The Forgotten Holocaust

Chapter Eighteen

On his way back to the car, Ben checked Kristen’s BlackBerry for the missed call, and found a new voice message in the inbox.

The man spoke hesitantly. Very educated-sounding, very crisp, more than a little guarded. There was a faint trace of an Irish accent mixed into those upper-class tones. ‘This is a message for, ah, Kristen Hall. Gray Brennan here, responding to your enquiry some time ago about Lady Stamford’s journals. I’m sorry I haven’t replied sooner, but I’ve been, ah, busy.’

Ben thought, who was this guy?

‘Regarding the journals,’ Brennan’s message continued, ‘I fully appreciate your interest in viewing them for the purposes of researching your book, and they do indeed contain hitherto unseen material that I’m sure would be of, ah, significant interest to you. As a matter of fact, some of their revelations could be highly explosive to say the least … However, ah, I’m afraid that’s all the more reason why I’m reluctant to share them with anyone, least of all a writer — unless I could be fully persuaded that certain extremely sensitive information would be, ah, appropriately handled. Anyway, that’s my response. Contact me again if you so desire. Goodbye.’

Bit of an odd-bod, Ben thought. He listened to the message once more as he walked towards the car, then saved it and slipped the phone back in his pocket. A Garda patrol car sliced by in the opposite direction, two uniforms up front, one of them talking on the radio.

Ben got back in the BMW and sped out of Glenfell, thinking about what Kristen had said about the private journals documenting Lady Stamford’s years in Ireland, and the historian in whose possession they were now. He’d been trying to figure out what could be so hot about her research; now here was this Brennan acting all cautious and secretive over ‘explosive’ material. What the hell was this about?

Back at the cottage that evening, Ben used his own smartphone to go online and check the guy out. There was very little to be gleaned about the man, other than the fact that until about twelve years ago he’d been Emeritus Professor of History at Trinity College, Dublin. A photo in the university’s archives showed a thin, jaunty-looking man with combed-over greying hair and little wire glasses. Taking the number from Kristen’s BlackBerry, Ben dialled from his own phone.

The same voice he’d heard in the message answered after a few rings. ‘Brennan.’

‘Professor Brennan, you don’t know me. My name’s Hope, Ben Hope. I’m returning your call on behalf of Kristen Hall.’

‘About the Stamford journals?’ Brennan said. ‘Yes, she left me a phone message a couple of weeks ago. But I don’t understand. Why are you calling on her behalf? Is something wrong?’

‘You might say that. Kristen can’t return your message personally, because she’s dead. She was murdered the day before last.’

There was a pause on the line. ‘Oh, no. Murdered? Are you … were you a friend? A relative?’

‘She wasn’t my friend. I hardly knew her. We’d only just met. But I liked her and she didn’t deserve to die.’

‘This is awful. Just awful.’

‘Professor Brennan, I’m not going to beat about the bush. I think Kristen was killed because of something she discovered about Elizabeth Stamford. You said in your message that the Stamford journals were explosive. Your words. I need to know more.’

‘Aren’t the police investigating?’

‘They’re doing what they do,’ Ben said. ‘I’m doing what I do. Call it a parallel inquiry. Professor, apart from the men who butchered Kristen and cut her throat, I was the last person to see her alive. I mean to find out what happened and I’m asking for your help, because I think you know something about all this.’

‘I wouldn’t be so sure of that,’ Brennan replied. ‘Lady Stamford’s journals were lost for over a century, until they were rediscovered among the ruins of Glenfell House. They’ve been part of my personal collection for sixteen years, going back to when I worked in Ireland. Now they’re locked in a safe here in my home. I live alone, and I don’t share my collections freely. Nobody but me in all that time has seen Lady Stamford’s journals or had any inkling of the revelations in them. So I can’t see how it’s possible that they’d have anything to do with this terrible tragedy.’

‘Someone knows,’ Ben said. ‘Someone who knew Kristen was on the trail and is prepared to do anything to keep whatever it is a secret. The best chance I’ve got of finding out who, is to know what’s in those journals. Which means that right now you, Professor Brennan, are the best chance anyone has of catching Kristen’s killers.’

A pause. Then, ‘What did you say your name was?’

‘Ben Hope.’

‘Benjamin?’

‘Benedict,’ Ben said, fighting his impatience. ‘Can you help me, or not? Say no, and I promise you won’t hear from me again. Say yes, and I’ll meet you wherever you want. Please trust me.’

There was more silence as Brennan thought about it. Ben gripped the phone tightly and held his breath, waiting.

‘Very well,’ Brennan said at last. ‘I’ll meet with you and show you the journals. But you’ll have to come to me. I don’t leave the island any more.’

‘What island would that be?’ Ben asked.

‘Madeira.’

‘Give me your address,’ Ben said. ‘I’ll be there.’