Fratis Interfector
"They say a man's home is his castle, but in your case, it really is!" Jocelyn Adair exclaimed when Donal Meehan stopped the Vauxhall Velox on the hill overlooking his estates so that she could see the towering thirteenth-century stone edifice in its entirety.
"What do you think of it?" he asked, hoping his ancestral home would make a good impression on the wealthy American socialite.
"It definitely has curb appeal."
"While it's true that it would command a price far less than either your father's cottage in Newport or his townhouse in Manhattan, it does have something your American homes lack: history. Carraig Castle has been in the Meehan family for six hundred years."
"A place that old is bound to have a ghost."
"More than one, I imagine."
"Oh, goody!"
As Donal made his way down the narrow, winding, hilly road, the American pumped him for information on the alleged spirits that wandered the halls of the castle. However, he did not want to talk about restless revenants. He had sailed three thousand miles across the Atlantic in order to propose on his home turf, and he did not want ghosts from the past spoiling the mood.
"Welcome home, sir," the elderly butler said in a brogue so strong the American could barely understand him. "And you, miss, welcome to Carraig Castle. I hope you had a pleasant voyage."
"The Mauretania is an old ship," his employer replied, "but Cunard recently did a complete overhaul on her."
"I imagine they would have had to, after using it as a troop transport ship during the war," Jocelyn added.
Although he admired many things about Jocelyn, her interest in what were traditionally men's subjects was not one of them. In the Twenties, most women did not discuss politics. He preferred she stick to discussing matters in a woman's province.
"Why don't we go in and see what the kitchen staff has prepared for us?" Donal suggested.
When they entered the castle, they were greeted by the housekeeper, Mrs. Wilkie.
"Would you show Miss Adair to her room?" the master of the house instructed. "I imagine she'd like to freshen up before dinner."
Donal watched Jocelyn follow the servant up the stairs. After the two women turned a corner and vanished from his sight, he headed in the opposite direction, toward the wing of the castle where the family's private rooms were located. He knocked softly on his mother's door.
"Have you brought her with you?" Laurette Meehan asked once she welcomed her son home.
"Yes. I had Mrs. Wilkie take her to the guest room."
"Have you asked her yet?"
"No. I wanted to wait until after she saw the castle."
"But you think she'll accept, don't you?"
"When I spoke to her father, he seemed delighted to have his daughter marry a man with a title."
"But ...?"
Laurette sensed a lack of confidence in her son.
"This one's got a mind of her own, make no mistake about it. I imagine that's why she's still single."
"Are you sure she's even open to the subject of marriage? I do hope she's not one of those bluestocking women."
"No, she isn't—although she is educated. When we first began dating, she told me she wanted to marry but never found the right man."
"Do you think she sees you as the right one?"
"I hope so. She told me she loves me, and she did agree to come with me to Ireland."
"During your conversations with her, has the subject of children ever come up?"
Procreation was a delicate subject in the Meehan family. As was the case with most landed gentry, an heir was needed to carry on the family name. For six hundred years, a Meehan had owned Carraig Castle. Now, it was up to Donal to continue the lineage.
"Not exactly. But she loves kids. I assume she'll want one of her own."
"Yes, but will one be enough for her?"
"She's nearly thirty-five. I don't imagine at her age she'll have the opportunity for many more."
"Then what are you waiting for?" Laurette demanded to know. "Go ahead and ask her."
"I plan on doing so within the next day or two."
While most women would find it difficult to turn down both a title and a castle, Jocelyn accepted Donal's proposal because she loved him, not because marrying him would make her Lady Meehan. The wedding was held at Carraig Castle, and her father—bursting with pride at the fine match his daughter had made—gladly paid all the expenses, including those of transporting friends and family across the Atlantic to attend the ceremony.
When she returned to Ireland, after enjoying a three-month honeymoon in Paris, the newlywed Lady Meehan learned she was pregnant.
"You chose well," Laurette told her son. "A fine fertile female."
"But if the child is a boy ...."
"Let's wait and see."
Given her age, Jocelyn decided to remain in the castle until after the delivery. She did not want to take any unnecessary chances that might result in a miscarriage. Donal, who had a business to run, frequently travelled to London, leaving his wife at home. Since Laurette rarely left her own suite of rooms, the mother-to-be chose to occupy her time by reading the books from the castle's rather extensive library.
When her husband came home from one of his business trips, he found her curled up with a handwritten journal penned by his uncle: a history of Carraig Castle.
"What's an oubliette?" she asked, looking up from pages of the book.
"I don't think you want to know," he replied with an uneasy laugh.
"If I didn't want to know, I wouldn't have asked. According to your uncle, workers found an oubliette in the castle when renovations were made to the chapel. So, what is it?"
"It's a secret dungeon that is usually accessible only through an opening in its ceiling. About fifty years ago, workers found a shaft behind a wall at the rear of the altar. At the bottom of this particular oubliette, they found a number of human skeletons, most of which had been impaled on wooden stakes. Three cartloads of bones were removed during the resulting cleanup." Donal noted his wife's pallor and reminded her, "I warned you that you wouldn't want to know."
"Why? Because I'm a woman? There are a great many ugly facts in this world that I've learned to accept. War. Famine. Disease. Death. I don't stick my head in the sand at every unpleasantness."
"Speaking of unpleasantness, are you still getting sick in the mornings?"
"No. Thank God! I can actually eat breakfast again," she replied, her mind becoming occupied with the baby rather than secret dungeons.
It was not until Donal was called to London again three weeks later that she returned to the library in search of another book.
"Ghosts of Ireland," she read on the spine of an old dusty volume. "That sounds interesting."
Not surprisingly, the author mentioned spirits at Carraig Castle. One was of a mysterious Red Lady, believed to have been jilted by her lover. Two little girls, sisters affectionately referred to as Charlotte and Emily, were reported to haunt the stone spiral staircase that led to the tower room. According to legend, Emily fell from the battlements and died, and Charlotte's spirit still runs around after her sister.
The most frightening specter of the lot was that of a murdered Catholic priest. According to Ghosts of Ireland, back in 1513, an invader named Rufus the Red tried to seize the estates from the rightful heir. Both men died during the conflict. A fierce rivalry then erupted within the family as male Meehans fought for the title and ownership of the castle. One of those who perished was a priest. He was holding mass in the castle chapel when his brother burst inside and ran him through with a sword, fatally wounding him. The slain priest fell across the altar and died, cursing his brother with his final breath.
"To this day," the author concluded, "the ghost of the slaughtered priest is said to haunt what has become known as the Bloody Chapel."
I can understand why that incident was left out of Donal's uncle's history of Carraig Castle. What man wants to admit to having a case of fratricide in his family?
* * *
As his patient entered the last trimester of her pregnancy, Dr. Lannigan, the Meehan family physician, suggested a nurse be brought to the castle to "watch over Her Ladyship until after the baby is born."
"I don't need a nurse," Jocelyn told her husband.
"The doctor thinks it's best, and so do I. I'll feel a lot better knowing someone is here with you when I'm in London."
"It's not as though I'm alone. I've got the servants and your mother here with me."
"If you should injure yourself or go into premature labor, how helpful do you think they'll be? No. I insist a nurse be called in. Remember, you're carrying the future Lord Meehan, the heir to Carraig Castle."
"And what if I have a girl?"
"We can try for a boy next. But even if we fail to have a son, it's not unheard of for a girl to inherit, just as long as she keeps the Meehan surname and passes it on to her children."
"All right," she sighed, giving in to her husband's wishes on the matter. "Bring in your nurse. At least I'll have company when you're gone. I suppose having a conversation with another woman is better than reading about impaled skeletons in secret dungeons or murdered priests in the Bloody Chapel."
"What did you say about a priest?" Donal cried with surprise.
"I was reading a book called Ghosts of Ireland. It said something about a priest being murdered in the chapel back in the sixteenth century."
"I do wish you would be more selective about what you read."
Jocelyn bristled at his attitude and struck back.
"I'll read what I want to read."
There was a brief period of silence as husband and wife stared at each other as though engaged in a contest of wills. Then Donal reminded himself of the reason he had married Jocelyn in the first place. Not only was she going to provide him with an heir, but as an only child, she would inherit her father's considerable fortune when he died.
"You're right, my dear. You've got a mind of your own. It's one of the reasons I fell in love with you," he said, forcing a smile as he lied.
Siobhan O'Sullivan, only three months older than Jocelyn herself, arrived from the village the following day. Despite having little in common except for their ages, the two women soon became friends. To pass the time, Siobhan entertained her patient with anecdotes from her days at a Dublin hospital.
"I can't imagine what brought you back to this small village. Why didn't you remain in the city?"
"After tending to the men returning from the war, the wounded of the Easter Rising and the victims of Bloody Sunday, I wanted to get away from all the blood and violence."
"You put me to shame," the pregnant woman confessed. "You've led such a useful existence, and what have I done? All my life I've been the pampered daughter of a rich father, and now I'm the pampered wife of a titled husband."
"You're about to give birth. I'd say that's doing quite a bit."
Jocelyn smiled and rubbed her hand over her bulging abdomen.
"I can't wait to learn what my child's sex is. Then I can stop referring to the baby as 'it.' I suppose it would be nice if the first one is a boy."
"The first one?" Siobhan echoed. "Didn't anyone explain ...?"
Realizing the expectant mother had been kept in the dark concerning the family curse, she quickly stopped speaking.
"Explain what?" Jocelyn asked.
"Nothing. Don't mind me."
"No. There's something you're not telling me, and I want to know what it is."
"Hasn't your husband or your mother-in-law told you about the Meehan Curse?"
"The only curse I know of is one dating back to the sixteenth century, one a dying priest placed on his brother."
"So, you do know. I'm glad I wasn't the one to spill the beans."
"What has a four-hundred-year-old curse to do with me?"
"You should ask your husband ...."
"No. I'm asking you. Tell me, please."
"As he died, the priest cursed not only the brother who killed him but all Meehans who followed after him."
"Cursed them how? With what?"
"If there are two or more male children born to any Meehan woman, one of those sons will become what the priest referred to as a fratis interfector—a brother killer," Siobhan explained.
"That's ridiculous!" Jocelyn cried. "Surely no one believes that silly old curse!"
"Your husband does, as did his father and grandfather before him."
"You can't tell me that in four hundred years, no Meehan ever gave birth to more than one son."
"Oh, they have, to be sure. But in each and every such instance, the result was fratricide. Finally, at the beginning of the last century, every woman who gave birth to a boy immediately stopping having children. So, if you hope to have more than one child, you best pray the baby inside you is a girl."
"But my husband had an uncle, so his father must have had a brother."
"His father had an older sister. Her son was so much older than Donal that he called him uncle rather than cousin."
"Well, regardless of what my baby's sex is, I won't live my life in fear of some medieval curse. If I want to have a large family, I will."
When Donal returned from London later that week, he learned that his wife had gone into labor.
"How is she?" he asked the doctor before even removing his coat.
"I'd say she'll deliver any minute now."
The expectant father poured himself a drink and waited in the drawing room for further word from the physician. Nearly half an hour later, Dr. Lannigan's imposing figure appeared in the doorway. The uncomfortable look on the man's face frightened Donal.
"There's been an unexpected development ...," the doctor began.
"Did my child die? My wife?"
"No. No one has died."
"What's wrong then? Is the baby deformed?"
"No. They're both healthy."
"Both?"
"Your wife gave birth to twins—both boys."
Donal buried his head in his hands. Twins! In the long history of the Meehan clan, there had never been a multiple birth.
"What am I to do?" he asked himself, his voice filled with anguish. "That damned curse!"
"Your wife doesn't know about the second child yet," Dr. Lannigan announced.
"It doesn't matter. I can't ask that you kill a baby."
"No, but there's an orphanage in Dublin. I can arrange for one of the infants to be taken there."
Donal's heart filled with hope. If the brothers were separated at birth, the curse might not affect them.
"No, Dublin is too close. London would be better."
Thus, the second-born son—who followed his brother into the world by a matter of moments—was cast out of the family. His twin, on the other hand, was christened Declan Patrick Meehan and welcomed as both the future lord of the castle and heir to the vast Adair family fortune.
* * *
Following Declan's birth, life changed for Jocelyn. Not only did she have the responsibility of raising a child—one she eagerly embraced—but she also learned the depth of her husband's fear of the Meehan Curse.
"We've been blessed with a fine, healthy son. We mustn't tempt fate by having any more children," Donal insisted.
"But we might have a daughter."
"There's no guarantee of the child's sex, and I won't risk your having another boy."
"And I suppose what I want doesn't matter?"
"In this case, no. It doesn't."
Her husband's stubborn refusal to even consider her wishes led to a gradual erosion of the marriage. Soon the Meehans became two strangers living under the same roof, sleeping in separate wings of the castle. Donal devoted more time to his business interests in London, and Jocelyn took frequent trips home to America to visit her father. Yet while she could understand the breakdown of her marriage, she had no idea why her friendship with Siobhan O'Sullivan deteriorated once her son was born.
"Have I said or done anything to make you angry?" Lady Meehan asked when the nurse gave her notice.
"No, ma'am."
"Then why do you want to leave?"
"I was hired to care for you during the last trimester of your pregnancy. It's over now."
"But I'd like you to stay on and help with the baby."
"I appreciate your generous offer, ma'am, but I ... I have other commitments."
Lying did not come easy to Siobhan, and Jocelyn could tell the woman was not being truthful. What she could not ascertain was the reason why. The two had grown to be close friends during the nurse's three-month stay in the castle. Why was it that now she could barely look her employer in the eye?
First my husband deserts me and now Siobhan, she thought, her eyes filling with tears as she sat in the nursery, rocking her son to sleep. Is it me or do the Irish not like Americans?
Had it not been for Declan, Jocelyn might have gone home to New York and taken the baby with her, marriage or no marriage. However, her son was heir to a title, so she remained in Ireland. As the years went by, she grew to accept her loneliness. When her child was small, she devoted her time to him; and when he was old enough to begin his education, she relied on books to get her through the long, empty days.
Declan was still attending school when Great Britain and France declared war on Germany in 1939. Two years later, the Americans joined in the fray. Although Ireland was officially neutral, the Meehans sided with the cause of the Allied Forces. However, since Donal's business was vital to the war effort, when Declan came of age, he chose to join his father in London rather than fight on the front in France.
After the armistice, the two men returned to Ireland. Within a year of his homecoming, Lord Donal Meehan lost his life. The title, the castle and the business passed to Declan. Although she donned black and respectfully played the part of a widow, Jocelyn did not grieve the loss of her husband. Whatever love she once felt for him had long since died.
"I'll have to spend most of my time in London," her son announced after his father was placed in his grave. "But I'll try to get home and visit you as often as I can."
"Don't worry about me. I'll be fine. You have a life to live. You'll no doubt meet a girl soon."
"Please! Don't you start, too," he laughed. "Grandmother has already begun pressuring me to find the right sort of woman."
"Oh? And what 'sort' is that?" Jocelyn asked, annoyed by her mother-in-law's interference in the young man's life.
"The sort that will give me a son and heir and, hopefully, increase the Meehan family's prestige, not to mention its coffers!"
"And has she mentioned that ridiculous curse?"
"You mean the fear of a fratis interfector? Of course, she has. I was raised on it from the time I could walk. One son only! It's the Meehan way."
"Please tell me you won't let a four-hundred-year-old myth dictate the choices you make in life."
"Now, Mother," he said, avoiding the necessity of lying to his sole surviving parent, "let's talk about more pleasant subjects."
* * *
Business in postwar London was booming. Despite certain commodities still being rationed, buildings destroyed during the Blitz had to be rebuilt. Like a phoenix rising from the ashes, a new city was emerging from the rubble, and Declan loved being in the thick of it all. Had it not been for his mother, he would not care if he ever set foot in Ireland again.
Then, one evening in June, a chance encounter near Tower Bridge would change his life. He had just left St. Katharine Docks and was on his way to meet a friend at a nearby pub when he caught sight of man heading in the opposite direction. Declan stopped and stared, but before he could react, the stranger was swept away in the crowd. Dumbfounded by what he had seen, Lord Meehan was temporarily incapable of movement. He stood on the sidewalk being jostled by passersby who were hurrying to get to their destinations. Eventually, he recovered his wits and continued on to the pub, but the shock of seeing the strange young man remained with him.
"I just had the most bizarre experience," he declared after downing his first drink of the evening. "I was leaving the docks, and I saw someone in the crowd of people near Tower Bridge."
"Blonde, brunette or redhead?" his friend teased.
"It wasn't a woman. It was a man, and he looked just like me. I swear to God, it was like peering into a mirror at my own reflection."
"There is a theory that everyone has a doppelgänger somewhere. You just met yours."
During the months following that brief glimpse of the stranger near Tower Bridge, Declan made a habit of scanning the faces of people he passed on the street, always hoping to see him again. Eventually, he stopped. There were roughly eight million people living in London, to say nothing of the number of visitors to the city. What was the likelihood he would cross paths with the mysterious doppelgänger again?
Autumn led to winter, which meant the holiday season was approaching. When Declan was in Harrods shopping for a Christmas present for his mother, someone tugged on his arm.
"Blimey, Dirk!" a young woman exclaimed with annoyance. "Didn't you 'ear me calling you?"
"I'm afraid you've mistaken me for someone else."
"What's with that snooty accent? And why are you dressed up in them fancy clothes?"
Then she realized the man was a stranger to her.
"It's incredible! You're not 'im at all! But damn me if you don't look just like 'im!"
"Who do I look like?" the Irish lord cried, the intensity in his voice frightening the woman.
"I ... I'm sorry to bother you, sir."
When she turned to walk away, Declan grabbed her by the arm.
"Who is he? What's his name?" he demanded to know.
"Let me go!"
"Not until you tell me who he is."
When the store detective arrived at the scene to see what the commotion was all about, the woman slipped away.
Damn it! She must have known my doppelgänger. She called him Dirk.
It was not much information to go on, but it was a start. After leaving Harrods, he paid a visit to London's foremost private investigator.
"You want me to find someone in London, and all you have is a first name," the former Scotland Yard inspector said. "Do you know how many men named Dirk there must be in this city?"
"I would imagine your job would be considerably easier if you had a photograph of him."
"That would definitely help. Have you got one?"
"Take a picture of this," he said, pointing to his own face.
"I don't get it."
"The man I'm looking for looks exactly like me," Declan explained. "The spitting image. Show my photo and ask people if they know Dirk."
"Okay. It's your money."
The detective phoned Declan a week later but had little progress to report. There were a number of people who had seen Dirk and a few who knew him on a casual basis, but no one had a clue as to his family name or where to find him.
"From those I've spoken to, I gather he comes from somewhere in the East End. That's why I'm going to concentrate my efforts in that area."
"Good. I'll be traveling to Ireland to visit my mother for the holidays, but you can reach me at Carraig Castle should you find him. If not, I'll be back in London the second week of January, at which time I'll get in touch with you."
* * *
"It's so good to see you!" Jocelyn exclaimed, hugging her son tightly.
"I'm sorry I wasn't able to visit you over the summer, but I've been so busy."
"I understand. I'm just happy to have you home for Christmas."
"In the spring, you ought to think about making the trip yourself. You haven't been to London since before the war."
"I was planning on going to New York in May. Maybe I'll stop in London for a week or so before I do."
"What's in New York?" Declan asked. "Now that Grandfather is gone, you don't have any family left there."
"I know, but America is my home, and every once in a while, I get homesick. I want to see the Statue of Liberty and stroll through Central Park, perhaps take in a Broadway show while I'm there."
The conversation shifted from Jocelyn's travel plans to her son's various business ventures.
"Father would have been proud of me," he boasted. "I've doubled the size of the company since taking over."
"That's wonderful, dear! And what about your personal life? Have you been seeing anyone?"
By anyone, she clearly meant a woman. In London, Declan had the reputation of being a playboy, but that was not information he wanted to share with his mother.
"As a matter of fact, I did meet someone rather interesting. Although I didn't actually meet him. I just saw his face in a crowd."
"Him?" Jocelyn asked with surprise.
"It's not what you think," he explained. "I saw a man near Tower Bridge who looked exactly like me. It was uncanny. Except for his clothing, it was like seeing my reflection in a looking glass."
"You mean to tell there are two such handsome men in the world?" she laughed. "Do you know who he is?"
"No, but I'm trying to find out. I've asked someone to search for him."
Jocelyn, who had been kept in the dark about the existence of a second child, saw no cause for concern. Like Declan, she thought it only a strange coincidence that the young man in the crowd bore such a strong resemblance to her son.
"If you do manage to locate him, I'd like to meet him. I want to judge for myself if he looks like you."
Two days after he arrived in Ireland, the master of Carraig Castle received a telephone call from the private investigator in London.
"I hope you have good news for me."
"I've found your man," the caller announced. "His name is Dirk Hatton, and he lives on Mile End Road. He was wounded at Normandy, and he's been out of work since the war ended."
Hoping to surprise his mother, Declan arranged through the detective to have the young man travel to Ireland for the holidays. Since the veteran was short on cash, he was quite willing to take the wealthy businessman up on his offer.
Jocelyn had just sat down to tea with her son when the butler announced the arrival of a guest.
"Who can it be? I'm not expecting anyone," she said.
"I am," Declan declared. "Show him in. And have Mrs. Wilkie get him a cup of tea."
Several minutes later, Dirk Hatton walked into the room.
"Good God!" Lady Meehan cried. "You weren't exaggerating."
The two men stared at each other critically, each trying to find a difference in their appearance, no matter how minor. There was none to be found, however.
"Won't you sit down?" Jocelyn asked, remembering her manners.
"Don't mind if I do," Dirk answered.
Although the tone of voice was similar, his manner of speech differed a great deal from her son's. Declan was well-educated and, despite a slight brogue, spoke like a gentleman whereas Dirk grew up in a working class family in East London and had a heavy cockney accent.
There's something about him, Jocelyn thought as she studied his face over her teacup. It goes beyond his likeness to Declan. It's as though I somehow know him. Donal spent a good deal of time in London. Could this young man be my late husband's illegitimate son?
Lord Meehan never said as much, but there was an almost immediate bond between the two men, in spite of their having come from different worlds.
"What do you think of him?" Declan asked his mother in private.
"I like him."
"Me, too."
She could not help wondering if her son suspected that Dirk might be his half-brother.
* * *
Jocelyn was alone in the dining room when Declan came down for breakfast later that week.
"I see Dirk is not up yet," he said, sitting down beside his mother. "Good. There's something I want to discuss with you."
"What is it?"
"For some time now, I've been thinking about having work done on the castle. A number of major repairs are needed, but I simply don't have the time. So, I thought I might hire Dirk to oversee the renovations."
"I think that's an excellent idea! But will he want to leave London?"
"I don't see why not. He's been looking for work since the war ended. I'll give him a grand tour of the place today. We can discuss what needs to be done, and then I'll ask him."
The conversation came to an end when Dirk walked down the stairs.
"You're just in time for breakfast," Jocelyn announced, still amazed at the young man's uncanny resemblance to her son.
"Eat up," Declan suggested. "You'll need your strength today. I'm going to show you around the castle, from the cellar all the way up to the tower."
"I can't wait to see it," the guest replied and then dug into a plate of food.
More than an hour later, after the two men let their breakfast digest, they headed toward the stone circular staircase that led to the lowest level of Carraig Castle. As they made their way down, Declan relayed the history of the Meehan family and of the castle itself.
Meanwhile, Jocelyn was sitting in the drawing room, reading the morning newspaper, when the butler announced the arrival of a visitor.
"Who is it?" Lady Meehan inquired.
"Miss Siobhan O'Sullivan."
His answer took her by surprise. Although she occasionally saw her former nurse in the village, the two women had barely spoken since Declan was born.
"Show her in," she said, curious as to the reason for the visit.
The apprehensive expression on the nurse's face made it obvious her call was not a social call.
"Is there something I can do for you?" Jocelyn asked.
The visitor, never one to waste words, got right to the heart of the matter.
"I saw your houseguest in the village yesterday afternoon. He's from London, isn't he?"
"Yes. My son asked him here for the holidays."
"Do you know anything about him? About his family?"
"No. Why do you ask? What's your interest in Dirk Hatton?"
"Don't you have the slightest idea who he is?"
"He's a nice young man recently returned from the war. My son seems to have taken a liking to him and plans on offering him employment here at the castle. That's all I know."
"Here?" the nurse asked, her face losing all color. "He can't stay here. You must send him away at once."
Jocelyn's curiosity gave way to anger. How dare this woman come into her home and tell her what to do?
"I don't see how this is any business of yours."
"I've kept your husband's secret all these years," Siobhan suddenly blurted out. "Even though I did not agree with his decision to keep you in the dark, I held my tongue. Now that he's gone ...."
"What secret have you kept? Is Dirk Donal's illegitimate son?"
"The young man is no bastard. You were in a good deal of pain when Declan was born. You drifted in and out of consciousness during the delivery. After the ordeal was over, you slept peacefully—unaware that you had given birth to two children, not one."
"Twins? That can't be!" Jocelyn exclaimed. "Surely someone would have told me."
"His lordship swore Dr. Lannigan and I to secrecy, and no one but the three of us knew about the second child."
"But why keep ...?"
Before she had the chance to complete her question, the answer came to her.
"The Meehan Curse! Of course! The second child was a boy, and Donal believed one brother would kill the other."
"One of those two innocent infants was doomed to become a fratis interfector. His lordship decided to send one of the babies away rather than risk fratricide looming up in the family again."
"He kept my child from me."
"For his own good. The doctor arranged for him to be taken to London where he would eventually be adopted by a family who knew nothing of his true identity."
"And you think Dirk is my son?"
"Isn't it obvious? Just look at his face."
Jocelyn was suddenly overjoyed at the fact that she had a second child.
"I'll have to tell them."
"No," Siobhan insisted. "You need to send this young man away and make sure his lordship never sees him again."
"Why? Because of some ridiculous curse? If Dirk is my child, I'm going to welcome him with open arms."
"Then you'll be condemning one of them to death and the other most likely to a prison sentence."
"How dare you!" Jocelyn cried, rising to her feet in anger. "I think it best you leave now. I've had enough of your superstitious nonsense!"
Once Siobhan was gone, Lady Meehan went in search of her sons, eager to share the wonderful news with them.
This is the best Christmas present ever! she thought, imagining the three of them celebrating the holidays as a true family.
Twenty minutes later, she found the two men in the chapel.
"That's the reason we call it the Bloody Chapel," Declan was saying.
"I can't imagine a man killing a priest in the middle of mass," Dirk said. "And his own brother, at that."
"There you are!" Jocelyn exclaimed when she entered the room. "You'll never in a million years believe what I just learned."
In retelling Siobhan O'Sullivan's story, she left no detail out. She did not hide the fact that the boys' father had chosen to abandon one of his own sons to the whims of fate. Nor did she excuse the blind obedience of the doctor and nurse.
"And you believe this woman?" Declan asked skeptically.
"She was there. She ought to know what happened," his mother answered.
"Well, I'm not as trusting as you, Mother. When I get back to London, I intend to check her story out. Now, if you don't mind, we'll get back to our tour."
"By all means, show Dirk around the place. After all, it's as much his home as it is yours."
The significance of having a brother did not escape Declan, nor did the danger it presented.
A poor man who learns he comes from a rich family might resent the brother who grew up with all the advantages he lacked, he thought with a suspicious gaze at his twin. Might he hope to take it for himself?
"Here's something I'm sure you'll find interesting," Declan said, opening the door to the oubliette. "Workmen accidentally stumbled upon this room in the mid-1800s while they were renovating the chapel."
The unsuspecting Dirk stuck his head through the open door and looked down.
"That's quite a drop! What is it? A laundry chute?"
Jocelyn, who was exiting the chapel, suddenly heard the sounds of a scuffle behind her. She turned in time to see Declan disappear down the shaft.
"Blimey! 'e tried to ... push me!" Dirk stammered "I ... tried to ... pull away from 'im and ...."
When Jocelyn saw her son's broken body at the bottom of the oubliette, she knew there was no hope of saving him. He had died upon impact. The horror of his death, coming so soon after the joy of learning of his twin's existence, was more than the mother could bear. She swooned and fainted and might have fallen into that deadly hole as well had not Dirk caught her in time.
"Mother!" he said, gently trying to revive her. "Are you all right? Should I send for a doctor?"
When her eyes fluttered open, she saw him staring down at her. There was no doubt in her mind that she had given birth to him.
"I'm okay," she said, as he helped her to her feet.
"I suppose I ought to send for the police."
"No! They might not believe Declan's death was an accident."
"You think they'll conclude I murdered 'im?"
"They might. Most of the people around here believe in the Meehan Curse. One look at your face, and they're bound to suspect you're my son and a fratis interfector. I can't risk losing both of you!"
"What should we do then?"
With one last heartfelt look at her dead son, Jocelyn closed the door to the oubliette.
"The truth of your birth was kept a secret from the both of us. Now, we have a secret of our own we must keep. I'll tell everyone here that the two of you were called back to London. No one here will be any the wiser."
"Won't they find the body?"
"Not if you seal this door shut."
Three weeks later, the RMS Queen Mary left Southampton, bound for New York. Aboard the ocean liner were Lady Jocelyn and her son, Lord Declan Meehan, who, according to the telegram he sent to his company's second-in-charge, had urgent personal business to attend to across the Atlantic.
"You'll have to excuse my son," the mother explained to her fellow passengers during dinner the first evening out. "He's recently had his tonsils removed, and the doctor has instructed him not to speak."
Thus, no one ever suspected Dirk Hatton, with his pronounced cockney accent, was not who he claimed to be. Given time, Jocelyn was certain, he would overcome this obstacle and learn to speak proper English.
As they passed by the Statue of Liberty, about to embark on their new life in America, she could not help idly wondering if Siobhan O'Sullivan had not revealed the truth and she had not passed it on to the twins, would both her sons still be alive?
And, more importantly, has the Meehan Curse followed Dirk to the New World?
This story was inspired by legends associated with Leap Castle in County Offaly, Ireland.
When Salem was born, his mother decided not to have any more kittens. However, her decision was not influenced by any curse—not a spoken one at least!
