Under the Hill(4)

“It is. Nice house, and not too big. Not too many other people nearby, either, which is kind of what I wanted.” I was already saying too much, and I didn’t want him to think I was inviting him to ask questions, so I hurried to change the subject. “I’ve only talked to one of them, a woman named Honora who must live close by. I’ve seen her a couple of times.”

When I looked at the man behind the bar, he was mindlessly wiping off the top of it, pushing the rag in aimless circles, his eyes blank. When he finally looked up at me, he said carefully, “About your size, dark hair?”

“Yes, that sounds like her. You know her?”

He nodded. He looked like he was going to say something else, but then a couple of men came into the pub and he turned to them. After he’d served them, he started talking with one of them, so I finished my pint and left.

The next morning the rain had stopped, at least for the moment. In a way I was sad, because I’d had a lovely time the night before, curled up in front of the fireplace, where there burned a fire I’d made myself, reading a mystery by an Irish writer I’d never heard of. I hadn’t missed watching television—or having a companion. But a fair day in Ireland was not to be wasted, I told myself—I could read after dark. I pulled on a sweater and my windbreaker and set out over the fields.

I came upon Honora leaning on the fence where I’d first seen her, watching a few birds hunting for anything left to eat in the field. “Hello,” I called out as I came up behind her. “I was in town yesterday, and I met someone who knows you—the bartender at a pub in town.”

She turned to look at me then. “That’d be Declan. He’s my brother. What did he say?”

“Not much. I just said I’d run into someone named Honora on one of my walks, and he described you.” I waited for some comment or explanation from her, but she went back to watching the near-empty field. “Is your house near here?”

“No. I just come here for the walk. I like the view of the land. If you see Declan again, tell him I said hello. And tell him to look under the storage shed.” She turned away; apparently our conversation was over, even if I didn’t understand what she meant.

Bewildered, I said, “See you later,” to her back and resumed my own walk. I wouldn’t have called her warm and welcoming. Maybe I’d ask Declan about her later—and then I realized I’d already decided to go back to the pub. Funny how after only a week I’d settled into my own routine: wake, walk, go into town, come back, cook, read, bed. And then again the next day, and the next. Well, that was what I had been looking for, wasn’t it? Time to think, to get to know myself again.

That afternoon the sunshine still held, so I drove down the lanes into the town. I strolled around for a while, admiring window displays and puzzling over some that I didn’t understand. One window was filled with grave decorations like nothing I’d ever seen. Bookstore, clothing shop, realtor, café—I made the rounds and ended up in front of the pub. Declan was inside again—what kind of hours did he keep?—and there were no other customers.

He greeted me with a smile. “How are yeh?” he said. “Will it be a pint today?”

“Why not?” I said. When he returned with my brimming glass, I said, “I saw Honora this morning. She said to tell you hello. And she said something I didn’t understand.”

Declan’s face had gone still again, like before, and his eyes were fixed on mine. “And what would that be?” he asked in a tight voice.

“She said to look under the storage shed. Does that make sense to you?”

He thought for a moment, then nodded once. “That it does.” He turned away, much as Honora had, and became very busy polishing glassware. When I finished my pint I left some euro coins on the bar and went on my way.

Since the following day was fair again—close to a miracle, so many nice days, the newscasters on the television informed me—I decided I was going to try going a bit farther afield and exploring some local monuments I’d been reading about in my one and only guidebook. I left shortly after breakfast, driving along the coast, stopping at a few small towns, and enjoyed myself thoroughly. It was after three by the time I drew near my little cottage—only to find a couple of police cars parked in the driveway. I pulled off the road as far as I could and approached the nearest officer. “What’s going on?”

“Who would you be, miss?”

“I’m Ellen Leonard, from the States. I’m renting this cottage from Mrs. McCarthy. Is there a problem? Has somebody broken in?” I’d heard that there was little crime in Ireland, and I had nothing worth stealing anyway.

He didn’t answer immediately, as if turning over a variety of answers before picking one for me. “Nothing to concern yourself with. There’s been a crime committed here, but long before you came.”

It was then that I noticed that several officers were poking around in a small shed to the side of the property, one I’d had no reason to explore. And then I recognized Declan. “What’s he doing here?” I nodded toward him.

“Declan? How do you know him?”

“Only from the pub where he works. We’ve chatted a little, that’s all.”

The young officer shook his head. “It’s a sad thing. We’ve had a tip that there might be someone buried beneath the shed.”