jack of diamonds

BOOK TWO

UNDER THE WITCH’S MOON

CHAPTER 24

Nigel had always been one to enjoy the sunrise. He sometimes thought it was the one thing he took with him from his childhood. He'd often find himself drawn to the brilliant colours staining the sky, with all their combining shades and hues, sometimes feeling as if Nature’s palette were commanding him to paint her—just drop what you’re doing and paint me—draped as she was in a veil of mist. He enjoyed looking at the clouds as much as any child looking for dragons, or horses might, seeing shapes and columns in the billowing billows, endlessly towering towers, all rolling and strolling across the sky. He liked to sit and enjoy the morning with a warm cup of tea and buttery toast, habitually dipping the toast into his tea and sucking on it until it dissolved in his mouth.

And all the while, the birds soaring—The Lark Ascending.

As if anyone can tell the difference between a gull and a lark at this distance; or is that all anyone thinks of now, when they see a bird soaring in the distance? Is that a gull, or a lark? It must be a lark ascending.

He smiled to himself, looking up and seeing a slip of the moon in the distance. It was coming up between the trees. It lay low on a horizon as pale as dishwater, reminding him how much he actually enjoyed this time of the day. He dipped another bite of toast into his tea. He’d be leaving for work soon enough, he thought, and knowing Charlie, knew he'd be a font of endless questions. He wondered how he could delay his departure. And there were bound to be endless questions, weren’t there? While there should be: What's with the fire in Plymouth and the discovery of guns in the rubble? Well, Charlie would say that's for Plymouth to sort out.

And maybe it is.

But it was the Irish Brotherhood’s suspected involvement in the fire that bothered him. No one saw that one coming, did they? He wished he had the answer at the same time. The only thing he remembered was both he and Sonia were being reprimanded—theirs was a scandal commensurate with the seriousness of a criminal conspiracy, he told himself—and the next thing he knows is that Detective Inspector Bilge was dead. While Nigel had been suffering through his withdrawal, Detective Inspector Bilge was suffering through a massive coronary.

The newly promoted Acting Inspector Nazar was asked to resume the case until the next Detective Inspector comes along.

We’ll just have to wait and see how she reacts now then, won’t we?

There’s no point jumping to conclusions when you don’t know what’s going on in the first place, he told himself. It was something he'd heard a general say once upon a time. The man had proven himself right by holding his position.

Communication is key, he said.

It had taken nine days for Nigel to kick his opium habit. During that nine days, Artemus Spencer had gone missing; numerous bodies were discovered in the burning embers of the warehouse fire in the Plymouth dockyards; and several cases of guns were burned along with the warehouse. The bodies were both inside and outside from what he understood. One had a bullet in its head no less. It took the Yard a week to identify all the bodies. Several were members of Charlie Sabini’s Hammerboys, in London, but there was also a Russian Rose said might be tied to Chernetsov.

All in all, quite the mystery, he thought.

And all of that in the week I’ve been laid up, he told himself.

His withdrawal had been the hardest thing he’d ever done in his life. The cramps he’d had were embarrassing, he remembered. There was an excess of gas and nausea, along with cramps, vomiting, and worst of all, diarrhea. The cramps and muscle aches had been an assault, and he imagined if he’d been beaten with a cricket bat it may have felt the same. He was grateful for everything Sonia had done for him. Moving him from his own flat to the empty one closer to her own, had been nothing more than a stroke of genius. But then, she knew right from the beginning what to expect. He’d been unable to fathom exactly why he'd had to leave his flat, until the day he shit himself.

If ever there was a low point in a man’s life…

He stood up, stretching out to his full height, wondering if he would’ve ever recognized that his life had spiralled out of control. Without Sonia, it would’ve been impossible for him to reclaim himself. He wondered if anyone ever realizes that before it’s too late. He hadn’t seen it. He'd trusted his doctor, reminding himself that the man knew more about what he needed, than Nigel did himself. Had he been wrong to trust the man so implicitly? Apparently, he thought, tossing the last drops of tea out into the garden, then going inside to get ready.

Charlie greeted Nigel with a slow, knowing smile, then shifted in his chair uneasily, grimacing and offering up an apologetic shrug. Nigel didn’t know if Charlie was embarrassed to see him, grateful, or just plain uncomfortable because his haemorrhoid was acting up again. Or is that still? he thought with a touch of a smile. One could never tell with Charlie. He sometimes grimaced, and sometimes squinted, and there were times when Nigel would see him looking at his seat cushion, as if he were checking for stains.

He hoped he wasn’t.

“Still hurting, are you Charlie?"

“Not as much as your pecker, I imagine.”

“My what? What’s that supposed to even mean, anyway? Is someone spreading rumours about me?" he asked with a laugh.

“I’m not saying I did, but I’m not saying I didn’t, either,” Charlie said with a wink.

“Did you just wink at me? What’s that supposed to mean? Am I supposed to know what the fuck that means?” He said it slowly, stopping and looming over Charlie’s desk.

“Is that your big boy stance, Nigel? Is that supposed to frighten me? Are you thinking you can frighten me, Nigel? Is that it? Because you’re not very frightening. Not by a long-shot. If I could, I'd get out of this chair and squish you like a bug—snap you in half like a twig—so don’t go thinking you can push your weight around here because you fucked Sonia.”

“I what? Is that what you think? Rose? What about you? Are you thinking the same thing?”

The man has no shame.

Rose said nothing. She grunted hello, her ever-present cigarette hanging out of her mouth, typing at her desk under a blue haze that was somewhat muted in the soft light of the bare bulb above her. She was wearing her glasses on top of her head, even though they were tied around her neck with a length of string. She was always looking for them, her glasses, usually forgetting they were on top of her head. The haze of smoke hanging over the room was subliminally pervasive, because Nigel searched out a small pouch of tobacco out of his pocket and put a rolled cigarette in his mouth.

“Well?”

“Well, what? Are you?” Charlie asked.

“Am I fucking Sonia? Rose, did you fuckin' hear him? Again? A more crass and vulgar bastard—”

“Are you?” she asked.

“What’s this? You too, Rose? Et tu, Rosé? Why the two of you would even think that, is beyond me—beyond words.”

“Stuff it, Nigel! Why wouldn’t we think it?” Rose asked, pausing in her typing long enough to level a steady gaze at him. Cigarette smoke curled up her leathery face, a long, lazy tendril almost like a noose. She squinted an eye tight. Nigel couldn’t understand if she was upset at the thought that he may have had an intimate affair with Sonia, or if she was disappointed that he hadn’t. She was a difficult woman to read at the best of times.

“You can’t be fuckin' serious? Why would either of you think something like that was even fuckin' possible? I just met her, for Christ’s sake,” Nigel said with a slow shake of his head. "Assholes. The both of you."

“Why?” Charlie laughed. “You’ve both been away for, what? Well over a week? Nine days, isn't it, Rose? That’s what it was—not that we’ve been counting—but you’ve both been gone for a total of nine days. And then, three days after you two bugger off, Bilge up and dies. Dies! Right fuckin’ there!” He stood and pointed to the spot in front of his desk. “You ever see someone die right in front of you, Nigel?”

“Once or twice,” Nigel nodded.

“Of course you did. That was a stupid question,” Charlie said.

“Rhetorical.”

“Rhetorical?”

“Hot air. It means you’re blowing hot air up my ass,” Nigel said, bending under his desk and looking for his shoes. He got down on all fours and crawled under his desk to grab them. When he crawled back out he sat down and took his dirty riding boots off, then he slipped on his shoes. He kicked his riding boots under the desk.

“Yeah, well, whatever. But you weren’t at your place, were you?" Charlie went on. "I checked. A neighbour said you left with a blonde woman, a real looker, she said. Sonia, I’m assuming? I can’t think of there being another blonde looker—except maybe Jenny Ashcroft. But she’s a little out of your league, isn’t she?”

“And you think we ran away and fucked ourselves raw for a week? Is that it?” Nigel asked, briefly lifting his head up as he tied one of his shoelaces.

“One would hope you did,” Rose said.

“Would hope you did what?” Sonia asked, striding into the room.

The light in the hallway behind her seemed to surround her like an aura as she paused in the entryway. It was almost as if she knew, Nigel thought, pausing to lift his head up. She was wearing a heavy coat over her uniform jacket, and he watched as she took it off to hang it on the coat tree in the corner. He watched her take off her hat and check to see that her hair was still in place. Her cheeks were red, and Nigel hoped it was the weather rather than rouge. Her lips were a dark ruby red—definitely against regulations—

“They think you took me away for a week and tied me to your bed,” Nigel grinned, sitting up straight behind his desk and looking at her.

“As nice as that sounds to old Rose and her dried out prune, it’s a far cry from the reality of it all,” she smiled.

“Which is?” Rose asked.

“Which is? Which is none of your damned business! I’m sorry, but why does it matter to you where I was? I could've been called back to Okehampton, for all you know. I don't recall having to ask you for your permission about anything I did. Was I supposed to?” Sonia asked, looking at the old woman and forcing a smile.

“I think it does. Matter, I mean.”

“You do? Why?”

“What if you did try to seduce him?”

“Oh, Rose, please!” Nigel said, standing up and looking exasperated. He was opening his drawers and sorting through them until he found his sketch book. He sat down and opened it to a fresh page.

“Think what you will, Rose; there’s nothing I can say to dissuade you, anyway. Is there? Where I’d normally say something like, believing it doesn’t make it so, it’s even worse than that, isn’t it, Rose? Because this is something the two of you have dreamed up, for the simple reason that you want to believe it. You want to think of me as an evil seductress. Why? Is it the fact that I’m older than him? Charlie probably has gardening tools older than Nigel, don't you Charlie. Or is it that I’m a widow? Therefore, ergo—for that reason—I must needs find a man to warm up my bed. Is that what it is, Rose? You think I'm a wanton slut?”

“The asylum,” Nigel said quickly. “She took me to the asylum in Stoke.”

“Stoke? Outside of Plymouth?” Charlie asked.

“Do you know of another?” Nigel snapped, and looked back down at the picture he was sketching.

“All right then,” Rose nodded at Nigel. “I’ll accept that. Why?”

“You accept that?” Sonia laughed in complete disbelief.

“That’s what I said, yes,” Rose repeated herself.

“Maybe I won’t accept it?” Sonia replied.

“If it’s good enough for him, it should be good enough for you. If it is the truth, I mean.”

"But you wouldn't accept anything I had to say?"

"You didn't say anything. You told me it was none of my business. I was willing to accept that as well."

“That’s more than most people get out of her,” Nigel said with a slow shake of his head.

“You don’t see a need to apologize to me for what you said? No? Nothing for me? I'm the person you need to apologize to in the first place! In fact, I'm the only person you need to apologize to, Rose! Instead, you accept that whatever Nigel says, must be true? Just like that? Is that because he said it?” Sonia railed. "Whereas, even if I were to say nothing, you'd still accuse me of lying? Of being a slut, and a wanton?" She reached into her bag, looking for her cigarettes, found none, and took one off Rose’s desk.

“You’re an old cunt, aren’t you Rose?” Sonia said, flippantly tossing Rose’s heavy lighter back on the desk when she was done with it. It bounced twice before Rose caught it, preventing it from hitting the typewriter. “Someone warned me about you. I wish I could remember who that was? I don't think it matters though, do you? But a real nasty piece of work, he said you were. And look at you. You certainly don't disappoint, do you? Always going about with your games, aren't you Rose? It's all fun and games as long as no one gets hurt. Is that it?” she asked, bending down and levelling her gaze at her. “Is it? Well, guess what, Rose? It hurts. It breaks my fuckin’ heart to hear you saying things about me. I was raised by a good man, Rose. A doctor. Do you know what he said to me? ‘Whatever you do to help someone, people will always make things up about you.’ I guess you just proved him right, didn’t you? He also said that people like you, ‘only have one motive, and that’s to hurt, with prurient intent, whoever the recipient of their wrath might be.’ So tell me Rose, what did I do to deserve this?”

“Whatever I do, whatever I say, and whoever I say it to, on my time, is wholey my own business--be that opinion, or comment, Acting Inspector Nazar," Rose said, staring beyond her.

"Did you not hear any of what I just said?"

"I choose not to," she said, looking directly at her, and then turned away from her. "Did you hear any of that about a warehouse in Plymouth, Nigel?” Rose said, ignoring Sonia and pausing long enough to butt her ashes in the overstuffed ashtray on the desk. She looked around Sonia and caught Nigel’s eye.

“What? In Plymouth? What about it?” Nigel asked, still behind his desk, sketching Sonia.

“Well, it’s tied to here now then, isn’t it?” Rose said.

“And how’s that?” he asked, pausing. "Sorry Sonia. I don't know where she's going with this."

“Where I'm going with this is, that one of the dead men they found in Plymouth was from here.” She lit up another cigarette and began typing again.

“Here? What does that mean, ‘He’s from here’?” Nigel called out to her from across the room.

“I suppose it means he’s from Devon,” Charlie offered.

“So? Who is he?” Nigel asked, his curiosity piqued.

“I believe they said his name was O’Dowd—”

“Reggie O’Dowd?” Nigel asked, looking at Sonia who immediately turned to look at Rose.

"Are you certain?"

“Do you know him?” Rose stopped typing long enough to level a look at Nigel, ignoring Sonia.

“Where do I know that name from?” Nigel asked, looking at Sonia. He dropped his feet to the floor and tossed the sketchbook across his desk, rummaging through his drawers again, this time looking for his notebook.

“He's Artie's friend. Lives with Claire Hansen,” Sonia reminded him. “She and Reggie are living outside Chumley Grove, on a farm. Remember? They sell pies: I mean, she makes them, and he takes them.”

“I remember. But we never saw him. He wasn’t there that day.”

“No, but we talked to her.”

“And that’s where Artemus Spencer's staying. Or was, I should say.”

“And now he’s dead. O’Dowd, I mean.”

“But he didn't die in London, did he, where she said he was going? He died at a Plymouth dock, involved in something he shouldn't have been involved with in the first place,” Nigel pointed out, flipping through pages of his notebook. “And in a warehouse fire—”

“Loaded with stolen guns the Yard thinks belongs to the Irish Brotherhood,” Rose added.

“The Brotherhood?” Charlie echoed. “What would the Brotherhood be doing in Plymouth?”

“No! What was he doing there? O’Dowd?” Sonia asked. “Why would he be in Plymouth after telling Claire he’s off to London for a loan? Remember? How do we get him leaving a London bank, to dying in a Plymouth warehouse?"

"And who put the bullet in his head?" Nigel asked.

"Claire said they wanted to open a shop right here in town,"she added. "And even though Artie offered to help, she said Reggie told her he was going to London to get the money. Why? Didn't he trust Artie? Or maybe he plain didn't believe him because he knows him better than any of us?”

"Why do you think that?"

"They were at the Front together."

“What else did they find in that warehouse?” Sonia asked Rose.

Sonia went to her desk and thought maybe she could begin her day over again by taking her dress shoes off. She watched Rose shuffling through the files on her desk. Nigel had walked over to Rose's desk and waited, watching Sonia bend over to put on her police issue shoes. She looked over at him and rolled her eyes.

“Some were known criminals,” Rose related.

“Criminals? What sort of criminals? Do you mean Dickie The Docker's Gang?” Nigel asked.

She shook her head. “There were four inside, two outside, plus O'Dowd, but here's the surprise, they were all from London.”

“London? Any known affiliates?”

“Only known affiliate is a man name Charlie Sabini.”

“And who’s he?” Sonia asked.

“Never mind that. Who else was there, Rose? You’re holding something back. I can feel it.”

“That's because I am,” Rose cackled.

“Then tell us!” Nigel said.

“Russians,” she said.

“Russians? Do you mean Communists? I thought you said the guns belonged to the Irish Brotherhood?” Nigel asked.

“They're not Communists,” she said.

“If they're not Communists, who else is there?” Charlie offered up.

“He's an associate of Dimitri Chernetsov. It was his butler. There were two others. They were Footmen in his employ. ”

“Chernetsov?” Charlie said, more to himself.

“And you're thinking this Russian--Chernetsov--was trying to broker a deal with the Irish Brotherhood, to either buy the guns, or maybe sell them? And this Sabini stepped between them...?” Nigel said. "How?"

“There’s one way to find out,” Sonia said.

“And what way is that?” Nigel asked.

“I'll phone Chernetsov and make an appointment. I'll tell him we have some questions," Sonia smiled, picking up the telephone receiver.

In the long run, it was the sensible thing to do Nigel realized; when it was all said and done, it saved them a trip out to Marlborough Manor. Not that Nigel wouldn't have minded a trip out to the countryside, all things considered. But from what they'd learned, Chernetsov’s son had undergone surgery in London and was now recovering. The family had gone to London to sit at his bedside. It had to do with the accident he’d suffered. Nigel remembered hearing something about the man being sent to the hospital before the ball last week, but he couldn’t remember the details. He was certain it'd come to him eventually.

When Sonia pressed the man for more information, the voice on the other end of the line went silent—perhaps he was thinking he’d said too much—or maybe it was as simple as the person not understanding the question? Ending the call seemed for the best, as well as leaving a call back number. Chernetsov wasn’t expected to be in London for long, Sonia told him, or so the voice on the other end of the line had said. He finished the conversation by saying it was believed the family would be returning by the end of the week.

“Do you remember what happened to his son?” Sonia asked, as she put the telephone receiver down.

Nigel shook his head, offering up a shrug.

“Someone pushed him off the bannister. According to witnesses, he was standing on the railing. I think he saw the Skull in the chandelier and was standing on it for a better view. There was a chair nearby. It makes sense. Anyway, that seems to be the story. So now, we have are some dead Russians, dead gangsters, and a Devon man—who for all intents and purposes should be innocent—but is up to his balls in it—I mean, up to his neck in it,” Sonia smiled. "And the only one with answers, is in London. We have to talk to him. And the sooner the better. We also need to know who these Hammerboys are. And Sabini. Do you know anything about Sabini? Isn't that what you said his name was?” Sonia asked Rose, looking down at her notebook.

“Charlie Sabini,” Rose added, picking up the file folder and skimming it. “The Yard says he’s in the Game. Heavy into horses, extortion, fencing goods, runs a few girls, has some tables around Soho to round it off.”

“Tables?” Sonia asked.

“Gambling,” Nigel smiled.

“He’s definitely got his hands in someone’s pockets," Rose commented.

"Why do you think that?" Charlie asked.

"Because they leave him alone, for the most part. He recently took over from the Solomon Brothers--that's what they're thinking in London—but you know how much they like to think out there in London--so there's probably a simpler explanation. Anyway, his boys are known for using hammers to get their point across. They say he’s got a Sicilian working for him too, quick with the razor. He’s what they refer to as a person of interest.”

“Hammers?” Charlie asked.

“That’s how they keep people in line," Rose said, lighting another cigarette. "The first time it’s your hands, then it's your knees. Sometimes they crack your skull.”

“And who are the Russians?” Charlie replied.

“Whites, most likely,” Sonia said, closing the file.

“Who the fuck are the Whites, and why call them that?” Charlie was quick to say.

“Helps to differentiate them from the Reds,” Rose smiled.

“Aristocrats. Most of them used to be members of the White Guard. Maybe they were hoping to send the guns off to Russia? To support Wrangler and his counter-revolution?” Sonia smiled.

“Who the hell is Wrangler?” Charlie asked.

“What?”

“How do you know so much about Russia and that lot? Where the hell'd you find out about that?”

“Some might call them patriots, but all the same, you just have to read a fuckin' newspaper to know what’s going on in the world, Charlie,” Nigel said.

“I don't care to know about what's going on over there,” Charlie added.

"Then why ask?" Nigel laughed.

“If you'd read a newspaper, you'd know there's been a number of articles written about Russia. The fact they don't want to call it Russia anymore, for one thing.”

“No? Well, I don't care. I’ve got better things to do with my time than read a fuckin' newspaper."

“Do you really think like that?” Nigel asked.

“Why? What’s wrong with the way I think?”

“I don't suppose you've heard of the Berbers then?” Sonia said.

“Don't you mean barbers?”

“That’s what’s wrong with the world today, isn’t it?” she said, picking up her notebook, pen, and purse. “People don’t care what goes on in the rest of the world, as long as everything’s fine in their own little corner of it.”

“Are you going to tell me who the barbers are?"

"Berbers, Charlie. They're tribesmen in North Africa," she said, sitting on the edge of her desk.

"North African tribesmen? Like I give a fuck about North African tribesmen? I don't see what’s wrong with not caring about what goes on in the rest of the world, if that's who we're servicing? We have enough problems here.”

“The Berbers are nomads, Charlie. They live in the desert. Nobody really knows how many of them there are. They also call them the Rifs. Maybe you've heard of that name? Anyway, they've been oppressed for centuries. They have no real home, so they want to carve a piece of land away from the Spanish—or is it the French?—in the North African desert.”

“And what does that have to do with anything?”


“Absolutely nothing, Charlie. It means: ab-so-lute-ly nothing. All I'm saying is that there are revolutions, and counter-revolutions, going on all over the world. Mexico just had one, in fact.”

“A what?”

“A revolution, you dolt!” Rose said.

“That way, you have a choice of whichever one appeals to your Romantic notions," Sonia pointed out.

"Romantic notions?" Charlie scoffed. "Oh, I know about those. My wife likes poetry and she tells me all about it."

"Poetry?" Nigel laughed, shaking his head.

"Sure. You never heard of Byron? He's what they call one of the Romantic poets. She goes on and on about them."

"When it comes to revolution, Charlie, you can’t pretend to take the moral high ground—not if you have an opinion,” she added. "If you ask your wife what happened to Byron, you'll find out he died fighting for a cause he believed in--or maybe it was just a whim of adventure? We'll never know."

“Well, I don’t have an opinion, so how can I take the high road?”

“People might think you’re taking sides, and they’ll ask you, are you for, or against them?”

“I’m not for, or against, anyone.”

“Once you pick a side, or you listen to one side of an argument but not the other, it’s too late.”

“Too late for what?”

“To choose.”

“To choose what?”

“Sides, Charlie,” she said, packing everything she needed into her purse and still looking at Charlie. “It all comes down to picking the right side. Lord Byron made the mistake of picking the wrong one.

"Are you coming?” she asked, looking at Nigel.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

“We have a case to solve.”

“Where are we going? Not that I care. I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s just that, sometimes, I have to get out of there,” Nigel said, squinting against the bright morning light. He was holding a hand up and shading his eyes after the soft lights of the station.

“Do you mean Charlie?” she asked, and he thought he could hear a note of bitterness in her tone.

“Rose is no better,” he scoffed. “You haven’t been here long enough to know what she can be like.”

“No? Why don’t you tell me what she’s like, then?” Sonia said, turning a smile at him as she climbed in the Bentley.

Soon, they were both in the coupe, driving through the countryside, and though the drive was familiar, Nigel had no idea where they were going. He didn't care at the moment. He was happy just to be on the road and away from the Constabulary. He looked out of the window at the passing scenery. The aspens were leaning into a gentle breeze, calmly swaying to and fro; the long grass looked to be a living, breathing murmuration, as the wind played in among the grass.

He turned to look at her, letting out as gentle sigh.

“She can be just as crass and coarse as Charlie, you know. In fact, sometimes, I don’t know which of them is worse.”

“Do you mean Rose?”

He nodded. “She either comes up with the idea first, and feeds it to Charlie, or she lets him tell her what he thinks, and then they both bombard whomever, with endless questions.”

“Questions of a personal nature?”

“A very personal nature.”

“And today they were discussing…me?”

He nodded again.

“And you found it offensive?”

“I did.”

“Are you going to be my gallant young knight? Is that it?” she said with a laugh.

“It’s nothing of the sort.”

“No? That’s too bad now then, isn’t it?” She pretended to pout.

“Too bad? What do you mean?”

“You know exactly what I mean. A woman wants to have a man defend her honour if she can’t do it herself. I find it rather sweet that you were trying to defend my honour. What were they saying that you felt my honour had to be defended?”

“What?”

“You heard what I said,” she laughed. “What were they saying that you felt you had to come to me defence?”

“It wasn’t so much what they were saying; it was the implication.”

“Oh? Really? And what were they implying?”

“That we’d run off together for the duration. You weren't here, and I wasn't at my flat. Charlie was quick to point it out to me. You see what I mean? They take something innocent, and twist it around to suit whatever they want people to believe.”

“Is that all?” she said after a moment.

“What do you mean, is that all?”

“What do you want me to say? That I’m offended? Okay. You’re right; I’m offended. They should be made aware of the facts. The fact they think they can say whatever they want about me is abhorent. You needed to be taken care of, and, well, they should know that. You should tell them you had a medical problem—condition--issue!” she corrected herself, each successive answer cancelling the other until she stooped talking.

“I did tell them! I told them you took me to Stoke.”

“Yes. I saw how much they believed you,” she laughed.

Nigel was silent, staring out of the window at the passing scenery. The hedgerows appeared to run parallel to the road, and at times, there were stone walls covered in patches of bright green moss with dour expressions of grey lichen—they were probably erected hundreds of years ago, he told himself—rising up out of the ground as though part of a forgotten archeological dig.

"Have you sorted out where we’re going yet?” she asked.

“O’Dowd’s place,” he said with a short nod.

“I thought, we should at least pay our respects. I mean, someone must’ve told her by now.”

“Of course,” he smiled. "It's been at least ten days."

It wasn’t a conversation either of them were looking forward to.