Mr. Flood's Last Resort(31)

Sam glances at me.

“Renata is unable to use a computer,” I mutter. “Except in dire emergencies.”

“The electromagnetic fields play havoc with my third eye,” Renata says defensively.

“The tarot is her main investigative tool, heavy on the Suit of Swords at the moment, I believe.”

Renata throws me a black look. “Signifying responsibility and intellect, violence and struggle.” She smiles radiantly at Sam. “So, you see, Maud can’t ditch her job, certainly not with this new development.”

I glance at her. “Excuse me: ‘Maud can’t ditch her job’?”

Renata seems to choose her words carefully. “Sam came here to persuade you to stop working at Bridlemere.”

I turn to Sam. “Is that why you’re here?”

Sam shrugs and leans back in the chair.

St. Valentine (love, the plague) wanders into the room uninvited. He’s an old, sly class of saint with a roving wall eye. He fixes Sam with one eye and trains the other on me. His robes have a secondhand look about them. The braiding is frayed around the hem and the cuffs. His halo, the size and shape of a tea tray, is worn to the back of the head like a casual sombrero. It burns with a smoky orange flame. St. Valentine settles on the pouf with a smirk, showing that he has three teeth in his head and a tendency towards spittle.

“Sam is here to tell you”—Renata glances across at Sam—“that the house and the old man are best left well alone.”

“You think I should leave?”

Sam looks a little sheepish. “I do. But then that’s your decision, Maud.”

Renata angles the newspaper cutting towards the light and starts to read aloud. “?‘Police are continuing their search for Maggie Dunne, aged fifteen, who has been missing from the village of Langton Cheney since last Tuesday.’?”

St. Valentine lets out a whistle.

“?‘Maggie is five feet, six inches tall,’?” Renata reads. “?‘Slim build, blue eyes, blond hair.’?” She puts the newspaper cutting down. “Dated Monday, 26 August 1985.”

“With all due respect”—Sam leans forwards with his palms open in a conciliatory gesture—“what has this got to do with Maud working up at the house?”

Renata taps the newspaper. “We know the Floods visited this place five years before.”

“A coincidence,” suggests Sam.

“I think not. There’s a connection here, between that old man and this case.” Renata frowns. “We ought to show this to the police.”

Sam sits up. “I wouldn’t do that.”

St. Valentine looks at Sam with interest.

“Given Cathal Flood’s track record as a troublemaker I doubt if the police would take this seriously,” says Sam evenly. “Let’s face it, he may even have set this whole thing up.”

Renata looks doubtful. “I don’t know, Sam—”

“Really, Renata, I’ve been in that house. There are no ghosts, or ghouls, or missing schoolgirls. Just an old man and his hoard of rubbish.”

“Then why these clues, one after the other?”

Sam hesitates. “Who says they are clues? I think you are letting your imagination run riot.”

Renata fixes Sam with a steely stare.

“There’ll be wigs on the green,” murmurs St. Valentine, almost audibly.

“We already know the old man has a violent temper—”

“But this is probably no more than a prank, Renata,” says Sam. “You know that he booby-trapped the house for the council workers?”

“Well, if it’s a prank then we catch him at his own game,” Renata concedes. “Either way, we must find out who is behind these communications.”

“Cathal Flood may be old, but he’s unpredictable. What about Maud in all of this?” Sam studies me. “What are you, five foot three? A slight woman pitched against a six-foot-nine man with a history of assault.”

Renata’s eyes widen. “Is he that tall?”

I nod. “He’s an Irish giant.”

“Like the skeleton in the museum? The one John Hunter boiled?” Renata seems impressed.

“Identical,” I mutter. “Only this one’s animated: it roars and it swears.”

Renata turns to Sam. “What’s Maud’s height got to do with it?” she says coolly. “And what’s her being a woman got to do with it?”

Sam appears to be at a loss, as well he should be. “I’m just saying Mr. Flood is no ordinary pensioner; don’t underestimate him.”

Renata narrows her eyes. “To that I would say: Maud is no ordinary slight woman. Don’t underestimate her. If anyone can get to the bottom of this, Maud can. Unshakable tenacity in the face of stacked odds is one of her key traits.”

I glance at her. “Thanks, Renata.”

She nods. “She’s a beaver, you know, totem-wise. I meditated and her spirit animal came forwards. It’s a wonder, really, how Maud’s complex and resolute nature can be summed up by one small hairy emblem.”

Sam looks at us in dismay. Then he runs his hands through his dark golden hair. I wonder if his memories are coming back to him: the labyrinthine clutter, the marauding cats, and the rabid pensioner coming towards him with a fighting grip on a hurley . . .