They climbed from the car. It wasn't until she stood that she realized her knees were still trembling from the ride to the factory.
"Oh yes. But you should really ask Jimmy O'Neil about that. Ah, and here's himself. James!"
A short man clad in a worn black suit emerged from the front door. The most startling aspect was his hair, luxurious swirls of pure white, culminating in a stiff brush on the top of his head. The overall effect reminded Maura of a cockatoo.
The man waved and then said something in a strange, guttural language.
Charles MacGuire laughed and nodded. "Right you are! And this is Maura Finnegan."
He extended his hand and again said something. And again, Charles chuckled.
"I'm sorry," she apologized. "I don't speak Gaelic. But it's nice to meet you."
Both men stared at her in befuddlement. Charles leaned toward her. "What on earth are you talking about?"
"Didn't he just speak Gaelic?"
"No. He just addressed you in perfect English."
The man made another indecipherable comment, and again both men turned towards Maura.
She realized she was expected to say something. "Oh. How nice," she stammered.
The men exchanged glances, and Jimmy O'Neil shrugged before Charles spoke.
"What's gotten into you, Maura? He just said that Rosie Cahair up the road died. Granted, she was well into her nineties, but still. . ."
"I'm so terribly sorry! I'm just, well... I suppose my ears are still messed up from the flight over, and I didn't get much sleep."
The men nodded, Charles with the slightest of frowns, and then Jimmy O'Neil said something else. Maura followed Charles's cue, and together they all went into the factory.
It was a dark, low-ceilinged place, and as Maura walked she was aware of wood shavings beneath her feet. A few men were hunched over sawhorses, two were having a cup of tea from tin mugs. Hanging from the ceiling were seatless chairs, legless tables, and pieces of wood that could not be identified as any sort of furniture.
Jimmy kept up a running narration, during which she was torn between looking in the direction he pointed and staring at his face in the hope that a word or phrase might become understandable.
Whatever the problem was, she seemed to be the only person who had any difficulty understanding the man. And when the other workers were introduced, she was able to speak to them, to comprehend if not every word, then at least every other word.
Jimmy O'Neil said something, and Charles agreed. "What a grand idea! What do you think, Maura?"
"Oh, well, yes. I wish I'd thought of it myself."
"Then it's done! Shall we?"
She smiled as they left the factory. Jimmy O'Neil seemed to be in a state of great excitement, and he made a dash for Charles MacGuire's car and dived in the backseat. He didn't seem to mind the trash and refuse, his face beaming with anticipation.
Maura reluctantly slid into the passenger's seat, stopping herself before she began the futile search for a seat belt.
"So will tomorrow do then, Maura?" Charles asked as he threw the emergency brake.
"Tomorrow? For what?"
He didn't look over his shoulder before roaring into the street. "To meet the fellow who's interested in the factory. Blast, what's his name again, Jimmy?"
Jimmy O'Neil said something that sounded like "Blafferbonner."
"Of course." Charles nodded. "His name is Donal Byrne. A young, bright fellow from what I can tell."
"Um, where are we going, Charles?"
"Now weren't you listening?"
Jimmy made a comment that was apparently hilarious. The men began to discuss where they were going, but Maura could only understand Charles's half of the conversation. She gathered their destination was but a few feet from Merrion Square, and she could be home in two shakes. The official name of where they were going was Doherty and Nesbitt, but everyone simply called it Nesbitt's. Charles described the place with the sonorous tone of a tour guide, the historical and literary significance as well as the fine architecture of the building.
Jimmy added his own thoughts, and Charles seemed to heartily agree.
"Ha! So it's a building!" Maura exclaimed. They ignored her.
There seemed to be a brief exchange about the value of the splendid sign, the exact sapphire hue of the Bay of Dublin. Although it had been founded in 1867, making it new by Irish standards, it was most certainly considered one of the most monumental sites in the country by those in the know.
But what they failed to mention to her was that Nesbitt's was a pub.
It didn't seem possible that so many people could fit into such a small place.
By early evening many of the patrons had spilled onto Lower Baggot Street, clutching their pints and chatting with amiable abandon as they used the scuffed hoods of cars as sofas. Maura recognized many of the people from the night before at the Shelbourne, others merely looked familiar. She managed a counterfeit smile of recognition to all of those who seemed to know her.
The pub became a sea of faces, bobbing with a crushing tide of affability. She noticed several partitions dividing the bar, frosted glass and wood trapdoors with round knobs, and was informed that they were called snugs, providing patrons at the turn of the century with a way to avoid their wives when the unfortunate women would peek through the door to check on their spouses.
Other bits of information free-floated into her mind. Everyone there professed to be writing a book, although a gentleman with a somber voice warned that the Irish tended to talk their books rather than actually commit them to paper.
Again they would not allow Maura to buy drinks, until she realized she should simply buy them without consulting the patron first. The publican knew exactly who was drinking what and managed to tally a half-dozen bills accurately in his head, all while pouring additional pints and singing a rousing interpretation of "The Foggy Dew."
After a while, a remarkable thing happened. Someone tapped her arm and said, "Mind your purse."
She turned, and it was Jimmy O'Neil. She understood what he had said!
"Thank you!"
He nodded. "This can be a rough bunch," he added.
This reminded her of the language lab in high school, where you would plug into a dialogue in French, and after a while it all made sense. Suddenly she could understand every word Jimmy O'Neal was saying, as he began a poetic description of a swivel dowel versus a regular hinge on a settle table. She had no idea what he meant, but it sounded lovely just the same.
Perhaps it was the stout he had consumed or her own wine but the man was a natural born conversationalist.
Later she would wonder what time she finally got home. Although she was escorted home by eleven men, including Jimmy O'Neil, no one seemed certain of the precise hour. It was late, it was dark, and Maura had never been more exhausted in her life.
That was her last thought before she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Then something woke her up.
She felt the slow wave of alertness creep over her limbs with languor. The last thing she wanted to do was leave her sleepy sanctuary. It was too comfortable, too wonderfully soothing to relinquish. She had waited so long for such a perfect slumber, and now something was forcing her eyes open.
With reluctance she took a deep breath and struggled to rouse herself, rubbing a weak hand over her eyes. She recalled falling into bed fully dressed and gave a smile at the evening in Nesbitt's. Straitlaced, stick-in-the-mud Maura had actually closed down a pub! For those blissful moments, with everyone laughing and telling outrageous tales, she had become one of the crowd. She had managed to forget her own problems for the evening, allowing herself nothing more grave to ponder than enjoying the company.
There was a noise downstairs.
All remnants of sleep evaporated. The lights were blazing throughout the house. She had forgotten to turn them off. Whoever it was seemed undeterred by the thought of running into her.
Her heart fl
ipped and began pounding as if she had just run a mile. Had she locked the door properly? She remembered flicking the latch, but she may not have clicked it all the way. Old locks are temperamental and...
He was climbing the stairs. She could tell the intruder was a man. Although he was careful enough to be quiet, the steps were creaking louder than they did with her weight. Oh God, she thought. Oh God. As in a bad dream, she was unable to find her voice. Her throat felt as dry as sandpaper. She was alone; there was no one to turn to.
This was just like her old nightmare, all by herself in a strange country. Yet this was worse, far worse than her childish imaginings had been.
Now she could hear him just beyond the bedroom door. Why hadn't she bolted the bedroom door shut or at least closed it? It was wide open, inviting anyone to enter.
He paused, for the creaking stopped for a moment before it resumed.
"Please," her small voice cracked. It was a soft plea, barely audible. She clutched the bedcovers, knuckles white with futile strength, her gaze darting frantically about the room. There was nowhere to hide.
She was about to squeeze her eyes shut, not wanting to see the intruder. Another part of her forced her eyes to remain open, wide and alert. If these were going to be her last few minutes of life, she wanted to be fully cognizant. And then he entered the room. He was a stranger, a man she had never seen before. She knew that the instant she saw him. And he was wearing a peculiar outfit—a loose white shirt, tightly fitted breeches, and knee-high leather boots. His hair fell just below his shoulders, thick and dark, tied into a ponytail with what appeared to be leather, perhaps a piece of brown cloth.
His features were obscured by his stance as he turned away, distracted. From his commanding presence alone she would have recognized him, had she ever seen him before. His back was toward her, a broad, muscular back. He did not seem aware of her presence.
Her thoughts tumbled with a detached lucidity. He didn't know she lived there now. The place had been vacant for so long.
The intruder bent down. She watched his movements. Graceful, he was so graceful for such a strong man. She looked at his boots. They seemed to gleam even in muted light.
He turned, and at last she would have been able to see his profile, at least part of his face. But he raked his fingers through his hair, loosening a lock from the fastening.
And then he turned to her, hands clenched in anxious frustration. His eyes were startling. Although she couldn't tell what color they were, they were bright and animated. Keen intelligence seemed to glow even from across the room. His features were strong and masculine without being harsh, his forehead broad and free of lines, straight eyebrows a shade or two darker than the sun-lightened hair. His nose was classically handsome, not the pert nose of a boy but the defined, slightly irregular nose of someone who had led an active, perhaps even reckless life. His bit his lip, and for a moment she saw a flash of very white teeth.
Amazingly, he still failed to see her. Although his eyes searched in her direction, there was no startle of discovery, no hint that he saw her cowering in the bed. The intruder's apparel seemed strange for a burglar. He looked as if he had just been riding, and she even imagined a far-away fragrance of horses. With swift movements he walked across the room toward her. She almost called out for him to be careful. Her two bulky suitcases were directly in his path.
Instead of stumbling, he moved right through her bags, his legs translucent until he reached the other side.
At that moment Maura Finnegan realized her intruder was a ghost.
Her hand clamped over her mouth to prevent herself from screaming. After a few shuddering breaths, her eyes still following him, she could see a blurry view of a chair through his torso. He paused, his shoulders moving as if he had just taken a great swallow of air, and again pushed his hair back with his hand.
Maura removed her hand from over her mouth. "Hello," she whispered.
He did not hear her. She repeated herself, her voice surprisingly strong and steady, but again there was no indication that he could hear her.
"May I help you with anything?" Maura asked with the polite tone of a shopkeeper.
Suddenly he left the bedroom.
Without thinking, she hopped off the bed and followed him. His movements were so fast she nearly tumbled down the stairs. Only her desperate grasp of the banister saved her from falling.
She did not take her eyes off him as he entered the yellow parlor.
"Hello," she repeated as she followed him into the empty room. Her voice seemed louder and more confident now that she knew he couldn't possibly hear her.
The ghost began to touch the wallpaper, searching and probing with his strong fingers. His hands were large and well formed, but she noticed the little finger on his left hand was slightly bent and crooked.
"Did you break that finger?" she asked. Out of sheer nervousness she began to giggle. "Get a grip, Finnegan," she muttered, folding her arms across her chest. The room suddenly felt terribly cold, a damp, full chill.
As he moved she watched him, powerful features betraying urgency. He seemed to be breathing hard. She couldn't hear a sound, even though she was now close enough to touch him, to be aware of his every expression, every subtle change on the exquisite face, every sound he would have made.
If only he were alive.
She reached out a finger, slowly, tentatively.
"I'm not afraid of you," she said, surprised because the moment the words had escaped her lips, she realized they were true. "I want to help you."
At that he froze, all movement ceased. For a startling second she thought he had heard her. A thrill rushed through her at the thought, and she was about to speak again when he winced and ran from the room,
Maura blinked and after a moment followed him down the stairs. The front door flew open, and again she wondered if she had locked it. He ran down the outside steps and paused for a few moments. Then he seemed to relax, glancing to the left, then to the right. His hair was slightly curly, she noticed, at least at the ends, where it rested against his back.
He turned to go back up the steps and stopped, his gaze directly on her.
"Hello," she said, stepping back.
A vague smile formed on his lips. "Well, I'll be damned." His voice was low, and later she wasn't sure if she had actually heard him or if she had simply read his lips.
Suddenly he jerked forward, as if hit in the back by a powerful whack. On his face was an expression of surprise and anger and then pain, a terrible agony.
"Are you hurt?" Her voice was tight.
He stumbled forward on the steps, arm outstretched, and she ran toward him. A crimson stain spread on the back of his white shirt, just below the ends of his hair. Yet she saw no one else, heard no other sounds. She took another step forward, grasping at her ghost as he crumpled to the ground.
And then he was gone.
She whirled around, frantically searching, but there was nothing on the steps but a few dried leaves.
Nothing.
Her ghost was gone.
She sniffed. There was a distinct odor, a mingling of smells. One was of a fireplace, and she glanced up at the rooftops of Merrion Square, the old-fashioned stacks upon each house. Across the street was the walled-in park, the center of Merrion Square, with trees and flowers and benches.
The other aroma was pungent and metallic. It was a fragrance she recognized from an awful day of duck hunting a few years earlier. It was the smell of blood.
She walked back into the house in a daze, carefully locking the front door, bolting it firmly. Then she wandered through the home, methodically flicking off the light switches as she progressed. The sun was just beginning to lighten the sky and the rooms. Soon it would be time to get up.
Her watch read four-thirty in the morning. How long had the entire episode taken? It couldn't have been more than thirty minutes from the time she first heard her ghost to the time he disappeared.
Her ghost.
Funny, she thought, stepping over the luggage he had so easily glided through, she was thinking of him as "her ghost." She sank back onto the bed, thoughts rioting. And somehow, even after witnessing a long-ago homicide, she fell into a restless sleep. chapter 5
The only logical explanation Maura could think of the next morning was that the ghost had been a hallucination. It made sense that after her first full day in Ireland, which ended, not incidentally, in a pub, she would have imagined seeing a ghost. And not just any ghost but the spirit of Fitzwilliam Connolly.
This sort of thing had happened once before in college. It had been during final exams in her junior year, when she had pulled two consecutive all-nighters studying for a statistics exam. As she walked across the campus for the test, she passed the statue of the Virgin Mary. And the statue gave her a high-five sign, veil waving in the wind, with all of the sideline ebullience of Vince Lombardi.
When Maura gave a second glance, the statue was again motionless stone, the veil stiff and unyielding. Whether it had really happened, if the old piece of stone had actually waved encouragement or if too
little sleep and too much caffeine had caused her to snap she never knew. What she did know was that she aced the final, much to her own surprise, not to mention that of her professor. In the end it didn't really matter what had prompted the success, her studying or the statue. It had been miraculous in any case. All she had been certain of was the result.
Perhaps seeing Fitzwilliam Connolly was the same sort of thing. It was almost laughable. And she did indeed giggle a few times as she dressed, her hair still wet from the shower.
Clearly she was falling under the spell of the house, and her imagination couldn't help but be sparked by her new surroundings. There was something enchanting about the place, about the uneven walls and sagging steps, the thickly painted windowpanes, the lopsided doorways and old, broken bits of hardware worn down to a smooth sheen of such softness it seemed more like gentle, aging flesh than lifeless brass. It was a house that had seen so much life, the very walls itself seemed to have absorbed a very real sense of mortality.