Chapter Seventeen
It came as absolutely no surprise to find the same wind battering the windows the next morning. The power was off, as well, which meant no tea…again. In fact, if she’d woken up to sunshine and plenty of power, Lassi would have been stunned.
This place should be called Ballyna-Devil’s-lair.
She took a few tentative sniffs. At least there are no signs of fire or scorched sheets, save for the lingering smell of yesterday’s near-fire. She’d stripped the sheets before retiring last night, but the smell permeated the mattress or the room, or maybe her nose.
She rolled out of bed, stretched, and yawned, before snagging her robe off the floor.
“Cillian and his fear stories. I barely slept a wink.” As she stumbled toward the kitchen, she spied Crusty McKitty in the hall—with another rat. Or, maybe it’s the same one as yesterday. “Fecking cat!”
He meowed with the rat gripped in his teeth. It came out as more of a meow-mumble.
“How you and your fun and games get in and out of this locked tight house is a mystery to me.” She placed her hands on her hips and scowled.
Crusty dropped the rat.
The rodent’s back legs didn’t seem to work. It dragged itself toward the front room, leaving a trail of blood.
Crusty trotted next to it, batting it as it struggled.
“Oh, come on, let’s not torture the poor thing.” Avoiding the blood spatters, she stepped ahead of both cat and rat and retrieved the broom from the foyer, where she’d left it yesterday. She had every intention of flinging the rodent outside to die in peace.
When she stepped into the front room, the rat had pulled itself partly under the sofa. Only its mutilated back legs and tail protruded.
Crusty kept slapping it with his claws extended.
“Shoo,” Lassi said, pushing the cat out of the way.
His ears pressed to his head and he hissed and snarled at her.
“Fuck you, too, kitty. I’m in no mood for this so you’d better watch yourself.”
The rat heaved itself under the furniture, tail, legs, and all.
“Good Christ, I want this day to be over and it's barely begun.” She got on her hands and knees and swept the broom handle underneath to get the rat out. Her long red hair fell alongside her face in a disheveled mess which she didn’t feel motivated to brush. Same as yesterday, the broom handle collided with some obstacle. “Hmmm. Well, I guess there’s no help for it but to move the fecking sofa.”
She hauled herself to standing, made her way to the arm of the couch, crouched, and lifted the bloody thing. She barely managed to raise it an inch. Grunting, she heaved it to the side.
The rat now lay dead, its eyes wide and staring at nothing. Its guts were trailing from its belly.
“Gah! Now I’ll have to bomb the whole fecking house with disinfectant.” She retrieved a newspaper from the piles of debris on the floor, picked up the rat by its tail, and stalked to the front door. Once she’d managed to get the door open, she poked her head out cautiously and peered about, before flinging the dead rodent to his final resting place.
Then, she slammed the door shut and wandered back into the front room.
A small, round iron loop protruded from the floor where the couch had been, from what looked to be a six-inch cut out in the floorboards. She lowered herself to a cross-legged position next to the cut-out, hooked her finger in the loop, and tugged. Nothing budged. She tugged some more. Nothing moved.
She rose to retrieve the broom, which sat propped against the wall. After resuming her seat, she forced the handle through the loop, coiled her hands on the broom stick, and heaved it up. The wood gave, adding a loud squeak of protest. She placed the end of the broom against the floor and worked the handle as a lever.
The square of wood released, flying free. The broom handle snapped in two. Lassi landed on the floor with a thud.
“Bloody hell!” She rolled to her hands and knees and crawled toward the hole.
Crusty trotted next to her, peering into the dark opening alongside her.
She extended her hand into the gap and fumbled around, finding a roll of papers or parchment. She maneuvered it free and noted—same as the box she’d discovered in the wall—no dust could be found on the rolled papers. How odd.
The papers were secured with an aged red ribbon. Gently, she untied the ribbon and cautiously unrolled the ancient parchment.
Careful to not damage anything, she thumbed through the documents. They seem to be letters, records of employment, and instructions. Words penned in spidery handwriting and fading ink had been signed by Roberta, as well as an Irene, Mary, and Constance.
A chill began to settle over her shoulders as she huddled on the floor. She rose to her feet, cradling the documents, and strode to the kitchen for some crackers and water. After finishing her paltry breakfast, she tossed a couple of crackers on the floor for Crusty before stumbling back into her bedroom. There, she threw back the covers, crawled into bed, and tugged the blankets around her. Then, she began to read.
The women turned out to be distant relations. Irene had been Roberta’s mother. Mary was Irene’s mother. And Constance had birthed Mary. The tug of lineage pulled at Lassi’s heart. Perhaps I belong to something bigger than my modern life in Dublin. The thought stirred discomfort in her belly. I’d rather be focused on getting to Barbados. But, somehow, life and death in Ballynagaul had become so real and immediate, her Barbados fantasy and even Dublin now seemed like a stylized, idealistic dream.
A document called “Employment” jumped out at her. She fingered it free of the stack. Apparently, all of these women were housekeepers to the local priest but they never mentioned the priest by name. Seems odd to me. I could see that in a diary, sure, but why not in the employment records? And why would Great-Aunt Roberta be keeping all these records? Wouldn’t they be better kept at the parish itself?
She thumbed to the bottom of the stack. A letter penned by Mary mentioned “the grave” and the “poor, wee girl within.” Is she talking about the grave I tidied? Did she know what happened to the girl and why she was left to rot in an untended plot? “I’ll bet I was right. I’ll bet she was designated a whore and left to fester in the earth, rather than meet heaven’s glory. Fecking judgmental people.”
Her stomach let out a loud grumble. She struggled to think in a straight line, what with the lack of tea or sleep. Her thoughts ran straight and logical, then, they seemed to disappear into some cloud-smothered inner reality like the weather outside. She rubbed her eyes with her finger and thumb, rolled off the bed, and staggered to the kitchen.
The faucet sputtered when she entered. Absentmindedly, she sauntered toward it to make sure the faucet handle had been cranked tight. When her hand connected with the metal, sparks flew. She snatched her hand back, ready to throw her body on the floor and have an out and out tantrum. “I’m so sick of this shite!”
Even the knock on the door didn’t phase her.
“Who died today? Whose fingers have been torn from their hand, or eyes shoveled from their skull?” she muttered as she stumbled toward the door. She flung it open.
Conway stood, his expression grim, his hand resting on the gun at his hip.
Lassi huffed. “What can I do for you? Who died?”
He cleared his throat. “I’m here to arrest you for conspiring with Father Cillian Ward for the murder of Dylan Riordan, Ailis O’Neill, and Liam O’Donnell.”
“You’re fecking kidding me. Liam is dead, too? I knew it would happen. I tried to warn Penny,” she said, ignoring the first part of his sentence. The part about being arrested flew right through her weary brain.
Conway stood looking at her like she’d turned into a Griffin.
“What? I have no power, I didn’t get my tea again, I’m tired and I’m cranky.” She tapped her foot on the floor. “What else do you need to say?”
“Haven’t you figured it all out yet?”
“What? What should I have figured out? Drop me a clue so I can be bang-on with my answer.”
Conway sighed. “Well, at least the jail here is so fecking small, you’ll be able to talk to Father Ward and he can explain it all to you.”
“Wait. What? Didn’t you say something about arresting me?”
Conway grinned at her.
“This isn’t funny. Why the look of glee? So, am I or am I not under arrest?”
“Oh, you’re coming with me, Miss Finn. You’re definitely coming with me.”
She blinked. Confusion swamped her sleepy head. “You’re pissing me off, Inspector.”
“Follow me.”
“Oh, come on. This is nuts!”
“Miss Finn,” he began. “I have to take you in and book you.”
“This is pure stupidity!” She grabbed the doorknob, ready to slam the door in his face.
He thrust his boot against the worn wood, preventing her from shutting it.
She sighed. “Okay. Do your stupid job. You’ll see. This is a big, fat mistake.” Figuring maybe she could get some shut eye in a jail cell, she shoved her feet in her boots, wrapped a raincoat around her robe, and numbly followed him to his patrol car. Once she sat in the back seat, she lay her head against the window and nodded off.
Conway rapped on the window.
She jerked to awake. “Huh? What? Where am I?”
“Get out, Miss Finn. We’re here at the station.”
She wiped her eyes with her hands, slid free of the car, and followed him inside the red brick building.
“Right this way,” he said, leading her through the precinct.
Galbraith and Brown lifted their heads as she walked through.
Galbraith shook his head, as if deeply disappointed.
She scoffed.
“I didn’t do it. I’m innocent,” she said. Then, she trekked behind Conway, through a doorway and down a narrow hall.
There, he unlocked the door to a small, windowless cell next to another dark cell. A lone bunk was secured to the side. A urinal stood against the back wall. She stared at it, before saying, “You do realize I don’t possess a joystick down there, don’t you? How will I use the toilet?”
“You’ll think of something. Get in.” He nudged her.
She stepped toward her bunk and collapsed on top of it, wrapping the scratchy woolen blanket around her.
Someone rustled in the cell next to her.
She squinted through the gloom. “Cillian?”
Her body thrummed with shivery sensations which she shut down with irritation over being arrested.
Dressed in his priestly garb, sitting on his bunk, he stared at the floor, frowning, ignoring her.
She glared at him and said, “This is your fault.”
His eyes were ringed with fatigue.
Or, maybe it’s the shadows since I can barely see his face.
“Which part?” he said, his voice sounding old and tired.
“Everything. All of it. The whole shite of being here.” She waved her hand in the air.
“Oh, right. Roberta’s dead because of me. I wanted you to leave your beloved Dublin, even though I didn’t know who you were. I had a feeling something special was around the corner. I went to a fortune teller and she laid it all out for me with her Tarot cards. She said I had it in me to break my vows with a Dubliner.”
“Sarcasm, Father Ward? I didn’t think you had it in you to be sarcastic.”
“It’s been a long day already.” He ran his hand through his luscious hair.
Lassi’s eyes darted around. “Galbraith, Brown, and Conway might be listening,” she hissed. “I don’t want them to think anything ‘special’, as you put it, is happening between us.” In a too loud voice she said, “I mean, it’s not your fault, is it?’
Cillian finally raised his head and looked at her, his face reflecting broken despair. “Unfortunately, I believe it is.”
His expression made her recoil.
“Oh, my God,” she whispered. “You did it, then, didn’t you?”
“Oh, I did it all right, Miss Finn. You have no idea how I accomplished it.”