The Death of an Irish Sea Wolf by Bartholomew Gill

Author:Bartholomew Gill [Gill, Bartholomew]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Mystery
ISBN: 0380725789
Publisher: Avon
Published: 1996-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

She had spent the day at sixes and sevens with herself. Her first mistake was to have sent the women, who had come to work, home. She didn’t want it ever to be said (and it would) that, Jew that she was, she had made any of them work so soon after the murder of Kevin O’Grady and the disappearance of the Fords, who had been so good to her.

But had the women been there, she might have been able to forget about the entire debacle and the packet that Clem had thrust upon her. Finally, she had decided—she didn’t care how much money was in the Clare Island Trust or what “good” she might do with it. So far, the blasted thing had succeeded only in ruining lives and now her own equanimity. She would see for herself if any of what Clem had told her was true. Her son, Karl, would be arriving in the morning for Kevin’s funeral, and she would not burden him with false stories.

An experienced climber—like her father and mother before her—Mirna had thought to pack climbing tools and several long lengths of rope, in case the location of Clem’s purported cave was higher on the cliff face than she thought. She had also brought along a bright electric torch and a down sleeping bag, since she would have to wait a full twelve hours to the next low tide before she could leave. And finally, she included her Polaroid camera. That way, if what Clem claimed was real, she would have proof to show Karl.

It was nearly dark when she reached the dingle near the Fords’ that led down to the ocean. During low tide, for just twenty or thirty minutes, the water ebbed enough to reveal a narrow fringe of beach along the cliffs. Mirna hoped she had timed it right; climbing in wet boots on wet rock could be dangerous, unless she fitted on crampons and spikes, which would take more time.

Now all that was left of the day was a thin blush of mulberry—her artist’s eye told her—tinting the horizon. Yet the phosphorescent wash of the waves, breaking for a good quarter mile past treacherous shallows, rocks, and sudden deep pools, guided Mirna along the cliff bottom. She paused when she believed she had reached the series of upthrust rocks that jutted out of the water, like teeth, and were repeated on the face of the cliffs of Croaghmore.

She even dug out the map from her rucksack to check. Mirna had brought along the entire packet, remembering what the policeman—McGarr—had told her of how Clem and Breege’s cottage had been sacked. She would not give up Clem’s secret just because she’d been careless and not until she saw for herself what it was.

Satisfied that she had reached the spot, Mirna replaced the map, then trained the beam of the torch on her feet. Fortunately, her climbing shoes were still dry, but the cliff face was dripping wet both from waves and the dampness that was leaching from the mountain after the storms of the days before.

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