Right up into living memory, the British ran Ireland on the feudal system: handed out villages to Anglo-Irish families like party favors, then left them to use the land and the locals however they saw fit, which varied just as much as you’d expect. After independence the system collapsed in on itself; a few faded, obsolete eccentrics are still hanging in there, mostly living out of four rooms and opening the rest of the estate to the public to pay the roofing bills, but a lot of the Big Houses have been bought by corporations and turned into hotels or spas or whatever, and everyone’s half forgotten what they used to be. Here and there, though, where history scarred a place deeper than most: people remember.
And this was Wicklow. For hundreds of years, rebellions had been planned within a day’s walk of where I was sitting. These hills had fought on the guerrillas’ side, hidden them from stumbling soldiers through dark tangled nights; cottages like Lexie’s had been left hollow and bloody when the British shot everyone in sight till they found their one cached rebel. Every family has stories.
Sam was right, I had been up in the big city way too long. Dublin is modern to the point of hysteria, anything before broadband has become a quaint, embarrassing little joke; I had forgotten even what it was like to live in a place that had memory. Sam is from the country, from Galway; he knows. The cottage’s last windows were lit up with moonlight and it looked like a ghost house, secretive and wary.
“There could be,” I said. “I don’t see what it could have to do with our case, though. It’s one thing to give the Big House kids hairy looks till they quit coming into the newsagent’s; it’s a whole other thing to stab one of them because the landlord was mean to your great-granny in 1846.”
“Probably. I’ll look into it, though, on the off chance. Anything’s worth checking.”
I thumped back against the hedge, felt a quick vibration through the branches as something scurried away. “Come on. How crazy do you think these people are?”
A brief silence. “I’m not saying they’re crazy,” Sam said eventually.
“You’re saying one of them might have killed Lexie for something that a completely unrelated family did a hundred years ago. And I’m saying that’s someone who at the very least needs to get out a whole lot more, and find himself a girlfriend who doesn’t get sheared every summer.” I wasn’t sure why the idea got up my nose so badly, or for that matter why I was being such a snippy little bitch. Something to do with the house, I think. I had put a lot of work into that house-we had spent half the evening stripping the moldy wallpaper in the sitting room-and I was getting attached to it. The idea of it as the target of that kind of focused hatred made something hot flare up in my stomach.
“There’s a family round where I grew up,” Sam said. “The Purcells. Their great-granda or whatever was a rent agent, back in the day. One of the bad ones-used to lend the rent money to families who didn’t have it, then take the interest out of the wives and daughters, then throw them all out onto the roads once he got bored. Kevin Purcell grew up with the rest of us, not a bother, no grudge; but when we all got a bit older and he started going out with one of the local girls, a bunch of lads got together and beat the shite out of him. They weren’t crazy, Cassie. They’d nothing against Kevin; he was a grand young fella, never did that girl any harm. Just… some things aren’t OK, no matter how long you leave them. Some things don’t go away.”
The leaves of the hedge prickled and twisted against my back, like something was moving in there, but when I whipped around it was still as a picture. “That’s different, Sam. This Kevin guy made the first move: he started going out with that girl. These five didn’t do a thing. They’re just living here.”
Another pause. “And that could be enough, all depending. I’m only saying.”
There was a bewildered note in his voice. “Fair enough,” I said, more calmly. “You’re right, it’s worth a look-we did say our guy was probably local. Sorry for being a snotty cow.”
“I wish you were here,” Sam said suddenly, softly. “On the phone, it’s too easy to get mixed up. Get things wrong.”
“I know, Sam,” I said. “I miss you too.” It was true. I tried not to-that kind of thing just distracts you, and getting distracted can do anything from wreck your case to get you killed-but when I was on my own and tired, trying to read in bed after a long day, it got difficult. “Only a few weeks left.”
Sam sighed. “Less, if I find something. I’ll talk to Doherty and Byrne, see what they can tell me. Meanwhile… just look after yourself, OK? Just in case.”
“I will,” I said. “You can update me tomorrow. Sleep tight.”
“Sleep tight. I love you.”
