The mystery of four, p.1
The Mystery of Four, page 1
Sam Blake has been writing fiction since her husband set sail across the Atlantic for eight weeks and she had an idea for a book.
Sam has had a string of No. 1 bestsellers with her runaway bestselling debut, Little Bones, the first in the Cat Connolly trilogy, shortlisted for Irish Crime Novel of the Year. Switching to psychological thrillers, Keep Your Eyes on Me was a No. 1 bestseller, and her next book, The Dark Room was shortlisted for Irish Crime Novel of the Year. Her last thriller Remember My Name went straight to No. 1 in January 2022.
Sam is originally from St. Albans in Hertfordshire but now lives at the foot of the Wicklow Mountains, near Dublin in Ireland.
Follow her on social @samblakebooks.
Visit www.samblakebooks.com for news and events and get a bonus free short story in audio & text when you subscribe to her newsletter.
Also by Sam Blake
Little Bones
In Deep Water
No Turning Back
Keep Your Eyes on Me
The Dark Room
High Pressure
Remember My Name
First published in Great Britain in 2023 by Corvus, an imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd.
Copyright © Sam Blake, 2023
The moral right of Sam Blake to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Trade paperback ISBN: 978 1 83895 298 3
E-book ISBN: 978 1 83895 299 0
Printed in Great Britain
Corvus
An imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd
Ormond House
26–27 Boswell Street
London
WC1N 3JZ
www.corvus-books.co.uk
For Sam and his cat (the real Merlin)
The tall bluish purple flowering aconite, also known as Jupiter’s helm, monkshood, wolfsbane, devil’s helmet or queen of poisons, comes from a group of over 250 species of flowering plants belonging to the Ranunculaceae family.
Highly poisonous, growing to an elegant metre in height, Aconitum is native to Europe where it is extensively cultivated. Often used by florists, Aconitum’s deep blue hue and flower-clustered stems makes it a particularly appealing perennial for ornamental gardens. Flowering from May to October, it has won many awards, such as the Royal Horticultural Society’s Award of Garden Merit. The roots and tubers are traditionally used to treat muscle-bone illness, paralysis due to stroke and other ailments.
There is a narrow margin of safety between a therapeutic and a deadly dose.
Prologue
ALMOST MIDNIGHT. The garden is ink-black, as though it’s been washed with a brush, details of marble statues and sweeping steps picked out by the weak moonlight.
Below, a bronze fountain cast in the likeness of Apollo splashes water into the lake, disturbing the stillness of the hour. Accompanied by the distant scream of a fox, the hoot of an owl, the night sounds meld into backdrop for what is to come.
“The stars move still, time runs, the clock will strike.”
Skirting the high granite wall, careful footsteps crunch on the gravel to the end of the path where towering gates stand open, wrought-iron flourishes picked out with golden ivy leaves, visible even in the darkness.
Now cutting across the neatly mown grass in front of the glasshouses, and through another set of matching gates.
Beyond, a series of round rose beds and square ponds are linked like gems in a necklace along the formal Rose Walk, leading to the wishing well and the yew maze. On either side, crowded flower beds wait for the morning sunshine, their scent heavy, trapped between high walls covered in more roses, their stems entwined, thick with thorns.
A black shape slips into the foliage unseen, green eyes watching.
Almost there. This will be the last trip.
It’s been a long journey, the planning detailed, but there’s been a lot of time for that. Now, the last act will be easy.
The water in the ponds is deathly still, the fragrance of roses and buddleia heavy in the night air.
Just before the last set of gates, tucked into the corner, is the Poison Garden. Fenced in to keep the unsuspecting public safe, the brass sign is dull without the sun to light it. Stepping onto the bone-dry earth, trowel ready, the tall purple-flowered stems are hard to see, buried deep in the shrubbery. But it is the roots that are the most potent, dried and ground to a lethal powder.
Watching her suffering as she slowly succumbs will be poetry indeed.
Glancing up, windows mirror-like in the darkness, the house is quiet now. As if it’s waiting.
Waiting to see what happens.
Because it’s all about to happen.
“The time is come.”
THURSDAY
Chapter 1
‘I’M SORRY, JUST run that past me again?’ Tess Morgan turned up the speaker on her phone and ran her hands into her bubbly chestnut curls, narrowing her eyes, as if it would help her better understand the man who had just called.
And possibly ruined her life.
Wherever he was, she could hear traffic, the pip of a pedestrian crossing. He had a strong Northern Irish accent, but that didn’t mean anything.
‘I wanted to talk to you about Eoin Doyle. We’ve received some information about the disappearance of Fidelma Hoey. I believe Doyle works for you?’
‘And you are again?’
‘Jerry Lynch, Daily News.’
The Daily News was an Irish national tabloid – as her best friend Genevieve’s eternally elegant mother Clarissa put it so aptly, a rag she wouldn’t clean her shoes on. Getting a call from them was never going to be good. Tess cleared her throat.
‘Eoin doesn’t work for me, I don’t really know him at all. I mean I know of him, but only what I’ve heard.’
‘I had information that he was involved in the restoration of Kilfenora House. You do own Kilfenora House?’
‘Yes, yes I do.’ Tess paused for a moment, thinking hard. ‘It’s possible he was working for one of the contractors – maybe? I’d have to check. I didn’t employ him personally.’
‘I did wonder about that, given that you live alone.’
Tess wasn’t sure if she was more surprised by his tone or the fact he was implying knowledge of her domestic arrangements. Either way it was creepy.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Eoin Doyle has been connected to the disappearance of several women over the past ten years. They all lived alone.’
Tess tried to catch her thoughts and process what he was saying. Eoin Doyle lived in the village, had done all his life. He had a conviction for assaulting his ex-wife, she knew about that, and there had been rumours about the guards being interested in his activities around the times various women had disappeared in Wicklow. According to local gossip, Doyle maintained that he’d just been in the wrong place at the wrong time – albeit on more than one occasion.
Enough times for him to be taken in for questioning, but not enough to land him in court.
Although that could have had less to do with his innocence and more to do with the fact that the missing women’s bodies had never been found. The Gardai kept denying that a serial killer might be at work, but it was in all the papers that they’d launched a single investigation into what had been dubbed the ‘Radio Snatcher’ disappearances, and were drawing links between them.
But what the hell had this got to do with Kilfenora?
‘I’m sorry . . . Jerry, is it? I’m still not clear how this relates to me.’
‘We’ve had a tip-off that there might be an area of interest to the Gardai on the edge of the Kilfenora estate.’
Tess looked blindly out of her office window, barely focusing on the tiny front garden and its riot of summer colour. Across the lane Clarissa’s black cat Merlin skulked around the wide stable yard entrance, keeping to the shade of the granite walls. Tess squinted, trying to make sense of what Lynch was saying. What was an area of interest?
‘You’re going to have to spell it out for me, I’m still not following.’
‘A body, Ms Morgan. We’ve had a tip-off that one of the women Eoin Doyle is thought to have been involved with has been buried in a place called Fury Hill. I believe that’s on your property.’
For once, Tess was lost for words.
Chapter 2
HOW COULD THERE be a body on Kilfenora land?
Pulling her cheery bright red front door closed behind her, not feeling in the slightest bit bright or cheery, Tess headed down the tiled path that bisected the front garden of the Butler’s Lodge. There was a welcome breeze today, albeit slight, the scent of lavender strong as she pulled open the wrought-iron gate, the sounds of excited children drifting up from the direction of the wishing well.
They had eight days to go before the official opening weekend, when the newly restored Tudor manor with its now tamed garde ns would be officially thrown open to the public, and the past two and a half years of sweat, occasional tears and many sleepless nights would finally come to fruition.
Unless, of course, the entire place was covered in crime scene tape and the drive blocked by news camera vans.
Tess felt herself wincing at the thought. The apparently inexplicable disappearances of several women from their homes was one of the biggest ongoing news stories in the country. The last one had been eight years ago, but every year since, their stories had been revisited by the press. And the local gossips in The Cross Keys.
Walking across the dusty lane that divided her cottage from the back entrance to Kilfenora House, Tess felt as if she had brain freeze. Lynch’s words were caught in a loop in her head, a loop that was getting tighter and tighter the more she thought about it, and was starting to hurt.
How on earth could this be happening now?
Ever since she’d bought what was left of Kilfenora House and moved in to renovate it, the part of her mind that was constantly on media alert had been looking for press angles and photo opportunities. The opening weekend – with the vintage car rally, a craft and farmers’ market, and the stage production of Doctor Faustus that they were putting on in the ballroom – was carefully engineered to hit as much of the speciality press as possible, as well as catch national coverage.
But a body on her land? The thought of a killer who targeted single women being anywhere near her property – even eight years ago – filled her with dread, personally and professionally. Kilfenora House was set in a huge estate, and despite the alarm system, it had occurred to Tess more than once that it would take the guards at least twenty minutes to get here from the nearest station if she hit the panic button. Twenty minutes during which anything could happen.
Tess could feel her heart rate increase at the thought. And if that wasn’t enough, if the press got hold of this news, now, the week before the opening, she’d be besieged for all the wrong reasons.
As her bank manager was constantly reminding her, there was a lot riding on this weekend being a success. More than a lot, in fact. Pretty much every last penny. As well as friendships and the livelihoods of half the village.
None of them could afford for this weekend to be a flop.
The press was crucial in the mix, but this really wasn’t the sort of coverage she’d had in mind at all. She needed people to come to Kilfenora to spend money and see the house in all its refurbished glory, to bring their children and their grannies to see the gardens; not to take selfies at a crime scene – assuming they weren’t frightened into staying away in the first place.
And more to the point, why had a reporter called her and not the Gardai themselves?
Tess was still only half concentrating as she reached the shade of the broad stone arch that spanned the entrance to the cobbled stable yard.
It was even hotter today than it had been earlier in the week. The tiny part of her mind not panicking about bodies was thankful that at least they had the weather on their side. Although, as of twenty minutes ago, and Lynch’s phone call, the weather suddenly seemed a lot less significant.
Glancing at her clipboard but barely seeing today’s checklist, Tess mentally took a deep breath, fighting the growing black hole of fear that was manifesting somewhere deep in her stomach. She needed more information. Then she could worry about it properly – or, more precisely, try and look for a solution.
She could be totally overreacting.
Genevieve, still her best friend after all these years, had been saying since their first day in senior school that she overthought things. And Tess knew she was exhausted, to say nothing of the fact that she hadn’t been feeling at all well recently. She needed to be sensible; now was not the time to panic. Although parking the maelstrom of dread making her already queasy stomach roll, was a lot easier said than done.
As soon as she’d ended the call with Lynch, Tess had phoned the local Garda station to find out what the real story was, only to be met with bafflement. Which did give her some hope that it was all a big mistake, a tabloid journalist making a story out of nothing. But as she’d ended the call to the guards, another thought had hit her and made her feel worse, if that was possible.
Could this ‘tip-off’ be something to do with the creep who had trolled her on Twitter and Instagram for so long? Part of her had been waiting for something to happen – maybe this was it?
The trolling had started soon after the first newspaper report that she’d bought the house, and had gone on for almost two years. Vitriol about her, and how Kilfenora would become a penance, how she’d regret returning to Ireland. She’d laughed at it at first, but it had gradually got more frightening: about how she’d get her comeuppance; how she’d pay for ‘it’, whatever ‘it’ was.
She’d ended up ignoring her mentions, but the whole point of using social media as a way to build the Kilfenora name was engagement. Then, six months ago, when the TV restoration show had launched, it had become even worse, taking a step up from being abusive and menacing, to plain terrifying. Every time she blocked one account, another appeared in its place.
Twitter was predictably useless and the guards couldn’t do anything because the tweets were worded so carefully. Which made the whole thing worse – whoever it was, was clearly intelligent. It had been Gen who had finally persuaded her to come off social media completely, finding her a media student to take over scheduling, showing followers that the accounts were all managed externally. Just to be on the safe side, Gen had made the village Facebook private at the same time.
And it had all stopped. Just like that. Overnight.
Which proved that it was personal.
Had whoever it was found a new way to attack her now, by tipping off a journalist with some sort of crazy story that could end up ruining her?
Chapter 3
‘HOLD MY HAND.’
A strident voice cut through Tess’s turbulent thoughts and made her falter, suddenly aware of the dizzying heat of the sun on her back. Closing her eyes, she fought the images she knew would come.
The chill of the concrete, the oily darkness.
The sirens.
‘Hold my hand.’
‘Won’t!’
The child’s scream of temper brought Tess crashing back to the present, the edge of her clipboard cutting into her ribs where she’d gripped it unconsciously. Christ, today was the day that just kept on giving. What had she done to deserve all this?
‘What did I say before we came, Starlight? No ice cream if you are going to misbehave.’ The sound of the mother’s voice filled the empty stable yard like nails on a blackboard.
Turning to the pair, Tess took a steadying breath, and forced a smile on to her face. There were times when she deserved an Oscar for her acting skills.
‘I’m afraid this area is closed to the public at the moment. The ice cream van is beside the fountain on the front drive, this area is only open at weekends.’
The woman looked her up and down haughtily and pulled her rose-gold designer handbag up her arm.
‘Well, the signposting is very bad. I must say it to the owner.’
Tess was tempted to say, ‘You’re looking at her,’ but bit it back. The woman probably expected someone grand, grey-haired, dressed in tweeds with a spaniel at her heels. A slight thirty-one-year-old with her wildly curly bobbed hair now scraped into a ponytail and in need of a wash, wearing a creased Repeal T-shirt and ripped jeans, didn’t fit the picture at all.
‘Mummy!’ The miniature Disney princess tugged hard on her sky-blue tulle skirt, her face red. ‘Ice cream.’ Ice came out ‘Ith’.
With the politest smile she could muster, Tess pointed through the pedestrian arch behind them. She really had no idea how people ended up wandering around the back of the house during the week. It would be different after this weekend, when they’d be open seven days. But today was Thursday and the tea rooms were currently only open at weekends. The signs were perfectly clear.
There were times she was sure people did it on purpose, curious to see the latest development.
With the receding click of the mother’s heels, Tess drew in a deep breath, trying to steady her nerves, a waft of lavender from the borders outside the walls reaching her. God, it was hot. She’d slapped on factor 50 after her shower this morning, but she’d need to stay in the shade or she’d end up with a migraine to add to her problems.
