The Lord and the Banshee (Read by Candlelight #13) - Gillian St. Kevern Page 0,15

armchair, sharing a glance with Thomas. “Here we go again.”

Thomas adjusted his position lying on top of his bed. He’d retired after lunch, citing a need to rest. Julian and Pip had joined him afterwards to discuss the banshee. Try as he might, he could not get comfortable. “Malone. Why does that sound familiar?”

Pip’s eyes gleamed. “The banshee’s surname is Malone.”

“He has such lovely eyes,” Julian remarked. “Do you think he likes nature? He must. He is a gardener.”

Pip dragged a hand across his face. “To return to the matter at hand, there were many references to persons by the name of Malone in the castle records. Since the time of Una Malone’s tragic death, there has been at least one Malone on the castle staff. Following the death of his son, the old Lord Connaught regretted his treatment of her. He seems to have attempted to make up for it by seeing that the Malones had employment at the castle. His heirs continued the tradition.”

Thomas wedged a pillow behind his back and leaned against the headboard. “Do the Malones that remain in Connaught feel a sense of injustice on Una’s behalf, or do they regard that as distant history?”

Pip nodded, taking his notebook from his jacket pocket. “A good question. I’ve been wanting to find out what the local opinion is on the banshee.”

“We can visit the church at the same time. Worth finding out if that peculiar scent Julian noticed shows up anywhere else.”

Pip licked his finger and flicked backwards through his notebook. “I have, through discussion with Mrs O’Flaherty, compiled a list of local places of interest where a smell such as that Julian described might emanate.”

Thomas looked up. He had not expected Pip to take that approach. “Do banshees have more than one haunt?”

Pip shook his head. “This is more to eliminate the possibility of the banshee being contrived than because I expect we will find anything of note. I am convinced of the banshee’s reality, but it will take more than my certainty to convince those sceptics of the supernatural.”

Thomas grunted, avoiding looking at Julian. If they could investigate with Pip, they could watch him at the same time. “Just as well to look into every possibility.”

“A few things puzzle me.” Pip frowned at his notebook. “It is very singular that this banshee has not followed the habit of her kind to wail and so forth. Her habit of pointing…” He sighed. “I do not know that I can consider her a proper banshee without a wail. My collection may have to remain incomplete.”

“Ask Pippa to visit,” Julian remarked. “If her singing doesn’t sound like a banshee, I don’t know what does.”

Pip shot him an exasperated look. “That’s a very uncharitable remark to make about your cousin.”

“She sounds,” Julian said, unrepentant, “like a cat, gargling.”

“A gentleman does not point that out.” Pip turned back to Thomas. “So, it’s settled then. We’ll aim to travel into the village this afternoon.”

“Sounds like a plan to me.” Thomas made to rise from the bed and grunted, caught by a sudden pain.

“Are you all right?” Pip got to his feet.

Thomas waved his hand away. “A stomachache. Nothing more.”

Pip studied him, a frown crossing his face. “Perhaps we should rest here this afternoon instead.”

“No,” Thomas rasped. “The sooner we get this sorted, the better. Besides,” he nodded in Julian’s direction, “we could do with getting out of the house.”

Pip grimaced. “You’re right. I shall propose an expedition to our hosts.”

Their hosts greeted the prospect of a trip to the village with enthusiasm. As they clambered into two separate carriages, Cross thought he discerned relief at the prospect of spending some time away from the castle. Interesting—was the banshee telling on their nerves, too?

The carriages set them down at one end of the village, and they walked down the Main Street towards the church, the first place on Pip’s list. Connaught village was not unlike many other Irish villages: a cluster of white-washed stone cottages, roofed with which thatch. Many of the cottages were crumbling, with grass sprouting from the thatch or great clumps missing. Very few people were in evidence, but those that were went about their business with purposeful intent. Even the children were too busy to stop and stare, though Cross was conscious of their curious glances.

Mrs O’Flaherty noticed his gaze resting on a cottage. “Empty,” she explained. “The legacy of the blight. Though not as badly hit as other places in this region, we saw many old