'A vivid cast of characters, endless intrigue and all the fun of a Golden Age mystery await you at Kilfenora House' Catherine Ryan Howard 'Witty, twisty and featuring my favourite antiheroine in a long time' Alex Marwood Murder is easy ... when it doesn't look like murder Tess Morgan has finally made her dream of restoring beautiful Kilfenora House and Gardens into a reality. But during rehearsals for the play that forms the opening weekend's flagship event, her dream turns into a nightmare when a devastating accident looks set to ruin her carefully laid plans. There are rumours that Kilfenora House is cursed, but this feels personal, and becomes increasingly terrifying when more than one body is discovered. Could someone be closing in on Tess herself? Clarissa Westmacott, ex star of stage and screen, certainly believes so, particularly when she learns that purple-flowered aconite has been picked from the Poison Garden. And Clarissa will stop at nothing to protect the friend she has come to see as a daughter...
Sie lesen das E-Book in den Legimi-Apps auf:
Seitenzahl: 465
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023
Das E-Book (TTS) können Sie hören im Abo „Legimi Premium” in Legimi-Apps auf:
Ähnliche
Sam Blake has been writing fiction since her husband set sail across the Atlantic for eight weeks and she had an idea for a book.
Sam has had a string of No. 1 bestsellers with her runaway bestselling debut, Little Bones, the first in the Cat Connolly trilogy, shortlisted for Irish Crime Novel of the Year. Switching to psychological thrillers, Keep Your Eyes on Me was a No. 1 bestseller, and her next book, The Dark Room was shortlisted for Irish Crime Novel of the Year. Her last thriller Remember My Name went straight to No. 1 in January 2022.
Sam is originally from St. Albans in Hertfordshire but now lives at the foot of the Wicklow Mountains, near Dublin in Ireland.
Follow her on social @samblakebooks.
Visit www.samblakebooks.com for news and events and get a bonus free short story in audio & text when you subscribe to her newsletter.
Also by Sam Blake
Little Bones
In Deep Water
No Turning Back
Keep Your Eyes on Me
The Dark Room
High Pressure
Remember My Name
First published in Great Britain in 2023 by Corvus, an imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd.
Copyright © Sam Blake, 2023
The moral right of Sam Blake to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Trade paperback ISBN: 978 1 83895 298 3
E-book ISBN: 978 1 83895 299 0
Printed in Great Britain
Corvus
An imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd
Ormond House
26–27 Boswell Street
London
WC1N 3JZ
www.corvus-books.co.uk
For Sam and his cat (the real Merlin)
The tall bluish purple flowering aconite, also known as Jupiter’s helm, monkshood, wolfsbane, devil’s helmet or queen of poisons, comes from a group of over 250 species of flowering plants belonging to the Ranunculaceae family.
Highly poisonous, growing to an elegant metre in height, Aconitum is native to Europe where it is extensively cultivated. Often used by florists, Aconitum’s deep blue hue and flower-clustered stems makes it a particularly appealing perennial for ornamental gardens. Flowering from May to October, it has won many awards, such as the Royal Horticultural Society’s Award of Garden Merit. The roots and tubers are traditionally used to treat muscle-bone illness, paralysis due to stroke and other ailments.
There is a narrow margin of safety between a therapeutic and a deadly dose.
Prologue
ALMOST MIDNIGHT. The garden is ink-black, as though it’s been washed with a brush, details of marble statues and sweeping steps picked out by the weak moonlight.
Below, a bronze fountain cast in the likeness of Apollo splashes water into the lake, disturbing the stillness of the hour. Accompanied by the distant scream of a fox, the hoot of an owl, the night sounds meld into backdrop for what is to come.
“The stars move still, time runs, the clock will strike.”
Skirting the high granite wall, careful footsteps crunch on the gravel to the end of the path where towering gates stand open, wrought-iron flourishes picked out with golden ivy leaves, visible even in the darkness.
Now cutting across the neatly mown grass in front of the glasshouses, and through another set of matching gates.
Beyond, a series of round rose beds and square ponds are linked like gems in a necklace along the formal Rose Walk, leading to the wishing well and the yew maze. On either side, crowded flower beds wait for the morning sunshine, their scent heavy, trapped between high walls covered in more roses, their stems entwined, thick with thorns.
A black shape slips into the foliage unseen, green eyes watching.
Almost there. This will be the last trip.
It’s been a long journey, the planning detailed, but there’s been a lot of time for that. Now, the last act will be easy.
The water in the ponds is deathly still, the fragrance of roses and buddleia heavy in the night air.
Just before the last set of gates, tucked into the corner, is the Poison Garden. Fenced in to keep the unsuspecting public safe, the brass sign is dull without the sun to light it. Stepping onto the bone-dry earth, trowel ready, the tall purple-flowered stems are hard to see, buried deep in the shrubbery. But it is the roots that are the most potent, dried and ground to a lethal powder.
Watching her suffering as she slowly succumbs will be poetry indeed.
Glancing up, windows mirror-like in the darkness, the house is quiet now. As if it’s waiting.
Waiting to see what happens.
Because it’s all about to happen.
“The time is come.”
THURSDAY
Chapter 1
‘I’M SORRY, JUST run that past me again?’ Tess Morgan turned up the speaker on her phone and ran her hands into her bubbly chestnut curls, narrowing her eyes, as if it would help her better understand the man who had just called.
And possibly ruined her life.
Wherever he was, she could hear traffic, the pip of a pedestrian crossing. He had a strong Northern Irish accent, but that didn’t mean anything.
‘I wanted to talk to you about Eoin Doyle. We’ve received some information about the disappearance of Fidelma Hoey. I believe Doyle works for you?’
‘And you are again?’
‘Jerry Lynch, Daily News.’
The Daily News was an Irish national tabloid – as her best friend Genevieve’s eternally elegant mother Clarissa put it so aptly, a rag she wouldn’t clean her shoes on. Getting a call from them was never going to be good. Tess cleared her throat.
‘Eoin doesn’t work for me, I don’t really know him at all. I mean I know of him, but only what I’ve heard.’
‘I had information that he was involved in the restoration of Kilfenora House. You do own Kilfenora House?’
‘Yes, yes I do.’ Tess paused for a moment, thinking hard. ‘It’s possible he was working for one of the contractors – maybe? I’d have to check. I didn’t employ him personally.’
‘I did wonder about that, given that you live alone.’
Tess wasn’t sure if she was more surprised by his tone or the fact he was implying knowledge of her domestic arrangements. Either way it was creepy.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Eoin Doyle has been connected to the disappearance of several women over the past ten years. They all lived alone.’
Tess tried to catch her thoughts and process what he was saying. Eoin Doyle lived in the village, had done all his life. He had a conviction for assaulting his ex-wife, she knew about that, and there had been rumours about the guards being interested in his activities around the times various women had disappeared in Wicklow. According to local gossip, Doyle maintained that he’d just been in the wrong place at the wrong time – albeit on more than one occasion.
Enough times for him to be taken in for questioning, but not enough to land him in court.
Although that could have had less to do with his innocence and more to do with the fact that the missing women’s bodies had never been found. The Gardai kept denying that a serial killer might be at work, but it was in all the papers that they’d launched a single investigation into what had been dubbed the ‘Radio Snatcher’ disappearances, and were drawing links between them.
But what the hell had this got to do with Kilfenora?
‘I’m sorry . . . Jerry, is it? I’m still not clear how this relates to me.’
‘We’ve had a tip-off that there might be an area of interest to the Gardai on the edge of the Kilfenora estate.’
Tess looked blindly out of her office window, barely focusing on the tiny front garden and its riot of summer colour. Across the lane Clarissa’s black cat Merlin skulked around the wide stable yard entrance, keeping to the shade of the granite walls. Tess squinted, trying to make sense of what Lynch was saying. What was an area of interest?
‘You’re going to have to spell it out for me, I’m still not following.’
‘A body, Ms Morgan. We’ve had a tip-off that one of the women Eoin Doyle is thought to have been involved with has been buried in a place called Fury Hill. I believe that’s on your property.’
For once, Tess was lost for words.
Chapter 2
HOW COULD THEREbe a body on Kilfenora land?
Pulling her cheery bright red front door closed behind her, not feeling in the slightest bit bright or cheery, Tess headed down the tiled path that bisected the front garden of the Butler’s Lodge. There was a welcome breeze today, albeit slight, the scent of lavender strong as she pulled open the wrought-iron gate, the sounds of excited children drifting up from the direction of the wishing well.
They had eight days to go before the official opening weekend, when the newly restored Tudor manor with its now tamed gardens would be officially thrown open to the public, and the past two and a half years of sweat, occasional tears and many sleepless nights would finally come to fruition.
Unless, of course, the entire place was covered in crime scene tape and the drive blocked by news camera vans.
Tess felt herself wincing at the thought. The apparently inexplicable disappearances of several women from their homes was one of the biggest ongoing news stories in the country. The last one had been eight years ago, but every year since, their stories had been revisited by the press. And the local gossips in The Cross Keys.
Walking across the dusty lane that divided her cottage from the back entrance to Kilfenora House, Tess felt as if she had brain freeze. Lynch’s words were caught in a loop in her head, a loop that was getting tighter and tighter the more she thought about it, and was starting to hurt.
How on earth could this be happening now?
Ever since she’d bought what was left of Kilfenora House and moved in to renovate it, the part of her mind that was constantly on media alert had been looking for press angles and photo opportunities. The opening weekend – with the vintage car rally, a craft and farmers’ market, and the stage production of Doctor Faustus that they were putting on in the ballroom – was carefully engineered to hit as much of the speciality press as possible, as well as catch national coverage.
But a body on her land? The thought of a killer who targeted single women being anywhere near her property – even eight years ago – filled her with dread, personally and professionally. Kilfenora House was set in a huge estate, and despite the alarm system, it had occurred to Tess more than once that it would take the guards at least twenty minutes to get here from the nearest station if she hit the panic button. Twenty minutes during which anything could happen.
Tess could feel her heart rate increase at the thought. And if that wasn’t enough, if the press got hold of this news, now, the week before the opening, she’d be besieged for all the wrong reasons.
As her bank manager was constantly reminding her, there was a lot riding on this weekend being a success. More than a lot, in fact. Pretty much every last penny. As well as friendships and the livelihoods of half the village.
None of them could afford for this weekend to be a flop.
The press was crucial in the mix, but this really wasn’t the sort of coverage she’d had in mind at all. She needed people to come to Kilfenora to spend money and see the house in all its refurbished glory, to bring their children and their grannies to see the gardens; not to take selfies at a crime scene – assuming they weren’t frightened into staying away in the first place.
And more to the point, why had a reporter called her and not the Gardai themselves?
Tess was still only half concentrating as she reached the shade of the broad stone arch that spanned the entrance to the cobbled stable yard.
It was even hotter today than it had been earlier in the week. The tiny part of her mind not panicking about bodies was thankful that at least they had the weather on their side. Although, as of twenty minutes ago, and Lynch’s phone call, the weather suddenly seemed a lot less significant.
Glancing at her clipboard but barely seeing today’s checklist, Tess mentally took a deep breath, fighting the growing black hole of fear that was manifesting somewhere deep in her stomach. She needed more information. Then she could worry about it properly – or, more precisely, try and look for a solution.
She could be totally overreacting.
Genevieve, still her best friend after all these years, had been saying since their first day in senior school that she overthought things. And Tess knew she was exhausted, to say nothing of the fact that she hadn’t been feeling at all well recently. She needed to be sensible; now was not the time to panic. Although parking the maelstrom of dread making her already queasy stomach roll, was a lot easier said than done.
As soon as she’d ended the call with Lynch, Tess had phoned the local Garda station to find out what the real story was, only to be met with bafflement. Which did give her some hope that it was all a big mistake, a tabloid journalist making a story out of nothing. But as she’d ended the call to the guards, another thought had hit her and made her feel worse, if that was possible.
Could this ‘tip-off’ be something to do with the creep who had trolled her on Twitter and Instagram for so long? Part of her had been waiting for something to happen – maybe this was it?
The trolling had started soon after the first newspaper report that she’d bought the house, and had gone on for almost two years. Vitriol about her, and how Kilfenora would become a penance, how she’d regret returning to Ireland. She’d laughed at it at first, but it had gradually got more frightening: about how she’d get her comeuppance; how she’d pay for ‘it’, whatever ‘it’ was.
She’d ended up ignoring her mentions, but the whole point of using social media as a way to build the Kilfenora name was engagement. Then, six months ago, when the TV restoration show had launched, it had become even worse, taking a step up from being abusive and menacing, to plain terrifying. Every time she blocked one account, another appeared in its place.
Twitter was predictably useless and the guards couldn’t do anything because the tweets were worded so carefully. Which made the whole thing worse – whoever it was, was clearly intelligent. It had been Gen who had finally persuaded her to come off social media completely, finding her a media student to take over scheduling, showing followers that the accounts were all managed externally. Just to be on the safe side, Gen had made the village Facebook private at the same time.
And it had all stopped. Just like that. Overnight.
Which proved that it was personal.
Had whoever it was found a new way to attack her now, by tipping off a journalist with some sort of crazy story that could end up ruining her?
Chapter 3
‘HOLD MY HAND.’
A strident voice cut through Tess’s turbulent thoughts and made her falter, suddenly aware of the dizzying heat of the sun on her back. Closing her eyes, she fought the images she knew would come.
The chill of the concrete, the oily darkness.
The sirens.
‘Hold my hand.’
‘Won’t!’
The child’s scream of temper brought Tess crashing back to the present, the edge of her clipboard cutting into her ribs where she’d gripped it unconsciously. Christ, today was the day that just kept on giving. What had she done to deserve all this?
‘What did I say before we came, Starlight? No ice cream if you are going to misbehave.’ The sound of the mother’s voice filled the empty stable yard like nails on a blackboard.
Turning to the pair, Tess took a steadying breath, and forced a smile on to her face. There were times when she deserved an Oscar for her acting skills.
‘I’m afraid this area is closed to the public at the moment. The ice cream van is beside the fountain on the front drive, this area is only open at weekends.’
The woman looked her up and down haughtily and pulled her rose-gold designer handbag up her arm.
‘Well, the signposting is very bad. I must say it to the owner.’
Tess was tempted to say, ‘You’re looking at her,’ but bit it back. The woman probably expected someone grand, grey-haired, dressed in tweeds with a spaniel at her heels. A slight thirty-one-year-old with her wildly curly bobbed hair now scraped into a ponytail and in need of a wash, wearing a creased Repeal T-shirt and ripped jeans, didn’t fit the picture at all.
‘Mummy!’ The miniature Disney princess tugged hard on her sky-blue tulle skirt, her face red. ‘Ice cream.’ Ice came out ‘Ith’.
With the politest smile she could muster, Tess pointed through the pedestrian arch behind them. She really had no idea how people ended up wandering around the back of the house during the week. It would be different after this weekend, when they’d be open seven days. But today was Thursday and the tea rooms were currently only open at weekends. The signs were perfectly clear.
There were times she was sure people did it on purpose, curious to see the latest development.
With the receding click of the mother’s heels, Tess drew in a deep breath, trying to steady her nerves, a waft of lavender from the borders outside the walls reaching her. God, it was hot. She’d slapped on factor 50 after her shower this morning, but she’d need to stay in the shade or she’d end up with a migraine to add to her problems.
If this body business really was real, and not some vicious rumour dreamed up by a social media lunatic, could she put the Daily News and its story-hungry reporter off until the week after next, after the opening? How would that look?
Tess felt the dark hole of worry in the middle of her stomach deepen at the thought. They had just over a week to go and all the media she’d landed would come together.
Towards the end of the six years she’d been working in Dubai she’d felt as if she was only marking time, waiting for the moment when she’d be able to come home and build a business for herself. And then Genevieve had sent her a picture of Kilfenora on an Instagram post advertising its auction, making a joke about them being neighbours again, and Tess hadn’t been able to forget it.
She let out a sigh. Everything she’d done to date depended on this weekend being a success. Getting the TV people on board to follow the restoration work had been a huge coup, and they’d be back as the gates opened officially to make the final show; it was starting to feel as if the whole country would be watching to see how it all turned out. Somehow the restoration of Kilfenora House, with all its disasters and dramas, had become a symbol of national hope, with even the tabloids taking an interest, her every move, everyone told her, featuring on social media. Although thankfully speculation about her marital status, and how she’d ended up working in Dubai, seemed to be limited to the bar at The Cross Keys.
Now, after everything, if Jerry Lynch was to be believed, the country’s most notorious suspected killer might have concealed a body somewhere on the estate. You really couldn’t make it up.
Resuming her route across the courtyard, Tess felt her phone vibrate with a text at the exact moment that the heavy wooden door at the back of the house was flung open, and Laetitia O’Riordan appeared to fall out of it, clutching an imperial purple velvet cloak around her thin shoulders. She looked even paler than normal, but no less dramatic, her eyes wild as they alighted on Tess.
What the . . .?
It took Laetitia a moment to catch her breath and speak, a moment in which she gesticulated wildly, beckoning at Tess to follow her.
Tess looked at her quizzically. Of the three O’Riordan girls, Laetitia, or Tis, as she was known, was the artistic one, the one for whom getting up in the morning required a dramatic performance, and missing the bus was akin to a national disaster. Holding the door open, Laetitia pushed her long dark hair from her face as she finally found her words:
‘Come, come, quickly – there’s been a terrible accident.’
Chapter 4
GENEVIEVE FORTUNE LEANED forwards on the glass display counter at the back of her shop, and tapped her phone screen, her charm bracelet jangling against the glass as she moved. She glanced up as Facebook opened and, seeing that the pavement outside was empty, she clicked through to the Kilfenora Community Forum.
Genevieve shifted, her bum getting numb on the stool that her mother Clarissa had insisted on having upholstered in burgundy velvet, to fit with the ‘aesthetic’. She’d been right, of course. She’d managed to bring her own inherent sense of style and the feeling of a London West End emporium to an Irish country antique shop by putting up the chandeliers and mirrors that had been gathering dust in the back room. When Gen’s divorce had finally come through and she’d bought what would become Fortune Finds, her priority had been getting the apartment above it fit for her and Malachi to live in.
But then Clarissa brought a force of energy to everything she did. From walking every day to exercising in her home gym – who even did that at over seventy? – Clarissa was stronger and fitter than Gen would ever be. She was one of those tall, willowy types who never put on weight and was convinced that keeping her body fit would keep her mind sound. Her ongoing chess game with her mysterious partner, was, Gen was sure, another tactic to keep her thinking sharp.
And she needed all her faculties to look after Malachi – yesterday they’d been hiking; today they were having a quiet day, finishing baking the chocolate babka bread that required proving for hours. Gen had no idea how an eight-year-old was going to be able to wait a full day for it to be ready, but Clarissa had smiled at her knowingly as she’d got into her little Mercedes to get extra Nutella in Rockfield. She was the perfect granny in so many ways, especially now that she wasn’t actually living with them, and she had her own cottage on the Kilfenora estate. Tess’s arrival home and the purchase of Kilfenora had been a godsend in so many ways.
Gen reached for her mug, her bracelets chiming, and took a sip of her coffee. Opening the forum, she cringed again; the ‘about’ section had been Clarissa’s idea, too, her tone typically strident:
This is YOUR village, get involved!
This is YOUR local forum for the village of Kilfenora and its townlands. Please respect other users, we will not tolerate any abusive posts, comments, bullying, or hate speech of any sort – anything of this nature will get an automatic ban. We support local business wherever we can, no negative comments please. If you have a problem, please resolve it privately. If you are not happy with the way this group is run, please consider leaving. The admins are voluntary and we are all too busy for debate.
Gen could hear Clarissa’s voice. The day Genevieve had told her mother that she’d set up the forum, to get everyone together to stop the council taking down the ancient oaks bordering the main road into the village, Clarissa had insisted that the lines were drawn very clearly.
This is a private group. Only members can see who’s in the group and what they post. Being part of this forum requires mutual trust. Authentic, expressive discussions are welcomed, but may also be sensitive and private. What’s shared in the group should stay in the group.
Gen’s face twitched into a smile. What was shared in the group was the main topic of conversation most nights at The Cross Keys. It was just as well it was private now.
Everyone is welcome once you follow the RULES. The admins give up their time on a voluntary basis to run this forum so we would ask that you respect other members – if they can follow the rules, so can you. If you don’t like how the forum is run, please consider leaving. The rules are clear.
Well, that was true.
Before Genevieve could scroll down further, her phone pipped with a text – from Clarissa. Sometimes Gen felt as if she was watching her.
Have you heard from Tess? I’m worried about her overdoing it this week. Cxx
Gen sighed and tucked a long stray strand of sandy hair behind her ear. Clarissa must have said the same thing to her every day for the last month. She was right, of course; Tess was overdoing it, but she’d been planning this opening thing for so long, she was completely invested.
But both she and Clarissa had seen the strain on Tess’s face increase as the grand opening came closer. Personally, Gen thought adding the whole play was just too much – there was no reason why a performance couldn’t be put on in the ballroom in a month’s time, but Aidan Gaunt had been very persuasive.
And as Clarissa had pointed out privately when he’d first approached Tess in January, he was after maximum exposure, which wasn’t a bad thing for Kilfenora. When the Country House Restoration team returned to film their follow-up show, he’d get his moment in the spotlight.
Genevieve pursed her lips, chiding herself at being so critical. He was putting the production together for free, so he deserved the exposure, and he had written it. But still . . . His acting career to date seemed very patchy to her. According to the website she’d checked, he’d been an extra in a few things. According to him, he’d also done a lot of stage work.
He’d been pushing hard for Clarissa to get involved – hardly surprising, given her stage career and occasional foray on to the screen – but she hadn’t been keen. She’d insisted that she was busy enough looking after Malachi, and she could add gloss and glamour to the production in lots of ways without showing the predominantly amateur cast up on stage, or clashing with Aidan over his production ideas. She’d keep an eye on proceedings but preferred to stay well back. She’d retired for a reason – and much as she loved Tess, reviving her career with an am-dram production really wasn’t high on her list of priorities. Far from it.
Gen caught a movement outside the shop window and glanced up again as Mark Mulligan sauntered past in a T-shirt and long denim shorts, sporting a bright yellow pair of Crocs that made his tan appear even deeper than normal. He looked in and raised his hand in a mock salute as he continued past.
Gen grinned in acknowledgement, smiling inside at what she knew would have been Clarissa’s look of horror had she been here. Clarissa Westmacott might be forward-thinking in many ways, but she firmly believed Crocs had been designed for the operating theatre and should stay there.
Not that Mark would be bothered by Clarissa’s critique of his wardrobe – the reluctant landlord of The Cross Keys was one of the few people in Kilfenora who didn’t care what anyone thought of him. In fact, there were times when Genevieve felt that Mark didn’t really want to be here at all. Which was a shame, because he was one of the few residents who seemed grounded in common sense, with the added bonus of being very nice to look at.
In a quiet moment Gen had discovered that at thirty-four, not only did Mark own the pub, but he’d had a thriving business in Australia. Scrolling back far enough through his profile, she’d found a birthday post and been able to work out his age. He’d been with his late wife in the photo – a stunning brunette.
Before Gen could think more on Mark Mulligan, his mysterious past and the rugged charm he brought to the village, her phone pinged with a notification. Another forum post.
Carrie O’Connor
I heard Faustus is booked out – I wanted to get six tickets, any ideas?
Gen shook her head to herself. Why did people go on a forum to ask a question when it was faster just to google it? As she replied ‘Try the Kilfenora House website’ another post popped in:
Lou Lou O’Neill
does anyone know if Laetitia O’Riordan is still doing tarot? Friend wants to have a fortune telling party. Don’t have her number.
Gen raised her eyebrows. Asking for a friend? Gen doubted it. Katie-Louise O’Neill had been drifting about for the past few months as if she was in love, repeatedly late when she was supposed to be opening up the shop on a Tuesday. She only did one day a week, giving Gen a chance to get into Dublin to the auctions, but she was becoming more ditsy as the summer progressed.
Genevieve strongly suspected that she was madly in love with Mark. She certainly never stopped talking about how he dropped into the shop to say hello whenever she was working. Which, given that he didn’t seem to drop in when Gen was there, could have been a sign that he was interested in Katie-Lou, but Gen somehow doubted it. Katie-Lou just about managed the till on the days she was in the shop, but the poor girl hadn’t been born with brains. She guessed that Katie-Lou had managed to misinterpret Mark’s trips to the Spar or the post office as some sort of deliberate ploy to chat her up. Gen was pretty sure that Mark was the upfront type, that he wouldn’t be messing about trying to engineer accidental meetings if he really wanted to talk to her.
Unless there was a side to Mark Mulligan that none of them knew about, of course.
Chapter 5
THE OUTSIDE DOOR slammed shut as Tess raced up the steep back staircase behind Laetitia, her Converse silent but her heart pounding. Whatever had happened, there hadn’t been time to explain it, which meant it wasn’t good.
There was already too-much-not-good happening today for Tess’s liking. What could possibly have gone wrong now?
Today was the first full dress rehearsal, Aidan Gaunt’s reimagining of Doctor Faustus finally coming together in full technical splendour. Teams had been working in the ballroom all week, getting the sound and lighting to Aidan’s exact requirements. Half the village had been making costumes.
It was a modern version of the play, but Aidan had wanted to maintain the mystery of the original in its look and feel. Faustus was being portrayed as a social media star in black jeans and T-shirt who sold his soul to the devil of the internet – in return for unlimited riches, knowledge and power. Just about everyone else, including Mephostophilis, the Devil’s messenger, had authentic costumes from 1616. It was the perfect play for the opening weekend, as Aidan had explained enthusiastically when they’d first spoken about it: the original house had been built in the same year that Christopher Marlowe had written the play.
On the stairs ahead of her, Laetitia’s dark velvet cloak swirled over the worn stone treads as she paused at the top step long enough to check that Tess was still behind her. Yanking open the door into the cavernous ballroom, she shot through.
‘I found her.’ Laetitia’s breathless announcement was more like a proclamation.
The door slammed behind them as Tess headed over to the elevated stage, her pace increasing as she registered the tension in the room. This wasn’t just a Laetitia drama. Everyone was gathered in an anxious huddle in the middle of the stage, bending over, looking at something on the floor.
Or someone.
As Tess ran up the steps stage left, Megan, one of Laetitia’s sisters, waved a mobile phone at her, her face pale.
‘I’ve called an ambulance.’
Tess’s mouth dried.
Megan clamped the phone to her ear as the cast parted. In the centre of their circle, Aidan was bending over someone.
Oh Christ.
‘Can we stand back, give him some space?’
Still not believing her eyes, Tess motioned for everyone to take a step backwards. The circle opened like the tightly curled petals of a flower.
Beside Aidan, Faustus – village heart-throb Conor Kelly – was lying on his back, with what looked like a steel box with a high-wattage light inside it only inches from his head. A pool of blood was forming beneath his mop of dark curls, gleaming in the footlights, the shadows of his fellow players falling over him as they shifted anxiously.
Aidan’s shoulders moved rhythmically as he pumped Conor’s chest.
‘What on earth happened?’
Kneeling opposite Aidan, young Liam answered for him. ‘He had to do the new opening about six times, and when he got to swollen wings the lighting track came down right on top of him.’
Tess could feel her own heart accelerating. ‘There’s a defibrillator in the hall, beside reception.’
‘I’ll get it.’
Liam began to move before she’d even drawn a breath at the end of the sentence. The crowd parted as he ran straight for the main doors and staircase, his jump off the edge of the stage hardly breaking his stride.
Tess’s heart swelled. He was only nineteen, was stage manager as well as doing the prompts, and utterly immersed in the production.
Aidan glanced over his shoulder.
‘Have you ever done CPR?’
‘Yes . . . yes.’ Tess heard her voice cracking.
‘Take over from me?’
Jesus Christ. For a moment Tess felt she was going to vomit, or faint – she wasn’t sure which. This couldn’t be happening again. They’d done CPR in school, but she’d never thought she’d have to use it twice in her lifetime. She could feel a surge of emotion, tears hot in her eyes. The rain beginning to fall, icy cold on the back of her neck, the sirens. But there wasn’t time to panic now.
Falling to her knees beside him, she took several short breaths and focused on Aidan’s hands moving rhythmically on Conor’s chest as he counted her in. Then her mind went blank.
‘What’s the song?’
‘“Staying Alive”, Bee Gees. Guys, sing it with her.’
There was an awkward pause. Aidan looked up at the rest of the cast.
‘Sing it – the timing, she needs the timing.’
It took them a moment but then someone started humming it, the group around her joining in as someone else in her peripheral vision found the words on their phone.
One hand on top of the other, she took over the compressions. Aidan sat on his heels, shaking out his arms. She had so many questions jumping around her head but didn’t dare break her concentration to ask them now. The timing was vital. Around her, the voices began to trail off.
‘Keep it going.’ Aidan started singing with them, louder, giving them all direction and energy. She felt a surge of relief that he was here, that he was in charge. He was one of those natural leaders, the type of person people followed.
From somewhere behind her, Tess heard Megan’s voice. ‘They’re sending the helicopter. They said another five minutes.’
Tess glanced at Aidan, his face remarkably calm. He must have done this before, too.
‘Is that fast enough?’
He drew a breath between clenched teeth. ‘I hope so.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Just keep going, it’s all we can do.’ He turned to Megan. ‘Ask them about the defib – will we go ahead with it?’
Megan had moved around to look at Conor. She nodded, her face pale against her glossy dark hair, but Tess was focusing on keeping the rhythm, fighting the panic attack that was threatening to overwhelm here. Not now. She just needed to keep going.
‘Christ, I don’t know how this happened.’
Out of the corner of her eye, Tess could see Aidan kneeling back, hands on his hips, his words mirroring her thoughts.
Was it an accident? Perhaps she was being paranoid, but with thoughts of the Twitter troll fresh in her mind, Tess sure hoped they weren’t going to find out that someone had sabotaged the lights in an effort to stop the play.
Surely not.
Today was truly turning into the day from hell – and Faustus thought he had problems.
Before anyone could comment, the sound of running feet echoing in the main stairwell reached them and Liam arrived in the ballroom, racing across to the stage. From the thump and vibration on the boards, it sounded as if he’d jumped all four steps. A moment later Aidan was beside her, opening the defibrillator, ready to take over again, the pads from the machine ready in his hand as they heard the throb of helicopter blades overhead.
Chapter 6
LEANING BACK ON the counter in the kitchen of Clarissa’s cottage, Genevieve bit her lip and looked out of the open door. Beyond it, Malachi was lying on the lawn in a pool of afternoon sunlight, concentrating fiercely on an action figure and a rocket. Every now and then they caught the sounds of explosions as the game became more dramatic.
‘I still can’t believe it. Did the paramedics give any clues as to how bad it is?’ Genevieve anxiously ran one of her pendants along its chain.
Wiping down the plastic kitchen tablecloth with its cheerful purple spots, Clarissa glanced at her, her face creased in a frown. Her long grey hair was swept up into an elegant chignon, secured with a silver clip. She was still wearing her bright red apron, a C embroidered on the bib in gold thread, although it was now covered in floury handprints. The whole kitchen smelled divine, the chocolate babka bread they’d made cooling on top of the Aga, the end missing where the vital process of sampling had begun while it was still hot.
‘I’d guess it’s too soon to know. I only heard third-hand from one of the gardeners, so I’ve no more information than you, really. The gossipers on the forum probably have a better idea – half of them were there.’
Genevieve grimaced. ‘What a thing to happen. I texted Tess to tell her I was closing up early and would be here if she needed me, but she’s not replied yet. I don’t want to call up to the Lodge in case she’s in the middle of things.’
‘Which I imagine she will be. Something like this needs to be managed carefully.’
Clarissa turned to pick up her sapphire ring from the kitchen window sill. She slipped it on and brought the vase of fresh cut flowers, that she’d moved for the baking, back to the middle of the table. Long elegant stems dripping with what looked like purple bells, they were the same colour as the polka dots on the table cloth. Clarissa always managed to have everything matching.
But Genevieve wasn’t thinking about the flowers as she crossed her arms, her bangles jangling.
‘I’ve had a bad feeling about this week for ages. That troll has been back on Twitter, and Facebook now. The young one who’s running the accounts finds it hilarious, but really there’s nothing funny at all about the sheer nastiness of it. I’m not going to tell Tess, by the way.’ Gen looked hard at her mother. ‘And don’t you, either. Tess has just got so much riding on the success of the opening weekend, she doesn’t need more worry. I know she’s got huge experience in running events, but I don’t think she’s been sleeping. She really doesn’t need to know her stalker is on the warpath again.’ Genevieve could feel her own anxiety arcing in the warm air like electricity. ‘God, as if a troll isn’t bad enough, Conor’s accident is just awful.’
Positioning the vase, Clarissa pursed her lips and gave the table a final wipe.
‘What makes you think she’s not sleeping? She must be exhausted by the time she hits her bed.’
She moved over beside Gen to rinse the cloth, folding it meticulously on the side of the white porcelain Belfast sink.
Genevieve grimaced. ‘Just something she said the other day.’
Clarissa looked at her, her perfectly shaped eyebrows raised. ‘Could you give me a clue? There’s no point in hinting and not telling me.’
‘I could be wrong.’
‘I doubt it, you’ve known her a long time. Through thick and thin, as they say.’
‘It’s the thin I’m worried about.’ Genevieve sighed. ‘I called in on Tuesday after the auction. And she was just very quiet. When she’s stressed the nightmares come back, and normally she takes tablets, but I’m guessing she doesn’t want to so close to opening in case they affect her during the day. Once she gets through the weekend, it’ll still be full on, but she can relax a bit.’
Clarissa picked up her reading glasses from the centre of the open cookery book she’d been using and hooked them onto the top of her apron. The lenses were half-moon-shaped, in plastic frames of an otherworldly green, not dissimilar to the colour of pond weed.
‘What did she say?’
‘It wasn’t so much what she said, it was what she didn’t say.’ Glancing out of the door to make sure Malachi was still fully occupied, Gen moved away from the counter and pulled out one of the kitchen chairs. There was a dusting of flour on the seat. She brushed it off with her hand, shaking her head at the proffered cloth. A bit of flour was the least of her worries; her summer dresses were a flowing patchwork of florals and the flour wouldn’t show. Sitting down, she continued. ‘We went into the office so she could show me the maps of the estate and where everything is going to go. I mean, she’s got it all worked out with military precision. I’ve never seen so many spreadsheets.’
Twisting behind her, Clarissa picked up a glass from the draining board and ran some water into it from the tap.
‘Go on.’
Gen put her elbow on the table and rubbed her face with her hand. She was tired and it wasn’t even the end of the week; she didn’t know how Tess was coping.
‘It stresses me just thinking about it, in all honesty. But you know that bowl she has, the Japanese kintsugi one?’
Clarissa took a sip of her water and, realising Genevieve had left her own glass on the counter, picked it up and put it in front of her on the table.
‘That bowl is such a beautiful blue, the gold along the cracks just enhances it.’
Gen toyed with her glass. ‘I know, but she was looking at it and she made a comment about how the Japanese are positive thinkers – how they can make something broken more beautiful by adding the gold to repair the cracks.’
Staring at the bubbles rising around the ice in her water, Gen paused.
‘I’m so annoyed that I can’t remember exactly what she said, but it was more how she said it. It really pulled me up. It was something like that despite the repairs, the cracks remain no matter how we try to disguise them, and that the gold can’t take away the darkness inside the bowl.’
‘That sounds a bit deep. What did you think she was talking about?’
Gen looked up at Clarissa and let out a loud sigh. ‘Herself, of course. You know how long it took her to recover after the accident, what with running away to Dubai. I always felt she should have gone to the trial, to put everything to rest. Giving evidence by video link keeps you removed.’
‘Perhaps that’s what she needed – to stay removed. You didn’t go.’
‘I know. With Tess not being there, it didn’t feel like my place. I wasn’t there that night. Me being in the court wouldn’t have helped anyone. You went with her parents for the sentencing. It was a parents’ thing.’
Clarissa sighed. ‘I ended up spending most of the trial in the ladies with Kieran’s mum. I can see why people say attending is important for closure, but honestly I’m not sure it did her any good.’
‘The judge giving that bastard Adam O’Donnell four years for the death of her son was the bit that didn’t do her any good.’
Clarissa pursed her lips. ‘You really think it’s causing Tess trouble again now?’
‘When something as traumatic as that happens, it never really leaves you.’ Gen paused. ‘What’s worrying me now, is how she’s going to cope with Conor’s accident on top of everything else. And then there’s this troll. The comments are getting more and more personal, apparently. I mean, what if he turns up at the house?’
Chapter 7
TESS REALISED HER hand was shaking as she reached across her kitchen table for her phone. Another text. Did this Jerry Lynch character have nothing else to do?
Once Conor had been stabilised and evacuated, she and Aidan had calmed everyone down, assuring them that all the lighting would be double-checked before any rehearsals continued. Then she’d sat down on the edge of the stage to take a few minutes to gather herself, conscious that her phone was hopping but unable to look at it. Right then, she only had so much headspace to deal with disaster, and it was all used up.
She was sure that they wouldn’t hear anything about Conor and his injuries for at least a few hours, and there were things that had to be done before the day was out: Aidan needed to write an accident report; she needed to call the insurance company. And they both needed to decide what happened next.
And that was even before she started thinking about bodies again, or if something more sinister was going on. She mentally stopped herself. There wasn’t anything much more sinister than having a serial killer hanging around the place. What on earth was she thinking? If it did turn out to be true, and there was a body here, it was way worse than it not being true, even if the Twitter troll was at the heart of some sort of campaign of intimidation. But she was getting ahead of herself. Catastrophising wasn’t going to help Conor. He was the clear and present issue here – wasn’t that the phrase they used in the movies?
Now, sitting in her kitchen with Aidan, two mugs of strong coffee in front of them, Tess took a deep breath and tried to focus. He’d sat her down the minute they’d got inside and had put on her all-singing-all-dancing machine, the smell of grinding beans a comfort in the madness of the day.
Perhaps keeping busy was his way to stay calm, too.
From working in Dubai to now, Tess had organised all sorts of things, some of which had subsequently gone wrong. Her events team had been responsible for all of the prince’s entertaining, from diplomats to foreign heads of state, and everything from a political faux pas to a food allergy had happened at some stage. Whenever anything went pear-shaped, they’d held their nerve and afterwards, when they could breathe again, the phrase ‘nobody died’ was meant with sincerity.
Right now, the irony wasn’t lost on her. This time she had everything she owned tied up in Kilfenora, and it would be touch-and-go for Conor for more than the next few days. Tess had thought she’d had all the bad luck that could ever manifest in her life land on her the summer after her finals, but clearly she’d been wrong.
‘We have to keep going, you know. We can’t cancel.’ Leaning back in his chair, Aidan ran his hand over his buzz cut, grimacing as he said it. ‘Liam knows all the lines, and he’s the right age – he can play Faustus.’
Looking at her phone, only half listening, Tess took a shaky breath. She’d missed several calls from Lynch, as well as his nonstop texts. She tried to focus on what Aidan was saying about continuing, clearing her throat before she answered.
‘We’ll need to get the all-clear from the insurance assessor – he’s coming out tomorrow. Do you think they’ll want to keep going? The rest of the cast, I mean.’
‘Absolutely. I’ll talk to them.’
She nodded slowly. Could she ask them to go on after this? It would definitely come better from Aidan. They had a sellout month ahead of them, with two shows a week, and a press reception organised for Friday night. Cancellation would be a logistical nightmare, to say nothing of the cost. Sliding her chair back, Tess stood up.
‘I’m sorry, I missed a call earlier. I’ll just be two minutes.’
Aidan picked up his coffee, sending her a sympathetic smile. He was so calm, had been since she’d arrived in the ballroom.
At least one of them was.
Tess looked at Lynch’s latest text. This had to be the fourth this afternoon. And there was still nothing from the local Garda inspector, so the only way she was going to find out was happening was to ask more questions.
He picked up after one ring.
‘This is Tess Morgan. Sorry I missed your call.’ Tess bit her lip. Why was she apologising?
‘Thanks for getting back to me.’ Lynch sounded as if he was inside now, somewhere a lot quieter than he had been the last time she’d spoken to him.
‘Can you tell me about this tip-off? Why haven’t the guards been in touch with me?’
‘The information’s come from a reliable source inside Mountjoy jail.’ Lynch paused. Tess almost rolled her eyes at the irony of his statement. She was sure everyone in Mountjoy was super reliable. Characters without blemish.
‘Go on.’
‘I’m working with a TV crew on a new programme called Unsolved. We’re bringing in a forensic psychologist and a geographical profiler – all sorts of experts, actually – to see if they can find new evidence in a series of unsolved and cold cases.’
‘And you’re working with the Gardai?’ In the back of her mind, Tess remembered reading something about a new cold case unit being formed in Dublin. Clarissa had mentioned it, but she was much more interested in that sort of thing than Tess.
‘We’re alerting the Gardai to our findings, yes.’
Tess frowned. That sounded like a heavily disguised ‘no’ on the ‘working with’ part of her question.
‘And what does this tipster say, exactly?’
‘He believes several bodies have been buried on the edge of the Kilfenora estate where it borders the national park.’
‘Several?’ Tess felt her knees go a little weak. This just kept on getting better. ‘The guards didn’t seem to know anything about it when I spoke to them.’
‘We’ve alerted the team dealing with the Radio Snatcher disappearances, but they need more evidence before they can commit resources. Which is why I need to talk to you. We want to bring cadaver dogs and a film crew up and see what’s in the area that’s been highlighted.’
What was she supposed to say to that – sorry, I’m a bit busy at the moment, or yes please, roll on in and make my land a crime scene? There was no good answer. She could see the headlines tomorrow: ‘Landowner refuses access to possible murder site.’
‘I’m going to need to think about this. And see a map. Can you email me the details please? Precisely what sort of access you require, all your insurance information, who these experts are.’
‘No problem. We are hoping to get down on Thursday.’
‘As I say, I’ll have to think about it. We’ve a major event happening next weekend. I have to consider the safety of the public if there are people digging holes all over the place. I’m not sure the timing would be ideal.’
The safety of the public? She wasn’t even sure where that one had come from, but it sounded plausible.
‘Obviously the sooner we can get access, the sooner we can see if the information is correct.’
Tess closed her eyes for a moment. She felt like saying that if there was anyone buried there, they’d been dead for at least eight years so they weren’t likely to be going anywhere fast, but it really didn’t feel like the right time. Then her PR brain kicked in.
‘I presume you want to keep this out of the public eye until you have a broadcast date, and have done your editing? And you don’t want Eoin Doyle leaving the state as soon as he gets wind of something happening?’
‘God no, we need to keep everything under wraps.’
Tess cut in, ‘So it might be best to wait until later next week when there are fewer people here? The place is going to be packed over the weekend.’ She paused. ‘Email me all the details and we can go from there.’ Her tone was much more confident than she felt.
Hanging up, Tess looked at her phone. Eoin Doyle had been a suspect in the Radio Snatcher case. That much she knew was true, but the rest? According to local gossip, quite a few people had met sticky ends over the years on this estate, but this was the first she’d heard of a connection with the Radio Snatcher.
But what was really worrying Tess, was whether all this was linked somehow to the Twitter troll. Could he be the Radio Snatcher? The abuse had begun when she’d started tweeting about the house restoration and her plans for the estate. Was he trying to frighten her off the land that he knew hid evidence that could lead directly to him?
Chapter 8
‘WHERE ON EARTH are you going?’
