Chapters (43)
- Pronunciation
- Prologue
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-one
- Twenty-two
- Twenty-three
- Twenty-four
- Twenty-five
- Twenty-six
- Twenty-seven
- Twenty-eight
- Twenty-nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-one
- Thirty-two
- Thirty-three
- Thirty-four
- Thirty-five
- Thirty-six
- Thirty-seven
- Thirty-eight
- Thirty-nine
- Forty
- Acknowledgments
So I just denied everything. No, we hadn’t left The Dean. We had been in our beds all night. No, we hadn’t heard anything about Patrick Kelly’s fall until this morning. And no, we had no clue as to what he or anyone else might have been doing on the bridge at that time of night.
Of course, they knew I was lying. Someone must have told them something. One of the Kelly boys, perhaps. Or one of their friends.
Mr. Anderson leaned forward on his knuckles now, and they glowed white, just like that first day almost a year before. “There is,” he said, glancing at the two police officers, “some doubt about whether the boy fell, or was pushed. There will be an investigation, and anyone found guilty of pushing this boy to his death will be charged with murder. Manslaughter at the very least. This is a very, very grave matter indeed. And a dreadful blight on the reputation of The Dean, if any of its children are found to be involved. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
Neither Peter nor Catherine had opened their mouths during the entire interview. Mr. Anderson looked at them now. “Does either of you have anything to add?”
“No, sir.”
It was half an hour after we had been ushered from the room that the police officers finally left, and Mr. Anderson’s voice could be heard booming along the corridor. “Damned Catholics! I want them out of here.”
And finally Catherine’s prediction came true. The priest arrived to take us away the very next morning.
Seventeen
Seventeen
Fin watched the old man carefully. Sunlight caught the silver bristles on his face and on the loose flesh of his neck, and they stood out sharp against his pale, leathery skin. His eyes, by contrast, were almost opaque, obscured by memories he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, share. He had been quiet for a long time, and the tears had dried in salty tracks on his cheeks. His knees were pulled up to his chest, and he sat hugging them, staring out to sea with eyes that saw things Fin could not.
Fin lifted the photograph from the travelling rug, where Tormod had let it fall, and slipped it back into his bag. He took Tormod by the elbow to try to encourage him gently to his feet.
“Come on, Mr. Macdonald, let’s take a walk along the water’s edge.”
His voice seemed to wake the old man from his reverie, and Tormod turned a look of surprise towards Fin, as if noticing him for the first time. “He didn’t do it,” he said, resisting Fin’s attempt to get him to stand.
“Who didn’t do what, Mr. Macdonald?”
But Tormod just shook his head. “Maybe he wasn’t the full shilling, but he learned the Gaelic a lot faster than I did.”