An Irish Country Wedding (25 page)

“That would be lovely, Mrs. Houston,” Sue said before Barry could stop her.

“I’ll only be a wee minute,” Maggie said, and stood. The General made a deep-throated growl as he was decanted onto the floor and Maggie headed, Barry presumed, for the kitchen.

“Hang on, Maggie. I brought this back,” he said, and gave her the pie dish. “The cottage pie was wonderful.”

She took the dish. “And we hear that Kinky’s home. We’re all
very pleased, so we are. You give her our love, now.” She trotted
off.

Sonny bent to pat the dog. “Normally I don’t allow them in the sitting room, but Missy here was a naughty girl. She got out on her own when she was in heat. Silly of me. She’s the only one of my five who isn’t neutered. She’s due to whelp very soon and we like to keep an eye on her.” He straightened. “I don’t suppose either one of you would like a pup of indeterminate lineage?”

Barry shook his head. “Arthur Guinness is enough dog for Number One.”

“My Max is out in Barry’s car,” Sue said. “Sorry.”

Sonny smiled. “Perfectly all right. Please sit down. Now, Sue,
you’re interested in the Neolithic period, Doctor Laverty just
said.”

“I am. I had a wonderful teacher in Broughshane. She did her job teaching the English history that’s compulsory, but Miss Tipping always left a wee bit of time at the end of class to tell us about Irish mythology
 
… the real people and the times that gave rise to the legends. I’ve never forgotten her, or the prehistory. It’s been a hobby ever since.”

“The Neolithic peoples were the first ones here,” Sonny said. “Then they were subjugated by bronze users from the Mediterranean, the Firbolg. They were dark, small folks who were in turn displaced by the Picts.”

“In Irish the Cruithne,” Sue said.

“I never learned any of this at my school,” Barry said.

“I wouldn’t have either if it hadn’t been for Miss Tipping, bless her,” said Sue. “It was those first people that really captured my imagination. In our Irish folk tales we call them the Tuatha dé Danaan, they’re the ones who built the
lios
and
ráths
, those are the forts, and also the
crannógs
, the man-made islands, and the underground passage graves called the
sidthe
.”

“Isn’t there a big one in County Meath near the Boyne River?” asked Barry.

“Indeed there is,” said Sonny. “Newgrange is one of the most important megalithic structures in Europe. It was built between 3,100 and 2,900
B.C.
There’s evidence of the Stone Age culture all over Ireland.” Sonny leant forward. “I believe we’ve overlooked some interesting sites right on our own doorstep. Outside Newcastle on the southeast coast of County Down there’s Legananny Dolmen and in the southwest corner of the county at Lough Island Reavy there’s a stone ring fort or
ráth
. We know about those ones, and some others,” he lowered his voice, “but I’m certain I’m on the track of one close to Ballybucklebo.”

Sue whistled. “Honestly? How exciting. What makes you think so?”

“The old Irish monks were wonderful cataloguers, and I have a friend, John McIlderry, who gets me photocopies of ancient manuscripts.” Sonny pointed to a folding card table covered in printed papers. “Come and see,” he said. He handed Sue a sheet. “That’s
the first page of one that was illuminated by monks at Bangor
Abbey about the time Saint Comgall founded the place in the sixth
century
A.D.
It’s in Latin, of course, but perfectly legible.” Sonny’s tone was that of one who would have been surprised to learn that not everyone was a fluent Latin reader. “It’s not as old as the Stone Age, but it and documents like it are clues I’m following.”

“Because the old monks may have described things they saw, but aren’t obvious today?” Sue said. “I’ve read about the technique. Piecing their evidence together, and using it to uncover actual structures. Real detective work.” Barry thought she looked wistful when she said, “Sometimes I think I missed my calling.”

Sonny shook his head. “Most of the time it’s pretty dry, but the occasional discovery is what makes it exciting.”

Sue smiled. “A bit like getting a pupil to understand something for the first time.”

“I imagine that is exactly correct. Now,” he said, producing another paper, “this one is from another source.”

Sue, eyes bright, bent to look at the ancient words.

“It alludes to a
lios
, a ring fort, or a
sidthe
, a passage grave, three miles east of a monastery where a Brother Finnian wrote the description.” Sonny picked up a magnifying glass and bent over the photocopy. “Can you see, Sue?”

She peered through the glass.

“There,” Sonny said, “‘Sanctum Lignum.’ It’s quite clear.
Finnian worked at the monastery there. Do you think, Doctor Laverty, that might be a reference to the place we now call Holywood or Holy Wood?”

“I think it’s one literal translation,” Barry said, remembering with a certain amount of distaste the Latin exam he’d had to pass as a prerequisite for admission to medical school.

Sue said, “You know, Sonny, in Irish, Holywood was called Baile Doire, Ballyderry, the place of the oak. I know because I’m living there and the ruins of the old priory on the site of the original church are just down the road from my flat, not far from the remains of Norman Motte near Brook Street. I’ve visited them both and done a bit of reading.”

“Indeed,” said Sonny, “well done, Sue.” He frowned. “Unfortunately I’ve very little Irish, but if I come across that name in my reading it might help pinpoint what I’m looking for. I’m hoping to use Holywood as one of my reference points.” He tapped a finger on the tabletop, then said, “For now though, I’ll continue working on the assumption that I’m right about the old Sanctum Lignum being Holywood. My source predates the coming of King Henry II’s men to Ireland by a good four hundred years, and the old Celtic disciples of Saint Patrick did use ancient Latin back then. There’s been a church on the site of the Holywood Priory since 640
A.D.
, you know.”

Maggie returned, a smile on her face and carrying a tray. Barry noticed that she had taken the opportunity to put in her teeth.
“Can you move your papers, Sonny?” Her dentures clicked.
“Lord,” she said, “I wish thon dental technician would get my new teeth finished. With these ould ones in I sound like I’ve a mouthful of castanets.”

Barry stifled a smile.

Sonny made several neatly stacked piles, leaving room for Maggie to set the tray down.

“Him and his archaeology,” she said. “Your woman Agatha Christie was on the telly. Her hubby’s an archaeologist, you know, and she said, ‘An archaeologist is the best husband a woman can get. The older she gets the more interested he is in her.’” She pecked Sonny’s cheek. “Isn’t that right, you ould goat?”

Sonny beamed at her. “Come and sit down, everyone,” he said, and led them back to the armchairs while Maggie poured. “If I can find a cross-reference that says the founder of the monastery that Finnian cites was a Saint Laiseran, that will confirm it
is
what we call Holywood today. There is solid evidence that old Laiseran built the first church here, and if it is where Finnian wrote then there’s a neolithic structure three miles east.” Sonny’s smile was as wide and as innocent as a child’s on seeing its first snow. “Finnian was quite specific.” He frowned. “Of course I’ll have to hazard a guess he was working in Roman miles.”

“Why?” Sue asked.

“Because,” he said, “the English statute mile of one thousand seven hundred and sixty yards didn’t come in until 1592. The old Roman mile was one thousand six hundred and seventeen yards, and the Irish mile could vary from county to county.” He smiled. “I could be wrong, but I am confident the old monks would think in Latin measurements,
mille passuum
, a thousand paces.”

“How will you find out for sure?”

“If I can find a similar reference in the papers from Bangor Abbey—and I’ve got lots here—giving a distance west of Bangor, it’ll be like working from two cross bearings. And if I’m right about their being in Roman miles the arcs drawn on a map will kiss each other without overlap.”

“That’s very exciting. You will keep me posted, Sonny, won’t you? I’d love to hear.” Sue frowned and said, “I don’t know if it helps, but another Irish name for Holywood was Ard mHic Nasca, and that means ‘the heights of Nasca’s son.’”

“What?” Sonny’s voice went up. “Are you certain? I didn’t know that. Nasca was a princess here. She sent her son to study under Saint Comgall in Bangor and then near Cork. When the son came back he founded a church. I’ll have to check it, but I’m almost certain that Laiseran was that son.”

Barry watched the two, who clearly because of their excitement had forgotten there was anyone else present.

“Does that give you your first coordinate, Sonny?” Sue asked. Her voice had dropped to a whisper.

Sonny frowned. “I’d like documentary proof,” he started shuffling through papers, “but if you’re right about Laiseran, and once I get the information from the Bangor material it would be easy enough to use them and work on the assumption that you’re right, Sue. I could plot a cross bearing, find a location, and go out and look at it. Thank you. I think you’ve given me exactly what I need.”

She smiled. “And you’ll let me know what you find out, won’t you? I’d love to know.”

“It would be my pleasure.”

Maggie, who had been pouring, interrupted. “Sonny, would yiz stop footering about with those blooming papers? If thon yoke’s been there for a couple of thousand years it’s not going to run away while we have a cup of tea.” She turned to Sue. “Here yiz are, Miss Nolan, and help yourself to milk and sugar, and seeing you’re the only lady guest, yiz can have the last piece of plum cake. I thought I was out, but there was a wee taste left.”

Barry, knowing full well that Sue, in sampling Maggie’s cake, was about to have an encounter with something as hard as a relic from the Stone Age, rushed to the rescue. “I know Sue’s too polite to refuse, Maggie,” he said ostentatiously, looking at his watch, “but we’re going for lunch and she’ll not want to spoil her appetite.” He stared at Sue and made a miniscule shake of his head. “Will you?”

“It’s all right, Barry,” Sue said, accepted the plate of cake, lifted the slice, and bit.

Barry could hardly bear to watch, and his admiration for Sue
Nolan grew as not only did she manage to eat the whole thing,
albeit chewing mightily, but she accepted a second cup of Maggie’s famous stewed tea, which was known throughout Ballybucklebo and the townland to be strong enough to cure leather.

27

Where There’s a Will
 
…

“One hundred and forty over ninety, John. Bit better than after Christmas,” O’Reilly said to Lord John MacNeill, twenty-seventh marquis of Ballybucklebo. “Not bad for a man of sixty-three.” O’Reilly removed the blood pressure cuff, put his stethoscope back into his jacket pocket, and rummaged in his bag to produce an opthalmoscope. “Quick look at your retinas.” He half-turned and pointed. “Stare at the cock pheasant in the Milliken painting over there beside the bookshelf and try not to blink.”

The marquis, sitting in a leather button-backed chair in his study in Ballybucklebo House, fixed the picture with a hawklike glare.

O’Reilly bent and shone the light through the lens of the left eye, peered through the eyepiece, and spun the focusing wheel until he had a good view of the inner lining of the organ. The scarlet retina contained the cells, called rods and cones, that were responsible for picking up images that were transmitted through the lens and feeding them to the optic nerve. He could see the nerve end as a regular white disc, the macula, in the centre at the back of the eyeball. Over the surface of the retina snaked small arteries and veins. He paid particular attention to the arteries, looking for any evidence of narrowing or nipping of the veins where an artery crossed. If such distortions were visible, it was because the arteries’ walls had become thickened in response to the patient’s raised blood pressure and were pressing on the vein beneath. “Vessels and that disc are okay,” he said, moving to examine the right eye. “Now, as a disc jockey would say, ‘Let’s have a look at the flip side.’” He hmmmed to himself. “Looks grand,” he said. O’Reilly straightened and switched off the opthalmoscope. “You’ll do for another six months, John. Carry on with the chlorothiazide five hundred milligrams daily and go easy on the salt.” He busied himself writing a prescription, which he left on a table.

“I will. Thank you, Fingal.” The marquis rose, rolled down his shirtsleeve, pushed one end of a gold cuff link back in place, and took a tweed hacking jacket with scuffed leather elbow patches from the back of his chair. “I didn’t think I was due for your ministrations for another couple of months.” He slipped the jacket on and stroked his neatly trimmed grey moustache with his index finger.

“You weren’t,” O’Reilly said, “but I was passing and wanted to call and ask you if you could help me.”

“Naturally. If I can.” He glanced at an ormolu clock on the mantel of a marble Adam fireplace. “I’ve to go out in half an hour.”

“Won’t take that long.”

The marquis ambled across to the sideboard. “Would a whiskey ease our discussion along?”

“Indeed it would.” O’Reilly put his instruments back in his bag. Needing no invitation from a friend of long standing, O’Reilly sat in an armchair. “I do have a couple of questions,” he said.

“Here.” The marquis handed him a Waterford cut-crystal glass and, with his own drink, a small whiskey and water, in his other hand, retook his seat. “Cheers.”

“Cheers, and praise and blessings be on Mister John Jameson and sons. Although why you insist on putting water in yours is beyond me. Have you ever seen what water does to the outside of a boat?”

The marquis laughed. “You never change, do you, Fingal?”

“Well, actually, I do, or I’m about to, and you know it.” He gave his friend a lopsided smile. “I told you I’m getting married.”