Chapter Twenty-seven

Millport Village

Mother, still researching in the Historical Society reading room, was explaining her findings to Ian, “… and the Christians burned the Priestess Deirdre at the stake as a bana-bhuidseach—a witch. She vowed revenge on the McGloury clan, and revenge on all Christians—until the end of forever.”

Tasha was quite pleased with herself. Ian couldn’t deny the connections, but he was irked to admit it, “A thousand years is a powerful long time to hold a grudge.”

“The old wheel turns slowly, Inspector, but the same spoke will come up again,” she answered. “Three hundred years ago, practically yesterday, there was a resurgence of the cult—around the time of the Restoration. Priests were killed; churches in the area were destroyed. By coincidence, at that time, a McGloury was living on the croft, the first in memory to do so. He was murdered, found with the old ‘Risus sardonicus …’” She grinned ear-to-ear and Ian nodded in understanding. She added, “The signature of the Circle of the Smiling Dead.”

Lightning flashed outside as the storm worsened, taking Ian’s attention to the window. The distraction was short, and he watched Tasha out of the corner of his eye. He was impressed—and not at the storm. “It riles me to say so, but ma’am, you’ve struck pay-dirt.”

Tasha raised her finger and gestured to the open books that littered the table. There was more. “That McGloury was warned of his death for three nights of three weeks. Nine nights. One for each piece of silver paid to his ancestor by the Christians.” She stopped suddenly. “The ninth night!”

The realisation hit Mother like a fire-bell. She bolted from her chair, snatched up her Webley revolver from the table, as well as the one-pound note she had won in the bet, and raced out. Ian was lost for a second, then grabbed his heavy Colt revolver, and dashed after her.