Fresh horror broke within Declan. He killed that other man, he thought. The walrus moustache man who was in the house with Cerise that day. Oh God, what do I do? This is Colm, he’s better than a brother to me . . . But I can’t let him kill again.
No longer caring if he was heard, he ran towards the voices. In a corner of the inner tunnel, Colm was bending over a female who was lying on the ground, half against one wall. There was an extraordinary moment when Declan thought he had got this whole thing wrong, because although the man was wearing the dark great coat Colm had taken from the lodging house, he looked like a stranger.
Cerise was different, as well. Gone was the velvet cape with the dubious fur trimming, and whoever this was, she was wearing the most astonishing clothes Declan had ever seen – some kind of loose top and trousers like a man. Her hair was certainly not Cerise’s scooped-up mane with its tumbling tendrils; it was shorter than Declan had ever seen a female’s hair, and somehow shaped around her head. He blinked, trying to see through the distorting mists, and then saw that of course it was Cerise lying there, it was just the curious light in the tunnel.
Colm turned at Declan’s appearance, and as he did so, Cerise moved in a half-scrambling way that suggested she might already be injured. As Colm lunged towards her, she went towards the outer tunnel and Declan put out a hand to help her. She seemed not to see it, though; she went past him, still limping heavily, and Declan saw that a completely unknown man was standing there.
Whoever he was, he had disturbed the river fog, because it came swirling into the tunnels, thick and smelling of oil and grime. Declan blinked, and, when it cleared, he saw with despair that after all Cerise had not got away. She was lying on the ground, her eyes wide and staring. The fur and velvet cape she had been so proud of was soaked in the blood running from her cut throat.
The present
Nell clung to Michael, trying not to sob with relief, but unable to prevent tears streaming down her face. When he said, ‘Nell, my dear love, we’ll have the explanations later, but for the moment I’m going to get you into a taxi and head for home.’
‘But we need police – the man – he’s still in there.’
Michael said, ‘What man?’ and Nell, who had been testing her damaged foot to see how well she could walk on it, looked up at him.
‘The man who took me in there. He was at Holly Lodge – I think he’s something to do with Benedict’s family . . . Michael, what’s wrong?’
Michael said, ‘Nell, there was no one in the tunnel.’
As Nell stared at him, quick light footsteps came towards them along the river walkway. It was Benedict, his face white, his hair beaded with moisture from the river mist.
Michael said, ‘Benedict, what on earth . . . No, never mind for the moment. Except – did I hear you following me earlier on?’
Benedict said, ‘You might have done. I was following someone, but I’m not sure who it was. I don’t think it was you, Michael. Whoever it was, he was carrying someone. I thought it looked pretty sinister, so I came after him.’
‘I thought I was following someone as well. But there’s no one here now.’
Benedict looked at Nell. ‘Are you all right? What are you doing out here?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Nell. ‘I fell down the stairs at Holly Lodge, and sprained my ankle . . . Michael, stop fussing, it’s only a sprain and I can probably manage to hop as far as the road and a taxi. But I think – no, I’m sure – that someone brought me out here. And if you were both following someone—’
Benedict said, half to himself, ‘I was following Declan.’
‘No,’ said Nell at once. ‘It wasn’t Declan. It was Colm.’
TWENTY-FIVE
They pieced it together sitting in Michael’s rooms the next evening, pooling all their information – Benedict’s images, Michael’s discoveries about Fergal and Kilderry Castle, and Nell’s eerie experience inside the old sewer tunnel.
‘So it wasn’t Declan I was seeing and hearing all these years,’ said Benedict, finally. ‘And Declan wasn’t the Mesmer Murderer.’ He looked tired, but his eyes were clear and happy.
‘It doesn’t sound like it,’ said Michael. ‘It sounds as if Declan was trying to protect Colm quite a lot of the time.’
‘And Colm was under the—’
‘Baleful influence of the devil’s chess piece?’
‘Don’t mock, you heartless wench,’ said Michael, smiling at Nell. ‘Damn it, I will say it. Colm was under the baleful influence of the chess piece.’ He refilled the wine glasses.
‘Also,’ said Benedict, accepting the wine, ‘I think Colm was pretty much besotted with Romilly. So that was driving him as well. He hated those people who contributed to her death.’ He drank his wine thoughtfully, then said, ‘You can’t imagine how relieved I am to know my great-grandfather wasn’t a serial killer.’
‘And,’ said Michael, ‘to know that you probably aren’t suffering from that thing – dissociative personality disorder.’
‘Yes, that too, although I can’t begin to think how I’m going to tell the medics about all this.’
‘I’d help with that if you wanted.’
‘Thanks. I think I would like that. But,’ said Benedict, ‘I’m still not entirely clear why my parents – and my grandfather – died all those years ago. That later newspaper report I found – there was a witness who was very clear about seeing a figure in the road. It can’t have been coincidence, can it? It must have been Colm.’
Nell said, ‘If we’re accepting the premise of all this, it seems reasonable to think Colm was trying to . . . to offload the sins he took on. It was your great-grandfather who recited the sin-eating ritual, but seemingly it was Colm who actually got the sins.’ She frowned. ‘I can’t believe I’m saying all this.’
‘Go on,’ said Benedict.