Page 112 of The Missing Sister

Ambrose’s smile faded from his lips. ‘Sadly I don’t. In fact, I haven’t been there since the early seventies, just a year or so after you left.’

‘But what about Father O’Brien? You and he were such good friends.’

‘Ah, now, Mary, that is a story for another day.’

I watched Ambrose’s gaze move to the window and realised that whatever had ended their friendship had been a painful experience for him.

‘I see you’re still wearing the ring I gave you,’ he said, turning back to me and pointing to it.

‘Yes, although technically, it belongs to my daughter – I gave it to her onhertwenty-first birthday, but then I asked her if I might borrow it for this trip. I was worried that you might not recognise me after all these years, so I brought it with me as insurance.’

‘Not recognise you? Mary, you are perhaps the most beloved person of my life! How could you possibly have thought that? Unless... ah.’ Ambrose put up a finger to his head. ‘You thought I may have lost my marbles, gone senile in my old age, eh?’

‘To be truthful, it did occur to me that I may need something to jog your memory. Forgive me, Ambrose.’

‘I will think about whether you deserve my forgiveness whilst you make us both a cup of coffee. I presume you remember the way I like it?’

‘Strong, with just a hint of milk and one spoonful of brown sugar?’ I asked him as I stood up.

‘Precisely, my dear, precisely.’

I arrived back with the coffee five minutes later, having made myself a tea.

‘So, where do you wish to start?’ he asked me.

‘I know it should be at the very beginning, but we may have to work backwards a little. If I give you the outline, would you let me fill in the blanks later?’

‘Whatever you wish. I’m no longer needed at Trinity by my peers or students – I retired just over fifteen years ago – so the floor is yours for as long as you desire.’

‘Actually, I didn’t just bring the ring with me today to jog your memory, Ambrose, I brought it because it seems to have become a centre point of my problem. Back then and now.’

‘Really? I’m most sorry to hear that.’

‘The thing is... the reason I left Ireland was because I had to, well, escape from someone. I went to London first, but then I had no choice but to move on. I decided to go further afield, first to Canada, and then to New Zealand.’

Ambrose remained silent as I collected myself to say more.

‘I changed my surname when I got married – I’m now McDougal – and became a New Zealand citizen a few years later. I had a new identity, which I truly believed had freed me from the threat of him finding me. As I said earlier, I was able to enjoy my life there, running a vineyard and bringing up my family with Jock. But then...’

‘Yes?’

‘I’d only just embarked on my Grand Tour and my first port of call was Norfolk Island – a tiny isle between New Zealand and Australia. I was visiting my old friend Bridget who’d recently moved there. Do you remember Bridget?’

‘How can I forget her, given we have established I am definitely not senile? Your flame-haired enemy as a child and best friend at university.’

‘That’s the one, yes. Anyway, there I was on Norfolk Island, drinking with Bridget and her new husband, when I received a message from my daughter Mary-Kate. Apparently, she’d had two women enquiring about her, saying she could be the “missing sister” in their family of six other girls – all adopted by a very odd-sounding man, who died a year ago. The proof of the connection was supposedly an emerald ring shaped like a star, with seven points around a small diamond.’ I lifted my hand and indicated my ring. ‘Mary-Kate told me she’d seen a drawing of the ring that the women had brought with them. She said she was pretty sure it was this one.’

‘Really? Pray, continue.’

‘Anyway, these women were so desperate to track me and the ring down that Mary-Kate said they were flying over to Norfolk Island to see me.’

‘Do you know why they were so desperate?’

‘Some cock and bull story about their dead father; how it had been his dearest wish to find the “missing sister”. Even though it was too late for him, these sisters are having some kind of a memorial service a year on from his death, by going to the spot where they think he was buried at sea. I mean, these girls even have the same names as the Seven Sisters of the Pleiades! Have you ever heard such a ridiculous story?’

‘Well, I certainly recognise the theme of the missing sister from any number of mythological tales around the globe, as you must have done, Mary. You wrote your Bachelor’s dissertation on Orion’s chase of Merope, after all.’

‘I know, Ambrose, but the Seven Sisters were...areimaginary, not a real-life human family.’