My gaolers had made no effort to care for the comfort of their prisoners. The single window was covered by bars, not glass, allowing full access for the cold Irish wind. There was no blanket on my cot, just a sheet. Right now I had wrapped it around me but it wasn't up to the task. The police wouldn't need to hang me, I thought. I would die of the fever long before that.

I was growing numb from sitting hunched over on my cot when I heard footsteps. One of the officers was making his routine patrol among the locked cells. "I need a blanket," I yelled when he got near me.

He only paused a second. "A blanket is too good for murderous scum like you." Then he disappeared into the next room, although his chuckle hung in the air like a foul mist.

Murderer. I grimaced at the accusation. This was my third day in the cells. Thus far I had been able to speak to no one, a barrister, an officer, no one. If I were back in London, I wouldn't be treated like this; my previous association with Scotland Yard would have assured that. But I was in Ireland, and that made all the difference. Especially since I was being charged with the slaying of Terrance O'Grady.

It had started with a simple letter sent to Doakes and Haig, Criminal Consultants. It had taken some time to find us, thanks to the fire at our building courtesy of the Adelphos Society. Haig and I were still living out of a hotel while our store and living quarters were being refurbished, which was causing a growing financial burden as we couldn't sell any Doakes and Haig Recipe Sweetener. So the letter initially appeared to be a godsend.

"What have we here?" Haig said as he leafed through our small pile of mail, which he had retrieved from the post office. He held up the envelope. "Sean Doakes, Criminal Consultant. A good sign, what?"

"Let's hope so," I said, taking it from him. I sat on the edge of my bed to read it. Haig reverted to his leprechaun form and sat on my shoulder so he could as well.

"Interesting," I said after a few moments. Our correspondent, one Terrance O'Grady, was requesting our assistance in a murder investigation. A cheque for 200 pounds was enclosed as a retainer. "What do you think, Haig?"

"Isn't solving murders more the job of the police?"

"That's never stopped us in the past." Which was true enough. More of our cases than I cared to remember revolved somehow around violent death. "Besides, according to Mr. O'Grady, the police are not interested."

Haig nodded. "We've heard that before."

I set the cheque and the letter on the bed. "It's not like we have anything else to do right now, I suppose."

"We can use the funds, true enough."

"Still." I reread the missive, but beyond "murder" and "most urgent," there was little other information. "I should wire him confirmation then?"

He pointed to the address with a foot. "Even subtracting your passage there and back, we'll still earn a tidy sum if there is nothing you can do."

I raised an eyebrow. "I can do?"

He grinned. "The letter is addressed to Sean Doakes, no? Our patron doesn't appear to need both of us."

"I hardly think that is what he means."

"As of now, with no other information, I don't see how I can help. Besides, someone has to be here to watch over our shop."

He was right about that. Meetings with the contractors, supervising the workers; nearly every day we had to spend time at our ruined building. And it was my name on the letter. "Agreed. I'll book passage to Dublin in the morning. If or when I need you, I'll contact you."

"Good." Haig jumped to the bed, then assumed human height. "I suggest we enjoy a pint or two to celebrate this windfall."

Had we only known it wasn't a windfall at all.

So by noon the following day I was sailing to Dublin. I was traveling light, just a few changes of clothing, heavy jacket, a cord made from four-leaf clover and a shard from a Blarney Stone. Not that I expected to be involved with anything from the fairy world, but one never knows. In one sense my trip was relaxing as I had little to do but admire the scenery as I proceeded by ship and train to my destination. Yet it was frustrating as well. My employer had provided nearly no information on the situation, so I couldn't plan. Just as well, I quickly realized, that Haig had remained behind. No sense both of us wasting valuable time on what was currently a paid but undesired vacation.

So I was, I believe, understandably impatient when my train finally reached Dublin. The sky was heavily overcast, causing the entire city to appear to be in mourning. I debated on staying overnight, just so I could enjoy the sights, then thought better of it. The quicker I arrived at the O'Grady home in nearby Borkaen, the faster I could return. After a few inquiries, I learned that a coach – no rails ran to Borkaen – would be leaving later that afternoon. I bought the last ticket and spent that journey firmly wedged between an overweight matron who smelled of leeks and a farmer well into his cups. I made a few aborted efforts at conversation, specifically about O'Grady, but no one was in the mind to talk. So when I finally reached Borkaen, I wanted nothing more than an inn and a bath.

Fortunately I had more luck at the inn. It only took a few pints and an introduction and soon everyone was eager to talk about Terrance O'Grady. "Heart of a lion, that one," one offered. "An honorable man indeed," said another. "You are honored if you can call him friend," added a third. "Why do you ask?"

A fair enough question, I thought. "I have an appointment with him. He summoned me from London on a private matter."

Their reaction surprised me. "London! A lime sucker," one said with obvious disgust.

"Not originally," I said hastily before they all turned away. "Actually my family hails from Corlewegh."

"Never heard of it," one said, his eyes afire.

"Southwest of here, near the coast. A poor province I'm afraid." Suddenly I was beginning to wish Haig were with me. He was more conversant with Irish politics and history than I. And his jovial demeanor, especially in a pub, could defuse the most incendiary situation.

"I've heard of this Corlewegh," another interjected. "Home of thieves and pirates as I recall."

I grimaced. Unfortunately, there was some truth in that. Until my great and so forth grandfather had come across Haig in his leprechaun form, we had lived in the caves surrounding the village, stealing to survive. Without Haig and his talents, we might still be there. "My family left quite some time ago."

"Once a thief, always a thief," one said. Then they turned their back on me and began a spirited discussion among themselves …in Gaelic.

About me, I was sure. And there was something I could do about it. I reached in my pocket and removed the small piece of Blarney Stone. I pretended to cough while I slipped it in my mouth, then sat down, now totally alone, to enjoy my pint. And eavesdrop.

Years ago, Haig had revealed the true power of the Blarney Stone to me. If licked, or, better yet, placed in your mouth, you could understand and speak any language. Now I could understand what my inquisitors were discussing. I didn't dare move closer and they were speaking in whispers, but words and phrases were understandable. "Traitor," "thief," "heretic" and "blackguard" were a few of the kinder references to my heritage.

I didn't dare respond, but my mood was as dark as the stout that I now couldn't enjoy. Did everyone in Borkaen feel this way about the English? Not that I considered myself one, not totally anyway, but they certainly did. If so, why would O'Grady have summoned me here? I surely couldn't expect assistance from the locals if there was any real investigating to be done. I decided I would see him early in the morning, refuse the commission and hurry home. So I finished my drink and hied to my room on the second floor before the others worked their way into a violent mood. I didn't sleep well that night.

The following morning found me knocking at the door of the O'Grady residence. I had purposely had breakfast at another inn where they wouldn't know me and the server was willing to give me directions. It was actually a reasonable stroll from my inn, and I enjoyed the crisp morning air as I walked the nearly empty streets.

O'Grady's house was nestled among similar looking homes in a well-kept residential neighborhood. Nothing ostentatious, nothing that suggested wealth or power. I knocked on the door and a man answered shortly. He appeared in his mid 50's, with a full-flowing beard and long hair, both graying gracefully. He was wearing a faded red robe and slippers; obviously he hadn't been out of bed very long. "Yes?" he asked after appraising me.

"Sean Doakes," and I offered my hand. "I'm here to see Terrance O'Grady."

He smiled broadly and shook my hand with both of his. "Mr. Doakes! So glad you could come!" Then he looked past me. "You are alone?"

"Yes. I apologize, but my associate is detained on other matters."

"No matter, no matter," he said after a short pause. "Please, come inside," and he stepped aside.

"Thank you."

Once inside, I let him lead me to the kitchen in the back. "Have a seat," he said, patting the back of an old and well-worn wooden chair. "Have you eaten? I could cook up more eggs and potatoes."

Already his breakfast was sizzling merrily on the wood stove. I shook my head. "Not for me. Tea would suffice." A moment later he handed me a porcelain cup filled with the hot liquid. As I blew on the cup to cool it, I noticed how worn the enamel was in places. The cup was easily as old as the chair and table, and I began to look around the kitchen while O'Grady busied himself fixing his breakfast. The wood stove, the curtains; none of the furnishings would have looked out of place in an antique store. Even the robe he wore had long faded from its original crimson to a dull rose. Could this man really afford the services of Doakes and Haig, Criminal Consultants? I began to wonder. I decided the best thing would be to return all of our commission save for my expenses. Would I had.

"So why have you engaged my firm?" I asked after he had sat across from me. "Your correspondence was short on details."

"I need you to help solve a murder," he said between mouthfuls.

"Isn't that a matter for your police?"

"They won't help."

"As you suggested in your missive. Why?"

I could imagine many reasons, but the one he offered was not on the list. "Because it happened forty years ago."

"Forty?" I sat back. The man was balmy, that was certain. "Forty years and it has never been solved?"

O'Grady shook his head. "I know who did it. I just can't prove it to the satisfaction of the courts. Although the courts wouldn't listen anyway, the station of the murderer and all."

I set my tea aside, then leaned forward. "How do you think I can help you? I have no witnesses to question, no evidence to follow."

He gave me a weak smile. "I have confidence in you, Mr. Doakes. Your exploits are known even here in Borkaen. I'm sure you can think of something."

O'Grady didn't want to know what I thought. "Perhaps you can give me some details, then we'll see."

"Of course. A minute." He left, to return shortly with a leather-bound scrapbook. He set it in front of me and opened it. "This should help," he pointed to a newspaper article pasted on the page.

I read it while he finished his breakfast. The article described the vicious dispatching of one Karen O'Grady. Her body, brutally ravished, had been found in the moors. Stripped, assaulted, then stabbed more than a dozen times. No witnesses and except for the outrage and assurances offered by the constables, there were no other details. I turned the page and found a few more articles, each progressively shorter as time passed and no one was arrested. I closed the book and put it aside. "A relative, I take it."

"My sister, yes."

"You say you know who did it. Who?"

"Seamus MacNeill. His family has owned most of the land here for centuries."

That at least could explain the lack of diligence by the police. "And why are you so sure he did it?"

"He was seeing my sister socially for some time before the tragedy." He paused to wipe a tear from his eye, the memory obviously still painful. "She had finally broken off their relationship, which was what she should have done. MacNeill has always been and still is a cad, unreliable and untrustworthy. Certainly beneath her despite his family's social status. I heard them arguing when she finally told him she would see him no more." He paused to collect himself. "Her body was found three nights later."

"And the police found nothing?" I asked after a long pause.

"They didn't try!" and he slammed his fist on the table for emphasis. "The police have always been under the control of the MacNeills."

"I see." I sat back. "What are you asking me to do for you?"

He jumped from his chair. "Bring Seamus MacNeill to justice! Haven't you been listening?"

"Of course. Please, Mr. O'Grady, try to relax. A forty-year-old case is going to be difficult. Especially for me, nominally an Englishman. I don't know if anyone will be willing to talk to me."

He frowned. "Your surname is Doakes. I assumed you were Irish."

"Originally. My family came from Corlewegh. But we have resided in England for several generations now. I spent some time in a pub last evening. I was not treated warmly."

He nodded. "I'm afraid you'll find that many of my kinsmen still are angry with the English for what they did to us."

"That was several centuries ago."

"Matters not. The past, no matter how old, is still only yesterday here."

Haig would appreciate those sentiments, I thought. I looked in his eyes; his pain, nurtured all these years, was distressing to behold. I had no idea what I could do, but I felt obligated to try. "I guess the place to start is with Mr. MacNeill."

Getting an appointment with this lord of the realm turned out to be surprisingly easy. I sent him a post telling him who I was and that I needed his assistance on a case I was investigating. His response came to the inn I was staying at later that afternoon, agreeing to an interview the following day.

When I informed O'Grady of this he was delighted. We were seated in his living room as I wanted to spend as little time at the inn as possible and O'Grady was proving most agreeable to my company. "Excellent work, Mr. Doakes! I knew my confidence in you wasn't misplaced."

I could only hope he would feel the same on the morrow, as I still had no idea how I was going to approach MacNeill. "Apparently Mr. MacNeill has heard of me as well."

"I'm sure he has," he said as he sipped his whiskey.

I had no idea how to respond, so I turned my attention to the furnishings in the room. The walls were littered with faded paintings of what I assumed was the O'Grady clan. A tattered Erin Republic flag, one brandished by the doomed Irish freedom fighters in their traitorous uprising against the Crown several centuries past, merited a singular place of prominence above the hearth. I was tempted to ask about it, but, because of my experience in the pub, changed my mind. One of the reasons for my ancestors becoming a purveyor to the Crown was their involvement in that conflict in support of England. "I should be returning to my inn," I said, finishing my whiskey.

"No reason to pay to stay there," O'Grady said. "I have a large home and a guest room already made up for you. I'll bring your belongings here."

"That's not necessary."

"Please. I insist." He smiled shyly. "I rarely have visitors."

I considered his offer. It certainly would save me a few pence, and I wouldn't have to endure the cold nature of the customers at the pub. My second mistake. "Fine. In that case," and I reached for the decanter, "I'll enjoy a jot more of your whiskey."

"Of course," he smiled. "This won't take long." I gave him the key to my room and relaxed while he made the short trip to the inn and back. "Is this all you have?" he asked when he returned and set my single bag on the floor.

"Yes. I thought it best to travel light. I had no idea how long I would be in Borkaen." Or if I would accept this commission.

"I'll put these in your room. First on the right, second floor."

I thought he was taking the role of the dutiful host a bit far, but said nothing as he disappeared up the staircase. Instead I turned my thoughts to the morrow. How was I going to approach MacNeill? Lie, or tell him just enough of the truth to assure his assistance? Now I wished Haig were with me. In his true form, he could search MacNeill's entire home and never be noticed …assuming the man did not keep cats.

That still could happen, and I decided then I would contact him after I met with MacNeill.

O'Grady joined me soon enough and we spent an hour in light conversation and drinking so I was slightly in the arms of his whiskey when I finally bid goodnight and went to bed. Tomorrow, I told myself, could be interesting.

Which, unfortunately, it was.

O'Grady and I shared breakfast, then it was off to the stables to rent a carriage as O'Grady had none. "When should I expect you back?" he asked after providing directions to the stables.

"Early evening I would suppose." Then I realized his intention. "Don't make supper for me. Perhaps the lord will provide one. If not, I can nosh at a pub."

"As you wish. Good hunting, Mr. Doakes."

Hunting wasn't exactly what I planned, but I bid him good day and headed toward the stables. The stablemaster gave me directions and within a half an hour I was headed east from Borkaen to the MacNeill estate.

It was a lovely Irish morning and I was whistling an Irish lilt as I steered my team through the stone and steel gates guarding the entrance of MacNeill's manor. It was easy to imagine him owning most of the land in this valley, and by the age evident in the architecture, his family possessing it for generations. A small team of gardeners stopped their work and watched as I rode up the wide brick path to the front. Off to one side I saw barns and a large herd of cattle. There were several wagons next to them with "MacNeill's Meats" painted on the side. Not a dairy farmer then, I realized. When I reached the front of the house, a valet appeared from the front door and approached, ready to take care of my carriage. I disembarked with a nod and told him who I was.

"Just go to the front door," the young man, probably just out of his teens, said as he climbed into the carriage. "They will take care of you."

As I walked up to the massive wooden door, I couldn't help but feel a bit of jealousy. At one time my family had owned a manor, not nearly as large as this but a manor still. But the war with the Kaiser had brought great economic hardship to the entire country, and my family, like so many others, found themselves nearly wiped out in the financial chaos occurring after the Armistice. It appeared somehow MacNeill and his family had avoided all that, perhaps because they were located here and not in Britain, and I couldn't help but wonder what my family's fortunes might have been had we not left Corlewegh for the brighter promise of London.

I shook my jealousy aside. If MacNeill was indeed a murderer, he deserved to be brought to justice. Somehow.

A servant greeted me at the door. "You are?"

"Sean Doakes. I have an appointment with your master."

"Wait, please." He disappeared inside, leaving me alone to admire the well maintained home. After a few minutes he reappeared. "Follow me please. The master will see you."

I should hope so. The interior of the manor was no less posh than the outside. Portraits of what I assumed were earlier MacNeills lined the hallway on both sides and our footsteps echoed off the oak floor as we walked to the back. The MacNeill home reminded me of nothing less than a museum. The Queen would have felt comfortable here, I decided, and that opinion was only strengthened when we entered the library. Seamus MacNeill awaited us from behind a massive walnut desk. Tall, thin, nearing his sixties, with graying hair and goatee. He was dressed in the finest Saville Row suit and bore the mien of someone well accustomed to wealth and the powers it provided. "You may leave us," he told his servant. "You," he looked at me, then pointed to a chair in front of his desk, "can sit there."

"Thank you milord," I mumbled and followed his orders.

"You are Sean Doakes?" he asked as soon as I was seated. He did not offer his hand.

"Yes."

"The criminal consultant?"

"Yes again."

He frowned. "I was told you had an associate."

I sat back and crossed my legs, trying to relax. MacNeill reposed in his chair as if it was a throne and I was his subject. That, I told myself, had to change. "Unfortunately he is detained in London. He may be joining me later. Depending on what I discover."

"Discover. Yes, your note said something about an investigation. So why are you here?"

"As I said, an investigation. I have been hired …"

He waved me silent. "Why are you here now? I sent a note to your inn this morning canceling this meeting."

I blushed. "I apologize. I am no longer staying there. My employer has graciously allowed me to stay with him."

"A convenient excuse if true." He looked at me without warmth. "I've done some investigating of my own."

I raised an eyebrow. "Really? About what?"

"About you." He reached down and put a leather-bound book on his desk. "All the great clans and families of Ireland are listed here. Doakes, Doakes, Doakes," he began to mumble to himself as he turned the pages. From my angle, it looked like everything had been entered by hand. "Ah, here we are! From Corlewegh. Yours was a family of thieves, then they began to market something called a 'recipe sweetener.' And during the Times of Trial, your ancestors assisted the nefarious King George in subjugating Ireland." He closed the book emphatically. "And you remain a Royalist to this day."

I gritted my teeth. The Irish revolutionaries had later referred to their aborted uprising as the Times of Trial, a trial they had certainly deserved to lose. "Your facts are correct, but I fail to see the relevance."

MacNeill pointed to himself. "Seven of my family died at the hands of the accursed English. Is that relevant enough?"

Not again! "Several of my family died as well. As well in wars against the Dutch, the Swedes and the Huns. Wars that protected you and your wealth."

MacNeill grimaced. "My family and the Irish had no quarrel with the Dutch, the Swedes or the Huns. Only the British."

His insane fascination with ancient history was becoming tiring. "If you think I've come here to apologize in any fashion for something that occurred centuries ago, you are mistaken. The past cannot be changed."

"It cannot be forgotten, either."

So be it. "I had come here to investigate a murder. You said you were willing to help. Clearly that was a lie."

He sat back and smiled. "Oh, I may help you, Mr. Doakes. If I have a mind to. Exactly whose death are you investigating?"

"Karen O'Grady. I was informed that you knew her."

He laughed sharply, the sound echoing off the oak walls and filling the room. It took him several minutes to regain composure. "That was 40 years ago! And you talk about the fallacies of hanging onto history!"

"My client feels otherwise. He has evidence that points to the perpetrator."

"Forty years!" MacNeill wiped a tear from his eye. "By now the murderer may very well be dead himself! I suspect you haven't talked to the police."

His attitude was making me angrier by the minute, but I kept my voice calm. "Not as yet. I wanted to gather more information from the prime suspect first."

His eyes widened, then darkened. "'Prime suspect' is it now? You're wasting your time! Forty years!" Then he abruptly leaned forward. "Tell Terrance O'Grady to put his sister to rest once and for all. I have tolerated his continuous libelous accusations far too long."

I wondered what that meant, but I knew I couldn't ask him. I decided to make one last attempt to calm him. "I already have. But since you know him, you know how insistent he can be."

He shrugged. "It matters not. The police will do nothing for him. Or you."

I crossed my arms and sat back, studying him for a moment before replying. "Not yours, perhaps. But since you know so much about me, you must know I have a very close relationship with Scotland Yard. Ireland may have its own government, but it is still subject to the Crown. And the Crown never turns a blind eye to murder. When I give Scotland Yard the information I have, they will become very interested."

MacNeill glared at me. "You know nothing."

"We'll see." I stood. "Thank you for your time, Mr. MacNeill. No need to stand; I can find my way out."

On my ride back I scolded myself for letting MacNeill upset me so. My mention of Scotland Yard was an empty threat, at least for now. But I was also convinced now that MacNeill was the murderer. Or, at least, I wanted him to be. .

O'Grady was as eager as a young girl on her first date when I arrived. "What did you learn?" he asked as soon as I had removed my coat.

"Nothing that will help us bring him to justice," I said, collapsing in a chair.

"Will you talk to the police? Visit the crime scene?"

I shook my head. "The police will help us naught. And visiting a crime scene? On the moors? After forty years? No, I'm afraid I have to return to London on the morrow. We are going to need the assistance of my associate."

He frowned. "You shall return?"

"Absolutely." He now bore the mien of a child not invited to play. I decided I couldn't ignore the obvious any longer. "I have to ask you; why are you doing this now?"

"Doing what?"

"Trying to solve the murder of your sister."

He frowned, then he stiffened. "I have never stopped trying to bring MacNeill to justice." He pointed around the room. "I didn't always live thus. I once owned a manor easily twice this size. I have spent much of my inheritance over the past decades hiring barristers, consultants, everyone I could think of who might help me." Then he paused to catch his breath. "You are my last hope, Mr. Doakes. I don't think I have the energy or resources to continue."

I sighed. There was no ceding this contract now. If there was any way I could help him, I had to find it. "I can make no promises."

He nodded as he sat down and reached for his pipe. "I have been told that before," he said with a hint of a sad smile.

I'm sure. I looked at the clock. Nearing midnight, and it would be a long and early ride back to Dublin. "Then I bid you good night. I'll leave first thing in the morning." I walked to him and patted him on the shoulder. "I assure you Mr. Haig and I will do everything possible to avenge your sister. Wake me early if you would."

He nodded as I walked upstairs and went to bed. For another hour I remained awake. I had no idea what he could do, but if anyone could help O'Grady, it was Haig. I fell asleep confidant that MacNeill would be brought to judgement.

But I didn't sleep long. The scream came from downstairs. It cut through the air, and my dreams, like the bitter northern wind. Even upstairs, in a room with the door closed, it was loud enough to rattle the windows. "O'Grady!" I yelled as I threw on a robe and stumbled out of the room. In the hallway, the screaming was loud enough to be painful. "I'm coming, hold on!" I called out, although I doubted I could be heard above the continuous siren call coming from below.

There was enough light coming from downstairs for me to easily find the stairway in the unfamiliar house. "Quiet, I'm coming," I yelled as I hurried down the stairs. Whoever was screaming ignored me, and I actually had to put my hands to my ears as I reached the bottom and entered the sitting room.

O'Grady was there, but he wasn't the one screaming. With all the blood around his body and the knife in his side, he wasn't doing anything. Standing over him was a young woman wearing a gray robe, a woman I had never seen before.

"Stop your screaming!" I yelled as loud as I could. This close, her screams were almost physical. "Tell me what happened!"

Perhaps she heard my footsteps -- I doubted she heard my voice – because she turned and looked at me. Her eyes were dark like the night and half-hidden by her long blonde hair that obscured her face as well. Only then did she stop. She didn't say anything, however; she merely stepped back from O'Grady.

"By the gods." I knelt by O'Grady and rolled him over. Now I realized why I had heard nothing of a struggle: there was a gag tied tightly over his mouth. Blood covered his chest from more wounds, deep and vicious and fatal. I looked up at the now-silent woman. "What happened? Who did this?"

She said nothing, merely stared at me as if I was of no more interest than a single tree in a forest.

"You've got to help me," I said, standing and starting toward her. "We have to call the police."

She stepped back, still saying nothing.

"You saw what happened! Who did this?" I reached for her, but she turned away and ran from the room. "Stop!" I yelled, going after her. "Who are you? What did you see?"

Then I heard heavy knocking at the front door, accompanied by muffled shouts. I looked down the darkened hall but couldn't see her, so instead I went to answer the door. I opened it to find a horde of concerned strangers. "What's going on?" the woman in front asked. "We've heard shouts."

"It's Mr. O'Grady," I said, stepping aside. "Someone call the constables. He's been killed."

"I'm a constable," a man said from the back. He bullied his way through the crowd, who quickly reformed behind him. "What happened? And who are you?"

"Sean Doakes, a guest of Terrance O'Grady. Hurry, there's been an incident."

"Sean Doakes." He stopped at the door, then turned. "Go home now. I will handle this."

"There's been a tragedy," I said, hustling him inside and closing the door on the curious. "I'm afraid Mr. O'Grady has been murdered."

"Murdered?" He pulled out his nightstick. "Show me."

I led him into the other room. "That's how I found him," I said, pointing at the body.

"I see." He bent over the victim. "Murder, definitely," he said after a moment. Then he looked at me. "There was screaming reported. You found him like this?" he pointed at the gag in O'Grady's mouth.

"Yes. The screaming was from the young woman standing over him. That's what woke me up. I was upstairs sleeping when the murder must have occurred."

He touched the blood covering the carpet. "Yes, this most likely happened within the last half hour. The blood is still warm. You heard nothing else."

I shook my head emphatically. "Nothing until the screams."

"Yes, I heard those as well. That's why I came. I patrol this neighborhood at night." He stood and wiped the blood off his fingers with a handkerchief. "This woman. I need to talk to her. Who is she and where is she?"

"I have no idea. She left when someone started knocking at the door. I've never seen her before."

"I see." He looked at the body another minute, his fingers drumming on his lips. "And you are here …why?"

I paused, then decided I couldn't tell him the entire truth. "I was hired by O'Grady to investigate an incident. I'm with Doakes and Haig, Criminal Consultants. From London."

"I've heard of you. You're going to have to come with me."

I didn't like the sound of that. "There's not much more I can tell you. But I'll come down to the station and give my statement in the morning."

"I think not," and he grabbed my arm. "I'm arresting you for the murder of Terrance O'Grady."

I shouldn't have been surprised but was anyway. "What?"

I tried to jerk away, but his grip was too strong. "None of that," and he raised his nightstick. "You are coming with me. One way or the other."

He's right, of course, I thought. A stranger in a man's home, a dead body. What other choice did he have? "I'll need to dress.'

"Hurry. And don't try to escape."

"Where could I go?" I did as told, then allowed him to lead me from the house, past the crowd who still lingered on the doorstep, and down the street. They'll have to let me go soon, I thought as we walked. There is no motive for me to murder O'Grady. Now it was even more imperative I return to London. Haig and I now had a murder to avenge.

My confidence disappeared once we reached the station. I was ushered into the office of their chief constable. "So," he said, rising, "we found you too late."

Too late? "I'm sorry, I don't understand."

"Sean Doakes. Of Doakes and Haig. Correct?"

"Yes."

"You met with Seamus MacNeill today."

"Yes."

"He has made a complaint against you. You demanded money from him or you would libel him for the murder of Karen O'Grady. Is that true?"

Suddenly I realized I wouldn't be leaving for London anytime soon. Now I knew why the constable had arrived so quickly; he was already on his way to arrest me. "I said nothing of the sort! Mr. MacNeill is lying!"

"The typical response of the guilty. You shall be our guest until your trial." Then he smiled. "You'll find that Irish courts react to murder much more rapidly than the English."

So I was placed in a cell. They did allow me to send a letter to Haig, but otherwise I was denied all visitors, given little save one small meal and a thin sheet to warm me during the cool nights. They questioned me several times, and that's how I learned about the full accusations against me. According to MacNeill, I had threatened him with slander unless he paid me 1,000 pounds to drop my sham investigation. When I asked why I would do that, the police pointed out the damaging fire at our store in London. Presumably the fire had destroyed our business and most of our wealth besides. The contract offered by O'Grady suddenly appeared to offer a way to salvage the situation. MacNeill was powerful and wealthy and, I had assumed, would rather pay the blackmail than be subjected to public scrutiny. Being the cad and coward I was, I had underestimated the heart of the great man. He had spurned my demands and instead contacted the police. The police surmised that since I had failed with MacNeill, I had made similar demands on O'Grady. He had refused as well, and in my anger and desperation I had killed him before robbing him.

"Then how do you explain the screams and that young woman?" I had asked.

"O'Grady screamed as you stabbed him. Only then did you think to gag him," was the reply.

Which hardly made any sense, but I had let that pass. "And the woman?"

"There was no woman. Another fabrication from a guilty liar."

That was their case, almost all based upon the word of Seamus MacNeill. The most powerful man in the area. During those long afternoons waiting for my trial, I wondered how I could prove my innocence. The woman was the key. But who was she and how did I find her? Without her testimony, my prospects were as bright as those of the plumpest girl at the school dance.

So here I was, shivering and forlorn, when the guard suddenly reappeared. "On your feet. You have a visitor. Says his name is Haig."

Finally! I stood at the cell door like a dedicated valet as Haig was led into the room. He looked as always, tweed vest and trousers, lightly graying hair, extra girth around his stomach. Looking at him, it was hard to believe he was over 400 years old. And a leprechaun. "What kept you?" I asked.

"The contractors have been most intractable. The help these days." He turned and looked at the guard. "Where can we talk?"

"This is fine. He is a murderer after all."

"I see. You will give us some privacy?"

The guard frowned. "I will stand at that wall." Which he did. Reluctantly. And he watched us like a nanny guarding her charges.

"Best we can do, I suppose. So," and he gave me a broad smile, "just exactly what have you done, Sean?"

"Run afoul of Seamus MacNeill." And I told him what had happened, laced with my own suspicions.

He gave a low whistle when I finished. "I told you to refuse that commission. Too late now."

Which wasn't how I remembered it, but I let it pass. "We, you need to find that woman."

He shook his head. "She'll do you no good at all, Sean."

I frowned. "Why? She had to have seen the murderer. At least she saw me arrive after he was dead."

"That was no mere young woman, I'm afraid. You met a bean chaointe. A banshee," he added to answer my questioning stare.

"A ban …" My words died in my throat. A death fairy, for lack of a better term. I knew they were associated with the great houses of Ireland and reputed to foretell the imminent death of a family member. "You could be wrong," I said, desperate for some hope.

He offered none. "'Twas what she was, no question. She is of no more help then the concrete walls around you."

I grasped the iron bars. "Haig, they hate me here. They still call us traitors for assisting the British and King George. I'm not being put on trial; I'm being put to death!"

He made a moue. "In that case we need to obtain a powerful barrister to assist you."

I thought frantically, but, unfortunately, my experiences with the profession had been all negative. "Any suggestions?"

"Of course," and he smiled. "Me."

It took me a moment to respond. "You practice law?"

He puffed out his chest proudly. "Over the years I have practiced many things. From alchemy to whaling. Trust me, we shall get to the bottom of this."

After all these years, nothing Haig did should surprise me. At least, I thought ruefully, the cost won't be too dear. "So, Barrister Haig, what do we do?"

"I won't be able to get you out of this cell, I'm afraid. After all, you are a murderer!"

"Thanks. At least get me a change of clothes. A heavy coat."

"That we can do. And then I'm going to have to see our friend MacNeill."

"He won't tell you anything."

Haig winked. "He won't know I'm there. One question, though, Sean. Did you notice if he kept cats?"

When Haig returned the following morning, I now had a warm coat and sweater. I had even been treated to a breakfast of sausage and potatoes rather than the oatmeal that had been my previous fare. So I was almost comfortable when he was finally brought in to see me. "What did you learn?" I asked as soon as the guard left us.

"Your friend is a strict believer in the old ways, I can tell you that. He possesses nothing that suggests fealty to the Crown."

I nodded. "He told me as much. What else?"

"Nothing to suggest he murdered the late Terrance O'Grady. Are you sure he did it?"

I grimaced. I wanted him to be the one. "I have no proof. Only the woman or banshee or whatever."

"'Tis not good, Sean. It could have been anyone with a grudge against O'Grady. Even a common burglar."

"Nothing was stolen." Then I paused. "Of course! He was still there!"

"What do you mean?'

"When the banshee started her keening, he was still in the process of killing O'Grady. I awoke immediately, started yelling and was in the room within minutes. There were people already gathering outside. He must have hidden somewhere, then left after the police took me in custody." I stopped as I reached the inevitable conclusion. "All of this was planned, Haig, to make me the prime suspect," and I told him about MacNeill's complaint filed with the police. "He even knew I was staying with O'Grady because I told him. And MacNeill doesn't strike me as the kind of man who would rely on others to do something so important to him."

Haig scratched his chin. "But why?"

"He told me. He and his clan still hold a grudge against the Doakes because we sided with King George during the Times of Trouble. This is revenge, Haig, pure and simple. Except he was able to avenge himself on two parties."

Haig nodded grimly. "Blood memory. The sins of the father visited upon the son. A tradition as old as Ireland, me lad. One that cannot be ignored or foresworn."

"So what do we do?"

"We are fighting history. So history shall be our weapon."

"What do you mean?"

"You'll see. I'm going to push for trial as soon as possible."

I stared at him. "Will that give us time to find any other witnesses? Perhaps a neighbor who might have seen MacNeill? What can I do to help?"

Haig shook his head. "The police won't help us. I can't even get you out on bail. Just be patient, Sean. We'll be back in London soon enough."

A thousand questions needed asking, but I said nothing as he left. History shall be our weapon. What could he possibly mean by that?

Haig was as good as his word. The trial was rescheduled to start the following Tuesday, less than two weeks since I had reached Borkaen. The authorities were happy to comply with his request as they were satisfied they had caught the murderer. I questioned Haig why haste was so important. "Shouldn't we call character witnesses?" I asked him one morning before the trial. "It will take someone like Inspector Amberbee several days to get here."

"Would do no good, Sean," he said. "We have to convince the Brehon of your innocence, and only what happened that evening is of importance. It is your word against MacNeill's; nothing else matters."

Those were not encouraging words. "In that case I suppose I should don my dancing shoes as I'll surely be swinging from the gallows."

"Relax, laddie," and he reached through the bars and patted my hand. "You shall find me an excellent barrister."

His confidence was infectious and I managed a smile. After all I've seen him do, I had no reason to doubt him. So when we finally went to court, I actually felt some optimism. The police had deigned to bring me my bag, so I was now dressed in a brown wool suit. Haig, as always because he had no other choice, wore his tweed vest and trousers. A phalanx of police surrounded us as we were led down the street. "Laddie, you'll need this," Haig whispered and forced something in my hand.

It was a piece of rock and I realized immediately it had to be a piece of the Blarney Stone. But why? I wondered even as I placed it in my mouth. Other, more troubling questions arose as we continued. The police led us out of Borkaen to the small river that ran by it. Are they just going to hang me? I couldn't help but wonder as we walked on. Then we came upon a small bridge. A small group of men had gathered there and in the center of the span, a man dressed in black robes sat patiently.

"The Brehon," Haig answered my questioning stare. "He will be the sole arbiter of this case."

The onlookers made space for us when we arrived. I was relieved to see MacNeill was one of them, and he smiled with supreme confidence when he saw me. I hoped to see his expression change shortly. Haig and I were led before the Brehon, who remained seated. "This is the accused?" he asked.

"Yes," said one of the constables. "Sean Doakes, from England. This other man is his barrister, Duncan Haig."

The Brehon, a distinguished looking man with a gray beard and wearing a simple black suit, frowned. "It is the accused who presents his case. We have no need of barristers here."

"Agreed," Haig replied …in Gaelic. Because of the piece of Blarney Stone in my mouth, I could understand every word. "But my friend and associate does not understand Gaelic, so I thought it best that I appear as a translator."

"We can conduct this judgement in English."

Haig shook his head. "T'would not be right. The old ways are the best ways. We are quite satisfied to honor tradition and use the mother tongue."

The Brehon nodded and smiled. "Very astute, Mister Haig. I am agreeable to that if your client is."

I had to stop myself from responding. "He is," Haig said.

"Then let us begin. The accused is charged with killing Terrence O'Grady. In his home, at night, using a knife. Is that correct?"

"So we've been informed," Haig replied.

"Constable Clairn, you have more information?"

"Yes," one answered, also in Gaelic, and stepped forward. "Master Seamus MacNeill had already filed a complaint against Mr. Doakes, accusing him of blackmail. We were already on our way to the late O'Grady's home when our officer heard the death screams of the victim. When he entered the home, he found the accused bent over the body with the bloody knife in his hand."

This was an interesting change, I thought and I looked at Haig. He shook his head slightly to warn me not to reveal that I understood everything being said.

"Most compelling evidence," the Brehon said. "I also understand that Mr. Doakes claimed to have seen a woman at the time of the incident?"

"It was dark and my client was confused, alarmed," said Haig quickly. "It was probably just shadows he saw."

"So you are not denying anything that has been said?"

"On the contrary. After discovering the victim, Mr. Doakes heard knocking at the front door and opened it. The constable, along with a considerable number of concerned neighbors, was standing outside and Mr. Doakes let him enter. The constable's claim is inaccurate." Haig pulled a sheet of paper from his tote and handed it to the judge. "These are the names of neighbors who will confirm this."

The Brehon looked at the list, then glared at the constable. "There appears to be a serious discrepancy here. Is it possible the officer's report is in error?"

Clairn blushed. "The officer in question wrote his report late in the morning. It is possible he confused some of the details. That does not change the fact that Mr. Doakes murdered Mr. O'Grady."

"Did anyone search the O'Grady home to find evidence of another's presence?" Haig asked.

Clairn swallowed a rock. "There was no need. Doakes was caught red-handed."

"We already have evidence that that is not exactly the case," said the Brehon. "I assume that is a 'no.'"

Clairn nodded reluctantly.

Haig smiled. "Fortunately we have done our own investigation. I was able to discover bloody footprints in a closet near the scene of the unfortunate event. The size was much larger than the size of shoe my good friend wears."

I glanced at MacNeill. Instead of smug, he now looked confused. Not where you hid, is it?

Clairn tried again to defend the constables. "We went over the scene the following day and found no such thing. If there are such footprints, they were placed there long after the murder!"

MacNeill could contain himself no longer. "This is all a ruse. That man murdered my friend!"

"Friend?" Haig turned and smiled quizzically at MacNeill. "'Tis my understanding your families have been at odds for decades. You have spent a great deal of money defending yourself from his accusations that you killed his sister. That alone should give you sufficient motive."

MacNeill was both confused and angry. "How could you know that?"

Haig puffed out his chest. "We are criminal consultants after all, and quite proficient at our craft. Scotland Yard has called upon our services more than once."

I suppressed a smile. While true, the results hadn't always been sterling. But I knew how Haig had obtained that information: he had discovered it while searching MacNeill's home in his leprechaun form. Now I was becoming a bit more confidant about my fate. A typical jury trial could have been my undoing, considering the esteem these residents held toward all English, let alone one whose family had left Ireland. Instead, all we had to de was convince the Brehon. Who may or may not feel the same way about history.

"I've done some investigating myself," MacNeill said. "I know your firm is in dire financial circumstances. The burning of your store has destroyed your business. Which is why the murderer tried to blackmail me."

"A compelling argument if true," Haig said. "But it is a misstatement. The insurers are paying for the refurbishment." He pulled another paper from his tote. "Our current financial statement as certified by our accountant. Yes, we have lost income from lost sales of Doakes and Haig Recipe Sweetener but we shall be back in production shortly. You lost more in the last recession than our temporary setback. If anyone would have a financial interest in murdering poor Master O'Grady, 'tis you."

"You are accusing me?" MacNeill stared at Haig. "That is slander and I will not stand for it!"

"No more than what you are doing to poor Mr. Doakes," Haig said primly. "Just so you know, Mr. MacNeill, we were going to refuse this commission. We know we can never prove you murdered Karen O'Grady nearly forty years ago. But we will prove you killed her brother."

"The Romans will return to rule before that happens, lime-eater!"

"Enough!" and the Brehon clapped his hands sharply. "It appears this is becoming the case of one man's word against another."

"An honorable man against a lying Englishman," MacNeill interjected.

The Brehon ignored him. "If our police had done their work properly, we would not be in this situation," he said, glaring at Clairn. "The evidence, the motives, all have been compromised beyond salvage. Perhaps Mr. Haig did find bloody footprints, or perhaps they were placed there at another time. There is no way to tell now. This 'eyewitness' Mr. Doakes once claimed to have seen has now been denied as well. All we know for sure is that Mr. O'Grady was murdered."

"By the English scum," MacNeill said.

"This has become a most difficult case," the Brehon continued, giving Clairn another disgusted look. "On one hand we have the assertions made by Mr. MacNeill, who has always proven to be an honorable man as well as a leader of our realm. On the other, we have the story presented by the Englishman, two explanations as opposite as the points on a compass. Yet we can agree on one thing: Mr. O'Grady was murdered in a most foul and vicious manner.

"We know that the accused was found alone with the body. The officer, however, made no effort to discern if another was within the O'Grady home. Any evidence discovered now," and this time he glanced at Haig, "would be as reliable as the footing on the moors. In the course of this discourse, the accused has slandered the good nature of Mr. MacNeill. However, it is possible Mr. MacNeill has slandered the Englishman. By our laws, a cro must be made for such actions. At this time I can come to no firm conclusion on the guilt or innocence of the accused, but I can come to one concerning their actions today. Mr. Doakes, you are ordered to pay Mr. MacNeill ten head of cattle as reparations for your actions. You, Mr. MacNeill, must pay the accused 50 pounds for your statements."

Then he looked at Clairn. "This trial is not complete and the accused has not been released of the onus of possible murder. The police will continue their investigation. When evidence is uncovered to prove the guilt of the murderer, that person will be brought to trial. Once payment has been made, Mr. Doakes will be allowed to return to London. However, we will be contacting Scotland Yard and informing them of my decision. Mr. Haig, inform your client that he will be seized and returned to Borkaen if the evidence warrants."

"Of course. We will make reparations this afternoon."

The Brehon stood. "In that case our business today is concluded."

"This is not fair," I whispered to Haig as we walked back with our guards to the gaol. "MacNeill is getting away with murder!"

"Perhaps, laddie," he said. "But we cannot question the wisdom of the Brehon."

"50 pounds! MacNeill kills O'Grady and he is fined 50 pounds?"

"'Tis how the law, our law, works. But MacNeill is not going to enjoy any reward from this."

I was returned to my cell, but I didn't stay there long. Haig arranged for the transfer of ten head of cattle and I was released by early afternoon. I met him at a nearby inn, where he was enjoying a pint. "Make that your last," I said, sitting across from him. "I want to get out of Borkaen as soon as possible."

"Why is that, Sean? The trial is over."

"Is that what you call it?" I shook my head. "A murderer gets off by paying only 50 pounds! I'm going to contact Scotland Yard once we're in London."

"Don't," and he patted my hand. "This is no concern of the Crown. Let the local constables find the true murderer if they can."

"But it's not right!"

"It is right according to our laws, which is all that matters. MacNeill is going to be punished, I assure you. Besides, do you know he did it?"

"In my gut," I said. "But proof, no."

"Then let it go. We can do nothing more for O'Grady or his sister beyond what we've done now."

"Really? And just what have we done?"

Haig looked up from his pint and frowned. "Later, once we're back in Dublin. I'm afraid we have a visitor."

I turned and saw Seamus MacNeill walking our way. It was not a smile that graced his face. "Here is your payment as ordered by the Brehon," he said when he reached our table. He threw a pile of money in front of me. "Leave Borkaen and never come back."

I casually counted the pound notes. "Fifty. As ordered. Still, a small penalty for killing both Karen and Terrance O'Grady."

He stared through me. "I won't let you bait me, Doakes. But I will tell you this just as I told that fool O'Grady countless times: I did not kill his sister."

I shuddered as I looked in his eyes. For the first time, I actually believed him. But I couldn't help but notice he did not aver his innocence concerning Mr. O'Grady. "I assure you that Doakes and Haig will no longer interfere in your affairs."

"See that you do." With that he spun on his heels and walked away.

"But I still think he killed O'Grady," I whispered to Haig.

"Perhaps. But it is out of our hands now." He glanced at the clock. "Let us rent a carriage. We still might make Dublin before dark."

So we did and we did. Our passage back to London wouldn't depart until the next day, so we spent the evening in a pub near our inn, one where the English were not treated with disdain. I was still upset from the trial and tired from the journey, so we were into our fourth or fifth pint before I remembered.

"At the trial you said you found bloody footsteps. Did you?"

"On the back steps. Whoever did it left that way when it was safe. But they are of little or no proof. The Brehon was correct that they could have been added afterward. Shame the constables were so convinced you were the murderer, what?"

"Thanks to the plans of MacNeill. You said something about MacNeill not enjoying his crime. What did you mean?"

Haig smiled shyly. "After I arranged for the transfer of livestock, I had a discussion with the banshee."

I frowned. "You found her? You can do that? What did she tell you?"

He shook his head. "I told you before, she can't help us in proving MacNeill's guilt. But she can remind him of it."

"How so?"

"I told her the cattle I had to give MacNeill were members of the O'Grady clan. A banshee, Sean, serves as a guardian and an alarm for the family they are aligned with. When you heard her keening, she was telling everyone that a member of the O'Grady family was going to die."

I nodded. "I've heard the legends. But what does that have to do with cattle?"

He smiled. "She now believes the cattle are members of the O'Grady clan. But she won't be sure which particular animal is. Among other things, MacNeill runs a slaughterhouse on his estate. Now, every time a cow is led to its final end, she will keen for its demise."

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Author Bio

Patrick Welch received a B.A. and M.A. in English from Bowling Green State University. Proving the value of a liberal education, he has worked variously as a musician, dock worker, insurance salesman, full-time and substitute teacher, free-lance writer and assistant store manager.

He has published more than forty stories in e-zines and the small press. Currently, he also has two books available from Twilight Times Books, The Casebook of Doakes and Haig and The Thirteenth Magician.

Westchester Station (a fantasy novel) is available from Double Dragon Ebook. Other completed books include The Body Shop, Before/Beyond (an anthology of science fiction and fantasy stories) and Brendell; Apprentice Thief, winner of the 2002 Dream Realm Award for fantasy.

Visit Patrick's web site.

Read other stories by Patrick Welch
Demon in a Box -- DF
Demon in a Box (light background)
Second Stage -- SF
Tiny Losses -- F
The Joining -- F
Cryptic Chronicles -- F

Check out his author interview.

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