Suddenly he heard a scraping noise—no, it was the wind disturbing a bush nearby. Was this an omen, warning him to leave the area? The sky was ominous; maybe he should leave now—right now. He could try to move the dirt with his foot; maybe the stone would be loose. How tempting! He came to his senses, realizing this may not be the actual property. He had not ventured further down the road. What a joke if there was a similar piece of land close by! He would check further to rule out similar properties. Messing around with the stone would leave indentations in the damp soil. There was mossy grass along this wall, and he didn’t need to leave any evidence of the soil being disturbed in a specific area. He would walk away. It was time to check for other possible properties.
He rode his bike back to the car, making it just before the rain picked up. Perhaps the property being for sale was the better option; there would be fewer questions about his interest. He drove along for miles until he was in another town. There were no places on the right hand side of the road that remotely resembled Sister’s description. He became convinced he had the right property. It was time to speak with the realtor.
He drove back to town and rapped on Sean Flannery’s lion’s head knocker.
“Hello there; come in,” a voice called.
Michael opened the door and stepped inside. “Good afternoon,” he said in a timid voice. He felt very much out of his element, unsure how to handle the conversation.
An older lady was sitting at the desk. Her hair and dress were old-fashioned. His eyes focused on her cluttered desk. She brushed her hair back and stood up, straightening her dress.
“I would like to enquire about a little property outside of town.”
“Aye, and which one would that be?”
“It is not far out of Duleek, going north on the right hand side of the road. There is a small older cottage and the stone perimeter of an original barn. It has very little land; your sign is in the front yard.”
“To be sure, that property is an estate sale. And would ya be an American?”
“Yes ma’am. My name is Michael Evans. I’m here on holiday—taking pictures of your fantastic countryside.”
“Aileen O’Reilly.” She reached over the desk and gave Michael a hearty handshake. “Sean is not here this week—his mother passed on, ya know.” She bustled through several papers, continuing to brush errant wisps of hair from her eyes. “But I can give you some information.”
“I’m interested in having a little piece of land in Ireland. My ancestors are Irish on my mother’s side. Do you know how much they are asking for the property?”
She continued to rummage through the reams of paper on her desk. “Here are some details—it will be on the market for the next two months. If it is not sold by then, I believe it’ll be up for auction. This is a case of a woman who died, leaving her property to a nun living in the States. We found record of the nun’s death, and she had no heirs. The taxes are now overdue. It has been for sale for quite a while. Of course, more details of the property would be up to Mr. Flannery.”
“Please, explain the auction process.”
“Let me see. There will be a minimum price declared, and you would contact a lawyer to search the title on the property. You would provide a bank guarantee, stating you were in possession of adequate funds to enter the auction process. If you won the bid, you would put down a deposit and pay the rest within a short period of time.”
Michael’s mind was racing at this point. He was trying to stay ahead of the conversation, still remaining casual. “Would I be able to have the property surveyed and check to see if the stone remains are of any use?”
“Aye, but most folks just leave the remains where they be. We call these structures relics of a time gone by. The surveyin’ has been done due to the pending auction.”
“Is it possible to have someone representing me at the auction?”
“I think so. There is a solicitor over in the next town who…”
“Wait a minute—did you say there is a price on it now?”
“Aye lad. One hundred thousand Euros is what they’re askin’. ‘Tis a fair price, I might add.”
“Would it be all right if I walked around the property?”
“Of course, just let me know when.”
“Is tomorrow morning convenient? I may leave town soon.”
“Fine, then. Just give me your passport and the license number of your car. Then no one will be botherin’ you.”
“What would the usual deposit be if I chose to make an offer?”
“Two thousand Euros should hold it until the final papers. It would probably take sixty days to close.”
Michael’s brain was working at breakneck speed. What else should he ask her?
“Have there been any other offers?”
“Nay. There was one older gentleman a couple of weeks ago, inquiring, but he never came back. Strange, he seemed more curious about the former owner than purchasing the land. It’s a small place—no room for crops or livestock. That’s why it’s not more expensive. Most you could do is renovate the little farmhouse and grow a vegetable garden.”
Michael froze. Was this the same man who came to the convent? It was farfetched, but possible. “Is that gentleman still in town?”
“I haven’t seen him; I don’t think he was from these parts—maybe Dublin.”
Michael interrupted, “Did he have a cane?”
“Aye, well, he did have a cane. Do ya know him?”
“No, not personally; I did see a man out that way the other day. He was limping and used a cane. Anyway, what are the loose ends when buying this land from an estate sale?”
“We had one last year. The fellow died with no living heirs—they even included his car in the auction. There were no problems. We have had other Americans buy in this area with no complications. In this case, everything has been searched and the county is satisfied there are no living heirs.”
Michael’s thought was to tie this up with a little of Sister’s cash. That is—if he found the cover. He walked back to the car and sat mulling over the conversation. If he found the cover, would he want the property? He was getting ahead of himself; for him the big thing was his next foray.
His main goal now was access without witnesses. The ground was very damp, a definite plus. He could be spotted if he carried a shovel onto the property. Maybe the trowel would do; he could conceal that. At least he knew why the home was for sale, and more important, he now knew he had the correct cottage. Perhaps Abreanne never needed citizenship or paperwork. She was in a private convent. He wanted to seek out the cover before Sean Flannery returned. He would call Sara to review his next move.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Michael was very excited to relay the new information he had discovered. “Hey Sara, it’s me again.”
“Hey, Michael! What’s up?”
“Well, I am very interested in this property I mentioned the other day, and it’s for sale.”
“How long has it been on the market?”
“For a while. It’ll be auctioned off if it’s not sold within a couple of months. The realtor’s secretary said that it was left to a nun in the States, but she passed away. The county took it over when the taxes were overdue.”
“Are you thinking of purchasing it?”
“I think I could afford the down payment to keep it on hold. There is one other thing—there was an older guy asking about it a few weeks ago. The secretary said she didn’t get the impression he was all that interested in the property, just the former owners, and she hasn’t seen him since. She said he limped and walked with a cane.” There was a long silence on the other end; Michael knew what Sara was thinking.
“Perhaps you should act fast. Have you been able to walk around and check it out yet?”
“The realtor is away for the rest of the week. The secretary gave me permission to explore in more detail tomorrow morning. Yes, I did a little walk around, but not in depth.”
??
?Go for it—you’ve got nothing to lose. By the way, I have found a friend for you to visit if you travel to Switzerland.”
“Really?”
“Yes, you two have common interests. Please let me know if I should contact him.”
“Good to know. If I travel to the continent, I’ll let you know. Any other news?”
“Same old stuff. I’m really enjoying the kitty. Father Murphy dropped over the other day—he asked about you.”
The long distance static became too loud. “We don’t have a great connection; say hello to all. I’ll be in touch soon.”
“God speed, Michael.”
Michael hung up with reluctance. The whole conversation was too businesslike. He wanted her to share the excitement, but it seemed to get lost over the miles. Perhaps it was due to the ambiguity of his information. He really didn’t think he needed to be secretive, but he wanted to take all precautions. He wondered—who was the guy asking about the former owner of the property? It sure sounded like it was the same man who came to the convent. Then again, lots of older people had limps and canes.
Allowing his feelings to surface momentarily, he realized how much he missed Sara and the whole gang. Going it alone far from home had its consequences, and missing Sara was one of them. His courage factor was less than optimal. This feeling was unusual for him; he needed to stay cool and intellectualize the whole thing. He would take Sara’s advice and get his ducks in a row on the nanny’s property.
*******
He started out the following morning, feeling secure he had located the property on Sister’s map. He had renewed hope of finding the treasure; inch by inch, the odds were improving. There was a gentle rain, just enough to be annoying. He drove onto the property and walked around, looking at the stone fencing and the cottage. After an appropriate amount of time, he made his way over to the northeast corner of the stone perimeter. He stood trancelike, staring at the fifth stone and contemplating his next move.
Suddenly, a voice came from behind him.
“Mornin’ to ya.”
Michael froze in his tracks, his mind racing. He chose to take a deep breath before he turned around. He wanted to give himself time to develop some sort of casual manner. He turned gradually as he collected himself, “Good morning to you, sir.” He surprised himself with his calm response. It was in complete contrast from his inner turmoil, which was in four-alarm mode.
The two men stared at each other for what seemed like an extraordinary amount of time. Michael feigned his best smile and waited for the stranger to speak. The pause gave him a sense of control over the unexpected encounter.
Finally, the farmer spoke. “Can I help ya, lad?”
Michael stepped forward; a large, weathered, gnarly hand grasped Michael’s and shook it in a friendly manner. The man’s face, worn with years of inclement weather revealed deep blue eyes that appeared to be looking right through Michael. He wore a heavy Harris tweed jacket and tweed cap.
“I’m Michael Evans, visiting from the States. I am curious about this property; I have always wanted to have a little piece of land in Ireland.”
“Aye, well, this is indeed a ‘wee’ plot of land. No room for crofting or farming—maybe a truck garden.”
“I spoke with Mr. Flannery’s secretary. She gave me permission to look around. How long has it been for sale?”
“Not long.”
Michael was dealing with a man of few words. His experience interacting with this type of person was usually good. He found them to be truthful and succinct, with very little rhetoric. His role was to be straightforward and concise in return. Although he had found Irish people to be generally chattier, he thought he could feel his way through this conversation.
“Did you know the lady who owned the property?”
“No. That’s a pretty big camera you have there.”
“It’s a hobby for me—taking landscape pictures. I’m fond of farmland.”
The farmer had lost interest in the conversation. “Well, I’ll be leaving you, lad. I’m looking for my dog. If she comes by, give me a holler. Good luck to ya.”
“I will look around a while and take some pictures. I’ll keep an eye out for your dog.”
Without a word, the lanky man strolled away. He seemed in no hurry to get out of the wetness.
He reviewed his conversation with the farmer. Damn, it would have been nice to get a little more information. It was fortunate he wasn’t digging around when he arrived.
Just to be safe, he walked around for a while longer, taking some pictures and checking to see if anyone else was in sight. He noticed a light on in the farmer’s house and a black and white speck running around in the yard. Feeling more secure, he proceeded back to his area of interest. He could take his penknife and pick around the top and sides of the stone. He did not want to disturb the moss, although, he could carve the moss out like a piece of sod and tamp it back down later. His main purpose was to make the ground appear undisturbed.
It seemed to take forever. He removed dirt from the two sides and the top of the fifth stone. He could see tiny specks of light through to the other side. The stone seemed a little loose, although it wouldn’t budge. He walked to the other side of the stone wall. After scanning the horizon, he kicked the stone with his steel-toed boot. After a few minutes, the stone wiggled a bit. With more prodding, it was still in place, but loose enough to move a little.
Sauntering back to the other side of the wall, he assumed the stance of a prospective buyer. He fingered different stones, appearing inquisitive about the whole structure. He could not describe the anxiety and anticipation he was experiencing. It was an ominous feeling to think someone could be watching him, but there was no one in sight. Once inside, he kicked the stone to a perpendicular position, allowing it to wedge sideways but remain a support for the stones above. If the stone were completely removed, perhaps the whole wall would shift, or even worse, collapse. He had no engineering knowledge; making any structural decision would be juvenile at best.
He scraped the dirt directly below the stone, he felt comfortable with his approach. If the farmer returned, he could explain that he wanted to know how much wall support came from below ground level. It was not clear to Michael if there was a subterranean row of stones. He decided to insert his knife straight down and see what happened. The earth was relatively workable as he inserted the knife. He embraced a flicker of optimism; his actions were robotic, almost mind-numbing. He was having trouble focusing. His blade hit something; perhaps it was a subterranean stone. The knife sounded like it was hitting an object softer than stone. His heart leapt into his throat—what to do? Keep on, or cover it up? He stood up; he could see the farmer’s shadow in the window of his home. It was a tossup. He fought his impulsive side and lost.
He sunk the knife in several more areas under the stone, hitting something hard, like wood. He plunged his knife in again in order to feel if there were perimeters to the wooden-like obstruction. He sat back in a hunched position. What were his options? Surely the first choice was to twist the stone back, walk away, and plot his next move. The main concern was not to raise suspicion. He was wearing the right clothing to conceal anything he found. If this article was placed upright, he could probably get it out without disrupting too much soil. Most likely it was lengthwise; if so, he would have to move the stone aside and disrupt surrounding stones. He was too close to an answer; he couldn’t walk away.
The stone was shoved to the outside, leaving just about two inches still supporting the area. He was perspiring to the point of wiping his brow. The hardened area was wood; he could see it. He scraped away the thin layer of damp dirt. It was either a piece of timber—or maybe a wooden box! He was dripping sweat onto the ground; his hands shook uncontrollably.
After thirty arduous minutes, he had the box! Michael quickly put it in his backpack. He didn’t care what was in it—he just wanted it out of sight. He scrambled to reconstruct the area. He tamped the sod down a
nd breathed a gigantic sigh of relief. The area looked pretty good. As he glanced around, he saw there were some stones that had fallen away from the structure in another area of the wall. He moved a couple of smaller stones over to the disturbed area, making the area look more or less untouched. He put on his poncho over the backpack and strode back to the car. As a finishing touch on his ruse, he took a couple of flash pictures in the dusky light. His final shot captured the brilliant oranges and fuchsias of the sunset against the aubergine-tinted clouds. It was good to have pictures of this momentous occasion.
If this was the cover, he would purchase the property. Perhaps he could update the cottage with the thought of returning now and then. His fantasies were running wild. This drive required extra caution, and he forced himself to focus on his driving and not the contents of the box. Focus, Michael, focus! Remember, when you turn to the left, stay on the left side of the road. It was as if he was driving in slow motion. Interminable! At one intersection, he stalled the car, and his anxiety grew. He could not be stopped by the police or get in an accident—not now. At last, he saw the outline of his B&B.
Michael was exhausted. He strained to make light conversation with Mrs. O’Hagan while using his poncho to conceal the backpack. He excused himself, claiming he wanted to get out of his wet clothes. As he closed the door to his room, he experienced a feeling of true elation; at last he was safe in the privacy of his room!
He put the backpack on the seat of the toilet and got into the steaming shower. He needed to calm down. The gentle flow of water helped him settle. He ended his shower with cooler water to shock himself back into reality. The backpack was sitting on the toilet seat, taunting him. He could not imagine having it out of his sight for one millisecond. He took his time toweling off as he continued to stare at the bag. This quest had started months ago, and there was a part of him that was content for this mission to be endless. He was having trouble wrapping himself around the fact that the biggest part of the project was near completion. Was there really a valuable cover inside the box? Maybe it was empty. The next step would be monumental. He wished Sara were there.