. I’ll contact you when I have more information. Thank you for coming.”

The audience was at an end. Sean rose from his chair and asked, “Should I be freshening that for ya?” indicating the Squire’s drink.

“It’s a good man you are, Sean, but no. Sadly my bones are now warm enough to take me through another day.” The Squire smiled, but not fully. Sean nodded his good bye. The big man was headed toward the kitchen when the sound of the Squire’s voice reached him.

“Yes, Squire?” Sean said sticking his head back into the library.

“Maher, it is by the front door that you will enter and leave this house,” the Squire said.

Sean raised both eyebrows and stood for a moment in stunned silence.

“Sean, boyeen, you are the law in this tiny bit of Ireland. It’s not as a tradesman or tinker you are pulling your forelock and asking to see the Squire at the kitchen door. The law is not a handmaiden who slinks in by the servants’ entrance. The law is a handmaiden to no one.”

“Ahh, sure the Squire has the learnin’ on him and words to do his bidding while Oi am but a poor Irishman. Still, sor, ’tis a slight disagreement Oi will have to make with ye.”

The Squire’s eyes narrowed to slits.

“It is the front door Oi will use and wish you to know that you honor me greatly. Still, the law is a handmaiden to justice, yor Worship,” Sean ended with a flourish and a smile.

“Is that from your unaided wit or from over much association with Julian Blessing? In either case, it is as I said, Maher, ‘heroes, poets and spies’. Pick your poison. But take some advice, don’t you and Mr. Blessing make heroes of yourselves. Ireland has enough dead heroes, eh?”

An hour after breakfast, Sean approached the police station to meet with his friend. This was a ritual; it was something they did every day of the week except Sunday. Sunday was a day for other rituals and St Michael’s Church supplied most of those.

As Sean advanced on the flagstone walkway leading to the station, the front door snapped open and Julian seemed irritated, “What’s kept you? You’re five minutes late. Not like you.”

The men arranged themselves before the station’s fireplace with their mugs of tea. The turf fire’s soft warmth was comforting. Julian asked, “Sean, how was your interview with the Squire?”

The big man’s eyes narrowed and he answered with a reserved, “Foine.”

“Why don’t you tell me about it? Leave nothing out. I wish to know everything,” Julian smiled. He had discovered another ability.

He had watched the scene unfold in his mind. It happened after he left Moira at her home to rest after the assault. The scene had happened as he saw it happen. He didn’t need proof. He didn’t need it – he wanted it.

Sean gave a brief recital of the morning events at the Squire’s home.

“Haven’t you missed something?” Julian asked.

Sean shook his head knowing there were small pieces that had been intentionally left out in the retelling.

“Really, Sean, nothing else?”

Again, Sean shook his head and looked at Julian even more narrowly.

“How about being forbidden the kitchen entrance to the manor house? You’re to use the front door according to the Squire. I believe that is what he said. Anything else now?”

A visible shiver ran through Sean Maher and the big man wrung his hands and said slowly, “No, nothing else, Julian. You’ve got it all.”

Julian left the warmth of the fire and looked out the front window for a moment. He turned, stared into his friend’s face and said softly, with kindness, “Sean, how about heroes, poets and spies?”

Sean Maher, with his skin crawling and his mouth hanging limply open, said the only thing left to say, “Holy Mother of God protect us all.” He closed his eyes tightly and crossed himself. There were two witches in Cappel Vale and his friend was one of them.

***

Sean and Julian walked the streets of Cappel Vale. The big man was deep in thought and it was a painful thing to behold. He was afraid for his friend and so needed to devise a clever way to warn him of the dangers one faces when dealing with things otherworldly.

Sean realized Julian was a cultured and sensitive man whom it was necessary to handle with more than a little care. One had to use diplomacy and tact to explain a matter of this gravity.

Julian and Sean came to rest on the remnants of an ancient holy well in a clearing leading to the sea. The wind was down, but the air was crisp and cool. The well was one of the thousands that dotted the Celtic world. Each was situated to foster tranquility and contemplation.

Sean turned to his friend and with all the fellow feelings, all the tact and diplomacy he could muster, grabbed Julian by the shirtfront and shouted, “Julian, you are a feekin’ eejit!”

“Do you mean just on general principal or is there something specific that prompted this observation?” Julian remarked with a smile as he hung in the big man’s hands like a rag doll.

“It isn’t unkindly that Oi say this,” Sean answered unhanding his friend. “That witch has you muckin’ about with things that, well, shouldn’t be mucked about with; unnatural things, ungodly things.”

“Sean, I am touched by your concern, really I am, but I don’t think you have anything to be concerned about.”

“Really? Being able to know things you shouldn’t know? Seeing who is on the other side of your door before they knock? These things don’t seem even a little unusual to you? Maureen Tracy says you read her mind and left her with impure thoughts, although that one I doubt as that ol’ trout has always had impure thoughts. But what about Tommy Gallagher? He says you turned him blind and then gave his sight back to him not two minutes later!” Sean shouted.

“That Hagan creature has you bewitched. And isn’t it she who is putting your immortal soul at risk? Don’t you see it? She’ll have you turned away from the bosom of Holy Mother Church and doing her dance with the devil before you know what’s happening.”

Sean continued with force. “It is the way with witches. A small thing here, a tiny thing there and before you know it you are caperin’ neeked around fires in the woods at midnight with all her familiars!”

“Sean, it isn’t as if I’ll be wearing a goat-head hat, sacrificing virgins, or putting babies on spits any day now. There isn’t any witchcraft. No pointy hats, no broomsticks, no hairy warts, no spells to make your tender bits shrivel up – none of it. Get it? No witches. No witchcraft. So take it easy.”

Sean Maher visibly shuddered then exploded. “Julian, listen to yourself! Jaysus, Mary and Joseph – how is it, Julian Blessing that you think of such things? And isn’t it you who says them like they are normal. Tender bits, goat heads, and, as if the rest weren’t blasphemous enough, babies on spits! By God!”

Both men became lost to their respective thoughts, but Sean announced his first. “For the love of God, Julian - babies on spits,” he said, “That’s just proof of how diseased is your poor soul!”

***

“Who is that young girl?” Julian asked Kathleen Maher. He indicated a young woman who followed the Hackett sisters like a skiff in the wake of two ships of the line as they made their way down the main thoroughfare.

“Ah ’tis Gwyneth Kirby and a shining success she is, thanks to you,” Mrs. Maher answered. She and Julian stood side by side in front of Flynn’s general store.

“Pardon me? Shining success thanks to me? I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“Would you be remembering the talking to you gave the Hackett sisters? That was the day you were more than passing tetched. If people are to be believed – and they are, but only about half the time – you convinced the Hacketts they had a duty to pass along their knowledge to a younger generation.”

“Well, I did mention something like that.” Julian looked embarrassed.

“Indeed and rightly you did. Sure it would be a pity for the two of them to take to their graves – for that can’t be long off since they are each a hundred and fifty years old – before passing on the wisdom they have gathered to themselves. It would deprive us of the various medicaments we depend on. We can’t be bothering the sainted Doctor Dwyer for every little thing ya know,” Kathleen Maher said.

“Okay, in a way I might have suggested it would be a good idea to train an apprentice. So that’s what they’re doing with that girl?”

“You’re quick as lightening, Mr. Julian. ’Tis the Hacketts’ youngest cousin’s daughter up from Wicklow way. She is a bonny lass, strong and anxious to please, bright as a penny and pretty besides.”

At the mention of her name, Gwyneth Kirby looked up as she crossed the street and Kathleen Maher motioned for her to join them. Gwyneth whispered to her aunts who gave their assent. The young girl ran to join Mrs. Maher and the stranger.

Mrs. Maher introduced a red haired young woman of about seventeen years with egg white skin and a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Julian noted she was a beckoningly pretty girl with a soft smile and eyes alight with the potential for mischief.

“Gwyneth, this is Mr. Julian Blessing. With my husband, he provides safety and security not only to our village, but also to the entire area here abouts. He is an important man of vast experience and learning. Should a problem present itself which your sainted aunts can’t answer, present yourself to Mr. Julian and he will find a solution.”

The young woman curtsied and Julian inclined his head and smiled.

“‘Vast experience and learning’ is it, Kathleen Maher?” Ailís Dwyer said. Julian spun around to find the doctor standing behind him. “Is it our Mr. Julian you would be talkin’ about then?” she asked and smiled slyly.

“Good morning, Doctor,” Julian said with an enthusiasm he did not intend to show.

“Why, Oi am honored that such a weighty individual as your fine self would see fit to talk with but a poor country doctor,” Ailís intoned with a mocking broad, flat Irish brogue. “Sadly, I have little time for idle chitchat right now.”

Just then, a group of village women surrounded the doctor and spirited her into Flynn’s store. Julian looked on as she left and grinned at the doctor’s playfulness.

Kathleen Maher and Gwyneth Kirby’s lips formed subdued, but knowing smiles, heavy with meaning and rich in understanding.

***

“George Sullivan is altogether dead,” Jimmy Grogan declared as he ran into the police station.

Julian, Sean and Father Fahey were seated around the desk playing a card game whose chief feature was lying and cheating. But the lying did not end with the playing cards. The score was being kept in turns and each scorekeeper unabashedly shaved points from his opponents and added them to his own score.

“That’s forty-eight points for me,” Julian said.

Sean said, “Forty-eight” and wrote down twenty-eight adding the wayward twenty points to his own score bringing it to fifty-five.

“Saints be praised,” Father Fahey said. “I have forty-eight also. What a coincidence.” Father Fahey leaned out of his chair and watched as Sean attempted to turn the thirty-eight he had put down for the priest back into a forty-eight. Father Fahey raised an eyebrow and looked at Sean. Sean looked at his pencil as though it was an instrument of the devil.

The rules for scoring were simple. Laymen could be cheated as freely as one’s conscience would allow. Priests were cheated less enthusiastically. If one was a scorekeeper-priest, it was permissible to cheat with abandon all except bishops. Bishops did not, it was assumed, cheat cardinals and so on.

Father Fahey did not breathe the rarified air of bishops and cardinals so did not concern himself with such matters. But as much as it was his obligation to cheat while playing and scoring, it was his holy duty to caution his flock about fudging the numbers on the score sheet. He reconciled this as being for their own good. And his.

“Were you hearin’ me? Auld George Sullivan is dead,” Jimmy said again.

“That’s a total of five hundred fifty points for meself, five hundred forty-eight for himself, Father Fahey, and one thousand one hundred…”

“That’s one thousand eight hundred for me,” Julian corrected.

Julian had invented his own way of scoring. He kept the numbers in his head and would correct the score sheet when it was passed to him. This didn’t keep his opponents from re-correcting it later, but in the end Julian always won by such a large margin that he thought it churlish to argue over a few hundred points.

“Nine plus four, carry the one, naught from naught equals naught, seven plus nine take away three and carry the two…” Sean intoned. “It is right you are, one thousand six hundred…”

“One thousand eight hundred,” Julian interrupted.

“Right. As I said, one thousand eight hundred points,” Sean announced.

“Is it deef as stones you are? Does no one here care if a Christian has died?”

“Shut your gob, Jimmy Grogan and it is a civil tongue I would be thinkin’ you should keep in your head or a knot Oi’ll put on you that ye won’t be forgetin’,” Sean said. “Besides, chances are he isn’t dead this time either ya ugly little creature.”

“Well, if you’re so sure, take me bet,” Jimmy said. “Oi’ll bet a hundred you are wrong and for another thing, the likes of you wouldn’t recognize me true beauty if it bit y’r arse.”

“Jimmy Grogan, you would bet on a bag of dead pigeons in a horse race, ya eejit,” Sean enjoined. “But you say truly, I know little of beauty. That said, ya ugly spud, Oi do know you have a face on ya as would drive rats from a barn.”

“How dead is Farmer Sullivan? Oi’ve said the rosary over him four times this year and gave him last rights twice more besides. Each time they were ready to put him under the earth. Each time it was so George could get some porter under his roof,” Father Fahey added.

“No, but Father, a hay bale fell on him and crushed his head like a gourd! As Jaysus alone is my judge, George Sullivan is surely dead this time.”

“It isn’t takin’ our Lord Jaysus name in vain that’ll save ya because if Oi find this is more of your filthy lies, Jimmy Grogan, you’ll be prayin’ to all the saints to save you from me,” Father Fahey said. “Oi suppose we should go have a look though just to make sure.”

The three men walked out of the station with Jimmy bringing up the rear and closing the door behind him.

They all walked the mile out of the village to the Sullivan farm where they found George Sullivan was good and truly, altogether dead this time.

***

While the mourners gathered for George’s wake, Julian and Sean inspected the barn where the farmer had died. Walking into the barn, Julian doubled over in pain. He staggered, then stumbled into the lee of his friend. Julian was beset by an aching melancholy and in the next moment, he was there. He was watching George Sullivan die.

Julian lost all color in his face, his hands shook and his eyes looked as though he was witnessing pure horror. “Get me out of here, Sean,” Julian managed to say.

That evening’s wake going on inside the farmhouse was an event that demanded hushed tones and temporary decorum. Alcohol flowed with abandon. It was explained to Julian that strong drink was necessary to toast the newly departed and to put the living in a reflective frame of mind to better consider their individual mortality.

Julian thought it was an excuse for getting drunk.

He sat on the back porch, pale and exhausted from what he had witnessed in the barn and got profoundly and reflectively drunk.