‘Will you shut up? I’m as much a part of this as you. Let’s think what to do. Were we seen coming up here, d’you think?’
‘We might have been.’ Colm was still looking down at Sheehan’s body. It lay where it had fallen, the ocean light mingling eerily with the lamplight, casting strangely coloured shadows over it. ‘They’ll piece it together,’ he said. ‘Once the body’s found the garda will work it all out. Evidence. Clues.’
They both knew this was a real danger. Fintan’s Bar sometimes had a publication called Strand Magazine which they read after the others had finished with it, devouring the exploits of the Baker Street detective called Sherlock Holmes. Almost all of Mr Holmes’ crimes took place in England, but the methods employed by the English police to track down a murderer would not be much different from the ones the garda would use in Ireland.
‘You’re right,’ said Declan. ‘They’ll question everyone. They’ll know we were here.’
‘Not if we destroy the evidence,’ said Colm. ‘All of it – including Sheehan’s body.’
‘How?’
‘There’s only one way,’ said Colm.
SIX
Their minds had always fitted together so well that they scarcely needed to consult each other as they worked. Leaving Sheehan’s body where it was, they dragged a heavy oak chest out of the room. Then they closed the door on the room and pushed the chest hard against it.
‘That’s fine,’ said Colm, after they had tested it. ‘It’s wedging the door shut. No one will be able to get in there until it’s too late.’
They had left one oil lamp inside, but they carried the other two up the steps. In the tapestry-hung room where Sheehan had poured the wine, they tumbled books from the shelves, choosing them at random and using them to build a small bonfire at the centre of the room.
‘You realize we could be destroying valuable books?’ said Declan, hesitating.
‘If we don’t, something more precious and valuable than books might end in being destroyed,’ said Colm. ‘Me.’
‘True, O King.’
‘And don’t quote the Old Testament at me!’
‘Sorry. Will we drag some of those tapestries down while we’re about it?’
They did so, and surveyed the heap of books and tapestries critically.
‘I think that’s as good as we’ll get,’ said Colm.
‘And everything’s as dry as kindling; it’ll go up like the deepest cavern of hell.’
‘I hope so. This room’s directly over the underground room so everything down there should burn.’ He looked frightened, then said, ‘But in the long run, we’re all going to burn,’ and tipped the oil from the lamps over the bonfire. ‘Get ready to run as if the devil’s chasing you,’ he said, and Declan struck the tinder.
As the glowing tinder fell on to the bonfire and flames burst upwards, Colm cried, ‘Run!’
‘And slam the doors as we go,’ gasped Declan, tumbling across the hall to the door. ‘It’ll keep the fire contained for a while and we need that underground room to burn.’
They got outside and skidded breathlessly down the first few yards of the path, expecting every minute to hear cries and to see people running up the cliff path, ready to douse the fire. But no one appeared and a quarter of the way down they stopped to look back.
‘Nothing’s happening,’ said Colm, staring up at the black monolith of the tower.
‘Yes – look, there’s smoke coming through the bricks on the left.’
‘Only a few wisps, though. Will we go back to make sure it’s burning up?’
‘They’ll be annoyed at home if we’re late,’ said Declan doubtfully.
‘They’ll be more than annoyed if I’m hanged for Sheehan’s murder. I’ll go on my own if you want.’
‘No, I’ll come too.’
They went back up the path, skirting the tower’s front and making a cautious way around the cliff face. There was not exactly a way across the open face of this part of the Moher Cliffs, but there was a series of crevices and jutting rock spurs that made it possible to swarm partly across. Colm and Declan had clambered over these cliffs almost since they could walk, and they knew the way as well as they knew their own gardens. Even so, negotiating them was hazardous and they did not speak until they were close to the base of the watchtower.
‘It is burning,’ said Colm, on a note of relief. ‘See over there. There’re flames coming out from between the stones.’
‘And you can smell the smoke,’ said Declan. ‘It’s funny that you don’t see the barred window of that underground room from here, isn’t it? All the times we’ve been out here, and we’ve never once seen it.’
‘It’ll be beyond that spur of rock,’ said Colm. ‘See there, where it overhangs? We’ve never tried to get round there.’
‘We don’t need to get round it now, do we?’ The spur of rock was large and it thrust menacingly out of the rocks.
‘No, because the fire’s burning up properly now; you can see the glow . . .’ Colm broke off and turned to stare at Declan. The dull crimson glow mingled with the light of the approaching storm, casting a shadow over his face. ‘Did you hear that?’
‘It was the sea,’ said Declan after a moment.
‘It sounded like somebody shouting,’ said Colm.
‘Someone who saw the fire? Raising the alarm?’
‘I think it came from inside the tower,’ said Colm.
They looked upwards, fear clutching them. The watchtower reared up into the bruised sky, the black stones already tinged with angry red.
‘Was it Sheehan?’ said Declan. ‘Oh God, could he still be alive in there?’
‘We thought he was dead,’ said Colm, but he too sounded uncertain.
‘But what if he wasn’t? After all . . .’ Declan broke off because this time they both heard the cry, and there was no mistaking it. It was Sheehan’s voice and he was shouting for help.
‘Help me . . .’
‘What do we do?’ said Colm. ‘Can we get him out?’