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Dessie was up before sunrise the next morning. Showered and dressed, she tiptoed into the kitchen as the clock on the wall struck seven. After a quick breakfast, she threw on her rain mac, stuck her feet in her wellies and hurried up the avenue toward the dark house looming on the hill. The wind blew her hair around her face and big drops of rain plopped onto her head as she ran. The path was slippery with wet leaves, and the air smelled of damp earth. She’d better get inside before the rain got heavier. She didn’t have the keys, but she knew one of the basement windows would be easy to open. She’d bet it hadn’t been fixed since she and Richard were there.
She was right. The faint glow in the east helped her find her way to the window. She slid her hand inside to lift the catch and managed to squeeze in without too much trouble. Inside, it was pitch-black, and Dessie stood there for a moment, breathing in the damp air. She ran her hand over the wall to find the light switch, but when she flicked it, nothing happened. Damn, the bulb must be broken. She shuffled forward, trying to remember the layout of the basement. This room must have been a storeroom for apples in the old days, judging by the lingering fruity smell. There was a long corridor that led to the kitchen, where the bulb had worked when she and Marcus were there the day before. Dessie slowly walked forward, her hand on the cold, rough wall. She found the door to the kitchen and switched on the light. Phew. Finally. “Upwards and onwards,” she said to herself and walked to the stairs, turning on lights as she went. The darkness seemed threatening down there, and she was grateful for every source of light. Arriving in the entrance hall, she was cheered by the first beams of the rising sun that penetrated the gloom. But black clouds swiftly rolled in, darkening the sky, and rain soon pelted the tall windows. At least there was still enough daylight to see. She would have no trouble finding her way.
Dessie looked down the corridor. Where to now? The study? Or the library? Where was the most likely place for old documents? She decided to start in the study, where she had spotted an old filing cabinet that must have been there since the beginning of the twentieth century. The house hadn’t been lived in for over seventy years, apart from the odd visit by Tom Hourigan. It was possible that documents had been left behind.
Dessie made her way to the study on the other side of the house. The floorboards creaked and she could feel cold air on the back of her neck, like the breath of a ghost, or a whisper from the grave. She shivered and pulled her rain mac tighter, telling herself not to be silly. Reaching the closed door of the study, she was about to turn the handle when a noise made her freeze. What was that? A rustle. Someone moving inside. Had Marcus woken up before her and was already looking through the files and papers?
Dessie gently pushed the door open a crack and peeped in. Her breath caught in her throat as the figure of a man, illuminated by the old brass lamp on the desk, came into view. Marcus? No, not him she realised, but someone else, strangely familiar...
***
Dessie clapped her hand on her mouth. It couldn’t be. Please, God, no. She peered through the crack again, looking more closely at the man standing there in the soft light of the old brass lamp. Yes, it was him. She studied him for a moment. Dressed in jeans, a blue sweater, and a pink shirt, he was still attractive despite about fifteen pounds around his middle and a thinning hairline. Her eyes drifted to an open suitcase on the floor, half-full of silver candlesticks and other items she recognised from the drawing room. He had added the two very valuable watercolours to his stash. He was stealing from the house. What a prick.
She jumped as she heard a noise behind her and turned to discover Marcus, his eyes startled. He opened his mouth to say something, but Dessie put her finger to her lips. “Shh,” she whispered. “There’s someone in there. Look.” She stepped aside so he could see.
He looked at her through the dim light. “Who?” he mouthed.
She put her mouth to his ear. “Richard Hourigan.”
“Christ.” He put his eye to the gap in the open door. “Shit, he’s taken some stuff from the drawing room.” Marcus groped in the pocket of his Burberry. “I’m calling the cops.”
But it was too late. Richard had heard them and opened the door, staring at them. “Who the hell—” His eyes focused on Dessie. “Jesus, it’s you.”
Dessie smiled sweetly and walked into the room, Marcus following behind her. “Yes, Richard, it’s me. Hi. How are you? Long time, no see, eh?”
Richard didn’t reply. He looked from Dessie to Marcus. “And this dude, who’s he? Your boyfriend?”
“No,” Marcus said and held out his hand. “Marcus Smythe. Of Smythe’s Auctioneers.”
Richard took a step back. “I see. Okay. But what’s she...eh, doing here? Sorry, I forgot your name.”
“Dessie,” she said. “I know it’s been a long time, but you could have remembered my name.”
Richard looked only slightly uncomfortable. “I’m sorry. Of course, I remember your name. It was just the shock of seeing you here.”
“Likewise. You gave me an awful fright.” Her eyes drifted to the suitcase on the floor. “But there is no doubt about what you’re doing here.”
“What about you?” Richard snapped.
“I’m working with Marcus.”
One of Richard’s eyebrows shot up. “Really? You’re working for Smythe’s? My, you have come a long way, my little Dessie.”
Sensing he was about to touch her, Dessie backed away. “Yes, I have,” she said. “A long way since that summer. But let’s not go there, okay? Let’s talk about you taking stuff from the house. Isn’t this illegal?”
Richard straightened up. “What do you mean? I have a perfect right to be here. This is my house.”
Dessie’s eyes narrowed. “Is it? Not for long, I hear. I see you’ve lifted a few of the best items. Isn’t that stealing?”
Richard shrugged. “I own this property and its contents until proven otherwise, so no.”
“No, you don’t,” Marcus cut in. “I believe all assets have been frozen. And in that case, that is stolen property.”
Richard shot him a wry smile. “Really? You can’t prove that.”
Marcus shrugged. “Well, no. We can’t prove it right now. I only know what my father just told me.”
“I’ll walk out of here with whatever I choose. And you can’t stop me,” Richard snarled.
Marcus looked at his nails in a gesture of studied nonchalance. “Very well, old man. Do what you want. You’ll have to deal with the consequences when the shit hits the fan.”
Dessie nodded. “It would be nice if you could make a list of what you’ve taken and give me a receipt, or we’ll be accused of theft. We’ve been cataloguing for the past week, and those items are included. For the auction. I thought you were aware of this?”
He nodded. “Yes. I asked them to do the auction. But now...”
“Yes, now what?” Dessie asked. “What’s going to happen now? Do we stop the work until the issue of ownership has been resolved?”
Richard’s shoulders slumped. “I don’t know.”
“You’re in a probate situation now. Until that’s over, or we find that marriage certificate, nothing can be decided.” Marcus picked up his phone and took a shot of the open suitcase. “Just for the record.”
“Of course,” Richard mumbled.
He looked so dejected, Dessie felt a pang of pity. “I hope we find it. We came here to look for it.”
Richard looked bleakly at her. “It’s no use. I’ve been through the house and come up with nothing. It’s so strange. I can’t imagine that beautiful, proud woman living here like a...a...mistress or something. And then having two children out of wedlock. In 1930, that would have carried a huge stigma. It simply isn’t possible.”
“No,” Dessie agreed. “It seems totally unbelievable. Unless she faked it.”
Richard frowned and sat down on a stool by the desk. “Faked it?”
“Yes. She might have worn the wedding ring and told everyone they were married abroad. Like Spain or—”
“Yeah, that’s a possibility. She was a strange woman. Very rebellious. Smoked and swore. Walked around in pants and rode like a man. Then she just left to fight in a civil war. Not your normal wife of a country squire.”
“Maybe she didn’t want to be married?” Marcus suggested. “She seems such a free spirit.”
“We’ll never know.” Richard got up, switched off the light and opened the shutters. “It’s still raining.” He turned to face them. “Listen, this is a huge problem for me. I need the money that the auction will generate. I’ve spent a lot of money restoring the gatehouse. Then, when the auction is over, we’ll start on the house and the other buildings. We’re also building a golf course. It’s a huge project that will cost millions, but it’ll be a fantastic place once it’s finished. We’re already doing the marketing for the opening in about a year and a half.” He drew breath, his eyes bleak.
“I had no idea you’d become a property tycoon,” Dessie said. “I thought you were a partner in your dad’s law firm.”
“I was until I got in with my future father-in-law. We’ve been involved in some great projects in the past two years. It’s a very lucrative business if you play your cards right.”
“You seem to have drawn a dud hand with this one,” Marcus quipped.
Richard glared at him. “Yeah. And it’s my own property too. A pretty shitty situation.”
“What about Courtney? What happened to her?” Dessie enquired, feeling a dart of schadenfreude. His bright, shining future hadn’t panned out after all.
“Casey. We broke up after a year. I’ve been married twice since then. Never got it right, I guess.”
“Jesus, you’ve had an exciting life,” Dessie chortled. “And your next bride?”
“She’s Irish-American. Very solid. I think she’s the one, you know?”
Dessie laughed. “And doesn’t she have a nice dad?”
Richard’s eyes turned cold. “This is none of your business.” He turned back to the window. “It stopped raining. I’m leaving now.”
“On foot?” Dessie asked incredulously.
“No. My car is parked behind the house.” Richard rubbed his eyes. “I’ve been up all night. Gone through everything. Even the bathrooms. I’m exhausted.”
“Where are you staying?” Marcus asked.
“At the Bianconi.”
“How did you get into the house? Do you have a key?” Marcus wanted to know.
Richard picked up the suitcase from the floor. “No. I got in through the basement. One of the windows is loose.”
Dessie gave him the ghost of a smile. “That’s how I got in.”
He touched her shoulder. “Fond memories, eh?”
“For you, maybe,” Dessie said, a bitter edge to her voice. “For me, not so fond.”
He avoided her eyes. “Well, I’m off. I’ll go through the front door this time. I’m going to do some more research. Tom and Conchita met in London. There are no records of them having been married there, but I’m going to have another go. Maybe the genealogist I hired has come up with something.”
Marcus ran to the door and blocked his way. “Not so fast. We need that receipt. Or at least a note to say you’ve taken a few items. Just in case.”
Richard sighed. “Okay.” He fished a piece of paper from the breast pocket of his shirt. “Not much to write on, but I guess this receipt from the gas station will do.”
“Doesn’t matter what you write it on, as long as it has your signature,” Marcus replied.
Richard went back to the desk. “I don’t have a pen. Do you?”
“Never travel without one.” Dessie dug in her bag and produced a biro which she handed to Richard.
He scribbled on the back of the receipt and handed it to her. “There. That should cover your ass in case of an enquiry.”
Dessie didn’t laugh at his attempted humour. “Thanks.”
He looked at her for a moment. “I don’t suppose I could ask you not to tell anyone you’ve seen me.”
Dessie looked at Marcus. “What do you say?”
Marcus shrugged. “I’ll have to tell my father. But that’s the only person who needs to know. For now.”
“Thanks.” Richard nodded and disappeared from the room, the squeaking floorboards echoing down the corridor as he walked away.
Dessie looked at the door slowly swinging closed and wondered if it had all been a dream.
Marcus looked at her. “You and he seem to have some kind of history.”
“Yeah,” Dessie said. “But not something I feel like sharing. Or even remembering.”