December (13 page)

Footsteps approached. The door handle squeaked as it was opened and someone came into the cluttered space. I didn’t dare move to see who it was.

Foreign torchlight started darting around the room, wavering across the floor and over the tables. We squashed ourselves as hard as we could against the wall, hoping the light wouldn’t pick us up. I bumped my body into a box that had been shoved under the table.

I peered into the box and focused on a thin book sitting on top. The lettering was barely
visible
in the dark, but the shape of the title had grabbed me.

My eyes widened with stunned surprise. My head started spinning, not because of the
imminent
threat of being discovered, but because I was staring straight at the book we were after! I couldn’t believe it! I bit my tongue and tried to keep still.

Once satisfied that everything was in order, the security guard or whoever it was, stepped back out into the corridor, closing the door behind them.

I exhaled and grabbed the book out of the box. I turned to my friends and shone my torch on it so they could both see what I had found.

‘You found it!’ said Boges, trying not to shout.

‘Amazing!’ Winter smiled, shuffling in closer, and wiping dust from its cover. ‘No point sticking around any longer. Hold onto it for dear life and follow me out of here!’

Winter crawled out from under the table, then stealthily led us over to the door, down the corridor, outside and away from the Black Abbey.

We ran, without stopping, all the way back to the Waterford.

Breathlessly, I opened Butler’s
Lives of the Saints
, as Winter and Boges practically bounced with excitement on the bed beside me. My hands were shaking as I flicked through the heavy paper with its dense printing, checking page after page.

Pretty quickly my excitement vanished.

‘There’s nothing in it. Nothing!’ I yelled,
throwing
the book down on the floor. ‘Just page after page of rubbish about ancient old saints!’

‘Don’t give up so quickly,’ said Winter, hopping off the bed and picking the book back up. ‘Maybe the lines have been written
in
somewhere—along an inside margin or something. Let me have a careful look.’

She plopped down on the bed again and slowly, methodically, started turning every page, running her finger down the central margins of
each one before turning to the next page. She used her torch to throw extra light on the
yellowing
pages.

‘I just don’t know how we’re going to beat the deadline,’ I said. ‘I was so sure we were on the right track, but we still don’t really even know what we’re doing, where we should be going. We don’t even know what we’re looking for.’

Winter turned her smoky eyes on me. ‘Cal,’ she said, ‘I have a feeling that everything’s going to fall into place for us. Everything will come together. You’ll see.’

Outside, the wind had picked up and heavy rain was driving against the window, rattling the wooden frames. I went over to pull the heavy curtains shut but before I did, I peered out into the darkness. I had a horrible feeling that
someone
was out there. I dragged the curtains across and sat back down.

‘No good,’ admitted Winter, shutting the book

after her closer examination. ‘Still thinking everything’s going to work out?’ I asked her. She replied with an unimpressed look. ‘My turn,’ said Boges, before he too went

through it. He ran a magnifying glass carefully over every page and margin, and peered down the cracking spine of the old-fashioned book.

But there was nothing in there that we wanted.

We sat in a triangle, staring blankly at each other. None of us had any energy or will left to bother saying anything. Eventually we just picked ourselves up and called it a night,
crawling
into bed, hoping tomorrow would deliver us a miracle.

29 DECEMBER

3 days to go …

‘I just have a couple more family meals to
survive
here,’ Sharkey joked over the phone, ‘before I can come to you guys. I’ve had enough of the Sharkey family, to be honest. They just want to talk, talk, talk. The murder of Dr Brinsley has been massive news,’ he said. ‘Everyone knows about it. At this stage the Garda don’t have any leads.’

‘At least
I’m
not on their radar,’ I said. That was one good thing. We’d avoided talking about it, but the death of Dr Brinsley was hanging over us like a black cloud, reminding us of the huge danger that accompanied our quest.

‘So you’ve checked the book thoroughly?’ he asked. ‘Been over the margins?’

‘Nelson, we’ve gone over it with a fine-tooth comb. If the last two lines of the Ormond Riddle were ever in that book, they sure aren’t now.’

Sharkey groaned. ‘What a waste of time,’ he
said. ‘Look, I have to go again, but you three be very careful,’ he warned. ‘I’ll join you as soon as I can. Don’t go anywhere you don’t need to go, OK?’

‘We’re leaving Kilkenny and going to
Carrick-on
-Suir today,’ I said. ‘Off to the Clonmel Way Guest House, where my dad stayed last year.’

‘Good idea. Stay safe and I’ll see you soon.’

A bus took us all the way down to Carrick-
on-Suir
. We stepped out into another cold, grey day, and as I walked down the cobbled streets with my two friends, I felt a confused mix of emotions: sad that this was where my dad first became so sick, but almost excited to be walking where he’d walked.

The drawings that I still carried with me had started me off on this huge journey. Time was running out. I only had three days left. It wasn’t just about survival any more.

‘Oh look!’ cried Winter, pointing to a decaying tower sticking up over some long grey walls in the distance. ‘Do you think that’s one of Black Tom’s castles?’

I checked the map I’d picked up at the bus station. ‘It sure is,’ I said. ‘Ormond Castle. We should check that out, but first we’ve got to find
the guesthouse. It should be just up here,’ I said, indicating the end of a narrowing road, lined with houses.

Clonmel Way Guest House was the last
building
in a row of homes that backed onto the broad quay along the river. I could see the sign, cut in the shape of a salmon, swinging in the wind.

The narrow, two-storeyed property was painted blue and white, and had a small garden.

I went to open the gate and stopped abruptly. Winter gasped behind me. Boges swore under his breath.

There in the rusty wrought iron of the gate, in an enamelled oval, was the
number five
, just like in my dad’s drawing!

‘See?’ cried Winter. ‘I told you things were going to come together!’

The drawing suddenly became clear—Dad had been trying to point out this place! I felt a surge of new energy powering through me, easing my disappointment about not finding the last two lines of the Riddle. We’d just have to find another way to get to the right destination.

I opened the gate and ran up the short path, knocking on the bright red door. A brass plaque above the doorway read: Clonmel Way Guest House; Imelda Fitzgerald, Proprietor.

A fair woman with rosy cheeks opened the door. She smiled broadly and welcomed us inside.

‘I have plenty of rooms this time of year,’ she said. ‘You look like you could do with some good Irish scones and a cup of tea. Come in out of the cold.’

We happily followed her into the cosy interior—a small foyer where plump crimson lounges and armchairs were grouped around a blazing fire. Old sepia photos above the
fireplace
showed horses towing barges along the riverside.

I introduced myself as Matt Marlow, along with my friends Grace and Josh.

‘Like I say,’ said Mrs Fitzgerald, ‘it’s not the best time of year. Doesn’t do the place justice. Still, there’s plenty to do, even in winter, and we have a couple of cots down on the river for the use of our guests.’

‘Cots?’ asked Boges, a funny look on his face.

Mrs Fitzgerald laughed. ‘That’s the name of the famous Carrick fishing boats. The Carrick cots. That’s if you like messing about in boats.’

Mrs Fitzgerald chatted on. She knew all about Black Tom’s Ormond Castle, built at the end of the town. It was a feature of the township and a reason why visitors came to Carrick.

‘It’s the best example of an Elizabethan manor house in the land,’ she gloated. ‘I heard that the ruins of one of Black Tom’s other old castles is being shipped back to the USA, block by block, to be rebuilt in Kentucky. Those Americans,’ she said with a smile. ‘Do you know they have a London Bridge in Arizona?’

Mrs Fitzgerald drew the curtains aside and we looked out the window to the rear of the
property
. There was a short yard, surrounded by a low fence, and beyond that was a broad pathway along the river, wide enough for horses.

The tide was out and a few small canoes lay half on their sides in the muddy sand, awaiting the surge that would lift them up and float them again. In a paddock across the river, a couple of horses leaned over a fence, just visible in the misty air.

Mrs Fitzgerald noticed the direction of my gaze. ‘You like horses?’ she asked. ‘They belong to the Travellers—the gypsies. You could
probably
hire a couple if you like riding.’

‘I’d love to, but I’m not actually here for a holiday,’ I said, turning back from the window. I
wanted information, so I needed to tell her who I was. Kind of.

‘My
uncle
,’ I lied, ‘Tom Ormond, stayed here last year. Until he became sick.’

Mrs Fitzgerald’s face lost its smile. ‘God rest his soul. You’re Tom Ormond’s nephew?’

‘I am,’ I said, hoping she wasn’t going to think too much about it and ask me any difficult
questions
. ‘These are my friends,
Grace
and
Josh
,’ I repeated nervously.

‘I was so sorry to hear about his illness … and then his death,’ she said, solemnly. ‘It was a terrible job I had, packing up his clothing and things. He was such a lovely fellow. You’ve come to see where he stayed before he was sick?’

‘I’d like to see his room,’ I said, nodding. ‘We were very close. I miss him very much.’

‘Of course you do,’ she said, picking up a key from the hall table. ‘Nothing’s changed in here. It’s exactly as it was when he was staying. We haven’t had many guests this year,’ she admitted with a hint of embarrassment. ‘Come with me.’

We followed her down the hallway to where she opened a door at the end and stepped back, allowing us to walk inside ahead of her. It was a small room, painted white, and in an alcove on the right was a bay window with a vase of yellow paper roses. A sink and tap with a hot plate and
an electric jug formed the kitchen area.

‘Your uncle cooked on that,’ Mrs Fitzgerald said, noticing me looking at the hot plate.

‘Uncle Tom? Cooking?’ I asked, surprised. ‘That’s weird. My
aunty
never let him cook at home—he was a shocker! Aunty Win used to—’ I stopped speaking as memories of my home life with Mum and Dad surfaced. I felt Winter’s light touch on the back of my hand. ‘He was always burning things. Even at family barbecues. I guess being here alone forced him to give it another go.’

‘I’m sorry to tell you he hadn’t improved,’ confessed Mrs Fitzgerald with a chuckle. ‘One night I caught him trying to cook this sloppy soup.’ She wrinkled up her nose in distaste. ‘Some sort of vegetable and herb soup. He must have let it boil for so long that it all just turned to mush.’

I smiled, picturing Dad trying his best.

‘I called in to drop off some clean laundry,’ continued Mrs Fitzgerald, ‘and I could see past his shoulder and into the kitchen sink. He’d made such a mess! There was a pile of veggie skins, herbs and even something that looked like ferns on the bench.’ She shook her head. ‘He hadn’t told me he’d be in for dinner that night, but really, I could have arranged something else for him. Parsley, coriander and basil I understand,
but ferns? I think I might have offended him with my offer of a slice of shepherd’s pie, to have instead.’

I wandered further into the room. Beyond the kitchen, a bed, a table and chair, a fireplace set with pine cones and a big, carved wardrobe
completed
the furnishings.

A wardrobe!

A
carved
wardrobe!

I stopped, rooted to the spot. Boges and
Winter
crashed into me.

‘Move along there, dude,’ said Boges. Until he saw the reason for my shock. ‘A wardrobe!’

‘A wardrobe!’ Winter cried, jigging up and down. ‘I told you! I told you! We’re on the right track. The carved doors!’

‘Er, yes,’ said Mrs Fitzgerald, clearly confused about our excitement over a basic piece of
furniture
. She must have thought we’d never seen a wardrobe before! ‘Tis rather a grand cupboard, I suppose,’ she continued. ‘Big and roomy.’

The telephone rang from down the hall and she excused herself before hurriedly shuffling away.

The fancy carving and the big metal ring at the front of the wardrobe were distinct—this was definitely the door from my dad’s drawing! I darted across the room and opened it. It creaked as I peered inside.