Lake of Sorrows

“Let me see that,” he said, dropping to one knee and cradling her ankle in his hands. His touch felt cool against her skin. “You’re not allergic to bee stings, are you? Do you need some help getting home?”

Nora remembered the dagger Charlie had removed from his pocket. “I’m sure I can make it on my own,” she said. “There’s no need—”

“You shouldn’t put your full weight on that ankle. Come on, I’ll walk you.” He was close enough that she could smell the tang of sweat his body gave off after a day’s work. It was possible that she’d completely misread Charlie Brazil from the start. He stood and was about to put one arm about her waist, but the thought suddenly struck her: What if he found the drawing in her pocket? She pulled away.

“No, really, I can make it on my own. I’m all right.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “Why are you afraid of me?”

“I’m not. You’ve rescued me once already, that first day out on the bog. I just don’t think it’s necessary. You’ve things to do, I’m sure, and I’ll be fine on my own.” Her eyes brushed involuntarily across the knotted cord around his neck, then slid away, but he’d seen her hesitation.

“What is it—this?” Charlie lifted the cord between his fingers and looked at her accusingly. “Ursula was very interested in this too.”

He wasn’t prepared when Nora bolted, ducking under his arm and fleeing headlong down the path toward the Scullys’ house and the Crosses, as fast as she could run on her swelling ankle. Charlie probably could have caught her if he’d really wished to, but he let her go.

Nora’s hands were trembling when she finally made it into the cottage and bolted the door behind her. Her ankle throbbed, and she limped to the fridge to see if there was any ice. One tray—it would have to do for now. She dumped the cubes into a plastic bag and twisted it shut, holding it to her still swelling ankle.

At first she had been almost certain that Owen Cadogan had something to do with Ursula’s death. But after what she had seen just now, she couldn’t be sure that Charlie Brazil wasn’t involved as well. There were too many connections between Charlie and Ursula to rest on mere coincidence. She had nothing substantial enough to bring to the authorities, just a vague collection of hunches and suppositions. And yet she knew that all the things she’d seen had to add up somehow. Remembering why she had come here in the first place, to find out more about a man who had been either executed or sacrificed, Nora realized with a sinking feeling that she couldn’t possibly stop now; there was too much at stake. Owen Cadogan had called the superstitions surrounding the fairy wind a load of old rubbish but, thinking back to that day, Nora knew that nothing good had come after it.

10

Ward left the superintendent’s office and walked slowly back to his desk. They would have company on the Ursula Downes murder, as he had suspected. The unusual nature of the case, not to mention the whiff of ritual killing, had piqued the attention of the National Bureau of Criminal Investigation, and they were sending down a contingent to assist the local detective force. To the Bureau, “assist” meant something slightly more than the term generally implied. It meant he and Maureen Brennan had only a few more hours to come up with results before the Dublin boys in the expensive suits rolled in to take over the case.

He came up behind Brennan, who was pinning up crime-scene photos and other pertinent scraps of information on the board behind her desk, lining up a neat column for each of their lines of inquiry. “They’ll be here Monday afternoon to set up their incident room.” Her lips pressed together in a subtle expression of annoyance. “I know, but we’ll have to just bear it.”

“What did the superintendent say about the search for Rachel Briscoe?”

“I told him we’ve got several men and some local volunteers out looking for her already, handing out photos, asking if anyone’s seen her, and that they’re having no luck at all. We’ll mount a coordinated search in the morning if there’s no word.”

“What are we calling her at this point—suspect or material witness?”

“She’s only wanted for questioning, but that could change. Some of her coworkers seem convinced that she was obsessed with Ursula Downes, possibly stalking her. From the binoculars—and the way her colleagues describe her attachment to them—it seems likely that Rachel was at the house last night.”

“What about that knife found at the scene?”

“It’s being processed, but Dr. Friel didn’t seem to think it was the murder weapon.”

“Why not?”

“The blade is serrated; from what she’s seen so far, Dr. Friel’s of the opinion that the knife that cut the victim’s throat had a straight edge. I still think Rachel Briscoe is probably the key to everything. If she didn’t kill Ursula Downes, there’s a chance she might have seen the person who did.”