waking the others?”
“Will you stop? We need to keep looking around. We haven’t much time.”
“He killed his wife and three of his four children before Maggie escaped,” I pondered.
“At two in the morning—they were probably all sound asleep.”
“But to sleep through it? Maybe the first victim, but the others? I find that hard to believe.” I returned to the paper and scanned the remaining front-page headlines. “Who is Cornelius Healy? I know that name from somewhere.”
“Mr. Healy? He runs a farm for the Domvilles, I think. Why?”
“Listen—”
LAND MANAGER KILLED IN ALTERCATION AT FARM AT SANTRY HOUSE
Possible Murder—On Friday evening, a man by the name of Cornelius Healy, the land manager for the Domville family of Santry House, was involved in an altercation with one of his employees. A fistfight ensued as a result of a dispute over the employee allegedly stealing grain to feed his family.
The worker was punished by a caning at the hands of Mr. Healy. Upon release from his bounds, the worker responded by attacking Mr. Healy with his bare hands. The other employees urged on the fisticuffs, as Mr. Healy and the punishments he meted out were apparently not popular with the other farm laborers. Witnesses were not forthcoming with the name of the worker but did tell the police that Mr. Healy slipped, fell, and hit his head on a rock, which caused his death and resulted in the attacker making his quick departure. A full investigation will follow.
“He doesn’t sound like a very nice person. What kind of man canes someone who is only trying to feed his family?” Matilda said.
“When was the last time there was a murder in Clontarf?”
Matilda shrugged.
“Now two murders in one day . . .”
“If you continue this, I’m going to take your copy of ‘The Murders in the Rue Morgue’ and bury it out in the pasture. Focus your sleuthing skills on the task at hand; we haven’t much time.”
She was right, of course, but I told myself I would research this matter further when the time presented itself.
Matilda leaned against the wall, peering behind the wardrobe.
“What are you doing?”
“I see something behind here, attached to the back.” She closed one eye, squinted the other, trying to get a better look.
I leaned in from the other side. I could see it, too. “Give me a hand; let’s pull the wardrobe a bit away from the wall.”
Together, we both wrapped our fingers around the right side and gave it a tug. The heavy cabinet groaned against the floor. Matilda froze. “Do you think someone heard that?”
I listened carefully. I could still hear Ma in the kitchen. “I don’t think so.”
Matilda returned her attention to the wardrobe, squeezing her hand into the opening at its back. “I think I can reach it.”
I watched the lower half of her arm disappear. It came out with a thin leather satchel.
“What is it?”
A worn string held the satchel shut. She twisted the fastening free and opened the flap, then reached inside and extracted the contents.
Maps.
“Put them here, on the desk.”
“They’re very old,” she said, spreading them out. “The paper is crumbling at the fringes.”
“How many are there?”
Matilda turned through the maps, careful not to damage them. “Seven. From all over Europe and the United Kingdom. There’s Prague, Austria, Romania, Italy, London . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“What is it?”
“This one is Ireland.”
“What is that mark?”
She studied it closely. “Clontarf. The mark is at Saint John the Baptist.”
I turned through the others. “They’re all marked. The U.K. map has two—one near London and another at someplace called Whitby.”
She was frowning. “They’re so old; some of the borders are wrong. They look hand-drawn. I don’t recognize the language.”
My arm began to itch. “I think we should put them back, before someone comes up.”
She ignored me, flipping through