“I appreciate that, of course,” Quirke said with a show of bland urbanity. “And yet, since we’ve come all this way, I do feel I can ask you to bend the rules, a little, just this once?”
Somewhere in the building a machine switched itself off, adjusting the silence in the room.
“I wonder, Dr. Quirke,” the nun said slowly, “if you are aware of who Lisa is. More to the point, I wonder if you know that her father is Joseph Costigan. You’ll remember Mr. Costigan?” She turned to Phoebe again. “He was a close associate of your grandfather’s.”
“Oh, yes,” Quirke said brightly, “I know Mr. Costigan, I know him well. He’s a formidable man—I know that, too.”
“And do you know that it was Mr. Costigan himself who brought Lisa to us, who gave her into our care?”
“Yes, I would have guessed as much.”
Phoebe was sitting on the edge of her chair; her palms, she found, were damp.
“Dr. Quirke,” Sister Dominic said, with the resigned air of a person compelled against her will to make a frank disclosure, “I have to tell you that Lisa Costigan is in a rather disturbed state.”
“I know that she’s pregnant,” Quirke said flatly.
Again the nun did that slow, mechanical blink.
“Yes,” she said, “as it happens, Lisa is, to her great misfortune, expecting a child. That’s why she’s here, of course.”
“Of course?” Quirke said softly. “But this is a laundry, Sister, not a lying-in hospital. As I understand it.” The nun was about to speak, but he cut her off. “There’s something that perhaps you don’t know, Sister,” he said, letting his voice harden a little. “Her boyfriend, Lisa’s boyfriend, the father of her child, died in the early hours of last Friday morning. He was found in his car, crashed against a tree in the Phoenix Park. The Gardaí, I have to tell you, suspect that his death may not have been an accident. In fact, they think he may have been—well, murdered.”
The nun fixed him with a level look. It seemed to Phoebe that her pale features had grown paler. Her fingers were doing an agitated little dance on the blotter.
“I knew the young man was dead, yes,” she said. “I heard nothing of any suspicious circumstances surrounding his death.”
“Well, there you are,” Quirke said, lifting both hands and letting them fall again. “The fact of the matter is that Leon Corless—that was the young man’s name, if you didn’t know it—is dead, murdered perhaps, and his pregnant girlfriend is here, under your care.”
Sister Dominic drew her narrow shoulders upwards. “Are you suggesting, Doctor, that there’s a link of some kind between this so-called suspicious death and Lisa Costigan’s presence here with us?”
Quirke gave all the signs of pondering this carefully. “Yes,” he said at last, “I think that is what I’m suggesting.”
Phoebe watched him intently. He, in turn, did not take his eyes from the nun’s face. They could both hear the nun breathing.
“And what,” she asked, “could this link be?”
“I don’t know. That’s one of the things I’d like to have a word with Lisa about. In fact”—he drew his chair an inch or two closer to the desk—“in fact, Sister, what I would suggest is that Lisa should collect her things and come away with us, with Phoebe and me, today. Now.”
“That’s out of the question,” the nun said, with a dismissive little laugh. “Her father expressly—”
“Yes, I’m sure her father insisted that she should see no one, talk to no one, and certainly not leave the laundry, without his permission.”
“Exactly.”
“But I, Sister Dominic, I’m here to—how shall I put it?—I’m here to countermand his orders. I’m here to fetch Lisa and take her away, to a place of safety.”
“Safety?” the nun said, in a deepened voice. “Are you implying that she’s in some kind of danger here?”
“I believe,” Quirke said slowly, “that she’s in danger generally. I can’t say exactly what kind of danger. But let me put it this way: I know her father, I know the kind of man he is. He is a danger. And he’s not to be trusted with the safekeeping of his daughter, nor”—he tapped the desk with the tip of his middle finger—“with the care of her unborn child.”
The nun sat back in her chair, her mouth set in a thin line and her eyes narrowed.
“Dr. Quirke,” she said very softly, “these are outrageous charges.”
“Yes,” Quirke said calmly, “they are, aren’t they. But so are the circumstances. I know as well as you do what goes on here, Sister. Therefore I suggest that you do as I say, and tell Lisa that I’m here, that Phoebe is here, and that we’ve come to take her away.”
“This is ridiculous, I can’t possibly—”
“Yes, you can, Sister. And you will.”
Phoebe felt a thrill of excitement rising in her breast. The nun took a deep breath, controlling herself.
“I’ll phone the girl’s father,” she said, picking up the receiver. “I’ll phone him now and tell him the scandalous accusations you’ve made against him and—”
She stopped, watching, as if mesmerized, Quirke’s hand as it slowly approached and slowly took the receiver from her and replaced it gently on its cradle.
“You will call no one,” he said in a calm, low voice. “Instead, you’ll tell one of the sisters to fetch Lisa Costigan here, with her belongings.” The nun’s pale blue eyes were wide. “Believe me, Sister, this is the best course to follow, for all concerned. In fact, it’s the only course open to you.”
“How do you judge that?”
Quirke smiled his gentle little smile. “Sister Dominic,” he said, “I know you value the privacy and seclusion that you depend on for your work here in the laundry. Imagine the publicity it would attract if the Guards were to arrive at your door and demand that you hand over a material witness to what was most probably the deliberate killing of a young man. Lisa, you see, was in the park the night her boyfriend died. I know that Inspector Hackett, of Pearse Street Garda Station, is actively seeking the whereabouts of Miss Costigan. Wouldn’t it be better if she came with us now? Wouldn’t that be better than that Inspector Hackett and his men should come to you?”
* * *
Lisa Costigan hadn’t changed out of the dark blue housecoat that all the laundry’s inmates wore. She was carrying a small pigskin suitcase. She seemed to be in shock. Her cheeks were hollow and she walked with her shoulders hunched. She kept glancing to and fro, anxious and disoriented. Phoebe gave a little cry and ran to her and made to embrace her, but the young woman drew back, staring dully. She had a shocked, empty look, as if she had been incarcerated for years, and now could not believe that she was free.
“Are you all right?” Phoebe asked.
“Yes,” Lisa murmured. “Yes, I’m all right.” She tried to smile. “I didn’t think you’d come.”
Suddenly she began to cry, weakly and without sound, from weariness, it seemed, more than anything else. Phoebe put an arm around her shoulders and led her forward. “It’s all right, Lisa,” she said. “You’re free, now. You’re safe.”
Quirke and Phoebe walked with her between them down the drive, to where the taxi they had come in was still waiting for them.
At the gate Lisa stopped and drew back. “Where’s my father?” she asked, eyeing the taxi. “Is he here?”
“No, he’s not,” Quirke said.
She gazed into his face. “He’s not?”
“No.”
It was hot, in the sun. The taxi’s engine was running, and there was a smell of exhaust smoke on the air.
“Where are you taking me?” the young woman asked.
“To a place where you’ll be safe,” Quirke said.
Lisa turned to Phoebe. “I didn’t know if you’d get my note. I took a chance.”
“Yes, you did,” Phoebe said, “and it worked.”
In the taxi Quirke sat in the front, beside the driver, and Phoebe and Lisa Costigan got into the back seat. Lisa
asked for a cigarette. Quirke gave her one from his case, and held the lighter for her. She was trembling.
She turned to Phoebe again.
“I lost the baby,” she said.
21
May Hackett was excited, she couldn’t deny it, though it made her feel a little foolish. When she was at school, years ago, her class was told one day that a new girl would be joining them, all the way from South Africa. For a week before the girl’s arrival, May and her classmates could talk of nothing else. What would she be like? May had never seen a black person before, except in the pictures, like Gone with the Wind and Show Boat. They had been told she spoke English, but would they understand her accent? And who would be chosen to share a desk with her? The week went slowly, and at last the girl arrived. To everyone’s surprise, and secret disappointment, she wasn’t black at all. In fact, she had ash-blond hair and blue eyes. Her name was Johanna de Kuyper, and she was Afrikaans, which was what the Dutch settlers in South Africa called themselves. After she got over an initial shyness, Johanna turned out to be quite ordinary, except when she talked about things like snakes, and the lovely white beaches there were around Cape Town, and the number of servants her family had—all black, of course—and how lazy they were, and how they stole things.
In her heart May knew it would probably be the same with the daughter of that blackguard Joe Costigan. And yet, all morning, she had been fizzing with anticipation. She had cleaned the house twice, and lost count of the number of times she had gone up to check the spare back bedroom and make sure that everything was ready for the guest’s arrival. She changed her clothes a number of times, too. First she had put on her blue frock, and even a string of pearls. Then she caught sight of herself in the mirror and saw how ridiculous she looked in such a fancy getup. So she took off the frock and the pearls and put on an old tweed skirt and the brown housecoat she wore when she was doing the cleaning. She went to the mirror again. This time she looked like a priest’s housekeeper, so it was back upstairs again for another deperate search through the wardrobe and the chest of drawers. In the end she shut her eyes and chose a dress at random—she only had three or four outfits, so the choice wasn’t wide—and when at last she heard the squad car pulling up outside she was glad to think that she looked her usual self. Hackett, when he had phoned, had warned her the girl was in a bad way with her nerves, and that it would be best not to make a fuss.
When Lisa Costigan came in, May saw that her husband had been right—the girl was in an awful state, pale as a ghost and trembling all over as if she had been struck by lightning.
“You’re very welcome,” May said, and took the suitcase from the girl and led her into the living room.
Dr. Quirke was there, and his daughter, whose name for the minute May couldn’t recall. Phyllis, was it?
Hackett, coming in behind the others, had a sheepish look, and wouldn’t meet her eye; she supposed he felt awkward, having to let the great Dr. Quirke see where he lived.
She hadn’t met Quirke before, though she had seen his picture in the papers. But her husband had talked about him so much over the years that she felt she knew him. He was grave and polite, and even made a little bow when they shook hands. She knew the type; her own father had been that way, wary and secretive. Hackett had told her Quirke was a drinker, just like her father.
“This is very good of you, Mrs. Hackett,” Quirke said, keeping her hand in his for longer than politeness required.
“Oh, you’re very welcome, Doctor,” she said. She was flustered, and felt herself blushing a little, to her anoyance. “Any Christian would do the same.”
The Quirke girl hung back, smiling vaguely, her hands together at her waist. She was pretty, in a severe sort of way. She had something of the look of her father, but not much. The black dress with the white lace collar suited her too well. It had been a hard life for her, up to now—Hackett had told her the girl’s history—and by the look of her, things wouldn’t be much easier in the future.
She turned her attention back to Lisa. Who would have thought it? Joe Costigan’s daughter, staying here in this house, a virtual fugitive. There was that to be said for being married to Hackett: life was never dull for long.
They went upstairs together, the girl holding on to the banister rail as if she were afraid she might fall, and May behind her, carrying her case. In the room the girl sat down on the side of the bed with her knees pressed together and her hands in her lap and her eyes flickering here and there, taking in everything in the room. She was like a creature brought in from the wild.
“Will you be all right, now?” May said.
Lisa looked up at her and tried to smile.
“Yes,” she said, “yes, I’ll be fine. I’m just a bit—”
“I know, dear, I know. Maybe you’d like to lie down and have a rest? You can unpack later. I’ll leave your suitcase here, look, at the end of the bed. There’s the wardrobe there, and you can use any of those drawers for your things. The bathroom is across the landing.” She smiled. “I’ll leave you, so, and let you get your bearings. If you want anything, just give a call down the stairs and I’ll come up.”
She went out and closed the door softly behind herself. She was halfway down the stairs when she heard the girl’s sobs. She debated with herself whether to go back up again, but decided against it.
The three of them, Hackett, Quirke, and his daughter, were much as she had left them, standing ill at ease in the living room, Dr. Quirke with his hat in his hands and Hackett gazing vacantly at the floor. It was, she thought, like one of those occasions when people come to call at Christmas, and everyone feels awkward and doesn’t know what to say.
“Well,” she said brightly, “will I make tea?”
* * *
The Quirke girl had followed her into the kitchen, offering to help. May suggested she might set up a tray with the tea things, and showed her where they were stored. She wished she could remember her name. Philomena? No, something fancier than that.
She put the kettle on to boil. The sun was shining in the window above the sink, and there was an identical star of light on the curve of each of the two brass taps.
“Your friend will be grand, here,” she said.
“Oh, yes, yes, I’m sure she will. My name is Phoebe, by the way.” She smiled. “I don’t think anyone introduced us.”
May wiped her hands on her apron. “I’m very pleased to meet you. My husband often mentions you. He’s very fond of your father.”
“Yes,” Phoebe said, “I know he is.”
They stood smiling at each other.
“He’s very hard on himself, your father, I think,” May ventured.
Phoebe raised her eyebrows. “Do you think so?”
“Oh, it’s just that he has the look of it.” What was she saying? The day was topsy-turvy. “I’m sorry. It’s no business of mine.”
Phoebe didn’t seem to be paying attention; instead she stood thinking.
“He’s not used to kindness,” she said at last. “I think that’s the problem. If he seems rude, you mustn’t pay any attention. It’s just the way he is—it means nothing.” She turned back to the tea tray. “Where’s the sugar?” she asked.
“Here it is, on the shelf.”
Phoebe took down the sugar bowl, then paused. She was smiling again, to herself. “As a matter of fact,” she said, “he’s just fallen in love.”
May felt the blood rushing up from her throat. What sort of a thing was that for a daughter to say to someone she had only just met? And about her father, too. Hackett had told her they were a queer lot, Dr. Quirke and his daughter and the Griffins, and it seemed he was right.
“That’s very—that’s very nice,” she said, stammering. “Is it somebody he just met?”
“Yes. Actually, she’s my boss. Dr. Evelyn Blake. I work for her, in Fitzwilliam Square. She’s a psychiatrist. Isn’t it mad? I mean, isn’t it mad my father should fall for her? I couldn’t be happier for him.” May Hack
ett stood gazing at her, her mouth open a little way and her eyes slightly glazed. “I think the kettle is boiling,” Phoebe said. “Will I bring in the tray?”
May spooned the tea into the pot and poured on the water. And to think she had expected Johanna de Kuyper to be exotic.
* * *
On the way back in the squad car, Quirke asked to be dropped off at Ailesbury Road. Phoebe went on to Fitzwilliam Square and Dr. Blake’s office, and Hackett returned to Pearse Street to sit at his desk with his feet up, picking his teeth with a matchstick, and brooding. It had been a long and eventful day.
When Quirke turned in at the gate he saw Rose Griffin standing in the big bay window to the left of the front door. She was smoking a cigarette, with one arm folded across her midriff. She looked down at him without expression. The day was clouding over, and there was a warm wind blowing, drawing up eddies of dust in shadowed corners.
Rose opened the door to him herself.
“Mal is in his room,” she said, turning away. “I’m not going to disturb him.”
“I don’t want you to.” He followed her into the drawing room. “I just came to let you know about the girl.”
Rose went and stood again in the bay of the window, looking out, her back turned resolutely against him.
“I don’t know what it is I’ve done to make you angry,” he said.
She didn’t turn. “What makes you think I’m angry?”
Quirke sighed. “Don’t pretend, Rose, it doesn’t suit you.”
She said nothing for a while, then turned from the window, seeming not angry now, only tired and dispirited.
“Have a drink with me, Quirke,” she said.
She made gin and tonics for them both. Quirke had asked for a tonic only but she ignored him. She handed him the glass, and knocked her own against the rim of it. “Here’s to chivalry,” she said.
They carried their drinks across to the sofa and sat down. The day outside was darker now, and they could hear the wind blowing along the street.
“I’m not angry at you, Quirke,” Rose said. “Or I am, but not especially. I’m mad as hell at everything, and you just happen to be standing in the way.” She picked a thread from the sleeve of her blouse. “It’s the damnedest thing,” she said. “I was fond of Josh, but when he died what I felt was mostly relief.” She glanced at him and smiled. “Are you shocked? You should be. I was sort of shocked myself. But Mal, poor Mal, he’s another thing altogether. I’m going to grieve for him—I’m grieving for him already. I guess”—she took a drink from her glass—“I guess I must love him. It’s funny, I don’t think I ever loved anyone, before. Thought I did, but I’m thinking now I was wrong.” She leaned forward and tapped him on the knee. “I even imagined for a while I was in love with you, Quirke. Fancy that. I was jealous, the way you kept following Sarah around like some poor lovesick hound when the moon is full. I could hear you howling, even though you didn’t make a sound.”
Even the Dead Page 23
