Thrilling Tales of the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences (6 page)

That left sixteen corpses unaccounted for. More than enough to satisfy the legend’s mathematical demands. Indeed, four more than strictly necessary–and such things mattered.

As the wind blew across the oddly silent city, the faint echo of church bells rang through the coming dusk. They shimmered in sonorous harmony, casting a caution for peace upon a city teetering on the brink of conflict.

Of course
. She put an arm out, halting them both. “Of the sixteen,” she asked the girl, “how many died within earshot of church bells?”

That question confused her, but to her credit, Miss Kennedy appeared intent on working that out. “Peter and Tom, I think, and Nattie Doyle. Me da, too.”

“Are you sure that’s all?”

“No, Miss Snow. I don’t know all who passed, just them.”

Miss Snow’s mouth pursed. “Would it be fair to assume that twelve of the number lived outside the reach of the bells?”

“A fair guess, aye.”

“And how many are firstborn?”

She blinked. “Me da, Nattie, Peter, and Tom. I think the papers said the others, too.”

There was precious little that could be called truly coincidence. Miss Snow fished a map of Galway from her valise, gesturing with the folded parchment to a corner of the street where a wagon had been left, its bales of hay tied for whatever purpose it would serve later.

Heedless of the hem of her fine coat, she crouched behind the wagon and spread the map. “Can you read this?”

“Aye,” Miss Kennedy affirmed, with more than a little rankle of pride.

Miss Snow bit back her smile. “Would you mark for me all the homes of those who passed?”

It took her a moment, but Miss Kennedy fetched a few of the pretty white stones decorating the patch of dirt beside the nearest building’s front stoop and placed six upon the paper. Another five dotted the borders outside. “An estimate,” she explained. “They were crofters whose potatoes weren’t all blighted. Just some.”

“That’s only eleven.”

“Aye, Miss Snow. That’s all I know, and some of them being guesses.”

Not nearly enough, true, but perhaps something to go on. “And the churches in the area?”

Miss Kennedy was much quicker this time, fetching different coloured rocks to mark the churches in the city.

There were enough that as expected, three of the white stones placed within Galway were out of clear range, while the five outside the city like as not had to travel to whatever church they favoured.

That was only eight confirmed, but it would do.

She studied the map, then touched the city centre. “Are there no churches here?” A trick question, for Miss Snow remembered passing by a lovely cathedral.

“There is,” Miss Kennedy confirmed, “but the bells’re down for repair. Me da said it was strange that it was taking so long. He wanted to find out why.”

“Oh, you
are
a clever girl, Miss Kennedy.” The praise earned another of those delightful blushes the girl gave so well, and Miss Snow did not withhold an approving smile. “Tell me, have you put it together for me?”

The wind tugged at the map upon the ground, rifling through the girl’s warm woollen skirts. Miss Kennedy frowned at the map so hard, Miss Snow half expected it to catch fire.

“It seems,” she said haltingly, “that there’s a strange bit of ague affecting them what live outside the range of bells.” Miss Snow waited. “I think it’s not been commented upon because of the worry. From the famine, I mean. We’re all too busy looking for an excuse to call on shillelagh’s law.”

“Likely, Miss Kennedy, all the more pity for it.” She reached for the map, twitching it out from under the markers weighing it down. “Which leads one to ask an important question, does it not?”

Miss Kennedy’s brow was so furrowed as to nearly hide those lovely eyes. “What question?”

She looked up at the blackening sky. “Is the conflict stemming from the hearts of mortals, or the hands of those what play at gods?”

A pall fell over Galway as dusk settled.

In the carriage Caity had flagged down, Miss Snow rummaged through her valise. “According to writings, Cromm Crúaich was either the most important god or one highly sought after by the High Kings of old.”

Caity listened quietly, her chilled hands clasped between her knees. She was forced to hunch in the carriage, lest her head bump the top of it when the wheels found a rut in the street they navigated.

“The story goes that he would claim the firstborn in exchange for wealthy harvest, or something of the sort.” Miss Snow pulled a number of small vials from a leather pouch, slotting them into place upon a belt with loops meant to carry them. “On that hill you mentioned—”

“Magh Slécht.”

“The world abhors a know-it-all, Miss Kennedy.”

Caity flushed.

Miss Snow wrapped the belt about her waist and returned her attentions to the valise. “On that hill were twelve stone figures, and legend has it that a particular High King and three-quarters of his men died when worshipping at that place.”

Caity’s mind raced, slotting in pieces of information the same way her da had taught her to the cogs and gears of the tinker toys together. “You mean to say that something is causing the firstborn to sicken and die?”

“That’s what doesn’t make sense,” Miss Snow replied, withdrawing a wicked little pistol from the pretty valise. She placed it into the holster on her belt, then withdrew another. This, she handed over, carved handle first. “Cromm Crúaich takes the firstborn and delivers bountiful harvests, and all we’ve got here is famine. The twelve statues are obviously represented by the twelve who live outside the bells—”

“I beg your pardon,” Caity cut in, taking the pistol as Miss Snow waved it impatiently. “The bells only matter for the Folk. Cromm Crúaich was a god, or a demon.”

“One might say the same for any creation of myth and legend.” Miss Snow eyed Caity’s hand, and the pistol held within it. “Have you never used one before?”

“A legend?”

“A pistol, Miss Kennedy, do try to keep up.” She leaned over, seizing Caity’s hand and arranging the haft of the weapon just so, curling her fingers into place. “You hold it like that, and then you fire. Aim, first, though. At a certain range, it’s impossible to miss.”

Caity looked down at the be-hatted lady, her eyes wide. “Will I be firing this at someone?”

“You might.” She tilted her head. “The Folk?” Then, Miss Snow’s eyes widened, but not in surprise. The crystalline depth of her gaze somehow managed to make her look both sage and triumphant—an appearance Caity felt sorely that she would never manage. “That’s it! Miss Kennedy, you
are
brilliant!”

She seized the door, swinging it open so that she could lean outside into the wind. Whatever she called up at the driver, the carriage lurched suddenly, swinging Miss Snow back against Caity and pinning them both to the seat.

Colour suffused Caity’s cheeks as the other woman laughed a husky, merry sound. With excitement clear in her eyes, she leaned over and gave Caity a warm buss on the cheek.

“We’ll make an agent of you, yet,” she promised.

Caity found herself cupping that cheek as Miss Snow once more found her own seat.

“We’re turning back for the Bell.”

“What bell?” Caity asked, feeling rather more thick-headed than she felt she should.

“No, no, Miss Kennedy, the
Bell
. The pub.”

“Oh!” Caity dropped her hand to clutch at the pistol in both hands, mindful to keep the snub nose pointing down. “The Bell and Badger.”

Miss Snow waved that away. “Be prepared for another fight.”

“You think so?”

“I do more than think so, my dear girl.” Miss Snow’s smile, this time, revealed a great deal of even white teeth. “I intend to ensure it.”

The barman had not put the pub to rights after they had gone. The stools still lay broken where they’d been left, and the men Miss Snow’s smoke concoction had blinded remained where they lay.

They weren’t groaning anymore.

“Jay-sus, Joseph an’—!”

Miss Snow clapped a hand over Miss Kennedy’s mouth before she completed the gasped refrain. “That’s enough of that, I think,” she said, not unkindly for all the girl had gone white as a sheet and possibly twice as fragile. “The last some poor fool had called on saints in such circumstances, they appeared.” Too much peculiarity about the place. Such things were dangerous.

When the girl swayed, Miss Snow cupped a hand under her elbow and navigated her to the nearest stool.

Only once she was sure the girl had no intention to repeat the names did she remove her hand from Miss Kennedy’s mouth. Poor pitiable thing. It was quite obvious that Miss Kennedy had not been prepared for such an outcome.

Unfortunately, Miss Snow had.

The hearty Irish lads trounced so soundly by Miss Snow’s alchemical workings and Miss Kennedy’s pugilistic fists had not been allowed to regain their senses. They lay where Miss Snow had last marked them, each in a pool of blood, with crimson gashes carved in their necks. Ear to ear, no less.

Someone, or something, had spooked.

The facts just weren’t adding up. Miss Snow found herself wishing she had easier access to the archival arm of the secretive ministry she worked for. Surely the sagacious Thaddeus Monk would know at a glance which piece of the puzzle was missing.

The barman was gone, no surprise there. She should have been more cautious. Bertie Bannigan had been listed as an informant in the research delivered with Director Fount’s orders, but in hindsight, it seemed odd that
cruach
would be forefront of a common informant’s thoughts.

“The universal issue with informants,” she said thoughtfully, surveying the pub with great care, “is that eventually, even the extremely thick ones start to put things together.”

“You lost me,” the girl replied, croaking it a little.

“Did Bertie Bannigan ever work with your father?”

“Some. In fact, the day before he took ill, he—
Oh
.”

“Oh, indeed,” Miss Snow agreed. The pub was like most—polished wood and relative bric-a-brac showing off its patrons’ love for all things Irish, ale, whiskey and song. There was a certain discrepancy amongst the Irish that Miss Snow had never quite grasped. All their songs about life and love, war and peace, lust and drink, tended towards a merriment that belied the sorrow of a thousand years of death, heartache, and loss.

An extremely resourceful people.

Her gaze narrowed upon a crack in the farthest wall, little more than a seam.

“Do you suppose Bertie made me da ill?” Miss Kennedy asked, a note of steel entering her voice.

Miss Snow looked at her with measured confidence. “And if he did?”

Her fists clenched, roughened hammers of righteous wrath. “I’d like to hear him say it while he’s still got teeth to say it with.”

Teeth were less than essential for speech, but Miss Snow refrained from pointing this out. “Good girl. Take your coat off and turn it inside out, would you?”

“Why?” The girl did as asked without waiting for answer.

Miss Snow did the same. “Caution. Now, we need somewhere quiet, cool, and like as not to be overlooked. Any thoughts on the matter, Miss Kennedy?”