CHAPTER 10
From his vantage point in a hollow to the east of Lear House, Rory watched as the Englishman rose from his chair and moved to the dining room window. What was going through Sir Thomas’s mind? Crouched in the shadows near a makeshift fence, Rory wasn’t close enough to judge the owner’s mental state, but the landlord’s motionless figure revealed his displeasure.
Rory moved like an Irish fox, taking advantage of the deep shadows cast by the setting sun. He wished to steal closer to see a dinner he considered an exercise in forced opulence. Imagine a feast for the Englishman while his countrymen starved! But time was short—soon even Lear House would be in similar peril. He tried to rid his mind of that troubling thought, but the famine’s inevitability came crushing down upon him.
Perhaps he had been too hard on his wife and her wish to keep the landlord happy, but damn it all, why cater to the whims of the oppressor? He and many other Mollies believed that Irish silence and English law were conspiring to starve the country. But how close would disaster come? What if the tenants were evicted? Would revenge, even violence, be visited upon Sir Thomas and the Walsh family? He remembered the note tacked to the manor door and the horrifying heights that his imagination had taken him: the burning manor, the bodies of Brian and his daughters hung from the cornices. But Briana was his wife now, and things were different. He would protect her at the cost of his life—that was as certain as the tides in Broadhaven Bay.
He had sheltered his wife from something else as well. His trip to Belmullet to arrange for the last supply delivery had so nearly broken his spirit, he had confided in his father-in-law when he returned.
“Are you ill?” Brian had asked after Rory found him alone in the cottage.
Rory shook his head. “What I’ve seen . . . I’ve barely the words to talk about it.” He lowered his head, rested in a chair, and sighed. The thought of telling Brian what he had seen exhausted him.
“Tell me,” Brian said. “You made arrangements for the Indian corn. What else is troubling you?”
Rory lifted his head and looked at him, ashamed that he was on the verge of tears. Brian was a tough man—he had seen death and disease and many bouts of misfortune during his life—but Rory was certain the man had never seen anything like what he had witnessed.
“The money you gave me from your savings is gone,” Rory said. “I had to use it all to get the twenty sacks. The Captain and the dragoons each took their cut.” He gazed at Brian through damp eyes. “I nearly worked the pony to death to get past the starving along the road. They reached for me, clawed at me, begging for food.
“They’re pouring out of the hills looking for anything to save them. At first I couldn’t tell what was speckling the road among the ash and alder trees, but when I stopped my horse, I discovered the truth. Bodies lay in burrows, scattered in the bogs, dogs eating them. The stench . . . even the wind couldn’t knock it away.” He slumped in a chair, surrendering to despair. “Promise me that you’ll never tell your daughters what I’ve told you. We must spare them from more sadness.”
Brian winced but nodded in support of the promise.
Good. Brian needed to know the truth, to know what he was implicitly, silently, supporting by earning his livelihood as the landlord’s agent.
Brian crossed himself.
“You know what will happen next,” Rory said. “The pig will go, then the farm animals, then all the food will be gone. If we can’t fish, what will we eat? Seaweed? A frog? Birds’ eggs? There’ll be nothing left.” He lowered his head again, averting his eyes from his father-in-law, certain that no man had answers to his questions.
Brian got up from his chair and put his hands on Rory’s shoulders. He had never felt so helpless, and he welcomed his father-in-law’s comforting touch. “Come to Lear House and see what I’ve done. I’ve shored up the larder so the rats can’t get into it,” he said. It was a small gesture designed to take his mind off his troubles.
He blinked away the memory of that awful trip as he watched Sir Thomas walk from the window to the dining room door, then vanish after turning the corner.
Rory rubbed his arms and trod down the lane toward the bay. From there, he could get a better view of the Lear House façade. The chilly air bit at his body as it quickened off the Atlantic. He watched as an oil lamp moved across the large window above the center of the house—the owner’s bedroom.
As he watched the light, he was surprised at the angry, violent thoughts that popped into his head. How easy it would be to fire a shot into the window. Everything would be over. The Walsh family would be free of their controlling landlord and with his death their responsibility to Lear House. The notion frightened him, and he sprinted down the lane. He couldn’t believe he was thinking like an assassin, a common murderer, capable of acts he’d never have imagined in more tranquil times.
“Murder can’t be that easy,” he said to the air. “It will only bring trouble down upon us all.”
“Who wants more trouble?” The question came out of the gloom. Rory pivoted and found Connor Donlon standing a few yards away near the path that led to the beach.
Rory bit his tongue for thinking aloud.
Connor strode up beside him. “So, the Master has arrived.”
“My only master is God,” Rory said. “I don’t want to give the landlord more power over us than he already has . . . and that he has in his capacity to evict.”
Connor’s face reflected the pink afterglow of the setting sun, shadows darkening the circles beneath his eyes and his sunken cheekbones. The strain of feeding a family of six had taken its toll upon his friend. “Have you been eating?” Rory asked.
His friend didn’t answer immediately but looked toward a potato ridge that extended down from a farm. Connor bent over, swiped his hand across the ridge, and muttered what sounded like a prayer. He looked up at Rory. “I pray that these tubers come up healthy and strong by August. They look as if they may.” He pointed to the young leaves, green amongst the black sod.
“I hope you’re right,” he responded, trying to erase the skepticism from his voice.
Connor straightened. “My wife and children come first.”
Rory had never known Connor to approach anything from a position of weakness. Now that the famine had seized the estate, all the tenants were struggling for their lives. He understood the man’s willingness to make a sacrifice, but he also knew that Sheila and the children couldn’t manage without the family provider. More trouble, more death. When will it end?
They watched from afar as the lamp crossed the window a second time. Even though the shades were drawn, they could make out the landlord’s shadowy form.
“How easy it would be,” Connor said to the air.
“Don’t speak ill,” Rory said, culpable of the same thought minutes earlier. He shivered, knowing their minds were following a similar murderous path.
“It won’t be me, but it would be easy,” Connor said. He put his hand on Rory’s shoulder. “I saw you walking down the hill. I came to remind you of the meeting tomorrow night.”
“I haven’t forgotten.” He wondered how the discussion might differ from previous meetings now that Sir Thomas had taken up summer residence at the manor. Would the threat to Lear House gather momentum? He looked toward the manor, where the stone was turning from gray to black in the gathering dusk, its windows dull and blank now that the lamps had been extinguished.
“Were you invited to dinner?” Connor asked.
Rory groaned. “I had no stomach for it.” He shook hands with his friend. “I’ve got to get home before my wife. I craved a walk—that’s all.”
Connor left his side. “Whatever you say, my friend. I’ll see you tomorrow at the meeting place.”
They walked together in silence from the bay and headed east along the hillside until they parted.
* * *
Brian Walsh sat in the chair facing what was, on most days, his desk. He threaded his fingers together and absentmindedly rotated his thumbs. These were the worst hours he had ever experienced, with the possible exception of the day his wife died. Even that horrible time was tempered by the knowledge that she had been delivered from the pain and suffering of her illness. The outpouring of grief from the smallholders, from friends in Carrowteige, the soothing words from Father O’Kirwin, had also eased that day’s sting. As far as he could tell, today held no such promise.
Even breakfast had been a disaster. The landlord had expressed his displeasure at the tiny oatcakes he had been served a few hours before. There was hardly enough sugar and butter to make them palatable, he told Lucinda, his reluctant server. Briana had returned to her husband after making the cakes.
Sir Thomas now sat behind the desk, leaning forward, his eyes moving over the neatly formed lines of figures entered by Brian under the categories of land, occupiers, annual value, rate, arrears, totals, and observations. He closed one ledger and opened another. After a brief time, he shut it as well.
The stale odor of aging paper wafted through the library. The books were already old when he had started working on them, passed down as they were from the previous agent.
“Most distressing.” The landlord sighed and leaned back in his chair.
“The point is . . .” Brian felt it almost unnecessary to say more. The landlord had already told him what would happen if the rents weren’t paid. Why fight the inevitable? He screwed up his courage and continued, “What can be done? We will take the necessary steps to save Lear House.”
The owner pushed back his chair and studied the crammed oak bookcases that lined the room. Brian took in the profile of his employer and the erect posture of his authority. With a full head of black, curly hair; sideburns extending to muttonchops; and a sharp, aquiline nose, the landlord did indeed cut an aristocratic figure. He understood how Lucinda found him handsome and charming, but considering her lineage as the daughter of an Irish land agent, and the seemingly endless bounty of young, highborn ladies who filled Manchester and its countryside, her chances of marriage to Sir Thomas were slim. But who was to say where a heart could make its home? Witness the marriage of Briana to a tenant farmer. He was an organized man, and over the course of the year, life had become messier than he wished. As one grew older, living was supposed to be simpler, not studded with complications that led to matters of life and death.
Sir Thomas picked up the quill pen and tapped its feather against his cheek. He retained this position for several minutes, keeping Brian in suspense while awaiting an answer to his question.
Finally, the landlord turned slightly, his face framed in the window’s half light, and spoke. “I’m afraid there’s nothing to be done. The house will have to close at summer’s end. Perhaps even before that. I pray that somehow I may extend courtesies to my guests, but what are we to eat when there is no food to be found? If I’m lucky, I can wrangle something from the local Constabulary or a ship at Belmullet. Of course, that will require money.” He thrust the quill toward Brian in an accusing manner. “I hold you responsible for letting the accounts fall to such a disastrous level. If you had been doing your job, this would not have happened.”
In dismay, Brian stared at the scarred oak floor.
The landlord came up with questions of his own. “How do we get food? How do we support the estate when there is no money to be had?”
Flushed from the accusation that he was responsible for the misfortune, he took some time to construct an answer before responding. “Surely I cannot be blamed for an act of God. I assume a plan for food applies only to you and your guests? Are there no extra funds from Manchester to support Lear House?” He thought of the landlord’s guests savoring fine dishes while the tenants starved.
Sir Thomas dampened a bitter laugh. “Do you have any idea how much it costs to support my home in England? Lear House is a luxury. Manchester is my legacy and heritage, as well as the employer for a staff of seven. They are indispensable to me. I’d heard of other owners closing their homes in Ireland, but I’d hoped it wouldn’t come to that. I had no reason to believe it would, but now I see the truth of the matter. There is no other choice.”
Brian looked up, stone-faced, unable to counter his employer’s argument. The thought of losing the manor crushed him, as if an unseen weight had tumbled upon him. He had devoted his life to the manor—the estate and the surrounding lands were the only home he had ever known. From his birth in the village, to his employment by Sir Thomas’s father, through his marriage, the birth of his daughters, and the death of his dear wife, Lear House had stood witness to it all. Now it was ending, and with it, the life he had always known.
He stared with damp eyes at his employer.
Sir Thomas rose from the desk. “If there is nothing to be done, you will continue to work until the time comes to close Lear House.”
* * *
Briana could not stop thinking about how badly the conversation with the landlord had gone the night before. Her father was at his wits’ end; her sister was crushed by the owner’s ultimatum and the prospect of governing three children while the landlord entertained his guests. She was also concerned about her husband, who had greeted her coolly when she arrived at the cabin after helping clear and clean the dishes at Lear House the previous evening. He was no happier this morning when he found out that she had to cook the landlord’s breakfast.
She desperately wanted to rid her mind of turmoil, and a walk after breakfast was the best medicine she could think of. However, her love of walking was tempered by the crumbling burrows of the starving who had crowded the lane less than a month before. There were no dying people now, but their suffering remained foremost in her mind.
The day was cool, the clouds the color of pale slate. Fortunately, it had not begun to rain, and she occupied her mind by picking light yellow primrose, brilliant yellow flag, and the white fragrant blossoms of hawthorn. She gathered them in a reed basket and was on her way back to the cabin when she spotted Sir Thomas striding toward her on the path leading up from the sandy bay.
“I’ve been searching for you,” he said, casting a lingering gaze over her body. But the carnal stare disappeared as quickly as she noticed it.
She had no desire to speak to the landlord and held her tongue. Her sister saw the obvious in Sir Thomas: his good looks, money, and property; all obliterated, in Briana’s opinion, by a grandiose proclivity for privilege. Sadly, Lucinda would be happy with him for a time—until he abandoned her for the arms of a mistress. She imagined him secretly sweeping his lover up a grand staircase in Manchester while Lucinda, blissfully unaware of his doings, sat alone in the dining room fretting about the perfect china service for her next tea party. She loved her sister, but she knew how vain and pompous she could be, faults that would tie her blindly to the landlord.
Briana waited for Sir Thomas to speak.
“The flowers are beautiful,” he finally said. “Are they adornments for your father’s cottage?”
He sounded almost civil. “No,” she replied, a bit embarrassed by her timidity. She shook it off, realizing that the landlord knew nothing about her marriage to Rory. “They’re going in a small vase in our cabin.”
His eyes narrowed, and he gave her a questioning look. “Your cabin?” He put his hands in the pockets of his blue waistcoat. For a moment, he looked like a child who had lost a toy.
“Yes. I guess my father didn’t tell you.” She decided to walk on; he could either follow or remain behind.
He caught up and walked beside her. “Your father and I talked about many things—mostly unpleasant—but he never mentioned that you had moved out of the cottage.”
Briana turned, and the wind caught her hair, blowing a strand over her eye. She tucked it behind her ear. “I married Rory Caulfield some weeks ago. We live in the cabin near the lane.” She pointed up the path to her home, whose thatched roof was barely visible.
The landlord didn’t miss a step. Briana had no idea whether she had shocked him or merely entertained him. He seemed unperturbed, judging from his gait and expression. They strolled a few yards along the lane.
“I don’t believe I’ve met him.”
She repressed an exasperated sigh. “I believe you’ve seen him—once or twice. You probably don’t remember, of course.”
He dismissed the rebuke with a smile. “Well, I offer my best wishes for a long and bountiful marriage.” He extended his arm in a gallant gesture.
Briana hesitated, unsure whether to accept his courtesy, but then relented, thinking there was no reason to be rude; in fact, some civility on her part might benefit Lear House. She hooked her arm through his, but he withdrew it, kissing the crown of her hand. As his lips touched her skin, she longed for the gesture to be over. His fingers chilled her as much as his lips. She excused herself with a curt, “Thank you.”
They stopped near the cabin, and she waved to Rory and Jarlath, who were kneeling next to a potato ridge. Beyond them, a farmer was mending a thatched roof while his wife handed him the rushes. Rory returned her wave, but with an obvious distaste she could discern even from her distance.
“I have a favor to ask of you,” the landlord said. The wind ruffled his hair, and he shook his head as if savoring the breeze. “I do love it here. It’s a shame that I may have to close Lear House until this nasty business is over.”
She bristled at his threat to close the manor and his audacity to ask for a favor in the same breath. “You act as if you have no choice,” she responded.
“I don’t. I can’t support two households, particularly one that is empty of funds—and food.”
“Nothing can be done? Can’t you sell off land in England, or take a loan against your home?”
He chuckled. “And throw good money after bad? Absolutely not. Consider my position, Briana.” He gazed at Rory and Jarlath and the other tenants working the fields. “My grandfather, my father, and I have supported this land as our birthright, but times have changed. What was once a modest proposition has now become expensive to maintain. And with a crop failure, there seems to be no alternative.” He brushed his hand through his hair. “I’ve been fair, but I can’t be faulted for the negligence of tenants to keep their obligations. Sadly, I think Lear House’s days may come to an end.”
“I can think of nothing else.” She looked down at the flowers in the basket, some already withering.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and looked genuinely glum. “If I could think of something to save Lear House I would.” His lips parted in a narrow smile. “But about my favor . . .”
Briana nodded.
“The Andersons, the Rogerses, and the Wards are coming at the end of the week. There’s no telegraphy in this part of the world and no way of reaching them by post before they depart. They will arrive, and I will be entertaining guests in a house with limited food.” His mouth crinkled in concern.
She understood his plight but felt little sympathy for him or his society friends. “You could deliver a message to Belmullet and tell your guests to take the next ship back to Liverpool.”
His eyes widened with distress. “I would never be able to hold my head up in Manchester if I did that.” He clasped his hands. “Your father and I have duties to attend to. Do you know someone who would make the trip to Westport for five pounds, meet with my connections, and bring back the food we’d need?”
Briana gulped, taking in Sir Thomas’s words. Five pounds was a fortune for her and Rory. She’d be more than willing to make the trip if she couldn’t talk her husband into it. “I can arrange it. Who should we talk to?”
“Either Captains James or Miller. One of them should be in port. Both owe me favors and, I think, would be most happy to fulfill my wishes. If not, there are others.... Money talks. Have the supplies shipped to Belmullet and then on to the store.”
Briana remembered the lean sea officer Captain James, who had rescued her from the drunken sailor who made unwanted advances.
“Whom do you have in mind for the trip?” Sir Thomas asked.
“My husband and I.”
“It’s settled then. I suggest you start tomorrow. Order as much as you can for the next month. Another trip may be required.” He pulled twenty pounds from his pocket and handed it to her. “Spend it on supplies—five pounds is for you.”
“Expect us back in four days.” She pocketed the notes and thought of Lucinda saddled with the household chores. “My sister will not be happy.”
Sir Thomas grinned. “I’m sure your father can find a woman to cook and clean for a few days in your absence.” He bowed, kissed her hand, and struck off in long strides down the road to Lear House.
She returned home, threw open the door to let in the fresh air, and fussed with the flowers. After cutting the stems, she drew a cup of water from the bucket, poured it into the glass bottle, positioned the flowers, and placed them on the small table. The colors burst forth against the shaded walls, brightening the murky day and her mood. She fingered the note and marveled at her good fortune. Then a question struck her. Why didn’t Sir Thomas make his request through her father? The answer seemed obvious—he was looking for her. He wanted to see her. That’s why he was so kind.
She stepped out of the cabin and peered around the wall. Her husband and Jarlath were walking along the neighboring ridges, inspecting the crop. There was no time to waste; they might start today if she packed what food they could spare and readied the ponies. They could spend the night at the Kilbanes’ cottage, as she and Rory had done on their first trip.
She walked up the hill, skirting the conacres, until she found Rory and Jarlath outside a neighbor’s hut.
Smiling, they turned and greeted her heartily.
“It’s nice to see you both in a good mood,” she said.
“Take a look, my love,” Rory said, and pointed to an adjacent potato ridge. “We have reason to be in a fine frame of mind.”
Briana peered at the mound. Vibrant green leaves had burst forth from the vines—the first sign of a healthy crop. She threw her arms around her husband’s shoulders, hugged him, and then blew a kiss to the earth. “This is wonderful, but I have even better news.” She pulled the twenty pounds from her pocket and waved it in front of them.
Jarlath whistled. Rory stared at her with his mouth agape.
“Where did you get that?” Rory asked.
She suspected that he knew the answer but paused to keep him in suspense. She relented after her husband’s face soured. “Sir Thomas is entertaining guests and wants us to make a trip to Westport to secure food.” She held the notes close to his face. “Five pounds is ours.”
Jarlath whistled again.
“Just for going?” Rory asked.
Briana nodded. “How soon can you get the ponies ready?”
“In an hour or so.”
“I’ll gather supplies,” she said, and left them at the ridge to take in the extra bit of good fortune she had added to their day.
* * *
Lucinda did not take the news of the journey well, complaining that she would be stuck cooking and cleaning while her sister enjoyed herself in Westport.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Briana said to her sister. “You would never make the trip on a pony, let alone enjoy it.”
Brian reminded his elder daughter that the road to Westport was lined with sadness and potential danger and that Briana and Rory would be doing the landlord and, thus, Lear House a great favor. After Lucinda continued her complaints, her father assured her that he could find a woman willing to do the cooking—at a cost. The thought of wasting money caused Lucinda to reconsider her position.
For her part, Briana poured corn meal mush into cups and covered them with cheesecloth, placed the few leftover fish fillets in a tin, and wrapped soda bread in napkins. All the food fit into a satchel that Rory could strap to his pony. Supplies were scarce: No cheese was left in the larder, the potato scones had been depleted months ago, and the oat jars were almost empty.
A few minutes after noon, she and Rory were on the horses, the animals’ bodies thinner than she had remembered. Because oats and potato slops were scarce, the ponies now grazed on the heath like sheep. Their ribs protruded underneath their mottled coats. Still, the animals took to their natural rhythm through the tussocks, their hooves dodging the watery hazards of the bog. The ponies’ muscular strength and the wind pushing at her back exhilarated her.
“Don’t push them too hard,” Rory yelled at her. “We’ll be lucky to make it to Westport.” He handled the reins lightly, saying, “The last thing we need is a dead horse.” He took a swig from the leather flagon they carried for water.
Crossing the river at the shallows, after allowing the animals to graze and drink, they headed south toward Bangor and the rise of the Nephin Beg. Soon the land sparkled with mist as drizzle from a gray sky peppered their faces. They tightened their caps and stiffened their collars against the cutting wind as they traveled east of the iron-colored waters of Carrowmore Lake. In their favor, the chill from the Atlantic remained at their backs.
The joy of riding soon turned to monotony under the dull sky. The sceilps dotted the side of the road as if whole villages had burrowed into holes. Except for the cry of the wind, an eerie calm permeated the hills and bogs along their route. Under the somber clouds, no animals moved and no birds sang as far as they could see and hear. Even the peat-fire smoke that should have been swirling from the hillside huts had disappeared. The world had withdrawn into silence.
For several hours they traveled saying little to each other, more concerned in protecting themselves from the wind and damp than carrying on conversation. When the mist ended briefly and the sky brightened to a light gray, Briana shouted to Rory, “You’ve been quiet on this trip. In fact, you’ve been quiet ever since the Master arrived.”
Rory slowed beside her and uttered an audible ugh. “I wish you wouldn’t bestow that title upon him.”
“I understand your dislike of Sir Thomas,” she responded, “but like him or not, Rory Caulfield, he’s the owner and we have to make the best of it. You’d be better served to think of a way we can use him to our advantage rather than exacting revenge, as your Mollies seem hell-bent to do.”
Rory’s face tightened. “Well, Briana Caulfield, I detest what’s happening in Ireland and I want to do something about it. Is that wrong?”
“Yes, when it leads to violence.” Briana decided not to debate the issue as a chill settled over her.
A few miles down the road as the peaks rose on both sides of them, Rory’s face relaxed a bit, his demeanor more open to suggestion as if a thought had struck him. “I’m missing a Molly meeting to do this for the Master, but food is more important than talk,” he said. “What if you’re right? Instead of working against the man, I might ‘kill him with kindness,’ as the proverb says.”
Briana was happy to see this potential shift in her husband’s thinking. As the day proceeded, they plotted ways to save the manor, but their talk of quick relief was quelled by the estate’s lack of food and funds.
The afternoon had grown long when the Kilbanes’ cottage came into view. From their first sighting they knew something was wrong. The dwelling had a deserted look about it—the feeling that one instantly recognizes from a house that’s been abandoned.
They brought the horses to a stop on the edge of a boggy woodland. The sparse vegetation surrounding it would be enough to sustain the animals for the night in the absence of grain.
Rory dismounted and walked to the cottage door, which hung at a lopsided angle from the frame. Briana watched anxiously as he peered around it before stepping inside. He disappeared for several minutes before reappearing with a puzzled look.
“They’re not here,” he said. “It looks as if they haven’t been here for some time. The traveler’s room is empty too.” He rubbed his chin. “Even the dog is gone.”
Briana swung off her pony. “Gone?” Her skin crawled with dread.
“Yes. The fire pit is cold and dusty. The place has been ransacked. Empty pots and pans are scattered about, but there’s no food.”
Something horrible had happened—she was certain of it. Rory led the horses to a stream not far from the road.
Gooseflesh broke out on her arms as she stepped inside. The cottage was just as Rory had described: the table on its side, the cupboard drawers open, the straw beds a jumble of clothes and blankets. The Kilbanes’ business of hosting travelers had thrived over the years, but their source of income, through the exchange of goods or money, had dried up with the famine.
The clouds and mist outside made the interior even murkier. She looked for an oil lamp but found none. Why would the Kilbanes disappear? She had just asked herself that question when she heard Rory swear behind the cottage. She ran out the door and rounded the corner to the back of the dwelling.
Rory stared at the ground and held up his hand. “Don’t come any farther! Don’t look!”
But the warning came too late.
The Kilbanes lay on the ground, their bodies decomposing on the damp earth. Frankie’s legs had been chewed to the bone by animals. Aideen was stretched on her side, but Briana could see that her lovely face was partially gone—the skull and jaw bones, and teeth, showing through parts in her hair.
Her stomach churned and she fought to keep from retching as she turned away.
“They’ve been shot,” Rory said.
He put his hands on her shoulders as she looked back toward the road on which they had come. Shaking, she longed to be on that road now, heading back to the safety of their cabin and the sanctuary of Lear House.
Rory’s voice quivered. “God rest their souls. Probably murdered by robbers who took their food and money.”
“Murder,” Briana said, and the word ricocheted through her brain.
“Some crazed, starving soul killed them so he could feed himself or his family, I would guess.”
“We can’t stay here tonight,” she said. “How can we sleep in a house where people were murdered?” She shook so violently, her arms fluttered by her sides.
“We can’t sleep outside in the cold and damp,” he said in a calm voice. “At least in the cottage we can light a fire and eat. We can bring the horses in too.” He encircled her in his arms to stop her shivering. “I’ll take the bodies into the bog and weigh them down so the animals won’t get them.”
“I can help,” she said, although her heart wasn’t in it. How much of the gruesome work could she take?
“No,” Rory said gently as he led her to the door. “Why don’t you build a fire and settle us in for the night?”
Tears rose in her eyes. How had it come to this? The Kilbanes murdered. She wanted to run as far away as she could from this house, but they had no real choice but to stay.
He kissed her on the cheek and stepped inside the cottage while she waited outside. “If I can find a pair of gloves I’m going to use them.”
She gazed at the ponies as she fought to rid the image of the Kilbanes’ bodies from her mind. Life had slid into tragedy and nightmare. She’d never known anyone who had been murdered, let alone been near their bodies. Murder was something that happened in Dublin or London, not in County Mayo. Of course, there was plenty of fighting—men took to it like roosters in a yard—but never killing. It was unheard of. For the first time since Rory had shown her the blighted plants, she felt that Lear House might slip from her family’s grasp. Everything she loved was coming to an end, and there was little she could do about it. She walked to her pony and stroked his flank. The earthy smell of horse flesh comforted her while the mist pattered down on her cap. At the moment, the animal was all the company she had.
His head bowed, Rory emerged from the cottage with gloves and then disappeared behind its walls.
* * *
Rory found the gloves next to the fire pit. He knew that Frankie had used them to dig in the bog, because they were spattered with peat. He put them on as he stared at the bodies, wondering who could have committed such a heinous act.
He placed his shoes on a tussock near the back wall, rolled up his breeches past his ankles, and prepared himself for the unpleasant task of removing the bodies. What if their arms came off in his hands or their legs detached from their sockets because they were in such a state of decay? What if they were swarming with lice or maggots? He forced those unpleasant thoughts from his mind as he grappled with the unpleasant undertaking. There would be no “proper burial.” The bog would have to do.
He lifted Frankie’s body underneath the arms and hoped for the best. The corpse rose from the ground. He looked away from the man’s bloated and gray face, which bore no resemblance to the host who had shared his home and hospitality. Dragging the body across the swampy ground into the shallow waters, and nearly retching from the stench, he found a rivulet that spilled into a wider, deeper pool.
Leaving Frankie, he returned for Aideen. She was lighter, but the body had stiffened into a constricted position. He had to carry her in his arms to the swamp. He deposited the body near her husband’s and then went in search of rocks heavy enough to secure the two under the water. Finding them, he placed the rocks on the corpses and watched them sink beneath the flowing water. By the time he was finished, he was sweating from the gruesome work. He took off the gloves, washed his hands in the rivulet, and splashed the water on his face, hoping to rid the stench from his nostrils.
The bodies undulated from the force of the swift shallow current. Aideen’s hair waved like a mermaid’s under the sea, exposing the white bone of her skull. The water was deep enough from spring rains to cover the bodies, and if the wet weather continued they would remain in their watery graves throughout the summer.
If I were a priest I could do this right. He bowed his head, said a prayer for the dead and for the living, and asked for the forgiveness of all sins. He crossed himself and then returned to his shoes.
Who would do this? Could it have been the Mollies? He knew that some tenants had been asked to pay “dues” to the group, in addition to the landlord’s rent, an impossible task when food and money were scarce. Men like Brian Walsh had been threatened, but the Kilbanes weren’t tenants and probably had no interaction with the Maguires. No, this was murder, plain and simple, for food and money.
He returned to the front of the cottage, his head filled with unpleasant thoughts. Briana was standing next to the horses. She looked small, somehow delicate, drenched by the persistent mist. His heart ached for her, but a silent strength emanated from her focused gaze. She had chosen him, and he would keep her safe through the night in a home tainted by death.