Chapter Twenty-five

Millport Village

Lightning illuminated the brass nameplate that read:

Millport Historical Society

By appointment only

10:00–2:00

Ian and Tasha, huddled under his umbrella, rushed through the fierce rain to the front door. Ian had offered her the sole use of the umbrella, but Mother insisted that they share. Ian complained that they should have waited for Constable Blake to return.

“You left word where to find us. It’s more important to get you your evidence.” Tasha pulled on the doorbell. There was a deep reverberation, like the peeling of Big Ben.

“Good God!” said Ian in surprise.

“It is rather loud,” agreed Tasha. “Whoever is inside must be …” She had a sudden realisation. “Deaf!”

A peephole in the door slid away, revealing the old doctor. “We’re nae open!” he announced, and then slid the peephole shut. Tasha rose to the challenge and pulled madly on the bell wire. The cacophony was appalling.

“What are you doing?” shouted Ian over the din.

“I intend to get us in there!” said Tasha with finality.

“A quid says you don’t!”

  

Ian’s money was still on a table as lightning flashed outside the Historical Society’s tiny reading room window. He paused from cleaning the two revolvers before him as he ruefully noted his money. More thunder and lightning drew his notice to the worsening of the storm.

“It’s darn mean out there,” noted Ian.

Tasha, half-hidden by stacks of ancient volumes, was too absorbed by her reading to notice the inclement weather. She simply continued her intense studies, placing one musty volume on a tall stack to her left—which represented several hours worth of her research—while reaching for another on an even larger pile of books on her right—the ones she had still yet to peruse. There were also two massive antique books, open and placed off on the corner.

Ian picked up Tasha’s Webley British Bulldog Revolver, a dainty piece compared to his formidable and longer-barreled Colt six-gun. Its compact design, which could easily fit in a pocket, made the Bulldog the popular choice with plainclothes detectives, but its short barrel, made for close work, was not a marvel of long range accuracy. “I swear, Tasha, I could spit more on-target than this little Webley hog-leg of yours!”

There was again no response. He continued to clean the revolvers. Tasha intently studied a massive tome, running her finger along the page, tapping her digit excitedly. “Aha! Capital! Rewards to the persistent. As my famous colleague once exclaimed, ‘if the green-grocer had such a thing as a laurel wreath, I should send for one!’”

Ian gave her his full attention. She laughed elatedly, read and explained: “The cult that flourished here in the seventh century, though they were occasionally misidentified as Druid …”

“Weren’t the Druids ancient Celtic priests or something?”

“Priests, wise men, physicians, mathematicians. Imagine Merlin from the Arthurian tales. But our group was more akin to demon worshippers. It’s not conclusive, but they may have even practised some form of human sacrifice.”

Ian motioned for her to continue. Tasha slid over one of the open books on the table’s corner and pointed to a passage. “It seems that over time, animals replaced the human victims. The cult’s symbol was … the crescent-moon … wonderful … and they were called the Circle of the Smiling Dead!”

Ian leaned in.

“It gets better,” she said with rising pleasure, and returned to the book in front of her. “The cult was led by a priestess who always assumed the ancestral name ‘Deirdre.’”

“The name the girl screamed before she died, ain’t it?”

Tasha nodded and then continued reading, “… they hated the ancient Christians and vowed to die rather than convert. They hid deep in the belly of the earth, and remained hidden until … until one of their own betrayed them to the church for nine pieces of silver. And the name of this latter-day Judas was McGloury!”