Coffins and Crosses

By Tim Perry

American Sean Mahoney's life is dull. On a whim he enters a contest to win a pub in Ireland. Travel to the home of his ancestors, flips his world upside down. Death cloaked coffins of pine and mahogany are spirited away by a sacred ruby cross necklace and a beautiful heroine. The worlds of past and present collide introducing villains, kidnappers,pirates and romance. Ultimately its the year 1907, an unsolved robbery, and the answer to: Who stole the Irish Crown Jewels from Dublin Castle?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tim Perry
• Release date: Jun 6, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301384785

Tim Perry

I've been a writer of short stories and poetry most all of my life. Coffins and Crosses marks my first novel creation. More on the way. I live in lovely Vancouver, Washington with my wife and cat named Whiz. Writing brings uncommon joy, even in its simplest forms. As my beloved mother always said, "Whether or not you lived it or want to live it, write it down."

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

DUBLIN, IRELAND

January 20, 2011

Day One

One can of Heineken equals thirty-seven minutes. My final connecting flight from Heathrow Airport to Dublin is nearly over. I scan the cityscape below looking for the Tower. Flying usually is pleasurable. Twenty hours, transcontinental from Portland, Oregon to London, England isn’t. If not for glorious circumstances, I’d be jumping out of my skin. But today, ambition flows from my pores. A mere month ago, depression was the enemy, daily tapping my shoulder and slapping me around, but not today.

There it is!

A young man, probably a University student sitting by the aisle in my row asks, What’s there?

The Guinness Brewery, I answer. The Tower—you know—the blonde with the black skirt.

Oh…Guinness Stout…Big Deal

Big deal, my arse’!

He ignores me and takes out an I-Pod from a pack under his seat. This kid has no idea. Without a care in the world, I tap my toes as our Boeing 767 circles for a final approach. Finally she lands softly and motors to our arrival gate.

CHAPTER TWO

PUB CONTEST

December 2010

(One month earlier)

While sipping on a pint of dark-chocolate hued Guinness in a quaint neighborhood pub in northeast Portland Oregon, I analyze the events of the week. Loss of my job and snippy girlfriend rounds out the seven worst days of my existence. Three years of employment at Zall Brothers Jewelers brought satisfaction and security. I apprenticed with the best becoming a damn good certified jeweler. Not a sexy job, but I liked it. In spite of that, naming the owner’s son a thief solidifies my permanent departure.

I stare at my likeness in the back bar’s giant mirror.

Keep dreamin’ kid, I mutter to myself. You’re still young and not half bad looking.

My problem is life in a dream world, or as the ex constantly notes, a lack of ambition. The jewelry and baubles at her princess feet didn’t mean a darn thing. She wanted more for me or more correctly for her haughty self. I love women—all types of women. Stella was totally different from previous hook ups. At first I enjoyed her bossiness, thinking; finally a woman who takes charge and doesn’t cling. My passion wore out quickly. The day she announced we would be married signaled the end, at least for me. I hung in there for close to five months. She acted surprised when I finally got the courage. Leastwise I thought it was courage. Saying goodbye is hard for me, a character flaw I guess. However, bravery arms me today in the shape of a pint glass. For Stella has stomped out through Biddys Pub’s double doors. And now, four imperial Guinness pints later, it is time to think about moi.

I inhale a hale and hearty swallow of stout and glance over at a poster mounted on the back bar’s mirror glass. Bold black letters announce a contest: WIN AN IRISH PUB!

As the bartender passes I ask, Is contest for real?

He explains that a short fifty word essay about the virtues of Guinness Stout is all that is required for entry. All compositions have to begin with: Guinness is the perfect pint… The grand prize winning essay determines who will win genuine ownership in a pub in Ireland. The deadline looms two weeks ahead.

Write er essay and win pub! That be outrageous!

I gulp down a last swig of Guinness, grab my coat, and awkwardly sprint out the door towards home to write my short winning masterpiece.

My townhouse is a ten minute walk from my chosen hangout. The stumbling run becomes a fast walk and soon degrades to a shuffle. I throw my coat on the couch. I fire up the laptop and hover over the flickering blue screen in the dark. Before the alcohol wears off, I compose a piece in twenty minutes consisting of forty-nine words. I lean back in my office chair and read the masterpiece out loud:

Guinness is the perfect pint because it is good for you. Not the good for you mom always repeated, but the good proven by two hundred and fifty years of constant and repeated drinking of this subtle, velvety, effervescent elixir. Time may pass, but nothing alters the Guinness good.

This is a plagiarized play on the age old standard that Guinness is good for you. I’ll plagiarize all day about my favorite libation. I mentally pat myself on the back and place the entry in the outgoing mailbox slot.

***

My best friend Bob works for the FBI. He counsels me continuously on the how-to of women. Without my knowledge, he background checks gals I date for more than a month. He despises Stella and her skinny bitch personality. I thought he blew a gasket laughing, on informing him of my breakup. A few weeks later he proclaims it’s ‘time to drink’, and we meet at Biddys.

Never thought you’d do it. She was the worst ever.

Come on man, she wasn’t that bad.

OK…how’s your bank account? How many overdraft notices did you get while tied to her sorry ass?

Guess you’re right. I don’t wake up at night worrying about what I’ve said or done.

Now you’re a single man. Don’t be going off trying to find another one right away. Give yourself some time. Let’s just drink some whiskey and kick back.

I am all for that and nearly forget about my pub contest reply letter.

From my coat pocket I extract the letter and place it on the bar. The envelope is heavy with traces of wood fiber and foreign stamps on the corners. The mail came early in the morning, and I purposely want to open it in front of Bob. He will share in my disappointment or elation upon reading the official Guinness Brewery response to my essay.

What’s that?

I entered a contest to win a pub in Ireland.

No shit. You must have been drinking.

Nah, wrote it the night I broke up with Stella. I guess I had an inspiring moment.

Sure. Don’t shit me. You were here and drank a few I bet.

You know me.

Open up the damn letter. Wait a sec...Mike…bring us a fresh Guinness and a shot of Jack.

The envelope contains a single sheet of paper. A green shamrock dominates the top next to the date 1876.

Bob holds the shot of Jack Daniels at arm’s length. Read it out loud. I’ll either down this or not. The letter states, You have been chosen as one of six finalists for the opportunity to win your own pub. With that opportunity, we offer travel to Kinvara, Ireland—all expenses paid—to compete in the last leg of the competition. This will take place at Darby’s Pub on January 21st. If you win, Guinness Brewery will hand you the keys to Darby’s. Good Luck and Cheers!

CHAPTER THREE

CHARLOTTE

INDIA

1781

Queen Charlotte peeked over the balcony, turned, and glanced at the shut door behind her. She knew the clandestine affair could ruin her. This tryst was passionate but not one of the heart. The appeal of them beckoned her, and their finery screamed rarity. An official meeting with the Shah in her British castle had brought her forth to this strange place and castle. Only nine months since King George invited the Shah to London as a goodwill gesture to India. The royal greeting at Buckingham Palace was a first, and halls were adorned and the red carpet lain out. The British East Indian Company traded extensively with this mogul, and a great celebration of pomp and splendor made it the event of the year in England.

The Shah Alam and Her Majesty discovered they had two things in common. Both ascended to their royal positions in the same year—1761. But more importantly to each, was the love of distinctive art and unusual treasures—thus her visit here in Delhi, India—a secretive side trip arranged between her and the Shah.

Madam, the Shah will soon send for you, a servant said as she bowed, backing from the room.

The evening warmth flowed in upon a light breeze. Charlotte walked to the balcony and peered out on a cloudless night. The flicker of stars announced an early darkness, and coming from a distance, the familiar sound of horse hoof on cobblestone greeted her ears. She couldn’t see the carriage but knew of its closeness from the steady growth in resonance as it approached the castle. The palace stood high on a knoll and four powerful horses came into view. She backed from the ledge and gathered her light evening shawl and Hindu handbag from the night stand.

The carriage comforts were blissful and horses fleet of foot. They arrived at a smaller castle in less than thirty minutes. The entrance was dark but lit by foot long candles upon entering the foyer. She hurried down a hallway toward an immense room. The Shah stood at the room’s entrance and motioned his greeting.

The Shah Alam was a tall man among his people standing well over six feet. His handsome Indian face was ablaze when he smiled, showing off porcelain white teeth.

It is the greatest honor, and I welcome you, he said while taking her extended hand. Your hospitality in England was unprecedented, and I hope you are satisfied with ours.

The queen, impressed by the Shah’s command of her language, nodded and replied, Your home is elegant and my assigned attendees twice as efficient as my own in London.

Queen Charlotte, you are so kind. Should we proceed so as to make our escape timely?

With a playful smile Charlotte replied, Surely you do not take me to be some common criminal.

No, of course not. I only say this for your highness’s protection against gossip of those not knowing the truth.

Since when do we worry against gossip? But…your meaning is well taken and appreciated. Should we proceed with my reason for being here?

Both royal leaders advanced to the far eastern end of the Shah’s summer castle. The walk was pronounced, taking the couple ten minutes to navigate the winding staircases and lengthy hallways. Most of the stairs led to separate rooms displaying the art and jewelry collection of the Shah Alam.

You have a fine eye for the elegant, Charlotte noted in a room of superior Persian rugs, some displayed on the floor, and many rolled up against the wall as if they were newly purchased or being readied for sale.

You of course are welcome to pick out something to take home with you, the Shah said as he knelt and touched a fine burgundy weave.

Thank you so much, but my journey here is for one item only, of which you’re fully aware.

So be it, your majesty. Let us take these stairs down a few flights to complete your plans. You will be pleased I am sure.

The Shah Alam noted the grace of Charlotte’s movements and her majestic curves barely hidden beneath the layers of her silk dress. He realized early that his desire for her could never be, and as a man, felt little reciprocation from her. She had only one suitor, and he was about to present it to her, down in a safe room known only to him.

CHAPTER FOUR

OLD KILLBEGGAN

January 20, 2011

(Still Day One)

So here I am in Dublin. God it’s great to be alone. No girlfriend, no job, and a new adventure. I’m anxious and eager. I approach the rental car counter nervous about getting behind a steering wheel on the right vehicle. My wish is to get to Kinvara by early afternoon before other finalists. Pamphlets strewn about the counter get my attention so I pick the most colorful. From the many rental choices, I decide on a small British convertible. With my left hand, I shift the Mini-Cooper into first gear and ease out into traffic. A turn-a-bout looms ahead, so I cling uncomfortably to the outer right lane as traffic swings around towards the airport’s exit. Within five minutes, I’m out of the terminals and on the N6 heading due west.

My head swivels to catch all the sights of my great-great-grandfather’s homeland. While driving cautiously, the miles fly by. Antiquated rock walls line the boundaries of each homestead or country farm. No matter the size, sections of land are distinct with emerald green grasses and sheep and cattle grazing. Thatched roof farmhouses sit on gently rolling hills perched above their precious properties. There aren’t any monolithic farmsteads here. Other than a sparseness of trees, Ireland is exactly as I picture it.

That particular picture in my head includes an Irish pub and a Guinness. I need to stop and fully develop the image. The city is behind me so I search for a tavern in open spaces along the N6. A pine green building with a yellow sign catches my attention and I pull in, since Mulligan’s Pub is cut-out across the façade. I lock the rental and jump over a single step onto the landing in front. It’s quiet and the doorknob won’t move. I peek through the green and yellow stain glass front door window.

Sorry but we open in half hour’s time.

A young man about my age is wearing a bartender’s apron. He must have heard me drive up and comes out a side door.

Oh, no problem, I answer. I was craving an early morning taste.

You’re American. Just got into town and need a Guinness I bet.

Sure enough, made a promise to myself, the first thing I would do.

We get that a lot around here. Seems we are one of the closest pubs to Dublin. I’ll open the front door and pour you one while I set up for the day.

Chairs are still on tables and the bar front is devoid of barstools. Tiny green lights trim the back bar and they provide the only illumination. I breathe deeply, taking in the smells. Languid cigarette odors of former patrons float invisibly. I think about Biddy’s in Portland. Nothing in here resembles my drinking spot other than beer advertisement signs representing brands I’ve never heard of.

The young bartender takes an imperial pint glass from a glass ledge. He places it under a porcelain Guinness tap handle and eases the handle downward causing the flow of black liquid. The stream cascades and tight nitrous bubbles swirl on the bottom. Just about two-thirds full, he closes the spigot and lets it rest a few seconds. With a long handle spoon he dips a portion of the creamy head off, and resumes the pour down into the glass. The stout is reborn, just enough to round off a perfect chocolate malt top. He places the thing of beauty in front of me, and I lick my lips. It’s time to drink.

I close my eyes as I tilt the glass. Familiar tones of slightly burned barley erupt on my palate, but there is a difference.

Taste different than U.S. Guinness?

I put the pint down. Well…yes…fresher…more flavorful.

We usually hear that first thing. When the brewery is a mere ten miles—only seems logical.

My thoughts switch to Darby’s but now doesn’t seem the time to bring it up. I’m heading to the east coast. I’m looking to explore some history on the way. You have any suggestions?

You like a bit of the spirits?

Whiskey?

Aye, about an hour on the highway will take you to a wee village called Killebeggan. If you be looking for something different, than it be there.

Exactly an hour later, I meet the outskirts of a small town with a sign introducing it as Killbeggan. At the bottom of the sign are italic words: Home of Locke Distillery—The Oldest Operating European Distillery. The distillery is across the road on the left and smack dab in the middle of town. I glance at my watch and pull in the parking lot.

The building is all stone, blocked together years before and sturdy as hell. Walking in, I smell the years and distinct scents coming from everywhere. An older gentleman emerges from a room behind the counter and eyes me with rapt interest.

Mornin’, he says. You’re a tourist, but you be Irish too?

Yes, my name is Sean, I answer, from America.

With a minor wink and a tilt of his gray head he continues. Aye…let me guess your surname, if I may. I’d be guessing O’Mahoney or Mahoney.

How did you do know that?

You have the look of the Mahoneys, and it has been told hear-a-bouts of a special arrival. Though I don’t know the particulars of why you’re here, I’m sure it’s of grand importance. Oh, and excuse my manners…I be Brian.

As I shake his hand, I witness an impish smile. I go on to tell Brian the reason for being here in Ireland, about the contest, the pub, etc. Swiftly surmising he really has no interest in my story; he interrupts me, comes around the counter and seizes my arm. He pulls me forward to the top of an old narrow rock staircase. Brian takes a step, and I follow weaving downward two flights to a drafty but clean cellar containing an oak pub-like tabletop embedded on top of red brick. Lining the back bar is three short shelves of Irish whiskey bottles in various sizes and unique shapes displaying the Old Killbeggan label.

Brian saunters behind the bar and plops down two heavy crystal drinking glasses.

We’re to drink to our meetin’ my boy and to your timely arrival.

He reaches up to the top shelf and brings forth an ancient brown moonshine bottle without an Old Killbeggan label. It is by far the ugliest of the bottle choices.

Only for special occasions this is, he says as he pours two full fingers of tawny liquid into each glass.

I pick mine up and he his, and he toasts out loud. Here’s to the Irish, here’s to the Republic, and here’s to the Jewels!

We hoist our glasses simultaneously and throw down shockingly smooth smoke-flavored liquor.

Wow! That’s fine.

He nods with genuine satisfaction wording eloquently, That my boy is golden elixir from our last bottled batch of Old Killebeggan of 1907.

Brian snatches up the bottle and glasses and touches the rim of the bar. The edge swings out leading to another dark