opinions hold much weight this evening.
After leaving the hospital, the three of us found ourselves under that same tree arguing about what we saw. I have no doubt this was the body of Patrick O’Cuiv. I cannot explain how or why I know this, but I am sure of it. Bram and Thornley feel differently; they both believe the man to be a distant relative of O’Cuiv, or possibly a son unknown to us during our childhood, but I think such speculations are rubbish.
It clearly was him!
I am absolutely certain.
I will find proof.
After much debate, I convinced my two brothers of the only course of action open to us. We must travel to Clontarf and further investigate O’Cuiv.
How did his heart beat? Do you know the truth behind this?
I imagine you do.
If your heart were sliced from your breast and placed on a tray within sight, would it continue to beat?
I realize such thoughts are morbid and not those of a lady, but they speak to me from the back of my mind whether I want them to or not, begging to be answered, and there is no other acceptable option but for me to go with them to Clontarf. There, I said it. Even though they forbid me from taking this trip, I will go.
I cannot trust them, really. That is my primary reason for going. I do not doubt they will go to Clontarf, but to what extent will they really search for truth? Enough to find answers or just enough to appease me? The only way to be certain of conducting a proper investigation is to undertake the journey myself. Even though the town is relatively close by (Pa used to walk the distance when we lived there and he was employed at Dublin Castle), a lady should not go alone; therefore, I require the company of my brothers. I also worry that should I go alone, I may find it difficult to obtain answers to some of my questions, particularly when asking men those questions. Men can be so pigheaded sometimes. No, I cannot, and will not, go alone; nor shall they. I will be in their company, regardless of their wishes.
What is your connection to Patrick O’Cuiv?
Was he a lover?
Dare I foster the thought?
But all those nights you snuck away under the cover of darkness, where else would a young woman flee but into the arms of her lover?
If such is the case, how scandalous! I am blushing at the very idea of it. A married man, nonetheless. A married man with children. I think you better than that; therefore, I do not believe this to be so. I do not wish it to be so.
Then what?
If not your lover, what was he to you? Who is he to you? Now that he is dead, do you mourn him? What if the opposite is true? What if you hate him so much you wanted him to tumble off that boat into the sea and drown?
Perhaps you even pushed him.
What is your connection to this man?
You possess so many secrets, my dear Nanna Ellen. And, I daresay, I will uncover them all.
We leave tonight, the moment Bram concludes work at the castle. I will accompany them, even if I must stow away in the coach.
Affectionately yours,
Matilda
THE DIARY of THORNLEY STOKER
(RECORDED IN SHORTHAND AND TRANSCRIBED HEREWITH.)
11 August 1868, 9:21 p.m.—Oh, to put down on paper what has happened! Even now, only minutes later, all of the evening’s happenings seem more dream-like than actual events, the makings of a terrible tale told to frighten a child. It is only now, from the safety of my own home, that I even consider pausing to document what has transpired. I feel to do so is necessary—nay, may I say it is required of me? To fail to write down these events would be irresponsible, for others must be made to know.
I arrived home from the asylum at slightly past six in the evening, no later than usual, only to find Emily standing statuesquely in the