There was almost a merry light in the prelate’s eye. It was the eye of a cat toying with a still living mouse.
‘What I think,’ Strafford said, ‘is that some things are too big to be suppressed.’
The Archbishop leaned forward, picked up the metal tongs and lifted two nuggets of coal from the scuttle, and set them amid the flames of the fire.
‘“Suppressed”?’ he said. ‘Now, that is a word that troubles me, I have to say.’
‘Then may I ask for a better one, Your Grace?’
‘“Withheld”, I think, might be more accurate, and certainly more advisable, in this context. Would you not agree?’
Strafford made to speak again, but the Archbishop, smiling, held up a hand to silence him and, still smiling, rose from his chair and paced to the window, where he stood, with his hands clasped at his back, looking out at the bleak cold prospect of metal-grey sea and greyer sky.
‘Ours is a young nation, Inspector Stafford—’
‘Strafford.’
‘Forgive me – Strafford. A young nation, as I say, with much of our original innocence intact – I do believe there is original innocence, as well as original sin. There was a time before the apple of knowledge was eaten.’ He glanced back at Strafford over his shoulder and caught his deprecating look. ‘Oh, I know, I know, you feel the people have been deliberately kept in ignorance. We might have grown to maturity, had we been allowed. But centuries of English oppression kept us back, kept us down – kept us, as I say, innocent. I hope I don’t offend you by speaking of these things? Your people—’
‘“My” people? With respect, Your Grace, I’m as Irish as you are.’
‘Of course, of course.’ The Archbishop turned from the window to face his guest. ‘But I remember that fine Anglo-Irish novelist, Elizabeth Bowen, saying to me once – it was at a party given by the British ambassador, one summer afternoon in the back garden of the embassy in Merrion Square – I remember her saying to me that she felt her true place was a point smack in the middle of the Irish Sea, halfway between England and Ireland. I thought it a very candid and telling admission. It must be strange, to be stranded like that. Although of course’ – a faint chuckle – ‘one couldn’t, strictly speaking, be situated in the middle of the sea.’ He made a diving gesture with his left hand. ‘One would sink, Inspector. One would sink.’
He paced back slowly to the hearth, with his head down, looking at the tips of his slippers where they appeared alternately, like crimson tongue-tips, from under the hem of his cassock. He stopped before the fire and held out his hands, which were as pale as cuttlefish bones, to the muttering flames.
‘I have the greatest respect for your Church and your creed, which has produced so many fine minds – and fine sensibilities, if I may put it that way. But then’ – here he gave a little sigh – ‘Protestantism is not so much a religion as a reaction against a religion, isn’t that so?’ He smiled at Strafford’s stony stare. ‘Again, please, do not be offended. I’m merely stating a fact. What was the Reformation, after all, but a protest against the traditions of the Church of Rome? – a protest not unjustified, I regret to say, in the days of Luther and his followers. It’s not for nothing that the word itself, protest, is still enshrined in the very name of your faith.’
‘I was brought up as a member of the Church of Ireland,’ Strafford said.
‘Ah, yes. But then, as myriad-minded Shakespeare says, what’s in a name?’
The Archbishop, still standing in front of the fire, leaned a hand on the mantelpiece and bowed his head towards the flames, which gave a lurid tinge to his thin, pallid face.
Strafford made to rise from his chair, ostentatiously consulting his watch. ‘Your Grace, much as I find this conversation stimulating, I really can’t spare the time to engage in a theological discussion—’
‘Yes yes yes, forgive me! I know how busy you must be. But Father Lawless’s death is a great shock to us all, and it will be a particularly heavy blow to his parishioners, and to Catholics in general.’
‘To people in general, Catholic or Protestant, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Of course, yes, that’s what I meant – to all of us.’
The two men were on their feet now, facing each other. Strafford looked to the window and saw that it had begun to snow again. He thought of the state of the roads. He wouldn’t care to be trapped here, in this cold place, with this cold man. He made a show again of looking at his watch.
‘Yes, you must be on your way, I understand,’ the Archbishop said, lifting a placating hand. ‘But before you go, a last few words, while I have the opportunity.’ He looked down. ‘As I’ve said, we retain, as a nation, a remarkable – some would say a deplorable – degree of innocence. In many ways we are like children, with a child’s simplicity and charm, as well as, I confess, the child’s capacity for wickedness. It will take us a long time to achieve full maturity – growing up, after all, is a slow and often painful process, and one that shouldn’t be hurried. The duty falls to some of us to calculate what is best for the congregation – forgive me, for the population, at large. As Mr Eliot says – I’m sure you’re acquainted with his work? – “humankind cannot bear very much reality”. The social contract is a fragile document. Do you take my point, at all?’
Strafford shrugged. ‘Yes, I suppose I do. But all the same, the truth—’
‘Ah, the truth’ – the Archbishop lifted both his hands before him, the palms turned outwards, as if to ward something off – ‘such a difficult concept. There’s not much to be said in favour of Pontius Pilate, yet one feels a flicker of empathy for him when he asked, in his helplessness, What is the truth?’
‘In this case, Doctor McQuaid,’ Strafford said, ‘the question is easily answered. Father Lawless didn’t fall downstairs and break his neck. He was stabbed in the neck, and after that—’
The Archbishop shook his head, letting his eyelids close lightly for a second. ‘Enough, enough,’ he breathed. ‘I know, from Commissioner Phelan, what came next.’ He paused a moment, then moved a step closer to Strafford. ‘Do you think, Inspector, do you really think, that any good, any good at all, would result from the public disclosure of such lurid, such terrible, facts?’
‘Your Grace, as Shakespeare said, murder will out, and so will the truth, however terrible.’
The Archbishop smiled. ‘Ah, yes. Life, though, is not a play, but all too real. And some aspects of reality are better – what was the word I used earlier? – are better withheld. I see you don’t agree. Well, you must do as you think best. You have your duties’ – here, a hard glint came into his eyes – ‘as I have mine.’
Strafford was preparing to depart. He wondered where his coat and hat were to be found – Luke the Indispensable hadn’t returned from his shopping trip. The Archbishop put a hand lightly on his shoulder, and they moved together to the door.
‘Thank you for coming so far, Inspector, in such inclement conditions. I wanted to meet you in person. Your Commissioner speaks very highly of you. He believes you have a bright future before you, in your work as a detective.’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Strafford said drily. ‘He’s not a man given to lavish praise.’
‘Yes,’ the Archbishop said abstractedly, ‘yes indeed. I often think how hard it must be for a young man to make his way in the world of today. So many frightful things have happened in our time, so many wars and revolutions, so much death and destruction.’ They stepped into the hall. ‘Once again, thank you for coming.’ At the front door, the prelate smiled, thinly, palely, his little dark eyes glittering. ‘Be assured, Inspector,’ he said softly, with his sharp, cold little smile, ‘I shall be watching your progress with the keenest interest.’ Strafford’s coat and hat were hanging on hooks by the front door. ‘And here are your things. Such a light coat, for such a cold day!’
When the door was opened a gust of icy air swept in from outside, bringing with it a flurry of snowflakes, one of which settled, a brief, icy
benediction, on Strafford’s forehead.
He was halfway to the car when the Archbishop called out his name – ‘Inspector Strafford, a moment’ – and he turned and trudged back along the path, treading in his own reversed footsteps.
‘Chaucer,’ the prelate said.
Strafford was baffled. ‘I beg your—?’
‘“Murder will out.” It’s Chaucer, not Shakespeare. It appears in the Priest’s Tale, in fact. “Murder will out, that see we day by day.”’
‘Ah. Right. Thank you, I’ll remember – Chaucer, not Shakespeare.’
The Archbishop smiled again, and sketched a quick little blessing with two upraised fingers. Strafford was reminded of the portrait of Christ showing off his Sacred Heart.
He drove off, and at the gate glanced back to see the Archbishop standing in the doorway still, a hand lifted in farewell. There was snow on the front of his cassock. He didn’t seem to notice.
20
The drive back to Ballyglass was not as hair-raising as he had feared it would be. After he had gone a mile or two the snow suddenly cleared, and he was able to switch off the windscreen wipers. At Enniscorthy he manoeuvred the car over the bridge with care. On the other side he met the big Citroën, with Luke perched elf-like behind the wheel.
He arrived at Ballyglass House and was left standing outside the front door for a full five minutes, banging the knocker repeatedly and getting chilled to the bone, before Mrs Duffy arrived at last to let him in. She said she was sorry not to have come sooner, but she had been downstairs, washing up after lunch. At the mention of lunch, he remembered that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast time. Mrs Duffy said she could ‘throw on’ an omelette for him.
He asked if Jenkins had returned, and was told he hadn’t. He turned back and looked at the snowy landscape all round. Then he went and squeezed himself once more into the alcove behind the velvet curtain, his elbows pressed to his ribs, and called Pearse Street, and asked again for Chief Superintendent Hackett.
‘So, how did you get on, yourself and His Eminence?’ Hackett asked with a chuckle.
Strafford could hear him lighting a cigarette, in that way he did when he was on the phone, putting the matchbox on the desk, trapping it under his elbow and manoeuvring a match out of it and scraping it slowly and carefully along the strip of sandpaper. It was one of his little displays of flamboyance.
‘He gave me a lecture on religion, and saw me off with a warning,’ Strafford said.
‘Oh, aye? What sort of a warning?’
‘He said he’d be keeping an eye on me. He made a point of letting me know it.’
‘He’s a sore man, is Doctor McQuaid. There’s no love in that fellow.’
‘He wants the thing hushed up, of course.’
‘And what did you say?’
‘As little as possible.’
There was a pause.
‘He’s a dangerous man, Strafford, and not to be crossed. You don’t need me to tell you that.’
‘Do you think he can keep the lid on something as big as this?’
‘He’s done it before.’
‘Oh, yes? Care to elaborate?’
‘No. But I’m telling you, watch out. Comrade Stalin’s right-hand man Mr Beria will never be dead while His Grace is alive.’
Strafford scowled. He itched to know when and how Mc-Quaid had ‘done it before’, in another case – or cases? – as large and potentially scandalous as this one. He would have to ask Quirke about it, when Quirke came back from his honeymoon. Quirke knew where many a body was buried, legitimately and otherwise. He was the State Pathologist, after all.
‘Jenkins has gone missing,’ he said. ‘Have you heard from him?’
‘What do you mean, gone missing?’
‘I sent him over here, to Ballyglass House, to question the family again. He arrived, talked to the housekeeper, then went out, according to her, and hasn’t been seen since.’
‘Where would he have gone to? Is it now snowing down there, like it is here?’
‘Yes, Chief. Snow is general all over Ireland.’
‘Is it?’
‘It’s a quotation – never mind.’
Strafford heard his superior breathing down the line. Hackett valued Strafford, but also considered him too clever by far.
‘So how long has he been gone?’
‘Three or four hours,’ Strafford replied.
‘Is that all? For Christ’s sake, he’s probably having a quiet pint and a ham sandwich somewhere. Three or four hours, indeed.’
‘It’s not like him, Chief, to go off like that and not leave word for me.’
Hackett was becoming exasperated. He was exasperated much of the time, nowadays. Promotion, it was clear, didn’t suit him. He had liked being a working detective. Now he spent most of his time stuck at his desk, dealing with paperwork.
‘I’ll wait a while longer,’ Strafford went on, ‘and then I’ll call the local fellow, Radford, and see if he can help.’
‘Radford? Who’s he?’
‘A sergeant at the barracks here, in the town. Haven’t seen him yet. He’s supposed to be down with a dose of ’flu. I believe he’s a drinker.’
‘Well, isn’t this a fine situation?’ Hackett said. ‘Your man is gone missing, and the local bobby is down with the DTs. Good luck.’ And he hung up.
Mrs Duffy had said she would let him know when his omelette was ready. While he waited, he wandered into the drawing room and stood at the window, where yesterday – could it have been only yesterday? – he had stood with Lettie and watched the snow falling on the lawn and the fields beyond. The hill in the distance was barely visible today, a ghostly, floating form, like Mount Fuji in the background of a Japanese print.
A robin landed on a twig outside the window and perched there, fluffing up its feathers. Strafford was at once convinced that it was the same one he had seen – when? When had he seen it before? Yesterday? Today? Time was playing tricks on him again. Could it be the same bird, following him?
The thought of his mother came back to him, his mother on her makeshift deathbed, watching the birds on the lawn, as the light faded, the light of day and her light, too. Why was she so much on his mind? He had hardly given her a thought in recent years, but now, whenever he saw a bird in the snow, her ghost was there. Who was it had said this house was haunted? Certainly it seemed to be, for him.
He thought back over his interview with the Archbishop. He had been delivered a warning, no doubt of that – there had been no mistaking the undertone of menace in the prelate’s calculated politeness, his subtle insinuations. They liked to show off their power, these unctuous churchmen. He thought of the Reverend Moffatt, the vicar at Roslea when he was a boy. Poor Moffatt, with his silver hair and pink scalp, his pale incompetent hands, his bubblingly apologetic manner. John Charles McQuaid would gobble up the likes of the Reverend Moffatt as a snack before compline.
Strafford had never met the Commissioner, Jack Phelan. Had Phelan really spoken highly of him, as the Archbishop had claimed? He suspected Phelan had never heard of him, before now. Anyway, whatever Phelan thought of him, it would take only a quiet word from His Grace John Charles to have him banished to some town in the windy west of Ireland, where he would punch in his days seizing illicit poitín stills, and his evenings stopping schoolboys with no lights on their bikes.
He had been hearing the sound since he had entered the room, but only now paid attention to it, and realised what it was. Someone, a woman, he thought, outside the room but nearby, was weeping, quietly, steadily. The sound was coming from behind a door in the corner of the room. At his knock, it stopped abruptly, and there was silence. He tapped on the door again, but still there was no response. He turned the doorknob.
In her chocolate-box parlour, Sylvia Osborne was reclining on the yellow sofa, with her legs drawn up and covered by a blanket. Her pink-rimmed eyes made the rest of her face appear even paler than it was. Her cheeks were smeared with tears and her mouth was
swollen in a way that made her look ugly. She was clutching a sodden handkerchief, which now she quickly hid behind her back. She wore a white blouse and a pale-blue cardigan.
‘It’s you,’ she said, and seemed relieved despite her sorrow. ‘I thought you were Geoffrey.’
Strafford stepped into the little room. It seemed less gaudy today than it had yesterday. A weeping woman always lends an air of the serious, he supposed.
‘Mrs Osborne, what’s the matter?’ he said, moving towards her. ‘What’s happened?’
She said nothing at first, but then her face crumpled and she began to cry again. ‘It’s all my fault!’ she wailed, in a choking voice. ‘It’s all, all my fault!’
He sat down at the far end of the sofa. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘What do you mean, it’s all your fault? Are you talking about Father Lawless’s death?’
She hid her face in the crook of her elbow, where the sleeve of her cardigan muffled her sobs. She said something that he couldn’t make out. He touched her on the wrist, but she wrenched herself away.
‘Tell me what’s wrong,’ he said softly, as to a child. He pictured himself taking her in his arms, and her resting her head on his shoulder and sighing, her breath warm against his cheek. Briefly he marvelled at himself. Such mad imaginings!
‘I’m sorry,’ Mrs Osborne mumbled. She had stopped crying.
From the hallway came the sound of Mrs Duffy’s voice, calling Strafford’s name. His omelette was ready. He had forgotten about it.
‘It was because of me he came here,’ Sylvia Osborne said, between soft hiccups. ‘It was because of me he kept coming. I should have put a stop to it. I should have told him to stay away.’
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