Chapter 13

Secrets Unearthed

 

“Inspector,” David called out,  “just come and take a look at this.”

     He had been poking around by the side of the fireplace in the lounge, the biggest room in the cottage, for he was still puzzled by the marks on the stained floor boards.  To the right of the fireplace was an area of painted wooden panels, each about four feet wide by three feet tall,  and three panels high.  Further to the right, and flush with these, was a double cupboard in similar panelling, about six feet wide, also from floor to ceiling.  Altogether it was too   dominant a feature to find in a lounge, and not at all attractive. Probably an original fitting when the house was built' David thought, when tastes were different'. The only adornment on the two large cupboard doors were a pair of chunky round pot knobs, chipped and rather grubby, by which to open them. David was surprised to notice that the broad skirting board formed the bottom of the cupboard doors and opened with them, thus revealing a deep space but with only three shelves; where all manner of things were stored.  Ornaments, some kitchen equipment, boxes and packets, and lots of general household items.  There were even some walking boots, two pairs of Wellington's, and a couple of umbrellas. Also in the bottom section David found some folding steps, tall enough, but only just, to enable him to reach the contents of the top shelf.

    However it was the marks on the floor in front of the cupboards that maintained David’s curiosity. One of them, to the left of the cupboard was only seven or eight inches long, a light scrape and only just discernible, but it was quite clearly part of an arc.  But swinging the cupboard door open confirmed his suspicion that the mark was not made by it, for it did not match the swing, the curve of the arc being the other way. A similar mark however to the right of the other door matched perfectly, exactly fitting the arc as the door swung open. So, while one of the marks was made by a cupboard door, the other was not. And, if it was not the cupboard door, what then?.

    Examining the fixed panels between the fireplace and the cupboard at first revealed nothing, but David felt convinced that there was something odd about it.  Tapping on the wooden panels produced a slightly hollow sound, but it told him little.  Panelling would sound like that whatever kind of wall lay behind it. Pushing it and pressing was no more rewarding, and gradually David’s conviction began to wane.  

    But something had caused that mark on the floor.  There had to be a reason. What if, he wondered, it was to do with the 'fixed' panels. A secret door perhaps? The mark would certainly to line up if the panel was hinged on the right. There was no sign of such a hinge, but it still intrigued David enough to take another look inside the cupboard. Moving everything on the shelves, as far to the right as possible, he searched to see if there was anything which might act as an opening device.  The only thing he could see were three hooks screwed into the wooden sides about shoulder height.  These were matched by three more on the right hand side, but what was their purpose.  Hanging cups perhaps, though they were rather large for that, and in any case, why there, when all the other crockery was kept in the kitchen.  A cord across might allow for drying small items of clothes, but somehow that seemed unlikely.  At the moment they provided a home for an old hat and a small rucksack, and what looked like a bag of overripe and slightly smelly apples.  Perhaps they provided no other function than to hang bags on, but David would not leave it until he was sure.

    After removing those items he pulled at the hooks, tried to twist them, pushed them up, pulled them down, but they remained steadfast. He tried every way he could to find something that moved, but everything remained stubbornly unmoved. Then he noticed that although the wooden sides of the cupboard were made of different width vertical slats,  the hooks on the  left were mounted on single horizontal panel about four inches wide. Not so those on the right. Perhaps it was luck, dogged determination, or an inspired guess, but David decided that he would remove the fist sized hooks, and then the horizontal panel on which they were mounted. Well at least that was his plan,  but with no tools he could not make them move.

      He looked around for something to use as a lever.  By the fireside was a basket for logs, though it contained only one; too short and too fat, but there was some smaller kindling pieces. Choosing a piece about twelve inches long, he took it to the cupboard.    It might just do.  Placing his new tool in the nearest hook he tried to twist, despite his rather awkward position. Nothing moved. Feeling that this might be his last gasp, he reached inside so that he could use his stick two handed and twisted with all his might, pushing upwards on one side and downward on the other as hard as his rather unwieldy tool would allow, and fearing it would break. At first there was nothing, but then, suddenly - as if the inertia of all the years it had been undisturbed had been overcome - it moved. Another twist and the hook started to unscrew, and soon the first hook was out. The centre one proved to be unmovable but David persevered, and before long the right hand hook was removed. Just one left now, but still it refused to budge, and David was at exhausted. With only the centre hook left he grasped to panel at each end hoping, by twisting it up and down, that he might produce the same effect on the last hook, that his kindling wood had had on the other two. To release the inertia that many years and numerous coats of paint had created.

    At first there was little movement, hardly discernable, but then unexpectedly, something more, as the wooden bar in one jerk made a distinct move. About two inches down on the left, and two inches up on the right. More important however was the quietest, barely audible sound behind the wooden wall. Not quite a click, but a definite sound of something ‘giving’. It was a tiny movement; but it was enough to encourage further experiment, for David was convinced that it was the the satisfying sound; a clunk; as some kind of lock was released.  Removing himself from the cupboard, his body aching but tingling with anticipation, he returned his attention to the wood panelled section between the cupboard and the fireplace.

    If he had made any progress it was now he would know, so he was elated to see his suspicions confirmed.  A narrow space all the way from ceiling to floor down the left hand side of the panels, the side adjacent to the fireplace, revealed that he had found a door. A secret door?  But where too?  

    David managed to get the tips of his fingers into the little crack and slowly pulled it open. He had to move a chair and push back the rug  to allow the door to swing all the way open until it obscured part of the cupboard, and he was quietly pleased to notice that at one point, exactly where the marks were, it lightly scraped the floor.  

    Now the door was wide open, and David stared in amazement, for on its back were painted many designs and symbols, a curious mix of ‘hellish’ and ‘heavenly’ images.

    With more than a little curiosity he moved in closer to inspect his find, and at first he was a little disappointed, for  despite the heavily decorated back of the door, he seemed to have discovered little more than another cupboard, used now it seemed, as a  bookcase.  But closer inspection revealed that it was a bookcase with a difference.  Filled to capacity it would easily accommodate many hundred of books, yet in fact there were less than fifty.  Much of the shelf space was occupied with boxes; some wooden, some cardboard. But one of them was a fine polished box of rich dark oak, with an intricate inlaid pattern in a lighter wood around to top, and the four sides.  It was furnished with elaborate bronze fittings, including a lavishly carved handle, and an ornate lock complete with key.

    Lifting this, and the other boxes down to the floor allowed David to inspect more carefully.  The most obvious thing was that this cavity was only about a third of the depth of the cupboard to which it was attached.  He removed all of the books, placing them in little piles on the dining table, and then began to explore the interior of the hidden bookshelf as he had done in the cupboard next to it, convinced that he had not yet uncovered all its secrets. Why for instance was this cavity less deep than its neighbour?  Firstly he found that all the shelves were fixed and solid, but getting hold of one of them and pulling firmly caused some movement. This time it was easier. There had been no levers or catches to find, no springs or hidden knobs.  Just a firm pull and the whole of the bookcase came smoothly forward as though it were on wheels. Silently it slid forward until it seemed that it would come right out, but at the last moment it somehow engaged a hinge on the left, and pivoting on that side it opened the opposite way to the outer door.  

    It was like a pair of wings, and as they opened they revealed an astonishing centrepiece. David stood in amazement hardly believing his eyes.  He had discovered what looked like an ancient  shrine.

     “Inspector,” David called, more urgently this time, for Brindell had not responded to his last call  “you must come and take a look at this.”

    Together they stared at the ‘shrine’.  With both doors fully opened, they could see that the back of both ‘wings’ and the wall behind the mobile bookshelves were all decorated in similar style,  like an triptych in an Eastern orthodox church. and now they could see its full extent, its indisputable, if slightly sinister, splendour. But the outer panels were as nothing compared to what now was revealed. They provided spectacular support to stunning centrepiece.  Behind the books had been hidden a gloriously painted panel, depicting at its centre, almost life size, a woman of dazzling beauty, loosely attired in a shift, a veil like garment of red gossamer silk, carefully draped to hide, and amazingly at the same time to tantalisingly reveal, her femininity.  By doing so, it was emphasising her strength, for in her face, despite of her undoubted beauty and femaleness was another quality; another characteristic which left the two men strangely scared. They saw in her face, a gaze that fixed upon them, a gaze from which it was a major effort to escape;  a gaze that spoke of  inhumanity and tyranny. It was a gaze that froze the blood.

     Beneath this picture was the perfectly inscribed legend, Morrigan; a name that was unfamiliar to the two men looking at her at this moment, neither of whom had anything to say; both for the moment speechless.  All around the central figure were of other figures, smaller paintings of men and women, mostly naked, or draped in a similar way to Morrigan, and each one directing their gaze with apparent adoration at that thing of beauty at their centre.  All of the pictures were bordered by an intricate pattern of intertwined lines, like a never ending repeating symbol.

    Each painting was named just like the large one,  but none of the names meant any more to Brindell than the name Morrigan, though in David’s mind a faint memory was stirring

    It must have been a full five minutes before either of the men spoke again, and then, as if some kind of spell was broken, the both started to speak at the same time.

    “What can it b...?” David started, as the Inspector unintentionally interrupted.

    “I’ve never seen anyt.....sorry, after you.”

    “Whatever can it be, I was about to say ... who is she, and what is it all about?”

    “Beats me.” concluded Brindell, unable at the moment to add anything, but then, as though he wanted to break free from her mesmeric stare, he turned away.

     "Anything familiar?" asked the police inspector, "or anything that looks unusual?"

    "Well, it’s all unusual, but nothing I’m certain about, but there is just one little thing.” He waited for Brindell’s attention then continued “The only thing that comes to my mind is Morrigan - the big picture."

    "What does she tell you?"

    "I don't know for sure; it might be coincidence but that name comes up in one of the Wagner opera's."

    "A fat lot of good that’s going to be," Brindell cut in rather curtly, wanting to clear his head   “we’ll be looking for Maria Callas next."

    "Sorry; but you did say anything,"  David was a touch upset to have been dismissed in such a fashion.  “and after all it is part of theatre, Richard's world ... and I think she is some kind of a witch.”

    Unimpressed Brindell walked towards the dining table where David had put the books and sat down to look at them. Most of them dealt with the history of Wales or Ireland in one form or another, and some were stories of America in the period of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. He flicked through them one at a time looking for something; anything; but not knowing what.  Frustrated rather than bored he pushed them aside. “Wonder what’s in the boxes?”

    David lifted up the polished oak box and placed it on the table.  It was about twelve inches wide by fifteen long, and perhaps ten inches high.  Had its handle been on the side it would have been rather like a wooden instrument case, or a box for special tools .  But its beautifully shaped handle was on the top, and almost the full length of lid.  Miniature animals of unknown variety and humans with animal heads contorted themselves to create a handle shape, while it was attached to the case itself by two hands with long nails seemingly coming through the lid and holding on to their ungodly victims with an everlasting grip. It was an astonishingly beautiful box, made without doubt by a fine craftsman, and it was inlaid around the edge of each suface with the same pattern they could see bordering the pictures in the shrine.

    The key turned easily, and the lid, only about half an inch in depth, lifted smoothly and without a sound, leaving the contents of the box free to be seen.

    “I wonder what it is?” David allowed his thought to escape, for he was not really addressing the inspector, but looking at the transparent lacy white covering casually strewn over whatever it was that lay beneath it.

    “Only one way to find out.” said Brindell, and it was he who reached down to carefully move aside the paper soft veil like covering.  Brindell hesitated for just a moment before he lifted the next garment but then the policeman in him took over.

    “Let’s have a look.” he said briskly, and in one movement it was out of the box, suspended from his hands, arms outstretched and held aloft to be displayed. It was a large red velvet cloak,  unadorned and plain. There was no ermine or silk, and no other form of decoration, save its toggle like fastenings.  He held it for a few minutes, and then, arms aching, he laid it on the floor.

    “There’s something else.” he said , nodding at the box.

    David reached down and drew out a pale red silken drape, light as a feather, soft and light as gossamer, and like the veil, almost transparent.  It almost floated when the inspector picked it up, and  when he put it down with the veil it fell slowly like a feather.

    “What can it mean?” David said.

    “Some kind of ceremonial gowns no doubt.” Brindell answered  “Do you know of any organisation he was in?”

    “I guess he had lots of connections in the theatre,” he stopped, puzzled “but if this is a theatre gown, why is it here, and in such an ornate box?”

    David got up to go to where the other boxes were stacked, but then he stopped, his gaze once again drawn to the picture of Morrigan.  In particular the red silken drape tied loosely at her neck allowing it to fall alluringly, yet with grace, from her shoulders, the white veil over her head, and the red cloak, apparently lying where it had fallen, around her feet.

     His “My god.” swiftly brought Brindell to his side. Both men knew at once that the garments adorning this beautiful apparision were the same as the ones that they had just removed from the box.

     More puzzled than ever David went to the other boxes, half a dozen of varying sizes, mainly filled with small books and magazines.  Casually he emptied the first box, which were chiefly books on subjects related to times long gone.  But then he come to one about witches, and their persecution.  Here he found the first shred of evidence that might start to make sense of all that had happened. Brindell had wandered across too, and now they were both going through the boxes.  He had found some hand written accounts of witch trials in the town of Salem in America.

    Suddenly he stopped and exhaled a small whistle. "What do you make of this?" he asked, looking at David.  "Thomas Bomally arrested and sent for trial," he paused, this time raising his eyesbrows towards David, "charged with witchcraft."

    "When was that?"  David asked; naturally curious because of the name."

    "It says eighteen seventy one."

    "I know that some of my ancestors emigrated to America after the famine in Ireland - about eighteen fifty six or seven I think.  One of them might have been that Thomas. But the only Thomas I know about came back to Liverpool, so it doesn’t sound like him."

    “Here’s another one.” Without saying another word he passed over what looked like a home made scrap book, its pages irregular and apparently random, where they had been stuck in manually.  David took the book and in a moment found the heading;   

      

     It was a cutting from a Salem newspaper, dated 1870

    The Irish immigrant labourer, Thomas Bomally, who had been

      arrested by the anti witch committee, and had admitted practicing evil activities, has escaped.  

     He was to have been examined by the inquisitor, before being burned at the stake tomorrow.

 

    "What do you make of that? ... any connection do you think?"

    "All I know is that in the eighteen fifties some of my ancestors left Ireland and went to America, but I don’t know all their names.  And more recently, about nineteen hundred I think, one of them came back and settled in Liverpool.  He was my great Grandfather."

    David was unable to add anything more to that part of his family history, but he felt uneasy, wondering if the discovery of that event over a hundred and thirty years ago was going to effect him in some way

    Remembering why he and Brindell were delving into his brother's private life David asked,  "But how can that have anything to do with Richard?" So absorbed had he become in what he had found in that strangely significant room, it was almost a shock to understand what their discoveries were starting to imply.

    The policeman looked across at David. "I don't know any more than you,” he replied, “but I feel certain that the answers to all our questions are here." He opened his arms and turned in a sweeping gesture. "Here in this house; in this very room ...  and all we have to do is to find them."

    That statement, that positive assurance and authority somehow brought them both back to the task in hand.  They had both been affected by their discovery, and in a very forceful way by Morrigan, who still fixed  them in her steely gaze every time they looked at her.

    Between them they emptied all of the boxes on to the floor and spread the contents widely.  It was mostly paper in one form or another, and some of it very old.  Gradually some kind of order established itself, as certain piles were formed.  Most of the American stuff turned out to have some connection to witches; their persecution, and their punishment. Another was concerned with Ireland and its folklore, as was the Welsh collection, with a growing awareness to their shared Celtic links and mythological heritage.

    Gradually too, a picture of the family in those early years emerged, hazy and incomplete, but something of the influences of that time, and of earlier traditions started to show.

    It was David who finally found the key to it all, though its importance was not immediately apparent. There was, they were to discover, a family curse. In the back of an old book about Ireland’s connection with King Arthur he found a small piece of parchment, so old and thin that it was falling apart. Even though at that moment he was unaware of its significance, by its very nature it called for careful handling.

    That it was faded and unclear was the first difficulty.  That it was written in a form of Gaelic, long forgotten was another.  But there were two words he did recognise and that was  enough for him to know that it was important.  

    Bomally and Morrigan.

    He passed the fragile document to Brindell.  He looked at David and shrugged.

    "I wonder," he said "if this might just be the first piece of the jig saw."

    They both felt that the little piece of paper, so small and seemingly insignificant, could be a first step in the right direction. What they did not know however, was in which direction they were heading. And had they known it is doubtful they would have wished to continue.

    The search continued throughout the day, and by the time they left a fuller picture of Richard had emerged.  Far from complete, but it depicted a young man caught up with forces beyond their comprehension, almost too bizarre for them, especially David, to understand. Two other discoveries had  been made, but neither David or Brindell could tell if they helped to clarify anything, or simply muddied the water further. First, another newspaper 'cutting' had been found, apparently from the same source as the others.

       Body in river -  might be the ‘witch’ Bomally.  

      A body found in the river is thought to be that of the Irish

      Immigrant who escaped from prison three weeks ago, where

      he was waiting to be tried and executed on a charge of witchcraft.

 

     This was interesting to David, though he still had no way of knowing if there was a link to his own family, and even allowing that there may be, he did not have the means to prove it.

    "And don't forget," he told Brindell, who wasn't really interested in family history "if it was 'my' Thomas Bomally, how did he manage to get back to Liverpool if he drowned in that river?"

    Brindell conceded that point, but then, significantly, he said  "Didn't you tell me that he was with his brother?"  he yawned, feeling the strain of the day. "Perhaps it was the brother who was supposed to have drowned."

    "Or maybe it was the brother who came back to Liverpool. ... and maybe we will never know."

    The other was a list of names; all Bomally's, and all male. It was undated, and look quite old, but the last four names on the list made David shiver. They were: Gerald; Frederick; Richard; David.

    "Who are they all, and who made this list, and is that me at the end or is it just coincidence?" He looked to Brindell for some answers, but there were none forthcoming.

    Brindell had made one note after another, and had promised to seek some advice on ancient Welsh culture,  in particular Morrigan and her followers.  Moreover, he was keen to know what words of magic or mayhem were to be found on that scrap of faded parchment, and the list of names.

    They were just more unanswered questions. But in the days that followed there would be more of those, and David was to have many a surprise. Visiting Becky in the hospital, and studying the books and papers found in Richards cottage had kept him pretty busy, and he hoped that Brindell had been successful in his quest to have the little parchment document translated.

    He had not seen Brindell for a week, or heard from him for three days.  Of Richard himself there had been no sign, and it was very worrying. His mind had been working overtime churning all the facts over and over again until he was dizzy, for there was so much he did not understand.

    Oddly David had almost got used to working alongside Brindell, and even, despite of his early misgivings, starting to like him.  But it had become a strange partnership.  As a suspect he had been allowed to see only one side of the policeman's persona, but then, when circumstances had changed and they had become allies, he had discovered a new and more friendly side  to the police inspector.  No doubt their common aim was the reason for them joining forces; finding and then apprehending Richard being their first priority, but there were other factors which created a sort of a bond.

    David’s family had been split asunder by the events of recent months, and from odd comments here and there he had gleaned that Brindell’s family life had ended in acrimony and almost total separation from wife and his daughter.

    The telephone rang, and David was pleased to hear the slightly northern tones of his friend the inspector.

    "Brindell!" he said in his welcoming voice "Speak of the devil; good to hear from you;  I was thinking you must have gone back to Oxford."

    "As a matter fact I have, that's where I am now, and you may not be far off the mark.”

     “How so?”

    “You seemed to have enough on your plate looking after Miss Carr - is she out of hospital yet, by the way? - and I needed to get some expert help, and there is nowhere better than here for that."

    David was nonplussed, not knowing which strand of that multi faceted statement to respond to first.

    "Becky should be out of hospital tomorrow, I'll be looking after her here at the cottage for a while, before we set off to Oxfordshire." He paused to recollect his thoughts. "You said I was not far off the mark; what did you mean by that? and you mentioned expert help; any progress in that direction?”

    "Too many questions, and you are in for a surprise I think, but you will have to be patient.  It's too complicated for the phone, so there's a letter on its way to you from one of my friends here at the university.  She's a professor from the department of Ancient Studies, and she has been fascinated by you little find;  you'll probably get her letter in the morning.”

    "Is that it for now then?" David asked, and then added, not waiting for a reply  "nothing new at my end - still no sight or sound of Richard."

    "So I hear, I have spoken to your sergeant Harris.  He says he doesn't think he is still around."

    Again ignoring Brindell’s insistence that Harris was in some way ‘his’, David put the phone down. There was nothing more to say, Brindell would not explain what he meant by saying ‘not far off the mark’. ‘Infuriating’ David muttered, but he was gone now, so he tried to keep busy until it was time to visit the hospital again.

    It had been a long night during which David managed little sleep.  Things had slowed down so much, and he was at a loss to know how to react.  Finding his brother’s body, only to discover that it wasn’t him, had caused him some grief, but that was now behind him.  The excitement of finding the shrine was also behind him, except that David could not forget that it was there even though everything had been returned and the secret door firmly closed.

    Why it was there in the first place was simply another unanswered question to add to the list, as was ‘why was it kept secret?  Was it just another facet of the strange world that Richard had chosen to inhabit, and the even stranger company he was keeping?

    For the moment Brindell had gone, other duties calling, and now David felt uneasy, uncertain of his next move.  To make things worse, the cottage seemed cold and eerie. During his stay he had become more aware of its poor state of repair, and now it's persona as a cottage by the seaside had changed. It was simply an old house; remote, quite large, uninviting, and a little intimidating.

      So many mixed emotions, and there seemed to be no way to properly express any of them.  David had almost forgotten that not long ago he had the love of a wonderful woman, and of a loving father.  What was left of that?  His father was dead, and so, he was almost sure, was Becky's love.  His recent visits to her at the hospital had not been encouraging.  She had expressed gratitude for saving her life, but at the same time she had reminded him that she had actually tried to end it.

     “Unfair.” he had exclaimed for she had clearly been under some kind of influence when she jumped.

    Never-the-less, she had not expressed one word of love.

    As for Richard, his brother!  He was gone too; forever perhaps.  But it was he who had stolen everything that mattered from him, except his life;  nothing else left, nothing saved.  Now he didn’t care much about his life any more. It was a relief when the morning came, and the start of a new day.  Becky would be with him soon, and this would be his last chance to repair the damage that his family had caused her.  Three men, all Bomally’s, had brought chaos to her life.  It was true that two of them had done so unwittingly, and now it was left to just one of them to salvage whatever could be saved. But first he would have to regain her trust, and that would be a tall order.

    The small red van stopped at the end of the drive and the postman hopped out, trotting from his first step, until he reached the front door, or at least where the front door had been.  A large rectangle of unpainted chipboard was now in its place, and the old door, its hinges broken and the side frame splintered, was lying to one side rejected, half propped against the porch.

     Nearly two weeks had elapsed since David had found the cottage so early on that rainy  morning.  'Only two weeks’ he thought, ‘it seems like two months' and in that time the postman had not called once. Today David had been watching for him. But when? what time?  He had no idea.  So it was a relief when he saw the young man trotting down the drive.  He slipped out of the house by the door at the rear, and arrived at the front to see the postman looking for a suitable place to deposit the single letter.

    David made no attempt to explain, but simply thanked him, and waited until the postman trotted back to his van, before he opened the door to his own car. It was time to collect Becky, and the letter would have to wait.

    David had not imagined that Becky would fall into his arms when she was released, which was just as well for she did not.  She had wanted to go straight home, except that just now she didn’t feel that she had a home.  She had agreed to stay at the cottage until the police said she could leave and then she would move on.  In any case, she had told him, she did not like the cottage because of its cold and  unfriendly atmosphere.

     "But where will you go?" David had asked, "and why wont you let me look after you?"

    It was a question he asked many times, and every time Becky refused to answer.  Perhaps her refusal was her answer, but now, though mostly recovered from the injuries caused by her fall, she seemed unable  to come to terms with her other injuries; injuries to her mind and to her soul.  David hoped that at least he might have a part to play in her physical recovery, if not her mental one.

    It was a cool journey back to the cottage, and conversation between the two was polite and brief.  How different from when, not so long ago, they spent so much time in each others arms. Eventually, when they were settled, each in their own rooms, David finally got a chance to read his letter.  Carefully  tearing open the envelope, he took out two sheets of paper.    

 

    The first was headed :-

       Professor Hilary Preston

     Dept of Ancient Studies

     Oxford University

     

      Dear Mr Bomally

     Enclosed is a translation from a small piece of parchment given

      to me by Inspector Edward Brindell, which he tells me is your

       property.

     The parchment itself is more than three hundred years old, and

      the language is of an ancient Gaelic tongue which was common

     amongst Celtic speaking people long before the time of Christ.

 

     Much of it does not translate directly, and also some of the

      writing is so badly faded as to be unintelligible.  With that in

     mind you should know that my translation is in part intelligent

      guesswork, but based upon my knowledge of this subject, I                

     believe it forms a reasonably accurate account. By that I mean

       that I have put down what I believe to be the true meaning.

  

      Morrigan’s curse

     I, Morrigan, Goddess of death and the slain, do hereby curse

     all Bomally men through all eternity

     In light of day, in dark of night, Bomally men will suffer fright.

     In one and two and year by year, Bomally men will suffer fear.

     For every child of male decent, will curse his forbear's treason,

      For none will ever make repent, or question Morrigan’s reason.

     For now when womb and belly swell, you'll rue the day, that manly thrust,

     For if it's man child I do tell, he'll not know 'God' - in me he'll trust.

    When mothers blood is flowing free, her life force strong to face the morrow,

    for though she’ll know the joy of birth, she’ll also know its pain and sorrow.

    For one from two, for all time hence, no other god but me he'll seek,

     And earthly powers he will find, To follow me, turn strong men weak.

     In me he'll find that awesome power, he'll know no ruler, sire or king.

     His freedom certain, year, day, hour, and only me in praise he'll sing.

     But wait awhile, I’ll tell you sure, my curse is not yet done.

     For sons there’ll not be three or more, but only one plus one.

     And with each future generation, no mem’ries will remain,

     From father's son, and father’s son, twill all just start again.

 

  

      The second sheet of paper continued professor Preston’s findings.

 

     As I mentioned, the translation is not literal, so a little interpretation may be needed.

      Below is mine which I feel with reasonable confidence, is very close.

 

      An ancient Bomally ancestor had two sons.  One was pious and

      virtuous, the other was the opposite, delighting in the dark side

      of life, and became a disciple of Morrigan, the goddess of Death.

     The first son, feeling it was his duty to save his brother, sought

     the aid of the gods of light, and managed to wrest his wayward

     sibling from Morrigan.  He denounced his former black idol

      before he died, his soul saved.  

     She (Morrigan) was furious and issued a curse on Bomally men,

      that for all time  none would ever have more than two sons, and

     that one of them would be devoted to her.

     Also, that there would be no memory of this from one

      generation to another, so with each new generation the curse

      starts again and the trauma is renewed.  

 

     I hope this information will be helpful.

     

      Inspector Brindell also gave me the names of nine characters

      depicted in a shrine, which seems to be dedicated to their

       memory and worship.

     

     The following might therefore be of interest to you.

     Morrigan; an ancient goddess of the dead and the slain.

     List of gods on the panel surrounding Morrigan in the shrine.

     1 Aeron - god of slaughter

     2 Afagadu - god of utter darkness

     3 Arduinna - goddess of wild boars

     4 Breas - god of cruelty

     5 Efnisien - minor god; quarrelsome & antagonistic               

     6 Taron - god of war

     7 Sheela-na-gig - goddess of debauchery            

     8 Argona - Another goddess of slaughter.

 

     I hope this information will be helpful

     Hilary Preston

 

    David read the letter again before carefully returning it to its envelope. He had hoped for some information regarding the list of names, and at last he had an insight to the questions that had been invading his consciousness and his conscience, during this unhappy period in his life.  Not perhaps the complete answer, and not perhaps to all the questions, but it did start to explain Richards unbalanced behaviour. It also explained how his father, and he himself, and yes Becky too, had all been such easy and willing victims in his maniacal plot.

    As he placed the letter in his briefcase, David prayed that their ordeal might be over, but he could not help the uncomfortable feeling that it was not. Knowing what he know knew, he could not believe that Richard would bow out so easily, and once more that begged the question; where is he now?