Margaret watched her mount the stairs. She thought for a moment, then placed a call to Sean, her nephew, at the local Garda station. ‘You know you were after asking me about that young man, the one who checked in yesterday, Sean? Well, maybe he’s not who he seems after all. He’s gone out, said he’d be away until sixish . . . I think you’d better, so.’
Joanna unlocked the door to her room, put down her holdall and tore open the letter. Skimming the lines, she sank onto the bed. It took her a while to decipher the erratically spelt scrawl.
Deer miss,
I hurd in the bar you talk of costgard house. I no bout it. you come talk to me un you will see the troot. pink cottige oposit costgard house is wear I will be.
miss ciara deasy
Ciara . . . The name rang a bell. Joanna searched her memory to find who it was that had spoken the name. It had been Fergal Mulcahy, the historian. He’d said Ciara was mad.
Was there any point in going to see her? Surely, it would only lead to another wild goose chase – half-remembered stories that had little bearing on a long-ago situation she wanted nothing more to do with.
Look at the trouble half-crazy little old ladies have got me into already, she told herself firmly.
Joanna screwed the letter up into a ball and tossed it into the wastepaper basket. She picked up the telephone, dialled nine for an outside line and spoke to Aer Lingus reservations. They could get her a seat on the six-forty flight out of Cork. She paid for the flight on her long-suffering credit card and began to pack her things into her rucksack. Then she picked up the telephone again and dialled Alec at the newspaper.
‘It’s me.’
‘Christ, Joanna! I thought you might have called me before now.’
‘Sorry. Time disappears here without you realising it.’
‘Yeah, well, the Ed’s haunted me every day, wanting to know where the doctor’s certificate has got to. He sent someone round to your flat and they know you’ve not been there either. I did my best, but the upshot is, I’m afraid you’re fired.’
Joanna sank onto the bed, a lump in her throat. ‘Oh God, Alec!’
‘Sorry, sweetheart. I don’t know whether he’s being leant on, but that’s how it is.’
Joanna sat there silently, willing herself not to cry.
‘Jo, you still there?’
‘I’d just decided to give up on the whole bloody mess! I’m flying back to London tonight. If I come and see the Ed tomorrow, prostrate myself at his feet, apologise profusely and offer to make the tea until he forgives me, do you think I stand a chance?’
‘Nope.’
‘I didn’t think so.’ Joanna stared miserably at the flowered wallpaper. The faded roses danced in front of her eyes.
‘So, from what you’re saying, you’ve found out nothing?’
‘Virtually nothing. Only that a Michael James O’Connell was born a few miles down the coast from here, and possibly spent his early years working in a big house for the great-grandfather of someone I spoke to. Oh, and there’s an old letter from a British official – it says that a gentleman was shipped over to stay at the house as a guest of His Majesty’s Government. In 1926.’
‘Who was it?’
‘Dunno.’
‘Don’t you think you should find out?’
‘No, I don’t. I’m in over my head. I want . . .’ Joanna bit her lip. ‘I want to come home and have my life back like it was before.’
‘Well, seeing as that’s impossible, have you anything to lose by investigating further?’
‘I can’t hack it, Alec, I really can’t.’
‘Come on, Jo. As I see it, the only way you can relaunch your career is by getting a cracking story and flogging it to the highest bidder. You now have no allegiance to this newspaper. And if others won’t publish it here, they’ll publish abroad. I have a feeling you’re very close to some answers. For Christ’s sake, don’t fall at the final hurdle, Jo.’
‘What “answers”? None of it makes sense anyway.’
