Lake of Sorrows

Dawson broke in: “The strange thing is, Brazil’s family—”

“Says he emigrated,” Nora said.

“That’s right. How did you know?”

“I was just talking to his nephew this afternoon.” Joe and Margaret Scanlan exchanged a significant look. “I was asking about Danny and his father finding the Loughnabrone hoard, and Charlie said people still ask him where the gold is buried.”

“Seems we’ve nothing to tell that you don’t already know,” Dawson said, feigning disappointment.

“No, it’s news to me that people think the body belongs to Danny Brazil. Mrs. Scanlan, why do people think it’s him?”

“Well, Joe’s niece Helen works at Dr. Morrison’s dental surgery right beside the Garda station in Birr. About half-ten yesterday morning she saw Teresa Brazil—that’s Charlie’s mother—going into the station and leaving again a few minutes later. And the Guards came ’round to the surgery that very same afternoon, asking for Danny Brazil’s records.”

Nora said, “I hate to seem skeptical, Mrs. Scanlan, but surely the man’s own family would know whether he emigrated or not. How could he be missing for twenty-five years and his family know nothing about it? That doesn’t make sense.”

Dawson said, “It all depends on the family.”

Margaret Scanlan leaned forward. “Indeed. And it makes great sense if you knew the Brazils. All a bit quare in the head, if you know what I mean—every last one of ’em.”

Cormac asked, “Any theories about why he might have been killed?”

“I think everyone assumes it’s something to do with the gold,” Mrs. Scanlan said. “It’s been a great source of speculation for years.”

Dawson broke in: “Everyone thought—maybe just assumed—that there was more to the Loughnabrone hoard, that the Brazils hadn’t turned quite everything over to the museum. I suppose it’s what people always think, even when it isn’t true. It’s nicer to think of treasure still being buried somewhere, accessible.”

Margaret Scanlan said, “But now Danny’s turned up dead, everyone’s looking for answers about the brother and the gold.”

“But there’s no actual evidence that the Brazils kept anything back from the hoard?” Nora asked.

“None that I’m aware of,” Dawson said. “We’ll probably never know for certain.”

“But it’s certainly not the first time that family have had their dealings with the police.” Margaret Scanlan took a sip of sherry and settled herself in to tell the story, while her husband sat back, sucking on his pipe and nodding. “About ten or twelve years ago there was an awful scandal, over terrible things that were done to several sheep and a kid goat—too horrible to mention. I don’t even like thinking about it. Everyone said it was Charlie Brazil that did it, but they couldn’t prove anything against him, so he was never up in court. Dreadful, it was. Shocking. And you know what they say, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

5

By the time Nora reached the bog on Wednesday morning, the Loughnabrone man was already packed into his crate, ready for his trip across the Bog of Allen to Dublin. She felt sorrow for some reason, seeing him leave this place where he had been cradled for so long. But she told herself she would see him again, get to know him through whatever intimate secrets his flesh and bone and marrow might divulge.

When the museum van drove out of sight, she turned to Dawson, who was remaining to oversee the next step in the excavation process. Over the next few weeks, a full-scale excavation of the site would look for any additional remains beneath the turf. But today they would begin the search, going through every scrap of spoil looking for bone fragments, skin, and any associated artifacts. They’d have to go through a ton and a half of wet peat with their bare hands, looking for objects as small as a single fingernail. The ridge of spoil had been marked out into sections, so that each person had a manageable amount, and any finds could be pinpointed on a drawing. Nora’s section was just beside Niall Dawson’s.

One of the bog man’s fingernails turned up after three-quarters of an hour, but it was slow, painstaking labor. Nora finished going through her fourth bucket of wet peat, and had just shifted to another position to keep from going numb, when something jabbed her, hard, just below the knee. She gasped and rolled to one side to find whatever it was that had made such a sudden impression. Straightening her leg, she found a sharp point stuck right through her trouser leg and a good quarter-inch into the flesh of her shin. She pulled it out.

Dawson was up on his knees, peering over her shoulder. “What is it?”

“I don’t know. Looks like part of a clasp.” She rubbed the place where it had stabbed her and tried to remember when she’d last had a tetanus shot, then held the thing out to Dawson. He gave a low whistle, and she saw his eyes grow large. “What is it?”

“It’s a fibula. I’m sure you’ve seen them in the museum collection—Iron Age safety pins.”