The Death of an Irish Sea Wolf (13 page)

JUST AFTER NOON, Noreen McGarr stopped the car at the foot of the bald, gray-green mountain that had dominated their view out the windscreen ever since Maddie and she had left Westport. It was time for her six-year-old daughter to learn a thing or two about her country’s history and culture.

“This is Croagh Patrick, which means ‘Mountain of Patrick.’ It’s the holiest hill in all of Ireland. Do you remember what happens here?”

Maddie had to crane her head to look up at the top. “It’s not a hill, it’s a mountain. Do people
climb
it?”

“That’s right. Thousands of them all on one day. Can you see the paths winding up the sides? Some of them do it with bare feet. Shall we give it a go?”

“With bare feet?”

“Unless you think you’d prefer your shoes.”

A redhead, like both her mother and father, Maddie was quickly out of the car and ahead of Noreen on the rough stony path. But as the grade increased toward the 2,510-foot summit, Maddie’s pace slowed markedly. “Wouldn’t you say it hurts?”

“Not at the moment, but I’m sure it will in the morning.”

“No—wouldn’t you say it hurts their feet, climbing this barefoot?”

“It does, sure. Some of them come back all bloody.” And sometimes not at all, she did not add; in most years the mountain claimed at least one penitent with a health problem. “But that’s why they do it.”

“To hurt themselves?”

“Well, to mortify the flesh, I think. That means they hurt themselves to pay for sins they believe they might have committed during the year. Those sins might also be of the flesh.”

Maddie waited for a better explanation, and Noreen took her hand. “You see, it’s part of a religious observance. Actually
two
religious observances. The first one began many, many years ago—some say as many as two thousand years ago—when this mountain was called
Cruachain Aigle
, which means ‘Mountain of the Eagle.’ One night in the summer, people from near and far would take food and drink and climb to the top of this mountain so they could watch the sun rise in the morning.”

“Like a picnic.”

“Exactly. It was their celebration of the first fruits of the harvest that they rightly believed the sun, whom they called Lugh, was responsible for.”

“Because without the sun plants can’t grow,” Maddie chimed in. Her father had a garden, and the two of them had discussed it.

“Right again. They even named the day after Lugh, calling it Lughnassa, which was one of the four great festivals of ancient Ireland.”

“But you said there were two ob—”

“—servances. That’s right.” Noreen had to stop and catch her breath. Although a trim woman still in her thirties, what with the demands of her picture gallery in Dublin and her duties as a wife and mother, she had little time to exercise. “There is now a different observance, because the people of Ireland changed their religion.”

“I know about that.”

“You do, do you?”

Maddie nodded. “People are either Catholic or Protestant unless, like us, they don’t have a religion.”

That vexed Noreen. She was from a Protestant background, her husband’s was Catholic; they were sending Maddie to a
nondenominational school in Dublin, largely so Maddie could avoid thinking in the categories that still scarred Ireland to this day. “You know other children in your school who are neither Catholic nor Protestant.”

Maddie nodded. “They’re Jews, then. Or, like me, nothing.”

Again stung by that, Noreen said too strongly, “That’s not true. Just because we have no religious affiliation doesn’t mean we don’t believe in God.” It was the phrase Noreen had used when filling out Maddie’s application form. “And some of your other friends are Muslims and Hindus.” She could have added Bahaists, Shintoists, Quakers; the school, like much of Dublin itself, was thoroughly catholic. “You can be spiritual without being a member of an organized religion.”

Maddie considered that, as they climbed higher. “Is that what we are, then—spiritual?”

“You could say that. It’s what all religions aim at.”

“Then, we’re religious and spiritual.”

“Spot on. That’s us entirely.”

“What about the second festival?”

“Well, that began—as I said—when the people of Ireland were changing their religion to what’s called Christianity.”

“Is that Catholic or Protestant?”

Noreen was astonished by how thoroughly the schism was invested in the mind of her six-year-old, especially since she seldom heard such distinctions drawn at home. “Actually, it’s both. And one early Christian was named Patrick.”

“You mean, Saint Patrick.”

Jesus, thought Noreen, the Irish fixation with religion must be imbibed in the water or inhaled in the air; to her knowledge nobody in their house or family had ever spoke to Maddie of saints or sinners. “I do, although at the time he was simply Patrick.

“At any rate, it has been recorded that in the year 441, Patrick climbed to the top of this mountain, where he fasted and prayed for forty days that the people of Ireland would embrace his religion.”

“The one called Christianity.”

Noreen had to pause again. She was winded, but the air—
now that they had gained some height—was fresh, and she felt more invigorated than she had in many a day. “Yes.”

“What’s praying?”

“Asking God for guidance and spiritual help.”

“What’s fasting?”

“Doing without food and only taking wee sips of water now and again.”

“For
forty
days? How many is forty?”

They climbed forty more steps up Croagh Patrick.

“And did he not die?”

Noreen decided to skip the bit about fasting, prayer, meditation, and visions. “He was a young man at the time, and who’s to say he didn’t nibble the odd wildflower. But I myself believe that a person of his…dedication well might not have eaten in all that time.

“At any rate, his stay on the mountain was so phenomenal that it gave rise to a myth.”

“What’s a myth?”

“A good story that people keep telling over and over, even if we know it can’t be true. Like the stories about Cuchulain and Finn MacCool,” that Noreen had been reading now to Maddie for years. “This one has to do with the fact that there are no snakes in Ireland.”

“There aren’t?”

Noreen shook her head.

“That’s good.”

“I agree.”

“I don’t like snakes.”

“Why?”

Maddie shrugged. “I don’t know, I just don’t. How could you?”

Noreen couldn’t herself. “So, this myth says that the reason there are no snakes in Ireland is that Patrick, who had special powers, collected all the snakes, drove them up this mountain, forced them to jump off a cliff, and they died.”

“How did he do that?”

“It’s said he had special powers. It’s probably one reason they call him a saint.”

“Saint Patrick.”

Noreen sighed, having corroborated the very foolishness
that she wished to avoid. Of course, it was all part of the culture, which Maddie should know.

“Why didn’t the snakes bite Patrick?”

“Because, as the myth has it, Patrick stepped on shamrocks all the way up this mountain, and the snakes—being evil and knowing the shamrock is the symbol of good”—to say nothing of its more recent national significance—“couldn’t bite him, as long as he remained on the shamrocks.”

For a while they climbed on, Maddie looking to left and right as though for snakes and shamrocks. Noreen loved her concentration; she could virtually hear the wheels of her mind turning. Finally, Maddie asked, “Is it a silly story?”

“That’s for you to decide. There are no snakes in Ireland, and in many ways what Patrick brought was good.” Noreen was blown; she could not go on. “Have we climbed high enough?”

Maddie looked up. They had not climbed even halfway, and the great mass of the mountain still lay before them. Yet, in turning to look down, they were presented with a glorious view of Clew Bay. In the far distance Clare Island with its own tall, bald mountain looked like a final sentinel in the distant Atlantic.

“Have you had enough information for a day, or can I tell you something else? About the land?” Like her father, Maddie had a definite feel for what Noreen thought of as mise-en-scène or, here, the environment. “See this mountain we’re on?”

Maddie nodded.

“And see that mountain on the last island in the bay?”

“The big one?”

“Yes, that’s the island we’re going to. Don’t they look alike? The mountain on the island is a continuation of this mountain, and there are others in the chain to the east. But do you know that not so very long ago in the life of the earth it was possible to walk from this mountain to the mountain on the island?”

“You mean, there was no water?”

“There was, but the ocean was much lower then. All over the world it was far colder than it is today, and when it rained and snowed over the land, the water was frozen to ice and
could not flow back into the ocean. At that time, there was a land bridge between Roonagh Point and Clare Island.

“Then around ten thousand years ago the world got suddenly warmer, the ice began to melt, the oceans rose, and Clew Bay filled up with water.”

“Whatever happened to the people on the island?”

“There were no people on the island then, as far as anybody knows. People didn’t begin to arrive there until around seven or eight thousand years ago, and it had to be by boat, since the bay was filled by then.”

“How much is a thousand?”

“How much is ten tens?” Maddie was well into her sums at her school.

“A hundred.”

“A thousand is ten hundreds.”

Looking out at the island, Maddie thought for a while. “Eight thousands is a great lot altogether.”

“Of course, there’s another explanation of how Clare Island got where it is.”

Maddie’s eyes widened, as though to say, There always is, and Noreen wondered at her child’s opinion of her. As a girl she could remember being critical of her own mother’s serenity in the face of all the bracing details that made sense of the world.

“It’s a big boulder that one Druid launched at the head of another Druid.”

“Did it hit him?”

Noreen shook her head. “It went wide.”

“I like that story better.”

“IS SIGAL A Jewish name?” Ruth Bresnahan asked Hugh Ward, as they drove past the shop of the jeweler and gold merchant and tried to find a parking place. The Coombe, however, was a narrow through street and there was not a place to be found.

“It can be, although it’s more usually spelled with an
e
after the
i
.”

“Odd, but you don’t usually think of there being many Jews in Ireland. Remember that passage from Joyce?”

“In
Ulysses
?”

“Was it
Ulysses
?”

Ward nodded. “Deasy saying to Daedalus, the reason there are no Jews in Ireland is because she never let them in. It was dead wrong then, dead wrong now. Jews have been in Ireland for eight centuries that are known about and perhaps even before that. Henry the Third made Peter of Rivall the chancellor of the Irish exchequer and gave him ‘custody of the King’s Judaism.’ That was in 1232.”

Bresnahan eyed Ward sidelong. She hated when he knew more about some subject that was—or, at least, should be—common knowledge. Before their liaison they had been rather at each other’s throats in Murder Squad meetings. In fact, it had been
Ulysses
and Joyce that had brought their
agon
to a
crisis, the resolution of which was their present state of involvement. “How do you know all that? There’s a parking place there, if you haven’t noticed.”

Ward had, but auto theft in that part of Dublin was rife, and a blistering new BMW with every option very much a target. Since they were posing as ordinary citizens, they could not very well pull up in front of the shop and lower the Garda shield on her visor. “You sure?”

“Of course, I’m sure. It’s only a motorcar.” Her manner was nonchalant even breezy, but Ward could tell she was spoiling for a dustup.

There had been a time—before having become…attracted to Bresnahan (it was hardly the right word)—when Ward had proscribed redheaded, left-handed women with light-colored eyes from his scope of amorous activity. He had never met one who was not in some way dangerous or zany.

“Give me more on Ireland’s Jews.”

With the gauntlet down, Ward could scarcely shrink from the challenge, and humbling her was a definite pleasure. “A quick sketch, or in detail?” Getting out of the car, he tossed her the keys like a hurler a ball on his stick.

“Why the works, of course. Who am I to frustrate your penchant for pedantry? What’s that little gem you keep dredging up about genius being the infinite capacity for detail?”

“It’s actually ‘The transcendent capacity of taking trouble, first of all.’”

“Who said that anyhow?”

Something like it had been uttered by Dickens, Barrie, and Einstein, but Carlyle said it best. But it was safer to stick to Ireland’s Jews.

Following her up the narrow footpath with cars and delivery vans passing them only a few feet away, Ward nearly had to shout. “Ireland attempted to naturalize Jews in the early part of the eighteenth century. The act passed the Commons unanimously over the objections of the Peers, only to be struck down by George the Second.

“We tried again later and in 1796, I believe, with the Irish parliament extending full civil liberties to Jews.”

“I’ll check this with my Jewish friends, don’t think I won’t.”

“Baron de Rothschild? During the height of the famine he sent Ireland ten thousand pounds, a princely sum at the time, to be used by the needy regardless of religious affiliation.”

Ahead of him, Bresnahan was walking slowly, careful to keep her chrome yellow suit from brushing against the grimy brick walls of the narrow street. Ward asked himself why—for the love of Yahweh—was he getting into a row with
that
? It wasn’t what he wanted and would only complicate his life; but it was as though he could not help himself. “And, of course, you know about ‘Little Jerusalem,’” he heard himself say.

There was no reply.

“It was a neighborhood off the South Circular Road around Clanbrassil Street. Around the turn of the century, it was lined with kosher butchers, bakeries, delicatessens, and the like. Bloom himself was born there, according to Joyce. Chaim Herzog, the future president of Israel, grew up on Bloomfield Avenue, which name—it’s occurred to me more than once—Joyce might have taken for his ‘cultured allaroundman.’”

“Who was a model for his time and ours.” They had reached the door of the shop; Bresnahan turned to him. “So tell ’me—how many Jews are there in Ireland now? Few, I bet.”

“Around three thousand, last count.”

“There you go. Three thousand out of five million. I was right all along.”

“Emigration keeps the number stable. Most of it, like Herzog, is to Israel.”

Bresnahan reached a black-gloved finger to the buzzer. “Now I
cop
on—you’re about to tell me you’re a closet celebrant of said faith. Or is all of this something you learned in your brief
pass
through university.” Which Ward had left for the guards, after his father had died and he found himself with a mother and three sisters to support.

“Well, you could say that. But think of the reams of bracing stuff I could regale you with had I stayed.”

“Not to worry—I like you fine the way you are.”

Dare he ask? “Which is?”

“Oh, cute. Definitely cute. But Monck was not wrong.”

A face appeared in the square window—that of an early-
middle-aged woman who had done little to enhance her dark good looks. Her hair, which was graying, was cropped short, and no makeup disguised the lines that had begun to appear around the corners of her eyes and mouth. Her long, thinly bridged nose was retroussé in shape, her eyes were blue.

But it was more what she did (or did not do) that caused Bresnahan and Ward to exchange glances. Framed in the door window, she only glanced at Bresnahan before her gaze lingered on Ward for whole seconds. Color came to her cheeks. Turning back into the shop as though for assistance, she looked out at them again with her eyes widened in what looked like panic. Again they fixed on Ward.

“Well, at least it’s not me,” said Bresnahan. “Did you shave?”

A dark person himself, Ward—while not hirsute—had a beard that looked almost blue when shaved close. He touched his chin. “No less than usual. Or have I egg on me pan?”

Finally her hands darted out and freed the latch. A loud alarm bell sounded in the shop as the door swung wide.

“Oh, hello. Sorry. Please, please come in. It’s just that we don’t get many people dropping in in this neighborhood. Most of our trade is by appointment.”

Again, eyes met; shades of Monck & Neary went unsaid.

The alarm stopped the moment the door was closed, and she led them toward a row of glass cases. With a low tin ceiling, the dark shop at first appeared small and cramped, until their eyes adjusted to the shadows. Beyond—in fact, way beyond—some central display cases, they could see a light source. Aisles appeared, some packed with pianos, musical instruments, clocks, chandeliers and candelabras, others with brass sconces, vases and a vast collection of newel posts, among a host of other items.

She was not a tall woman, Ward noted as she turned to them, but nicely put together for somebody her age, which was what? Late thirties, early forties. All was concealed, however, in a tasteful, if loose-fitting, floral dress. There were plain gold rings in her ears, but none on her hands.

“Our trade is mostly wholesale, broker to broker. Or commissions.”

“And you deal in more than jewelry and gold?” Bresnahan’s eyes roamed the other items.

“Not really. We call those things my father’s ‘collection.’ When he was alive, there were certain things he couldn’t resist. Perhaps one of these days I’ll sell them.”

Yet again her light eyes flitted over Bresnahan and fixed on Ward. “What can I do for you?”

“I have a ring that was given me.” Bresnahan held out her left hand. “I’d like an estimate of its worth, with an eye toward selling it. I was told Sigal and Sons might be able to find me a buyer. Or is it Sigal and Daughter?”

But the woman only directed Bresnahan’s hand into the beam of a jeweler’s light on the counter. She then fitted on a pair of watchmaker’s eyeglasses, with a second lens in front of her right eye. Again she examined the large central stone, and then the eight in the surround. “The valuation, now—would it be for personal or professional use, Inspector?”

Bresnahan’s nostrils flared. So much for anonymity. But she supposed that Ward’s face had been in the papers and on the telly often enough, and she herself had acted as spokesperson for the squad more than a few times. “Shall I take it off my finger? Perhaps you could see it better then.”

“It would help.”

Bresnahan had some trouble removing the ring, which was small for her. And after only a moment or so of reexamination, the woman asked, “Do you have the rest of the parure?”

Neither Bresnahan nor Ward knew what she meant.

“Parure. A matched set of jewelry, Don’t tell me you never kept up with your French, Superintendent?” she muttered.

Ward’s head went back. He opened his mouth to ask the woman what she meant by that, but she continued to speak.

“A ring of this quality and artistry would have been created as part of a matched set. That is, along with a necklace, earrings, and brooch.”

“We only have the ring.”

“What a shame. I can tell you that Sigal and Sons sees a fair few gemstones in the course of a year—for jewelry, for appraisal, for sale, for insurance valuation. And for the last fourteen years the appraiser has been me.” Her blue eyes, magnified through the glasses, flicked up at Ward. “But I’ve
seldom encountered stones of this quality. Shall I tell you why?”

Ward nodded.

“I’ll start with the diamond, which is a blue-white. The very best. As far as I can see, there is only one slight inclusion in the entire—I’m guessing here—twenty-eight carats, which is remarkable.”

“What’s an inclusion?” Bresnahan asked.

“Jewelerspeak for flaw. An imperfection. Officially, it’s a solid body or a gaseous or liquid substance contained in a crystal mass. Very few diamonds are completely free from flaws. This one comes close.

“Also, it was cut by a master as a ‘marquise brilliant’ with fifty-eight facets or sides, thirty-three above the girdle.” She pointed to the widest part of the rectangular-shaped stone. “And twenty-five below. It’s spectacular.

“The sapphires are no less so. They’re a matched selection of Kashmiris in cornflower blue, which are highly prized both because of the rich light blue color that you see and their rarity. There’re very few sapphires of this quality in the world. Like rubies they can be cut so that, in the light”—she held the ring so Ward and Bresnahan could see—“a beautiful, luminous, six-point star appears on the surface of the gem. And finally, star sapphires of this sort are semi-opalescent. All that milky iridescence.”

“It’s gorgeous.”

“Yes, but imagine it with the other pieces. Now”—she turned the ring over—“as for the shank, setting, and designer. The hallmark says it’s twenty-four-karat gold, which is the purest, a karat being a one twenty-fourth measure. But the setting is probably eighteen or fourteen to keep the stones in place. Pure gold is soft and malleable.

“The designer?” With a jeweler’s tool she pointed to a symbol that was concealed on the band in the shadow created by the stone. “Peter Carl Fabergé, Saint Petersburg, which means it was created before Fabergé’s removal to Paris. He cut his name only into those creations of which he was proudest.”

“What’s it worth?”

She glanced up at Bresnahan. “Depends on the buyer.
Were the other pieces of the set as spectacular and owned by one person, then the ring’s value would easily double or triple. A complete matched set of this quality would be of inestimable value, comparable to the parures worn by royalty on state occasions or displayed in national museums. Think of the effect were the queen or princess to possess light-colored blue eyes.” Hers, which were that color, flickered up at Ward.

“But as it is here in Dublin today,” Bresnahan pressed. “What’s it worth?”

“The ring alone?” The woman swayed her head from side to side. “A hundred thousand pounds. Maybe a hundred and a quarter were the buyer to possess the wherewithal to use these stones as the basis for creating another matched set. The problem would be
finding
stones of this quality, which would take time and cost…millions. May I ask you a question?” Which question was directed at Ward. “Have you researched the ring?”

Ward shook his head. “We only just came by it this morning.”

“Something this good might have been written about or, at least, registered in some way or other. With the police, some insurance carrier, a bank or Fabergé. Since it’s you, I can take a few photos and fax them to a service we use to locate rare items and document others. They might be able to run it down.”

Since it’s us, the police? Ward wondered. Or should they know her? “Yes, please. That’d be grand. Any expense—”

“Nary a bit. The service is one price, whether I use it once a month or a hundred times. And I’m rather intrigued now myself.” She fitted the shank into a small, chamois-lined vise and trained the light on it. “And if the owner would ever wish to sell it, why then—” Over the top of the glasses her eyes again met Ward’s with a glint that he thought for a moment he recognized. But from where?

From beneath the counter she drew out a camera and took several shots of the ring from various angles.

“Would you know a Clem or Clement Ford?” Bresnahan asked, as the woman worked.

“I don’t believe so. Who is he?”

Bresnahan turned to Ward; it was up to him to decide how much to divulge.

“He’s a man from Mayo who wrote the name and address of your shop on a pad in what may well have been his last act. This ring was his wife’s. It was found in a car with the corpse of a murdered former guard.”

“You mean, the trouble on Clare Island? It was in this morning’s papers.”

Ward nodded.

“Ford, you say? I can check our records.” She turned into an office area beyond the counter. “Clem or—”