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never entirely left,” the elderly man added. “That the cottages would be haunted.”
    “I’m not going to be one to discount the possibility that, given their former circumstances, some spirits would have found moving on a bit challenging,” Michael Joyce allowed. “But I’ve yet to hear a complaint, so if there were to be any ghosts hanging around, they’re benevolent ones who aren’t into disturbing the guests.”
    “The woman who booked the cottage didn’t mention your being the owner.” Duncan would’ve been a great deal more eager about this trip had he known he’d be meeting a man he’d admired for so many years.
    “That’s because all bookings are done anonymously through a property leasing agent,” the old man piped up again before Joyce could answer. “Our Michael is one who enjoys his privacy. Why, when he first arrived back in Castlelough, didn’t he act like an old hermit monk, living out there all alone on his farm? Then his daughter appeared out of the blue from the North and—”
    “That would be a story for another time, Fergus,” Joyce said firmly.
    Duncan didn’t need his journalism instincts to realize that the topic of Michael Joyce’s daughter, whatever its nature, was a sensitive one.
    “I’ve studied all your books,” he said, returning the conversation to its original track in order to fill in the silence that had fallen. “Especially those from your war photojournalism days.”
    Joyce had reportedly died, he remembered, on the helicopter lifting him out of a marketplace massacre in Kosovo. After being brought back to life, he had seemed to disappear for a time. Until reinventing his career with photography books showcasing such topics as the courage of hospitalized children, daily life in the Irish West, and another, more recent one that followed the nomadic lives of Irish travelers.
    “I’m more a television correspondent than a photographer,” Duncan said, “but there have been times in wars zones when I’ve been forced to resort to taking video with my cell phone, and while it’s a different medium, your work, the way you always knew how to capture the money shot that told the story, was like learning from a master.”
    “It’s glad I am that my work proved helpful,” Joyce said mildly. “And I certainly tossed enough that never worked out… But that was another lifetime. Now I’m merely a family man, a farmer, a restorer of crumbling buildings, and an occasional photographer when the muse deigns to visit.
    “And speaking of visits, I hope your romantic breakfast with your wife went well.”
    Duncan wasn’t surprised, given his so-called celebrity and the size of the town, that his shopping expedition had already become news. “I don’t remember saying anything to Mrs. Monohan about romance.”
    “While I may have been out of journalism for several years, I’m Irish enough to recognize an intriguing story when I hear one. It’s only a shame all the Lady seekers are in town, or you and your wife could have a picnic on the shores of Lough Caislean. The castle ruins are spectacular at sunset. It’s also when our beastie is most likely to appear.”
    “Are you saying you believe in her?”
    “I, myself, have always been agnostic on the topic. But I personally know some who do believe.”
    “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to share names.”
    “To a reporter?” Joyce shook his dark head and took another longer, considering drink of coffee. “No, although you seem like a good enough fellow, it’s not my story to tell. Nor my place to reveal a confidence.”
    Duncan heard the finality in the former war photojournalist’s tone and knew he’d run into a dead end. Which only meant he’d have to find another source.
    “Though I can speak with someone,” Joyce offered after a pause. “To see if he’d be willing to share his tale. If so, I’ll have him ring you.”
    “I’d appreciate that.” Duncan dug into his pocket and pulled out a