Chapter 3

Ireland was beautiful and a little strange. Beautiful because of the landscape that offered so many subtle shades of green, here and there ornamented by the blues and yellows of wildflowers. Like Mortlake’s native Yorkshire, the Irish countryside might seem drab to the outsider. But after a while, an observant visitor would see the different varieties of plants and trees that made this rainy country special. But Ireland was also strange because the closer you looked, the more you saw how it differed from its larger neighbor. Even without road signs in Gaelic giving distances in kilometers, a careful observer would have known they were not driving down a British country road.

 

And that, Mortlake mused, is one reason why Irish history is steeped in innocent blood. Too many Brits came here, didn’t look closely enough, and assumed the place could be run like their homeland.

 

“Penny for your thoughts, Prof?” Keegan asked. “Looks like you’re dropping off back there.”

 

The ex-corporal had opted to drive the second leg of their journey. Mortlake had taken the first stage, from Dublin to the middle of the island. Nobody had suggested that Lynn take the wheel, including Lynn. In fact, she had spent most of the time dozing and kicking back, as she put it, and not speaking much.

 

“I’m fine,” Mortlake replied. “Just thinking about history.”

 

“That’s the spirit,” Keegan said. “Getting in the mood for our major motion picture, eh? Any particular style you’re aiming for? Do you favor the Werner Herzog approach, or are you more of a James Cameron kind of guy?”

 

Mortlake had to laugh at that. Keegan, for all his working-class directness, had a keen mind and a fund of knowledge on almost everything. What he didn’t have—as he had complained loud and long—was a gun. It was lunacy for anyone to try and bring them into Ireland and then transport them across the country. Terrorism was still a concern in the north and here in the Republic. The Irish police, the Gardai, were not on high alert at the moment. But random stops were still possible.

 

“I think I veer more towards the John Betjeman approach,” Mortlake said, testing Keegan with a TV presenter from well before his time.

 

“Who? Oh, the poet guy. He snuffed it years back, didn’t he?” Keegan said. “Bit old-fashioned for a modern documentary.”

 

“Yes, but my father was a huge fan, and we had to watch videos of his documentaries on English churches, that kind of thing.”

 

“Right,” said Keegan. “So, you’re going to adopt a kind of eccentric old boffin persona?”

 

“Like he needs to adopt it,” Lynn put in.

 

Keegan’s laugh seemed slightly forced. Mortlake couldn’t see her face as she was in the front passenger seat. But the remark had a slight edge to it, more barb than joke.

 

“So, what do you reckon to this legend?” Keegan asked. “Is it a monster, local cannibals, another bloody demon—or something else?”

 

Mortlake gave Lynn a couple of seconds to reply. When she continued to stare out at the landscape rolling past them, he spoke.

 

“All we know is that a detachment of redcoats was called in because of some unspecified trouble and found the remains of the priest on or around his own altar. There was an investigation by the British authorities. But in those days, there were no detectives that far from Dublin. And, of course, during the great famine, the police were very unpopular, so nobody talked. The whole thing was put down to some wandering maniac with a grudge against the clergy.”

 

Keegan snorted.

 

“Yeah, that’s always happening ’round our way. You can’t move for the disemboweled vicars on some nights. But what happens if the present locals don’t want to talk about their grisly past? I mean, it’s a small town, and they might just clam up on us. Give us the cold, hard stare, that sort of thing. Because if they refuse to serve us in the pub, I’m quitting and sod the pension plan.”

 

“There’s a pension plan?” Mortlake asked. “Nobody told me.”

 

They spent a few minutes discussing financial matters. Lynn and Mortlake were, in theory, on sabbatical from St. Ananias College, Cambridge. But that would eventually end. They would be too vulnerable in the normal world of academia. He hated the idea of sticking with the Shadow Trust, but it seemed they had no option. Only the Trustees could offer them the protection they needed from mortal vengeance and supernatural dangers.

 

Except, he thought, the price of that protection is to put ourselves at risk when they order us to. What a nice little paradox.

Chapter 5

The Shadow Trust team went to the village in full documentary mode. They’d had a brief discussion, with Mortlake and Lynn a little hesitant to stroll into the middle of a police investigation. But Keegan had swung the debate with a straightforward argument.

 

“If we’re going to convince the locals we’re making a film, we can hardly fail to get something on this disappearance. It’s what they’d expect. Every doc has one—the ‘while we were filming’ bit.”

 

Since Keegan had to carry the Steadicam, the two professors walked ahead of the ebullient Scouser as he filmed them heading into Clongarron. A small police car marked GARDA was parked outside the village pub. A small knot of people was gathered around two officers—one man, one woman. The police were chatting in a relaxed way. Heads turned as the strangers approached. The male officer, who’d been leaning on the hood of the car, straightened up at once and looked confused. His female colleague walked a few paces to meet the team.

 

“Can I ask you what you’re doing?” she said, looking up at Mortlake with a smile, “Are you with RTE or some other lot?”

 

Mortlake recognized the name of the Irish equivalent of the BBC.

 

“If only,” he replied with a smile of his own. “No, we were here to make a documentary about local folklore and history. And this case… well, we could hardly overlook it, given the nature of the disappearance. But we won’t use any footage if people object.”

 

He purposely used the word “people” and not “you” to keep it ambiguous. As far as Mortlake was concerned, the police had no veto over anyone filming them, but he didn’t want to be confrontational. The local cops might prove valuable allies, and even if they weren’t, he didn’t like to alienate anyone in authority.

 

“Ah, a documentary, is it? For the BBC?” asked the male officer.

 

This began a short discussion of Mortlake’s position at Cambridge, with him emphasizing his professorship and academic honors. Keegan, however, chimed in with remarks about the paranormal.

 

“He’s a world-famous expert on ghosts and witches and that!” he called out from behind his viewfinder. “Don’t be modest, Prof!”

 

“Is that right?” said the woman cop.

 

Mortlake played down his activities in the realms of the occult, but Lynn joined with Keegan in extolling his triumphs.

 

“Werewolves, vampires, you name it, he’s given it a paddling.”

 

The officers seemed bemused, and there was some nudging and grinning among the villagers. But Keegan, Mortlake felt, had been right. People were almost always more willing to talk about the supernatural than mundane matters. Villagers who had looked distrustful before now seemed more positive.

 

It’s more comforting, in a way, he thought. Like children scaring themselves with campfire stories. It’s the people who’ve had truly bad experiences who never talk about them.

 

“I am naturally interested in anything… ahem… of that kind,” he conceded. “But I must emphasize we’re focusing on history and legend. I’m not spook hunting today.”

 

The cops seemed satisfied with this and moved on to asking the team a few questions.

 

“You arrived last night. Did you see anything out of the ordinary on the way here?” the male officer asked, an old-fashioned notebook in hand and pen poised.

 

“Just a young couple, looked like backpackers,” Lynn said at once. “We passed them a mile or so up the road. They were heading along the coast. Or maybe toward Ballymachen.”

 

Mortlake, who’d forgotten the brief encounter, was impressed. But Lynn had always had a more methodical memory than him. The policeman made a note. Mortlake couldn’t resist trying a question.

 

“The person who vanished, might he have fallen from the cliffs?”

 

“Very possible, sir,” said the female officer. “It rained that night he went missing.”

 

Mortlake nodded as he looked up at the cliffs. He could just make out the pale brown thread of a path winding through the grass. “I only wish we could be more helpful.”

 

“Well, now,” the female officer said, “you’ll be around here for a few days, I assume? Yes, well, if you come across anything a bit odd, as I’ve said to these good people, we’d be obliged if you reported it.”

 

Mortlake suppressed a smile as he took a card from her. If the Trust’s information was correct and the Book of Death was nearby, “a bit odd” wouldn’t begin to cut it.

 

“We’ll certainly let you know, officer,” he said.

 

Meanwhile, Keegan had been having a great time filming the whole scene, swinging the Steadicam back and forth to take in the onlookers. Some of the villagers smiled shyly back at him, one or two pulled faces, but in a good-humored way. Mortlake found himself studying the small crowd, wondering why there seemed to be something missing. They were a handsome lot, rather pale, with large eyes and pointed chins. That suggested some inbreeding, but there was nothing very strange in that.

 

Chapter 8

Lunch was awkward, with Lynn frostily polite as she helped Keegan prepare a simple meal. Mortlake carefully introduced the topic of the merrow and the possibility of some alliance between them and the Book of Death.

 

“If these merrow even exist,” Lynn said. “Are we blaming evil mermaids for the disappearances? Because that sounds kind of lame.”

 

Mortlake pointed out that sea beings are often seen as mischievous, seductive, and sometimes dangerous. The sirens of Greek myth were the best-known example. And the events of 1846 remained puzzling. Rumors abounded at the time that the people of Clongarron had made some kind of deal with the merrow in return for abundant catches.

 

“A bit like that town, what’s it called? Yeah, Hartlepool,” Keegan commented. “The legend that they hanged a monkey thinking it was a French spy.”

That one took some explaining to Lynn, and Mortlake sat back and let the ex-soldier do it. The jokey story lightened the mood a little. Then, they returned to their objective. The main problem, as Mortlake saw it, was how to locate the Book of Death without entering every home in the village.

 

“Yeah,” Keegan said, “but isn’t it really down to the priest or the teacher lady? They seem like the only educated ones. I mean, educated in the kind of weird stuff you guys know.”

 

He had a point. How could the book have arrived in Clongarron except via some dealer or, more likely, a chain of dealers, shady or otherwise? Finding that connection between Ireland and the U.S. was probably impossible. But perhaps, Mortlake mused, there was another way. The last time he had seen the book, it was bleeding from a gash he had inflicted with an iron blade. It would presumably have healed itself by now. But that piercing wound must have left some psychic residue. It was a link between himself and the demon.

 

“So, how do you exploit that link, assuming there is one?” Lynn demanded when Mortlake had told them his ideas.

 

“If it’s nearby, I might find it through scrying or some other divination method.”

 

Lynn said nothing but looked almost contemptuous. Keegan was more enthusiastic.

 

“Hey, I’ve got confidence in you, Prof. Anything I can help with?”

Mortlake outlined what he wanted. They had brought a portable psychomanteum among their more orthodox supplies. Together, the two men brought the items in from the SUV and set it up in a corner of the living room. The psychomanteum was essentially a large, windowless box with a door. An angled mirror in one upper corner was designed to reflect only darkness. A comfortable seat and a very weak LED light source completed the setup.

 

“Originally, it was designed to communicate with the spirits of the dead,” Mortlake explained as they surveyed their handiwork. “But it can provide contact with other supernatural beings. All things being equal.”

 

Lynn had been looking on, not offering to help. Now, she spoke up.

 

“If you contact the book, you’ll be giving us all away.”

 

“It probably already knows we’re here,” Mortlake said. “And we have to confront it sooner or later.”

 

Lynn didn’t reply, just announced she was going to get some air and left.

 

“I don’t need to be psychic to see you’ve had a falling out, Prof,” Keegan said.

 

“It’s complicated,” Mortlake replied. “But the simple version is, I did something stupid, and I’m paying for it.”

 

Keegan grinned.

 

“That’s literally every relationship in the history of the world. Okay, you gonna give the old psychobilly wotsit a go?”

 

Mortlake shut himself in the box and waited for his eyes to adjust to the faint glow of the LED. The mirror was a black square above and to his right. There was no hint of light intruding from the outer world. He heard faint movement from Keegan.

 

“You all right in there, Prof?”

 

“I’m fine. If you hear me screaming or making any alarming sounds—”

 

“Yeah, I’ll yank you out pronto, no worries.”

 

Silence fell again. Except that silence, like darkness, was never truly perfect. The rush of blood in his ears, the sound of his own breathing, and the faint creak of the chair as he shifted his weight—all conspired to remind him of his location, his captivity in time and space. It was best to banish the everyday, the normal, and lose himself in the process.

 

Time passed. He repeated a simple mantra silently in his head. It was, as Lynn might have said, quite on the nose.

 

Where are you, Book of Death?