Nicholas Sheehan. The man who, according to local legend, had once been a devout priest, but who some deep dark cause had forced to this lonely eyrie.
At first they thought he was younger than they had expected, but as they drew nearer they revised this opinion, and thought he was considerably older. Colm said afterwards that it was impossible to even guess his age, and he might be anything from thirty to sixty. His hair was dark and his face lean and even slightly austere. There was the impression that he might enjoy good music and wine and interesting conversation, and this was the most disconcerting thing yet, because if you have ascribed the role of unprincipled seducer and devil-befriender to someone, you do not want to discover that person has an appreciation of the good and gentle things in life.
‘Good day to you,’ said Nicholas Sheehan, and smiled so charmingly that Declan and Colm almost smiled back. But the smile doesn’t reach his eyes, thought Declan. They’re the weariest eyes I ever saw.
‘You’re a long way from Kilglenn,’ said Father Sheehan, leaning against the door frame of the ancient watchtower. ‘And it’s a fair old haul up that path. Will you come inside and take a drink with me?’
‘That’s very trusting of you,’ said Colm, after a moment, and this time the smile did reach Sheehan’s eyes.
‘Oh, I’m not trusting in the least,’ he said. ‘But I know who you are, so I’m taking a chance. You’re Romilly Rourke’s cousin Colm, and you’re his good friend Declan Doyle. A very likely pair of boyos, I’d say, although you’ll be stifled and repressed by the outlook of the villagers, I don’t doubt. Do they still gather in Fintan Reilly’s bar of an evening to put the world to rights, and believe themselves rebels and firebrands?’ He stood back and indicated to them to come in. As they did so, he said, ‘I don’t imagine you’re here to plunder my worldly goods and chattels, but in case you have that in mind, I should mention you’d be wasting your time.’
‘Because you have hell’s weapons in your armoury?’ demanded Colm.
‘My, what a very dramatic young man you are,’ said Father Sheehan, looking at Colm with more interest. ‘But I’m sorry to disappoint you, Colm. I haven’t so much as a pitchfork stashed away. It’s simply that I gave up possessing goods and chattels long ago.’
FIVE
For a man who had given up worldly possessions, Father Sheehan seemed to live in considerable comfort. The stone walls inside the watchtower had been softened with tapestries of soft blues and greens and with ornate mirrors. Silken rugs lay on the floor, their colours dimmed by age, but glowing richly against the ancient oak and stone.
The minute Declan and Colm were inside they had the sensation of stepping neck-deep into a past that was very dark and chilling. They shared a thought: are we mad to be doing this? Then the memory of Romilly sobbing and distraught and threatening to leave Kilglenn came back, and they both followed Sheehan to an octagonal room where books lined the walls and several velvet-covered chairs were drawn up to a massive hearth. Even though it was May, the afternoon was dark and a fire burned, casting mysterious crimson shadows. Through the narrow windows came threads of deep blue light from the ocean, edging the firelight with violet.
‘Sit down,’ said Sheehan, and took a careless seat in one of the chairs, facing them. The glow from the fire washed over him, so that for a moment he was a creature of shadows and fire. ‘A glass of wine?’ Without waiting for their reply, he reached for a slender-necked decanter on a side table and poured three glasses.
Colm and Declan had hardly ever drunk wine, and they were certainly unused to alcohol of any kind at this time of the day. But Colm took the glass with slightly forced nonchalance and Declan followed suit. The wine was rich and potent, and they had the feeling that the scented firelight might have soaked into it.
‘I’m thinking,’ said Sheehan, leaning back in his chair, the fingers of his hand curled lazily round the stem of his wine glass, ‘that this visit is connected with your little cousin. What a beautiful girl. Hasn’t she a fine charm? And as persuasive as a witch on Beltane.’
‘Persuasive?’ said Colm sharply. ‘Weren’t you the one who was persuasive with her? In fact,’ he said, setting down the wine glass and leaning forward, ‘weren’t you a whole lot more than persuasive, Father Sheehan?’
‘You know I no longer have the right to that title,’ said Sheehan, politely.
‘They stripped it from you,’ said Colm.
‘No. I stripped it from myself.’
‘You lost your belief?’ said Declan, curious despite himself.
‘I lost some beliefs. But you didn’t come here to discuss beliefs.’
‘We came to . . . to bring you to account over what you did to my cousin Romilly.’ Declan saw Colm’s eyes flicker as he said this and knew Colm must have heard how brash the words and the tone sounded compared to Sheehan’s soft courtesies.
‘I did nothing to your cousin Romilly. And if I weren’t such a gentleman,’ said Nick Sheehan, thoughtfully, ‘I’d tell you that she went away very disappointed indeed.’
‘You’re saying she seduced you?’ demanded Declan.
‘I’m saying she tried. But I’m a little too old to be lured by sly innocents.’
‘You’re a black-hearted liar,’ said Colm angrily.
‘I promise you I am not. Your waif-like Romilly made it perfectly clear what she wanted. I made it clear I wasn’t interested. I wasn’t especially flattered by the approach,’ said Sheehan and paused to drink more wine. ‘Her real motive was money, of course.’
‘You can’t know what her motives were,’ said Colm.
‘Women usually do want money. Or are you both still too young to know that?’
‘Did you give her any money?’