Benedict said, ‘Why did you kill my parents? And my grandfather, who was Declan’s son after all.’
But isn’t every man somebody’s son? And I didn’t mean to kill them. They were hell-bent on destroying the chess figure. They had a few shreds of its story, handed down by Declan; they knew it was something to be feared. But I knew that if it was destroyed I’d lose my only chance of reaching one of Declan’s descendants, and ridding myself of the sins. It had to be one of Declan’s family, because—
‘Because he was the one who set the ritual working,’ said Benedict, softly.
So you understand that, do you? When I realized your father intended to destroy the figure I tried to stop him. They were taking it to the old St Stephen’s cemetery to bury it or burn it – he and your grandfather had pieced together some of the links to the past, mostly from half-memories Declan had left them. They hadn’t got it quite right, but they knew enough to realize it was the source of the house’s strangeness – that it was connected to the person they sometimes saw looking out of the mirrors. I had to prevent them destroying it, but I didn’t intend them to die. And then afterwards there was only you, Benedict.
‘The figure in the mirror,’ said Benedict, half to himself. ‘So my father did see you.’
Oh yes. But all those years ago when your great-grandfather got me out of Newgate Gaol, I wanted to destroy the chess piece – I knew it had made me a murderer. Declan didn’t want to come back here – he said we’d be seen and recognized. But I persuaded him. I could always persuade him to do what I wanted. I said even if we were seen, we’d be the prodigal sons returning.
But once we reached this cottage, it all went dreadfully wrong and the nightmare began . . .
Kilglenn, 1890s
For the first few hours of their return, Declan and Colm stayed in the shack, waiting for nightfall.
‘Then we’ll go up to the watchtower, and we’ll cast this devil-inspired figure into the rubble,’ said Colm. ‘It can reunite itself with the others, and for all I care they can spend the next thousand years raising Satan’s armies to invade the world.’
‘I hate being here and not seeing my family,’ said Declan.
‘When we make our fortunes in America we’ll come back and bestow largesse everywhere. What is largesse, by the way?’
‘No idea, but we’ll bestow it anyway.’
Darkness had not completely fallen when they set off for the watchtower. A faint glimmer came from the ocean, and the moon was rising, casting a cool silvery light.
There was a dreamlike quality to the cliff path as they climbed it, and they both remembered again the old tales of the Sidhe who could lure men to their deaths with their chill fatal singing.
The watchtower reared up above them as they came round the last curve of the path, stark and bleak against the night sky, and they both stopped and stared up at it.
‘Just think,’ said Declan softly, ‘how we used to make up stories about it – how it was a giant’s castle with a captive princess inside, or how it had been built from the magic-soaked stones of the ancient Irish Court of Tara.’
‘And now,’ said Colm softly, ‘it’s a burned-out wreck, with the bones of a renegade priest in the rubble.’ He began to walk up the last few yards, then stopped. ‘Can you hear that?’
‘I hear nothing. And if you’re starting to think this place is haunted, or the Sidhe are calling . . .’ Then Declan heard it as well, and the sounds were not ghosts and they were certainly not the Sidhe.
The sounds were human. Several voices, all shouting, ‘Murderer.’
They turned and saw, on the path below them, torch lights flaring through the dusk. At least twenty people – most of them men, but some women – were coming towards them.
‘That’s half the village of Kilglenn!’ said Colm, staring at the people in fear. ‘And they’re coming for me.’
‘But we needn’t be afraid,’ said Declan. ‘Those are people we know – we grew up among them. My father isn’t there, though,’ he said, scanning the faces. ‘Neither is Fintan.’
‘Never mind who’s not there, what do we do?’
Declan looked wildly about him, then said, ‘We’ll go inside the tower. If we can barricade the door against them, they might calm down after a while. Or we might be able to reason with them. Because these are people we’ve known since childhood!’
They tumbled across the remaining few feet to the tower and half fell against the door, gasping with relief when the handle turned and the door opened. They slammed it against the torchlit procession, and leaned back against the blackened oak, trying to regain their breath.
Even after the fire, the stone walls were so thick that the sounds of the approaching villagers was shut off, but it was so dark they could barely see anything.
‘We’ll have to find something to barricade the door,’ said Colm.
‘There’s nothing. Everything’s burned to cinders.’
‘No, wait, there’s a few bits of furniture – there’s a chest over there, I think. Stay here – keep the door shut while I drag it over.’
Declan stayed where he was, holding the door’s iron latch in place. He could hear Colm dragging the chest from the wall, but he could not see him. He pressed his ear to the door’s surface, listening for sounds that the villagers had reached the top of the cliff path. Perhaps they were outside the door now. Or were they trying to find another way in? Was there another way in?
Here was Colm now. He must have got the chest across the room while Declan was listening for the villagers’ approach. He had come to stand next to Declan – he was actually standing very close. Declan half turned his head and it was then that Colm reached down and took hold of Declan’s hand. This was odd; it was not in the least like Colm. And Colm’s hand felt wrong – it was too small, almost shrunken, and the fingers were curling round Declan’s with a terrible intimacy . . .