IN THE MORNING, Inspector O’Donnell called and asked if I would meet him at the garda station in Achill Sound. He said he had “just a few additional questions” about my statement, and it shouldn’t take long. The station was in a small, yellow house just before the bridge to the causeway. When I arrived, Garda Mullen greeted me and offered me a cup of tea. He had to climb a flight of creaky wooden stairs to fetch it. “I don’t want to put you to the trouble,” I said, but he waved me off. The inspector was waiting in the main sitting room on the ground floor, leaning back on two legs of a cane-backed chair.
“Thank you for coming.”
“Not at all. I’m happy if I can be of help.”
“Then I’ll get right to the point.” The inspector brought his chair back to its upright position. “I want to ask you again about your family and your uncle. There wasn’t much love lost between your family and Bertram Barnes. Am I correct?”
I tried to stay composed. “Actually, my father was quite fond of his brother.”
“Yes, but I’ve been told that your mother and your uncle didn’t get on. Is that the case?”
It was best to tell the truth—but not necessarily all of it. “Uncle Bert was not my mother’s favorite person, if that’s what you’re asking.” I stopped there. Don’t say more than you have to. Be direct. Answer the question.
The inspector jotted a note on his pad. “What reservations did your mother have about your uncle?”
I glanced at my face in a small mirror opposite me on the wall. I looked strained. “I think she felt that he didn’t treat my father as well as he should have. Lots of families have those kinds of issues.”
“I understand there was a public quarrel between your mother and your uncle at a family celebration in Galway just before you arrived on Achill. Can you tell me what that was about?”
I wondered if this all came from Laura and Emily or if he had been talking to people in Galway. I took a slow breath to keep myself calm. “There’s been a disagreement about what will happen to the family home when my grandmother dies. It’s more about fairness than about money. That’s what they were arguing about. I wouldn’t make too much of it.”
“According to witnesses, your mother was quite angry.” The inspector flipped a few pages on his pad and read from one of them. “She was heard to say, ‘If you get that house, I hope you die in it.’ Is that correct?”
So the inspector’s team had been talking to the guests at the Jubilee. “I didn’t hear the whole argument,” I said. “But families quarrel all the time and people get angry. Sometimes they say things they don’t mean literally. I’m sure you know that, Inspector.”
“Even so, when one of the parties to a quarrel turns up dead two days later, it raises questions. Particularly if the circumstances suggest a crime of passion rather than a premeditated attack.”
“I’m not sure I follow you.”
“Someone who planned in advance to kill your uncle—say someone who wanted to stop the railway project—would have brought a weapon to the scene. But whoever killed him used a rock, picked one up and struck him, perhaps on a moment’s impulse. That suggests a personal rather than a political motive.”
Now I was really worried. O’Donnell was implying that my mother had a motive to murder Uncle Bert, a passionate anger against him, and the means, a simple rock. The one element missing from the frame was opportunity, but she may have had the opportunity too. What would happen if Mom’s alibi came into doubt? What evidence might the inspector have? Could they get fingerprints from a rock? Had the tech team come up with anything? There was the button, of course, but Toby and I were the only ones who knew about that. So far.
O’Donnell was waiting for me to reply. “I don’t think my mother or anyone else in our family had anything to do with what happened to my uncle. Do you have any evidence that suggests they did?”
The inspector folded his hands in his lap. “The investigation is ongoing. I’m simply considering the possibilities.”
“Maybe you should concentrate on the threats made against my uncle by people on the island. That’s where you’ll find the answers.”
“So you’ve said. I can assure you we are following all leads.” He tilted his chair back again.
I waited for him to continue, but he said nothing more. “Is there anything else?” I asked.
“Just that for now.”
“Then may I go?”
“Yes. We’ll talk again.”
Toby was waiting on a bench outside the cottage when I got back. “How’d it go?” he asked.
I gave him an account. “I’m worried, Toby. It doesn’t look good for Mom.”
There was still a long afternoon ahead of us. I had made a walking date with Angie to see one of the island’s megalithic tombs and hoped that would take my mind off the investigation. Being with Angie always boosts my mood. Toby decided to hunt for antiques for his shop back home.
I had found a paperback on the island’s archaeology and folklore and was deep into a chapter on megalithic tombs when Angie came to the door.
“Ready?” she asked.
“I’m ready, but I wasn’t sure if you’d be coming. I thought you might be off with your music man,” I said.
“He’s got a day job,” she retorted. “‘Sheep, shearing, and shite,’ he calls it.” Her dreamy smile didn’t go with the earthy terms for Bobby’s work. “So tell me, Professor, what’s this megalith we’re going to?”
I did my best to be upbeat. “It’s a prehistoric monument. ‘Megalith’ just means ‘huge stone.’ Achill has more of them than anywhere else in Ireland, and we have one of the best practically on our doorstep. You’re going to love it. Think warlords and wizards and human sacrifice. Well, not really. Human sacrifice was a Mayan thing. It should be impressive, though.”
“How old is this megalith supposed to be?”
“They say it goes back five thousand years, when people first settled along the side of the mountain. They planted fields to the east of the village, and beyond the fields they buried their dead. And they built these tombs out of gigantic stones.”
“I’ll have to take pictures. Sister Glenda would love this.” Sister Glenda, the mother superior at Angie’s convent back home, is an expert on the relationship between art and spirituality. The salient fact for the Barnes family is that she may have a say as to Angie’s future. Then again, so may Bobby the folk-singing shepherd.
Setting that thought aside, I assessed Angie’s mood. She looked ready to go. Without further talk, I found her a sunhat and we were off.
The day was bright and windy, whipping the grasses on the lands beyond our cottages. At one time there must have been a footpath between this hill and “the field of the giants,” as some called the site of the tombs, but the way I knew was the road we had taken to the Deserted Village. The route gave a fair sample of the island’s beauties. Our cottages sat at the same height on the mountain as the Deserted Village—high enough to give us a panoramic view of ocean, shore, and mountain. The sweep of Keel beach anchored a wide bay, with low cliffs and a small island off to the west. In the distance, gulls hovered over the water, seeking balance as the wind whipped gusty currents. To the east, spectacularly high cliffs extended for miles, edging the great mass of mountain that ended at Dooega Head. Between us and the sea lay the meadows used by Bobby and his fellow sheep farmers.
The road downhill from the cottages afforded no such views. In Ireland, roads tend to be bordered with hedges masking stone walls, posing a hazard for tourists driving on “the wrong side” of the road. Here, thick hedges dripped fuchsia blossoms, each a delicate red bell with a violet interior. By some trick of the sun, the brilliant hedges grew only on the left side of the road. The right verge was thick with wild-flowers like purple lupine and thistle, alternating with untended plantings of calla lily and sea rose. I kept my eyes on the right, looking for the megalithic tombs, and at last I spotted the inconspicuous brown sign that said Tuama Meigiliteach.
The site was protected by a turnstile, a gate with four revolving arms. Any child could find a way through it, but not a dimwitted sheep. Beyond the gate, a grassy lane led up Slievemore Mountain. There wasn’t a big stone in sight, never mind a megalith. But, keeping faith, we followed the not-so-well-worn path up and up. Finally, we mounted a rise, from which we could see, at a distance, a hem of gray, pebbly ground below the rock face of the mountain. Nearer us, perhaps a football field away, lay a pile of rocks, white in the sunshine. They might have been random stones thrown down by nature, except that the path led directly to them.
“That must be it,” I said.
“No way,” Angie scoffed. “You said ‘megalith’ meant ‘huge stone.’ I’ve seen bigger end tables.”
“Let’s see what it looks like when we get close.”
It was farther away than it looked, and yet it didn’t gain much in the impression of height as we got closer. From a jumble of boulders scattered on the ground, there emerged a central form, a stolid table, perhaps an altar. The tabletop was supported by three bulky stones, pressing against each other. They didn’t look cut by man. The central stone was round, bearing its share of the weight on its curved top. The stones on either side were shaped like giant crystals. These three unmatched pillars held up a stone slab, the capstone, less than a foot thick but with a surface of at least six by five feet. I approached, bent down, and peered through the cracks between the supporting stones. What lay beyond was shadowy, difficult to read, but it wasn’t pitch dark.
“Let’s go around,” I said. It seemed right to confront this mystery together. To the left of the stonework, we stumbled down the rubble of an ancient staircase carpeted with moss. Angie reached the other side before I did.
“It’s a little building!” she shouted. It looked low for a building, but as I moved around, I saw that we had been looking at the back wall of a stone hut with three sides and a flat roof that projected out over a sunken patio. I moved carefully, afraid I might trip over one of the lower stones that bordered the patio. I couldn’t resist the urge to drop to my knees and crawl under the roof stone. A child or a small adult would be able to sit in there, either looking through the open front “door” toward the mountain or turned around to look through the chinks, as if they were windows, for a view of the sea. Being too tall for that, I could only lie on my back, feeling swaddled in stone. Then the obvious hit me. This is a grave. I am the corpse. This is the megalithic tomb.
My reverie was shattered by an angry shout: “What in God’s name are ya playin’ at? This is a sacred site. Come out from there, will ya?”
The querulous voice was followed by Angie’s nervous one. “Um, Nora. There’s somebody here who wants to speak with you.”
Well, that much I already knew. I scrambled out as quickly as I could. Before me stood a small, emaciated man, leaning on a homemade walking stick. His hair was long and white, as was his beard. His eyes were stern, barely blue, almost colorless. He was dressed in shabby clothes, too thin for the windy day. Angie backed away.
“I meant no disrespect,” I said evenly. “I’m sorry if I offended you. I thought we were alone.” Where indeed had he come from, and how was it that we hadn’t noticed him during our approach? The surrounding terrain was flat and open, with unblocked views in every direction.
“It’s not me who’s offended. You ought to have respect for the old ones.”
“I’m truly sorry. Please accept my apology.”
He stared at me for a long minute. “Well, now, I do see shame in your face, so I’ll take it you’re repentant. Tourists from America, are ya?”
“Yes, that’s right. We wanted to learn something about the megalithic tombs.”
“Is it to learn? Then you’re not like some. The lookers, I call ’em. They look but don’t see. As blind as the herring leaping in Dingle Bay.”
“My name is Nora, and this is my sister, Angie.”
He nodded. “Some call me the Prophet of Dugort. But the name is Brian.”
“How do you do? I’m sorry too,” said Angie, coming closer. “Who are the old ones?”
“The ancestors,” he replied. “Mine, and yours as well if you have Irish blood in your veins.”
“We do,” she said. “Our grandparents on my father’s side.”
The strange man pointed to the tomb, with an expansive gesture. “Mind you, ’tis our people built these tombs and who were buried here. And if their bodies are long gone, their spirits are still present.”
“Do you really think so?” asked Angie. “That’s something I’ve been wondering about. If our ancestors lived here five thousand years ago, they couldn’t have been Christian, because Christianity didn’t exist yet, so they must have been pagan, but did they have their own religion?”
Brian planted his staff in front of him and leaned back on his heels. “The Irish religion is all one, girl. ’Tis all one!” he remonstrated. “The ancients were holy. And later, didn’t the priests hold services here when the people were forbidden by the English to practice their religion? Why, they used this very capstone as their altar.”
“You mean the priests said Mass here?” asked Angie.
“They did, surely, in secret.”
“Was that during the time of the Penal Laws?” I asked. The Penal Laws were a set of anti-Catholic measures imposed by the British in the eighteenth century and much resented. Their intention was to convert the population to Protestantism.
“Aye, but we kept our religion alive. We used our ingenuity to outwit our enemies.” He nodded. “It’s been that way for centuries. Have ya heard about the landlord who went from farm to farm in the time of the Famine evicting the poor who couldn’t pay their rent? One day he was found dead, but the police could never prove a crime because there wasn’t a mark on his body. Ye see, someone had forced a loaf of Irish brown bread down his throat, choking him. But there was no trace left of it by the time the man was found. The rats ate what the body didn’t digest. I call that ingenuity.” The old man pounded his staff on the ground for emphasis and continued. “Ingenuity and prophecy. Those are the greatest gifts of our people.”
Angie’s curiosity was piqued. “Like the prophecy of iron carriages coming to Achill carrying the bodies of the dead?” Angie had been fascinated by that tale when I related it to her.
“And didn’t it happen just as my kinsman, Brian the Red, foretold centuries ago?”
“It’s the most amazing story I ever heard,” said Angie.
“If it isn’t true, it isn’t day,” snorted Brian, pointing toward the sun. “It came to pass exactly as foretold.”
“I believe you,” Angie said. “Were you named after him? The prophet, I mean.”
The stranger seemed to relax now that he had a willing listener. “I was named Brendan, after my father, at birth. But when I was a boy they started to call me Brian when they discovered I had the gift of seeing things that no one else saw.”
“What kind of things?” she pursued.
He tucked his chin into his chest and glowered. Satisfied that she wasn’t mocking him, he resumed. “One day, when I was ten years old, and the sea was calm and as flat as a looking glass, I looked out and saw black clouds and a desperate storm and three men struggling in the water. The next day Paddy McGann’s curragh washed up empty on the beach of Keel and his body the week after, and they never did find his brothers, Sean and Joseph, who had gone out with him that time to pull the nets.”
Angie’s eyes opened wider, but our visitor unnerved me. I’m pretty much a doubter when it comes to the supernatural, while Angie has always been drawn to the uncanny. As a child she believed absolutely in angels—still does, as a matter of fact. I suppose many people do, but Angie’s also tried psychic readings, tarot cards, and New Age crystals, not to mention the summer she spent in an ashram led by a self-styled swami from Pawtucket. Mom thought that her tryout with the convent was just the latest in a series of spiritual enthusiasms, which was one of the reasons it wouldn’t last. In any case, Angie was captivated by the stranger’s account.
Grasping his walking staff with both hands, he leaned forward and dropped his voice, as if sharing a secret. “Aye, all my life I’ve had the gift, but it’s been no use to me. On Saturday last, didn’t I see the ghost train hurtling through the night, carrying its dead passengers, wailing and moaning, the poor souls. And the next morning they found the body of that Yank who said he would bring the old steam railway back to Achill. I reckon he was disturbing their rest. Now he’s among them.”
This was unsettling to say the least. “You’re talking about our uncle!” Angie blurted in consternation.
The old man’s face registered surprise. “In that case, I’m sorry for your trouble. But a warning for ya then. It isn’t over.”
“What do you mean by that?” I said. Angie retreated a few steps.
He turned toward me. “This morning before I left my bed I saw the Achill train again. The spirits on board were clawing at the windows.” He held me in a penetrating gaze. “There will be another death.”
“There will? Who?” cried Angie.
He didn’t reply but simply said, “That’s the reason I’ve come here today, to pay my respects and say a prayer.”
That was enough of the uncanny for me. I said, as politely as I could, “Angie, let’s go and leave this gentleman to his prayers. I’m sorry if we disturbed you, sir. Come.” I took her hand and tugged. Reluctantly she followed, and we started back down the trail. Angie wanted to talk, but I shushed her until we had put some distance between ourselves and the self-styled prophet. I turned back once to look, but I saw no one. He must have stepped behind the tomb; he couldn’t have disappeared that quickly in the bare terrain.
We walked as fast as we could until we regained the road leading back to our cottages. “I’m scared,” Angie said.
“Maybe that’s what he meant to do, scare us.”
“Why would he do that? He doesn’t know who we are.”
He does now, I thought to myself. “Maybe he doesn’t like tourists. He said as much, remember? Besides, I don’t really believe in prophecies.”
“Well, maybe you should. How do you account for the vision he had before Uncle Bert was killed?”
“I can’t. But how do we know he had that vision before the murder rather than after it? Maybe he read about it in the paper and it gave him bad dreams.”
“You know what, Nora? To me, he sounded sincere. What about Brian the Red predicting the coming of the railway to Achill and saying that its first passengers would be corpses?”
“I don’t know, Angie. Maybe it’s just a folktale.”
“And maybe there are some things that can’t be explained,” said Angie, stopping in the road. “Now we have a prediction about the future. He says there’s going to be another death.”
“People die every day,” I said. “There’s always going to be another death.”
Toby pooh-poohed the account of our experience at the tomb, though he liked the story of the landlord who had been dispatched by a loaf of bread. He had enjoyed a tiring but successful day antiquing, having scored a pair of brass carriage lanterns and a trove of saleable bric-a-brac. The find that most excited him, however, was an Irish wake table from the 1840s. I had never heard of one. As he explained it, the table was sturdy enough to support a coffin during a wake. This one was mahogany and had elegant carving on the legs. With its leaves down, it would hold a coffin nicely; with its leaves up, it could serve year-round as an attractive dining table. Toby was confident that as an unusual piece it would fetch a good price at home. To me it sounded macabre. “I wouldn’t want to eat on a table where a body’s been laid out,” I said.
“Me neither,” Toby allowed, “but someone will buy it.” He paused. “Speaking of bodies—think live ones this time—what about checking out that swingers’ club Maggie told you about? Just out of curiosity. I was thinking about it while I was driving around the island today.”
“What a segue to get to your favorite subject,” I marveled, “going from death to sex!”
He looked a bit cowed. “Better than the other way around.”
“True enough,” I said. “It’s time for bed.”