Sacristy: A room in a church where vestments, sacred vessels and church records are stored.
Sarcophagus: Funeral receptacle for a corpse.
Sepulchral: Relating to a tomb or interment.
Tracery: The stonework elements that support the glass in a Gothic window.
Triptych: A set of three pictures or panels usually hinged together so that the two winged panels fold over the central one.
Tympanum (Tympana): The triangular space or pediment above a portico, door or window.
Vault: An arched form, used to provide a space with a ceiling or roof.
The timeless waves, bright, sifting, broken glass,
Came dazzling around, into the rocks,
Came glinting, sifting from the Americas
From ‘Lovers on Aran’, in Death of a Naturalist
(Faber & Faber, 1966)
By kind courtesy of Seamus Heaney.
Introduction
My visit to Glenveagh Castle in October 2005 was even more thrilling than I could ever have imagined. I had been travelling around Co. Donegal for the past five days accompanied by my nephew, Michael, our friend, Thomas, and my beloved King Charles spaniel, Kila. We had traversed the county, revelling in the wild, unspoilt beauty that uniquely belongs to this remote, north-west county. I can still vividly recall driving through Glenveagh National Park, surrounded by the glorious Derryveagh Mountains, entranced by the soft sunlight as it danced across a series of pristine lakes. Then finally our first glimpse of Glenveagh Castle: a granite fortress, sitting perched, overlooking its solitary kingdom. Luckily we were just in time for the castle tour. I urged Thomas to take the first tour, while Michael and I brought Kila for a well-deserved walk, exploring the Victorian walled garden, the exquisite Italian and Tuscan gardens, and the Gothic Orangery.
After a lovely walk, Michael went off to photograph the gardens while I was happy to loll in the fading sunlight and breathe in the pure air. I closed my eyes for a few moments. I could hardly imagine how wonderful it would be to own Glenveagh Castle, to sit in these gardens in midsummer and to order afternoon tea for my guests. I could almost smell the freshly baked scones, the dainty sandwiches and slices of fruitcake, complete with full cream and home-made jam, all served on a silver salver.
I was awakened from my reverie by the reappearance of Thomas who was beside himself with excitement.
1. Glenveagh Castle, Co. Donegal.
Michael Cullen.
‘That was really amazing! I couldn’t believe what happened to one of the owners – Arthur Kingsley Porter. He was an American professor – from Harvard, I think – and a famous archaeologist and author, a multimillionaire who bought Glenveagh in the twenties and came to live here with his wife...’.
He was speaking so fast it was hard to keep up. But there was no doubting his exhilaration.
‘It’s incredible! He went out for a walk during a storm on a nearby island and he vanished, he simply disappeared without trace. But he was very athletic and a strong swimmer, and for years afterwards people swore that they saw him as far away as India. Then there was talk that he used to come back to visit his wife in the castle at night. There was a rumour too that locals had done away with him. But no one seems to have bothered to investigate all this. Isn’t that incredible? A wealthy American professor and the owner of all this!’ He gestured towards the sweeping castle grounds and gardens. ‘He disappeared into thin air and no one has a clue what happened to him or why he might have disappeared. Now that is a fantastic story.’
The fate of Professor Porter was indeed intriguing to contemplate. I had already fallen under the spell of Glenveagh and this mystery just added another layer to the exquisite ambience ofthis enchanted place. In time, the life of Arthur Kingsley Porter and that of his devoted wife, Lucy, would become my full-time pursuit over several years, as I read the professor’s academic books and plays; perused Lucy’s diaries; read through their copious correspondence located in Pusey Library in Harvard University, and the British Library in London; strolled through the district of Noroton, in Stamford, Connecticut, where Kingsley was reared; visited their mansion, Elmwood, in Cambridge, Massachusetts; said a silent prayer for all the Porters and Hoyts who were finally at rest beneath my feet in Woodland Cemetery, Connecticut; walked the last known route that Kingsley Porter trod on Inishbofin island, before his sudden disappearance.
2. Lucy and A.K. Porter at Elmwood, photograph, c. 1920.
Harvard University Archives, HUG 1706.125 (15).
I took the final tour that day in Glenveagh Castle. The tour guide brought us through several rooms that had been decorated by the Porters and had never been altered. The pale-gold library still contains the four paintings presented by the poet Æ (George Russell) to his friend, Kingsley. The sumptuous master bedroom is dominated by the mahogany four-poster bed that Lucy Porter brought with her to Glenveagh. Walking through the shadowy corridors I began to feel that Professor Porter wanted the truth of his life and disappearance to be finally told. And so it is that this most singular tale of a brilliant but complex man is here unravelled and transcribed. For only then can all concerned be set free.
Lucy Costigan, 12 March 2012
Chapter one
The Search: Inishbofin, Co. Donegal, 8 July 1933
Lucy Porter hurried towards the cottage.The storm was beginning to rage now, tugging at her coat, threatening to pull off her hat and scatter her grey-speckled hair to the four winds. She leaned in close to the window and anxiously peered inside, her stomach lurching as she surveyed the empty chairs still arranged around the kitchen table. Nothing stirred within. So he hadn’t had a change of heart. He hadn’t put off his plan to write outdoors and instead come back early for another cup of coffee or to share some idea that had suddenly flashed across his mind. She stood staring for several moments, then slowly turned to face the full blast of the wind. She glanced furtively up and down the beach but it was deserted.
The wind had risen considerably in the past hour since Kingsley and Owen McGee had gone out to secure the curragh. If the weather had stayed fine they’d be rowing back by now or perhaps they’d already have reached Magheraroarty. They might even have been on the road to Glenveagh, where they could have spent a leisurely afternoon doing some weeding or maybe a little reading, waiting for the arrival of their dear friend, Æ.
In the distance, the dark mass of Inishdooey momentarily caught her gaze. The sea was turning silver grey and the angry currents were whipping the waves wildly towards the shore. It was no weather to row a curragh across the sea. The mere thought of it sent a shiver down her spine and she pulled her coat tighter, crossing her arms to shield her body from the relentless wind.
3. Inishbofin Island, Co. Donegal.
Michael Cullen.
A sudden thought gripped her and she began to half-walk, half-run away from the cottage. Maybe Kingsley had passed the hut and gone towards Meenlara? Lucy was breathing hard now as she struggled to keep her footing. Boulders were strewn across the rough, uneven terrain. The makeshift path would have been easier going but crossing the hillock would ultimately save more time.
It seemed to take ages to reach Cave Arch. Lucy fretfully surveyed the craggy coastline but it was deserted. She searched in vain, desperately trying to discern the tall, stately figure of her husband amid the rocks and waves and sky.
Lucy’s