‘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.
SIXTEEN
Benedict 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.