Haunted Ground Part 22

"n.o.body knew about that underground pa.s.sage, only me. I used to hide there. I dragged them inside, and closed up the entrance, covered it with stones. That's why the police never found it." Though he was nearly exhausted, the tears had stopped, and Jeremy's voice had taken on a hard edge it hadn't had before.

"Are you saying that you hid the bodies all on your own? That no one helped you?"

"No. There was no one else. Only me."

"If it was an accident, Jeremy, why didn't you come forward?"

"I don't know, I don't know--I was afraid."

"What about the gun, Jeremy? What did you do with the gun? And the pushchair?"

The boy's face suddenly betrayed confusion, and his breath began to catch in his throat. "I--I don't remember. You're trying to confuse me." Devaney saw his chance and took it, not looking up to see whether Lucy Osborne was still watching.

"Listen, Jeremy, I have reason to believe that someone helped you, at least in the covering up. Why don't you just tell me how it really happened?"

"I've told you. No one helped me. No one." If anything, the boy looked even more abject and miserable than he had before he'd relieved himself of his awful burden. You think you've gotten rid of it, but it doesn't go away, Devaney thought. It never goes away.

"Then tell me, Jeremy, why would you have said, 'She'd never tell'?"

"I said that?" The boy looked horrified.

"You did. Maguire says you told him there was a place underground, then you said: 'She knows. She'd never tell.' You don't remember that?"

"No. I never said that."

"I see. Let's go back to Christopher. The postmortem shows he had a hairline skull fracture, but the pathologist says that alone wouldn't have been enough to kill him. How did Christopher die, Jeremy?" Devaney moved closer to the boy, spoke softly, close to his ear. Jeremy's hands and feet began to move, and Devaney hated himself. He knew he must stage this as carefully as a performance, must persist in probing until he could sense the gnawing horror in the boy's insides, and see it in his terrified eyes. "I'm thinking it probably wasn't very difficult to smother him. He was small, and not very strong. Maybe he was unconscious, and never even struggled. What did you do? Did you just put your hand over his face? What did that feel like, Jeremy? What does it feel like to stop a helpless little child breathing until his heart stops? Until you know that he's really and truly dead?"

Jeremy's body was writhing weakly among his bedclothes, as he tried to resist the dreadful words, the even more terrible images they conjured up. "No, that's not how it was. She fell--oh, Jesus, help me. Somebody help me--"

That was the moment at which Lucy Osborne, who had been watching through the window, could restrain herself no longer. She opened the door and came to stand beside Devaney's chair.

"Get away from my son," she warned in an icy voice. "I know what you're trying to do. Leave him alone." When Devaney stood to address her, she slapped him hard across the face. He took the blow, but seized her arm before she could strike him again. For such a slight woman, Lucy Osborne was phenomenally strong, and at first only her eyes gave away the fury she had managed for so long to contain. Then she began to laugh breathlessly, almost hysterically, and Devaney felt his stomach heave as he stood between overprotective mother and sheltered son, and only dimly began to realize that he'd had the whole thing backward all along. The relations.h.i.+p between parent and child had been distorted beyond all recognition, and it was Jeremy who'd been protecting his mother, not the other way around. Devaney suddenly knew that the scene as he'd played it out for Jeremy didn't come close to the real atrocity that had taken place that day in the woods at Bracklyn House. As he stood facing Lucy Osborne, her wrist gripped tightly in his hand, he had to extinguish a savage desire to stop the laughter, to strike the woman to the ground and pummel her until he could make it stop. He looked into her eyes as he spoke the words of the official caution again, slowly and carefully, as a way to calm himself. Then he let go of her arm.

"What's the matter, Detective?" she asked in a strangely mocking tone, as if she knew what had gone through his mind. "Hasn't my son broken down to your satisfaction? Hasn't he played his part well enough in your precious search for the truth? I'll give you the truth." She spat the word with a venomous contempt.

"No, please, no," Jeremy pleaded, but there was no stopping Lucy Osborne now.

"I'm the one you want. My son didn't know what he was doing; the shooting was a complete accident. He came into the house raving, 'I've killed them, I've killed them.' He kept saying it over and over again."

"Please stop," Jeremy implored once again.

She reached out for her son's hand, and stroked it as she addressed him: "Hush now, don't say any more. I have to tell them, darling, don't you see, they're going to take you away unless I do, and I can't let them do that, I can't." Then she turned back to Devaney and began to speak slowly, deliberately, and seemingly without emotion: "All I could think at first was that our chance to get home again to England was ruined. I had been planning it for so long, working out the details, and now this would destroy everything. But then I began to see how it all might work. If we could manage just to stay calm and handle ourselves well. There wasn't very much blood at all, not like Daniel. We didn't have much time. Hugh might be back at any moment, so we had to find a place to hide them, just until I could think things through. Jeremy told me about his underground room. I had him run and get a spade from the shed, and then--" Her eyes stared into the past. "I was looking down at the child. He was quiet, but I could see a pulse, just there." She raised her fingers to her own throat. "I had to make it stop, don't you see? It was so small, so insignificant. And all I could think was that this boy was in the way, he was the one minor obstacle that now stood between Jeremy and the dream I'd always had for us. We had to get back to our home at Banfield. We'd made the mistake of losing it once before, you see, more than three hundred years ago, but we got it back then, and we could get it back again now. We were so close. I don't suppose it means anything at all to you, but I wasn't about to let five hundred years of my family history at Banfield come to a full stop just like that. I couldn't be responsible for that. So all I could think was that this child must die--and after that it would be easy, so easy."

Jeremy Osborne's face was filled with revulsion, but his strength was gone and he could not pull his hand away from his mother's grasp. Lucy continued, her voice now absolutely cool and deliberate: "And then I thought how fitting it was, in a way, because of all the people who had tried to take Jeremy away from me, it was this child, this filthy little kaffir, who'd most nearly succeeded. I said to him, 'It's really for the best, don't you see? There's nothing left for you here, you poor, motherless mongrel.' What I did was an act of kindness."

Devaney pictured the boy arriving back with the shovel, to find his mother's hand covering Christopher's face. "Is that how it happened, Jeremy?" he asked.

"I don't know. I don't know." The boy's face was twisted with anguish. Here was the real reason Jeremy had not come forward, though he had nearly died trying to keep that terrible truth within himself. It had been too late to do anything for Mina, but Jeremy had suffered torture for more than two harrowing years, thinking that he might have saved Christopher.

But Lucy wasn't finished. "After that, there was only Hugh, and he was so b.l.o.o.d.y weak--like all the Osbornes. He let himself be convinced--under the circ.u.mstances--that the estate ought to go to Jeremy if anything happened to him. That's what he told me Sunday evening, that he'd gone to London to change his will. He even believed that it was his own idea all along."

Lucy Osborne's eyes grew larger, and the words came faster and faster, spilling out in an unstoppable torrent: "I knew no one would question a suicide, the way he'd carried on. It was almost too easy, putting the sleeping tablets in his tea. I knew the real difficulty would be in getting him out to the car, but the garden cart worked very handsomely. But that meddling pair ruined everything. That wretched American, prying into every corner, using Jeremy to get at me. I tried to warn her off, get rid of her--I told her on the phone, leave it alone, they're better off. The broken gla.s.s was far too subtle; she just swept it up. Finally, I put that horrible dead thing in her bed, but she still wouldn't leave us alone. That's why it had to escalate, why Hugh's suicide had to happen that night, when they were supposed to be out for the evening. And if only--" The memory of this failure seemed to cause physical pain, and Lucy Osborne's bony fingers clawed at the bedsheets like talons. Her eyes brimmed with hatred and disgust. "If only they'd arrived five minutes later, Jeremy and I would be shut of this G.o.dforsaken country and on our way home again. And none of you could have stopped us."

Devaney had heard his share of confessions. He'd seen plenty of suspects finally crack under the pressure of questioning. But he had never witnessed anything quite like what had just taken place here.

Lucy's face softened again as she turned to her son and took his hand. "This is not your fault, darling. You did so well for so long. I know it was difficult. Whatever happens to me, you mustn't blame yourself." With gritted teeth, Jeremy wrested his hand from his mother's grip, and turned away from her, wracked with broken sobs. Devaney wasn't sure the woman realized that her son had been lost to her quite some time ago.

"Lucy Osborne, I'm arresting you for the murder of Christopher Osborne, for the attempted murder of Hugh Osborne, and for concealing evidence in the death of Mina Osborne. It would be in your best interest to speak with your solicitor as soon as possible. You can phone from the station. Do you understand? Mrs. Osborne?"

Lucy ignored him, and reached out to stroke her son's hair. "You haven't been well, my love. Not well at all. You rest now, darling. I'll be back soon."

Not for about thirty years, Devaney thought. "I'd be obliged if you and Mullins would take Mrs. Osborne to the station," he said to O'Byrne. "I'll be there shortly--there's something I have to do first."

Devaney was crossing Drumcleggan Bog when he saw Hugh Osborne's black Volvo heading toward him. He leaned on the horn; though Osborne had been driving fast, he managed to slow down and stop, then reversed until the two cars were side by side.

"I had a message about Jeremy. Is he all right? What did he say?"

Devaney looked into the man's eyes and felt the words tearing at his throat as he tried to speak. Maybe it would be better if there were other people around. "Hadn't we better go somewhere it's easier to talk?"

"Tell me now, Detective. Please. There's a place where you can pull off the road just ahead. I'll turn around."

Devaney nodded once, and drove off the road to the place Osborne had mentioned, a small peninsula of solid ground that jutted out into the bog. He looked through the wind-screen at the black voids of the random cut-aways and the little clumps of footed turf as the first drops of rain began to spit from the low, s.h.i.+fting blanket of clouds that moved in from the west. And he knew that Hugh Osborne had been telling the truth all along. That ridiculous story about stopping to rest along the road from Shannon was not fiction but cruel fact. It meant that Osborne would have to live the rest of his life knowing he'd been asleep only a few miles from home as his wife and son were killed. Devaney thought as he opened the car door and felt the freshness of the mist on his face how strange it was that this chapter of the story at least would reach its end here in the bog, almost exactly where it had begun. And it struck him that there was nowhere to hide in this place of banishment--neither tree nor stone nor bush as far as the eye could see, nothing to provide shelter from the wind, and from the rain when it came.

9.

Alone in her room, Nora counted the time: it was nine days now after the tower fire, and just a week since the discovery of the souterrain. Cormac's work at the priory was finished, and they would be leaving Bracklyn House after the funeral tomorrow. They were alone in the house at the moment; Hugh Osborne had looked exhausted this morning, but he'd insisted on driving on his own to collect his mother-in-law at Shannon, and they hadn't been able to dissuade him.

She found Cormac in his room, packing for the journey. "I just spoke to Hickey, the garage man," she said, sitting on the bed where he was arranging the items in his case. "My car's good as new, but they couldn't get all the parts for yours. Drivable, he says, but you'll have to get the rear window replaced when you get back to Dublin."

"I was actually thinking I might not go straight home," Cormac said. He paused a moment before continuing. "I was thinking of heading up to Donegal for a few days." He hesitated once more, but this time looked up at her. "You could come with me."

This sudden fit of spontaneity took Nora completely by surprise. She studied his face for a moment before responding. "I have to get back to Dublin; I've already missed a week of cla.s.ses as it is. You're probably better off on your own, anyway. I imagine you and your father will find plenty to talk about. How's your head, though? Are you sure you're all right for driving?"

"I'll be fine." Cormac shoved his case aside and sat down beside her, then reached for her hand, and pressed his lips to the inside of her wrist.

She tried to withdraw her hand. "I'm going to be kicking myself as it is, but you have to b.l.o.o.d.y well make sure of it, don't you?"

"Nora, what's bothering you?"

"I was so wrong about Hugh. I heard what I wanted to hear, and I came here ready to hang him. The worst part is that he's been so forgiving."

"It wasn't just you; everyone suspected him. The police--"

"Everyone but you."

"Maybe it seemed that way. On the inside, I'm afraid I wavered too."

"I keep wondering what's going to happen here, Cormac. Devaney said we might be called to testify, if the case actually goes to trial. I hope it doesn't come to that. I wonder if Jeremy could survive going to prison. And if he isn't charged, or gets a suspended sentence? Devaney said it's a possibility because he was underage at the time. Where will he go?"

"Hugh told me he wants Jeremy to stay on here--if and when he's released. He knows what happened wasn't the boy's fault."

"It sounds very n.o.ble, but the whole idea is fraught with disaster. How could he not be reminded every single day of what Jeremy did? And how can Una McGann possibly go on living in the same house with her brother?" Nora said. "Fintan's going off to seek his fortune in the States. For Aoife's sake, how can she even think about staying there?"

"I know we've been through an ordeal with Hugh, and with Una these last few weeks," he said. "But it's not as if we even really know them. Maybe Hugh Osborne has more forgiveness in him than you or I could ever imagine. Maybe he needs Jeremy as much as the boy needs him. Maybe Una will decide to leave home. They'll have to find their own ways through this, Nora. They will. But I don't know that we can help them."

She had imagined that finding answers should impart at least some small sense of satisfaction, and yet that feeling was absent. She knew that they would all carry on, as human beings had always carried on, as automatically as their hearts carried on beating, their lungs continued taking in and expelling breath. Sometimes without thinking or feeling, sometimes invaded by despair. Why then, after helping to unearth the truth of this place, did she feel so compelled to do more? What more was there? Maybe Cormac was right, maybe they had reached the end of doing.

"Come here to me," he said, and whether it was the warmth of his arms, or the roughness of his face against hers, she did not know, only that she needed the solace he offered, and responded instinctively to his touch until they were tangled together on the high bed. All Nora could hear was their ragged breathing, and she felt herself falling, borne downward into a maelstrom, a potent confusion of feeling.

Downstairs, the single deep note of the doorbell sounded in the front hall. Nora pulled away and slid off the bed. "What the h.e.l.l are we doing? What were we thinking? I'm sorry, Cormac." As she left the room, she heard his carefully packed case go cras.h.i.+ng to the floor.

10.

Devaney stood outside the front door at Bracklyn House, bearing the brown paper envelope containing Mina Osborne's letters. When Nora Gavin answered the door, he said, "I just dropped by to see Mrs. Gonsalves."

"We're expecting them any time. You can wait if you'd like."

Devaney stepped inside, and caught Dr. Gavin eyeing his package. "Just some letters," he said. "From Mina Osborne to her mother."

"You've read them?"

"I have."

"What was she like?"

Devaney considered for a moment, thinking of the Mina Osborne he'd come to know a little, remembering the intelligence, thoughtfulness, and compa.s.sion that radiated from her letters. He had wondered the same thing, and yet what was the point of such a question, since none of them, not even her mother or her husband, had really known, or would ever know? Mina Osborne had become a void, an absence in the lives of those she'd left behind. The paltry words that he might use to sum her up would be based only on a few lines of handwriting. He was aware that Dr. Gavin was watching him with a curious expression. "I'm afraid I can't really say."

Maguire seemed rather subdued when he joined them, and Devaney got the distinct sense that he'd interrupted something when he'd rung the doorbell.

"Detective," Dr. Gavin said, "we've been wondering what's going on, and maybe you could enlighten us. Cormac and I have read the papers and heard lots of things second-and third-hand about Lucy Osborne's confession and the charges. We'd rather not be asking Hugh."

"I'll tell you what I can. According to what Jeremy told us, his mother had become obsessed about getting back her home place in England. She'd started writing rambling letters to her solicitor, and was scheming about ways to get it back. She evidently got it into her head some time ago that the Osbornes collectively owed her for the loss of her family home. Who knows if she would have done anything on her own, but when the shooting occurred, an opportunity presented itself, and the more she thought about it, the more she began to see eliminating this branch of the Osborne family as the main chance for herself and her son. With Mina and Christopher out of the way, she accomplished two things: she eliminated Hugh Osborne's lawful heirs, and put her own son in their place. Hugh Osborne would be a rich man when he got the insurance, when his wife was declared legally dead. But once Hugh made Jeremy the beneficiary in his will, there was no reason to wait. All she had to do was to see that something happened to Hugh, and she and Jeremy would be secure. Osborne's own policy might not have paid if he committed suicide, but Jeremy would still stand to inherit Bracklyn House, not to mention the life insurance on Mina Osborne."

"How did it all start to unravel?" Dr. Gavin asked.

"Jeremy told us that he and his mother removed suitcases and clothing from the house to make it look as if Mina had simply run away. He was supposed to burn it all, but he hung on to a few items. Then a couple of months ago the cleaner, Mrs. Hernan, found one of Mina's scarves under his mattress--and when Mrs. Hernan brought it to Lucy's attention, she was sacked. Evidently Lucy forced Jeremy to burn the scarf--this time in front of her, to make sure it was done properly--and that's when he felt he had to find a way to tell someone. He tried to keep away from his mother, ended up practically living out at the tower--he started stealing food, and all those candles he had were nicked from the church. Between the drink and camping in the tower like an outlaw, it's not hard to see why Jeremy seemed to be the one who was going mad."

"Do you know anything more about the charges, Detective?" Maguire asked.

"We got word today from the DPP--that's the director of public prosecutions. Lucy Osborne is charged with one count of murder for the death of Christopher Osborne, and one of attempted murder against Hugh Osborne. If she's judged competent to stand trial--and they cautioned that it's a big 'if,' considering her current mental state--she could receive a life sentence on those charges alone. And she could get an additional sentence for concealing evidence. At this point, Jeremy's up on a single charge of involuntary manslaughter for the death of Mina Osborne, but the DPP says he'll most likely receive a suspended sentence, given the circ.u.mstances of the case, and his age at the time."

"The thing I don't understand is why Hugh didn't say anything about Lucy giving him sleeping tablets," Dr. Gavin said.

"He says he has no memory of anything that happened after he went down into the workshop--he can't even recall Lucy bringing him tea."

"Surely he must have figured out that he didn't end up in that car by himself," she said.

Devaney hesitated, remembering Hugh Osborne's explanation when he'd brought up the same point himself during questioning. When you've thought as often as I have about what it would be like--to go out to the car, turn it on, and just go to sleep, he'd said, it's somehow not at all surprising to find out that's exactly what you did. If it weren't for Lucy's admission, Devaney thought, the man might still consider himself an unsuccessful suicide.

The sound of voices cut short their conversation as Hugh Osborne came in with Mrs. Gonsalves. Devaney heard the voice he'd come to know on the telephone, and wondered how the woman's grace and dignity could seem completely undiminished by the length and grim purpose of her journey. He watched her dark eyes alight upon the package in his hands.

"You must be Detective Devaney," she said.

"You know one another?" Osborne asked.

"We've spoken on the telephone," said Mrs. Gonsalves, clasping Devaney's outstretched hand. "Detective, I'm so grateful for all you've done on my daughter's behalf. And my grandson--" Her voice faltered, but her eyes were steady. Devaney held out the precious brown package.

"Thank you for returning Mina's letters," said Mrs. Gonsalves as she received it. "I know you understand how I treasure them."

Devaney begged off staying for tea. He had done his duty in bringing the package. Upon reaching home, he could hear a few faint, wobbly fiddle notes as he got out of the car. Roisin was in the kitchen, tentatively picking out a tune; he could barely recognize the first few bars of "Paidin O'Rafferty." He watched through the kitchen window as Nuala came in, kissing the top of her daughter's studiously inclined head as she pa.s.sed.

"That's starting to sound lovely, Roisin, keep at it. Remember what Daddy said, and don't try to play too fast. I've got to go out--" Nuala stopped when he opened the door. Devaney felt frozen on the threshold, couldn't force himself to speak or to step into the house. Roisin stopped playing, and Nuala came and stood in front of him.

"Are you all right, Gar? Why are you home in the middle of the afternoon?"

He wanted to tell his wife that for the first time in a long while he could see her so clearly, so entirely, every curve and eyelash and tiny line, as clearly as that first time they had slept and awakened together, but he found himself unable to speak.

"Garrett," she said, "why won't you come in?" Her touch was enough to break the spell. He stepped forward and sat down facing his daughter across the table. Nuala seated herself beside him.

"Listen, Daddy, I've nearly got it off," Roisin said brightly, launching into a halting jig tempo once more, barely getting through the A part of the tune.

"Isn't she coming along?" Nuala asked, still searching his countenance for some inkling of what was going on. He felt them standing on opposite sides of a threshold, if not of understanding itself, then at least a willingness to understand one another again. Nuala reached up and touched his face. "I'm going to call the office, and ask Sheila if she wouldn't mind taking a couple of appointments for me. I won't be a minute."

When Devaney looked across the table at Roisin, he saw a reflection of his own bewildered countenance in the bottomless depths of his daughter's eyes.

11.

The funeral Ma.s.s for Mina and Christopher Osborne took place two days later at St. Columba's in Dunbeg. Standing in the back of the church, Devaney watched a small clutch of reporters gather outside the gates, no doubt hoping to get a few shots of the grieving family, to be served up on the evening news with some of the more sensational facts of the case, all intoned with the usual air of affected solemnity. They'd have a good show; the whole village had turned out. Hugh Osborne was already in the front of the church with Mrs. Gonsalves. Devaney suddenly realized that in their conversations, he'd never even asked Mina's mother her Christian name. He watched the mourners shuffle slowly past: Delia Hernan, Dolly Pilkington with her three eldest, Ned and Anna Raftery, all the women he'd dubbed charter members of the Father Kinsella fan club. Una McGann and her daughter sat among them, purposely removed from Osborne, Devaney noticed, and he could see the looks from all around her that measured the distance exactly. Una's brothers were there as well, Fintan sitting upright beside her, and Brendan kneeling in one of the back pews with his head bowed, and a rosary knotted through his thick fingers.

Devaney was still standing inside the door, wis.h.i.+ng in vain for a cigarette, when Brian Boylan approached. Boylan was all spit and polish today in one of his expensive suits, as if he'd come here to work the crowd--and so he had, Devaney thought cynically.