Part 20 (1/2)

We ate a quick but delicious meal and left Gilley in the middle of his second portion. I didn't want to mention it then, but he was looking a little rounder to me, and I wondered if he might be stuffing all the anxiety of this bust down with a few too many calories.

The night was chilly, but otherwise clear, and Heath and I walked along the road without pa.s.sing a soul. ”Everyone must be eating supper,” I said.

”Do you think it'll be okay to ring Mulholland's doorbell during the dinner hour?”

I eyed my own watch nervously. ”I think it's a mistake to wait too late. Gilley says the low tide will crest around nine p.m. If we hit the causeway by then, we'll have two full hours to search the castle and hustle back home.”

”What time is it now?”

”A little after seven.”

”If we interrupt his dinner, we can always say we eat early in America.”

”We do?”

”No. But he might not know that.”

”Good point.”

We continued along the road as it wove around to point toward the sea before angling up at a steep slope. From there it wound a bit more in an S curve until we rounded the last bend and there, in front of us, was a huge home sitting atop the peak of a cliff overlooking the channel.

”Whoa,” I said, seeing the house and marveling at both it and the view. It was so large compared with all the other quaint little gingerbread houses we'd seen dot the village that both Heath and I stopped midstride.

”Is that that Mulholland's place?” he asked. Mulholland's place?” he asked.

”Has to be,” I said, pointing to the blue mailbox.

”I thought his family was broke.”

”Guess there's more money in travel books than I thought.”

We moved quickly to the door, anxious to see the inside. Heath rang the bell and after a few moments we heard someone call, ”Coming!”

We waited a few more moments before the door was opened and I had to drop my gaze a bit. Bertie Mulholland was sitting in a mechanized wheelchair with a plaid blanket thrown over his legs. ”Good evening to you,” he said with a smile.

He didn't appear the slightest put out by the appearance of two strangers at his door, so Heath and I quickly introduced ourselves before getting right to the point. ”We're here because Mary from the library said you might be able to help us,” I told him.

Mulholland's smile broadened, and I realized what a handsome older gentleman he was. ”Well, I shall certainly do my best to help you in any way I can,” he said warmly, motioning for us to come in.

We followed him into the home and I sucked in a breath. The back of the house was made up almost entirely of windows, and the view of the ocean and the dusky pink horizon was spectacular.

Heath whistled appreciatively. ”That's some view, there, Mr. Mulholland.”

Our host puffed his chest out a bit. ”Thank you,” he said graciously. ”And please, call me Bertie. Everyone else does.”

We nodded and continued to follow him down a short ramp to a s.p.a.cious living room with a crackling fire. ”Might I offer you some tea and bikkies?”

”We don't want you to go to any trouble,” I said.

”No trouble a'tall,” he said with a wave of his hand before wheeling himself down a corridor, which, I a.s.sumed, led to the kitchen.

Heath and I took a seat on the overstuffed couch and looked around while we heard the sound of china rattling and cabinet doors opening and closing.

I had a chance to take in the many beautiful artifacts filling every shelf, nook, and cranny. By the looks of it, Bertie favored Asian and African art, but there were things that appeared to be from his homeland too. I noticed on the small desk sitting next to me a beautiful mother-of-pearl antique letter opener in the shape of a cross with an Irish crest at the tip of the handle.

Moving my gaze upward, I took in the many framed antique maps, some showing crude renderings of the continents, and I wondered how old and valuable a few of them must be. Along one wall was a series of star charts, and an antique-looking bra.s.s telescope rounded out that corner of the room.

I longed to get up and poke through Bertie's vast and varied collection of antiques, but I figured it was safer to stay put and merely observe from the couch.

”This place is totally cool,” Heath whispered from beside me.

I nodded. It really was.

Bertie came back to the living room with a tray balanced on his lap. ”I'd just finished the dinner dishes when you rang, and this gives me the perfect excuse for a bit of dessert.”

Heath and I both thanked him as he handed us each a steaming cup of light green tea and set a large plate of delicious-looking cookies in the center of the coffee table.

”Now, how is it that Mary has suggested I might be of a.s.sistance to you?”

I reached for a cookie to dunk into my tea and let Heath begin the discussion.

”M. J. and I are part of an American television show that investigates haunted locations. We came to Ireland to do an episode on Dunlow Castle, but on the first day of filming, we lost our producer.”

Bertie looked taken aback. ”Lost him?” he asked, before his face visibly paled. ”You don't mean ...”

I shook my head, knowing he thought the worst. ”As far as we know, he hasn't been killed, but we do think the phantom has taken him or has chased him somewhere deep inside the castle.”

Bertie's hand moved to his mouth. ”Oh, heavens,” he said. ”I'm relieved to hear that you don't think he's been killed, but that is still very bad news, my dear. Very bad indeed.”

The anxious feeling in the pit of my stomach that had formed at the start of this bust intensified. ”Yes. I know, sir, which is why we're desperate to try and rescue him.”

Heath set his teacup down on its saucer and took a deep breath. ”M. J. and I are going back to search the castle tonight at low tide, and we don't plan on leaving Dunlow until we find our friend.”

Bertie looked down at his lap, and when he spoke next, his voice was very soft and sad. ”I'm sure I cannot talk you out of your expedition, but you would be risking both your lives to enter Dunlow, and I cannot stress enough how dangerous that phantom truly is. I have personally lost two dear friends, not to mention the use of my own legs, to that monster.”

I gasped, and reflexively stared down at the limp form of Bertie's legs underneath the blanket in his lap. ”Mary told us you'd been in an accident,” I said. ”But I thought she was talking about an auto accident or something similar.”

Bertie shook his head from side to side. ”No,” he said. ”'Twas the phantom that made me a cripple.”

Heath's hand reached for mine and gave it a gentle squeeze before he asked, ”Can you tell us what happened?”

Bertie sighed and took a sip of tea. ”It was nearly twenty years ago,” he began. ”I had opened my home to a man named Gaston Bouvet, a Frenchman who was obsessed with finding the gold one of my ancestors was said to have hidden at Dunlow.

”Gaston was such a charming man, and he quickly became a treasured friend. We talked for hours about the castle and its history, and he relentlessly picked my brain for any hint about the gold bullion said to be hidden there.”

”Do you believe the legend?” Heath asked. ”I mean, do you believe that Lord Dunnyvale found Spanish gold on that s.h.i.+p and hid it away?”

Bertie smiled sadly. ”No.”