12
The next evening, after dinner, I went fishing in Uncle Simon’s epic masterpiece for information about a dead Glenskehy girl. It would have been a lot simpler to do this on my own, but that would have meant throwing a sickie from college, and I didn’t want to worry the others unless I really needed to; so Rafe and Daniel and I were sitting on the spare-room floor, with the Marches’ family tree spread out between us. Abby and Justin were downstairs, playing piquet.
The family tree was a huge sheet of thick, tattered paper covered with a wild variety of handwritings, from delicate, browning ink at the top—James March, born ca. 1598, m. Elizabeth Kempe 1619—to Uncle Simon’s spider scrawl at the bottom: Edward Thomas Hanrahan, born 1975, and last of all Daniel James March, born 1979. “This is the only thing in this room that’s intelligible,” Daniel said, picking a bit of cobweb off the corner, “presumably because Simon didn’t write it himself. The rest . . . we can try having a look, Lexie, if you’re really that interested, but as far as I can tell he wrote most of it when he was very, very drunk.”
“Hey,” I said, leaning over to point. “There’s your William. The black sheep.”
“William Edward March,” Daniel said, putting a finger gently on the name. “Born 1894, died 1983. Yes; that’s him. I wonder where he ended up.” William was one of only a handful that had made it past forty. Sam had been right, the Marches died young.
“Let’s see if we can find him in here,” I said, pulling a box towards me. “I’m getting curious about this guy. I want to know what the big scandal was.”
“Girls,” Rafe said loftily, “always sniffing for gossip,” but he reached for another box.
Daniel was right, most of the saga was almost illegible—Uncle Simon went in for lots of underlining and no space between lines, Victorian-style. I didn’t need to read it; I was only scanning for the tall curves of a capital W and M. I’m not sure what I was hoping we’d find. Nothing, maybe; or something that whacked the Rathowen story right out of court, proved that the girl had moved to London with her baby and set up a successful dressmaking business and lived happily ever after.
Downstairs I could hear Justin saying something and Abby laughing, faint and faraway. The three of us didn’t talk; the only sound was the soft, steady rustle of paper. The room was cool and dim, a blurred moon hanging outside the window, and the pages left a dry film of dust on my fingers.
“Oh, here we go,” Rafe said suddenly. “ ‘William March was the subject of much unjust and—sensational?—something, which finally cost him both his health and . . .’ Jesus, Daniel. Your uncle must have been trolleyed. Is this even in English?”
“Let me see,” Daniel said, leaning across to look. “ ‘Both his health and his rightful place in society,’ I think.” He took the sheaf of pages from Rafe and pushed his glasses up his nose. “ ‘The facts,’ ” he read slowly, running a finger under the line, “ ‘stripped of rumormongering, are as follows: from 1914 through 1915 William March served in the Great War, where he’—that has to be ‘acquitted’—‘himself well, later being awarded the Military Cross for his acts of bravery. This alone should—something—all low gossip. In 1915 William March was discharged, suffering from a shrapnel wound to the shoulder and from severe shell-shock—’ ”
“Post-traumatic stress,” Rafe said. He was leaning back against the wall, hands behind his head, to listen. “Poor bastard.”
“I can’t read this bit,” Daniel said. “Something about what he had seen— in battle, I assume; that word’s ‘cruel.’ Then it says: ‘He dissolved his engagement to Miss Alice West and took no part in the amusements of his set, preferring to spend his time among the common people of Glenskehy village, much to the anxiety of all parties. All concerned realized that this’— unnatural, I think—‘connection could not have a happy result.’ ”
“Snobs,” said Rafe.
“Look who’s talking,” I said, scooting across the floor to rest my chin on Daniel’s shoulder and try to make out the words. So far, no surprises, but I knew—could not have a happy result—this was it.
“ ‘About this time,’ ” Daniel read, tilting the page so I could see, “ ‘a young girl of the village found herself in an unfortunate situation, and named William March as the father of her unborn child. Whatever the truth may have been, the people of Glenskehy, who were then well trained in morals unlike these present times’ ”—“morals” was underlined twice—“ ‘were shocked at her loose conduct. It was the strong—belief ?—of all the village that the girl should remove her shame from their midst by entering a Magdalen convent, and till this should come about they made her an outcast among themselves.’ ”
No happy ending, no little dress shop in London. Some girls never escaped the Magdalen laundries. They stayed slaves—for getting pregnant, getting raped, being orphaned, being too pretty—till they went to nameless graves.
Daniel kept reading, quiet and even. I could feel the vibration of his voice against my shoulder. “ ‘The girl, however, either despairing of her soul or unwilling to perform the prescribed penance, took her life. William March— whether because he had in fact been her partner in sin, or because he had already witnessed too much bloodshed—was greatly affected by this. His health failed him, and when he recovered he abandoned family, friends and home to begin anew elsewhere. Little is known of his later life. These events may be taken as a lesson in the dangers of lust, or of mixing outside the boundaries of one’s natural level in society, or of . . .’ ” Daniel broke off. “I can’t read the rest. That’s all there is about William, anyway; the next paragraph is about a racehorse.”
“Jesus,” I said softly. The room felt cold all of a sudden, cold and too airy, as if the window had slammed open behind us.
“They treated her like a leper till she cracked,” Rafe said. There was a taut little twist to one corner of his mouth. “And till William had a breakdown and left town. So it’s not just a recent development, then, Glenskehy being Lunatic Central.”
I felt a slight shudder run down Daniel’s back. “That’s a nasty little story,” he said. “It really is. Sometimes I wonder if the best thing would be for ‘no pasts’ to apply to the house, as well. Although . . .” He glanced around, at the room full of dusty battered things, the ragged-papered walls; the dark-spotted mirror, down the corridor, reflecting the three of us in blues and shadows through the open door. “I’m not sure,” he said, almost to himself, “that that’s an option.”
He tapped the edges of the pages straight and put them carefully back in their case, closed the lid. “I don’t know about you two,” he said, “but I think I’ve had enough for tonight. Let’s go back to the others.”
“I think I’ve seen every piece of paperwork in the country that has the word ‘Glenskehy’ on it,” Sam said, when I phoned him later. He sounded wrecked and blurry—paper fatigue; I knew the note well—but satisfied. “I know a lot more about it than anyone needs to, and I’ve got three guys that fit your profile.”
I was in my tree, with my feet tucked up tight into the branches. The feeling of being watched had intensified to the point where I was actually hoping that whatever it was would jump me, just so I could get some kind of fix on it. I hadn’t mentioned this to Frank or, God forbid, Sam. As far as I could see, the main possibilities were my imagination, the ghost of Lexie Madison and a homicidal stalker with procrastination issues, and none of those was something I felt like sharing. During the day I figured it was imagination, maybe with some help from the resident wildlife, but at night it was harder to be sure. “Only three? Out of four hundred people?”
“Glenskehy’s dying,” Sam said flatly. “Almost half the population is over sixty-five. As soon as the kids are old enough, they pack up and move to Dublin, Cork, Wicklow town, anywhere that has a bit of life to it. The only ones who stay put are the ones who have a family farm or a family business to take over. There’s less than thirty fellas between twenty-five and thirty-five. I cut out the ones who commute for work, the unemployed ones, the ones who live alone and the ones who could get away during the day if they wanted to— night-shifters, fellas who work alone. That left me with three.”
“Jesus,” I said. I thought of the old man hobbling across an empty street, the tired houses where only one lace curtain had twitched.
“I suppose that’s progress for you. At least there’s jobs for them to go to.” Flick of paper: “Right, here’s my three lads. Declan Bannon, thirty-one, runs a small farm just outside Glenskehy with his wife and two young kids. John Naylor, twenty-nine, lives in the village with his parents and works on another man’s farm. And Michael McArdle, twenty-six, lives with his parents and does the day shift in the petrol station up on the Rathowen road. No known links to Whitethorn House anywhere. Any of the names ring a bell?”
“Not offhand,” I said, “sorry,” and then I almost fell out of my tree. “Ah, sure,” Sam was saying philosophically, “that would’ve been too much to expect,” but I barely heard him. John Naylor: finally, and about bloody time, I had someone who began with an N.
“Which one do you like?” I asked. I made sure I didn’t skip a beat. Of all the detectives I know, Sam is the best at pretending he’s missed things. It comes in useful more often than you might expect.
“It’s early days, but for now Bannon’s my favorite. He’s the only one with any kind of history. Five years ago, a couple of American tourists parked their car blocking one of Bannon’s gates while they went for a walk in the lanes. When Bannon turned up and couldn’t move his sheep, he kicked a pretty serious dent in the side of the car. Criminal damage and not playing nicely with outsiders; this vandalism could be right up his street.”
“The others are clean?”
“Byrne says he’s seen both of them a little the worse for wear, at one time or another, but not enough that he could be bothered pulling them in for public drunkenness or anything like that. Any of them could have criminal activity we don’t know about, Glenskehy being what it is, but to look at, yeah, they’re clean.”
“Have you talked to them yet?” Somehow, I had to get a look at this John Naylor. Going down to the pub was out, obviously, and wandering innocently onto the farm where he worked was probably a bad idea, but if I could find a way to sit in on an interview—