When he looked up, the tall Garda superintendent only flicked his hand, motioning him to step into the hall. It was a classic police gesture that communicated at once a kind of boredom—that marshaling people here and there was a routine that long ago had lost any interest to him—and a threat. He would tolerate no balking, no back talk.
O’Shaughnessy was a tall man, well over six-and-a-half feet, and with age his long Western Irish face—high forehead and expanse of jaw—had only seemed to appear more stern. He kept his beard closely shaved, and his skin was pink and clear. Like McGarr’s gray eyes, his were light, but of a blue tint that was only slightly less severe, and in police work his demeanor had its uses.
He waited for the young man, who paused in front of the girl. She did not look up. He followed McGarr out of the room, and O’Shaughnessy resumed his vigil at the door.
McGarr led the young man out of the apartment, down the stairway and into the street, where they met four men from the Technical Bureau who would fingerprint and photograph the apartment. Seeing McGarr, they touched the brims of their hats and hustled past.
Night had fallen, and in all houses but one drapes and curtains made the lights seem yellow and warm and outlined the hedges which, bushy and green now in midsummer, had been clipped into turrets or domes or gently rising crests at the borders of each front yard. Along with leaded-glass front doors that glowed like windows in a church, the little sculptural touch to the shrubs made each house, though similar in structure and style, distinct.
McGarr was—he scanned the neighborhood; the roofs of the stately Victorian row houses that were silhouetted against a mauve sky—in his element. All of it, not just the physical appearance of the street but what went on behind those doors and windows too, was of a piece to McGarr.
Even the slight sweetness of the night air—the special mix of Dublin hydrocarbons from the power plant out in the bay, the other turf that was burnt behind the grates of fireplaces in the neighborhood (more perhaps as a ritual, one that tied the urbanites to a dimly remembered past in the country, than out of any real need), from the roasting kilns of the Guinness brewery where barley malt was being blackened for stout, from the hundreds of bakeries and confectioneries that supplied a nation of tea drinkers with their sweets, from the many streams—the Liffey, the Dodder, the Grand and Royal canals, the Tolka, and the Bay itself—and even from the #2-diesel fuel that the government still permitted lorries to use—was unmistakable to him.
And sweeter and more particular still were the odors of the neighborhood: the sundry flowers and roses that Dubliners—again the country touch, another manifestation of a people who were profoundly agrarian—prided themselves on, cooking smells of rashers, roast pork, sausages, a mutton chop perhaps, potatoes and vegetables for sure with hot, sweet butter, tea and toast. Perhaps it was only his imagination that led McGarr to believe that he could pick out all those different things, or his years of having lived in that setting, but he knew they were there and why and the knowledge made him feel comfortable, at home.
And what was it that had been different about the Caughey apartment above? Certainly the old woman had been a careful householder, prideful of her possessions, her table, her—. McGarr didn’t know, but there had been something…awry. Of that he was sure. He had felt it.
In the distance he could hear the sing-song claxon of the surgeon’s van approaching, and when it turned up the street, the lights in the sitting rooms of nearby homes began to go out and doors were opened a crack and heads appeared between curtains.
“Which is your car, ah—” McGarr offered the young man his hand.
“Sean Murray, sir.”
“From?”
“Herbert Park.”
An even better address and not far, McGarr thought, and he took in the young man’s tan suit that had been cut in a Continental style, with a tight waist and a deep vent, the shoulders padded square. His hair was long and shaped in some modern fashion, and from the back, as McGarr followed him toward the car, Murray looked almost girlish. Shoes with tall heels made him sway.
“Do you want to see the tax book?”
“What for?”
The car was a lemon-yellow convertible, an MG.
“I thought maybe—”
“Do you work?” McGarr offered him a cigarette but he refused.
Murray would have been handsome, McGarr noted, but for a bend in his nose, which was broad. His chin was round and his mouth thin and somewhat pursed, and he was freckled. His eyes were blue. His upper lip seemed to jump for his nose in a nervous gesture, before he said, “No, sir, I’m at university, at present.”
McGarr wrinkled his forehead, questioning.
“Trinity. Senior sophister.”
“Plans?”
“The law, sir.”
Murray, Murray—McGarr thought—Michael Edward Murray, a T. D. (Teachta Dala, a member of the Dial, the Irish Parliament) and a businessman of note. A glad-hander with…aspirations, like his son. “Been keeping company with Mairead long?”
“About a year.”
“Plans?”
“Well—” he looked away and touched one palm into the other, “—I don’t know about that.” He glanced back at McGarr, “I’ve got a long way to go yet.”
“But you see a lot of her.”
Murray tried to read McGarr’s expression.
The clouds were parting and the corner of an amber moon appeared.
The van had stopped, and the attendants removed a litter from the dimly lighted interior.
Murray only nodded.
“Any rivals besides her mother?”
Murray shifted his weight and looked down at his shoes. “Should I be represented by counsel?”
“Not unless you think you’re going to be charged. A girl like Mairead—” McGarr let his voice trail off. “I mean—” out of the corner of his eyes he could see the two women conferring over the hedges again, this time in their front yards, “—she’s a looker, wouldn’t you say?”
McGarr saw the young man’s jaw firm. “You mean, the others?”
McGarr nodded.
Murray was visibly relieved. “Like I said, the mother didn’t care for me, so when we went out with the gang I’d have one or another of my friends pick her up, but she dated nobody but me, Mister McGarr, and that’s a fact.”
McGarr again took in Murray and the lemon-yellow convertible and wondered what the girl thought about that. She had the beauty and dressed herself in a way that was sure to attract all sorts of men and certainly those who were as handsome and ostensibly better off than the senior student who was only now aspiring to become a solicitor. “What time did you get here?”
“Half nine, about. Maybe a few minutes after.”
“You didn’t go up?”
“No, sir. Not until Mairead—”
“What were you doing this afternoon?”
“I was with Mairead.”
“Doing what?”
Yet again the shoes. “A bit of shopping.”
“Expensive girl.”
Murray looked up.
“Expensive clothes, expensive…” McGarr’s eyes moved up the façade of the building and he saw her at the window, standing with her back against the dim light from the dining room. Yes, he thought, noting the shape of her hair and shoulders, the way her dress tucked in at the waist and her hands were folded in front of her—a china doll. She had the sort of delicate and fragile beauty that seemed to plead for somebody strong, some sort of domination, a person who could and would bend her to his will. “…tastes. What did you buy her?”
“Me?”
McGarr nodded.
“Nothing. She wouldn’t let me. She’s—well, I guess her…mother had a bit of money someplace.”
“She didn’t talk about it?”
“Who? Oh, no. Not at all, though I didn’t ask. Of course,” he added.
A would-be gentleman, McGarr added to Murray’s aspirations.
She was still at
the window.
The street was a cul de sac, and the van driver had trouble turning it with parked cars lining both sides.
“Tell me—what are your thoughts, your…impressions about all of this?”
Murray shook his head. “I’m—flabbergasted, shocked. I really didn’t know much about the mother, and Mairead is—” he too glanced up at the window, “—a little…vague, and we just tried to keep off the subject, you know?”
McGarr knew Murray had felt, perhaps unconsciously, that his girl would become too much for him. She was a striking-looking young woman. She had money and was used to all the things he wouldn’t be able to supply her with for some time to come, and he hadn’t wanted to add to his disadvantages. McGarr wondered if she was talented too. “The piano?”
“Mairead’s. She got it last year.”
“Only just learning?”
Murray shook his head. “She’s going to study in London in the fall. She’s gifted.”
McGarr thought he detected a new tone, dour or glum.
“A real talent, they say.”
McGarr thanked Murray and asked him to report to the Castle the next morning to make a statement. “All routine in cases like this, Mister Murray. But I’m sure you realize that.”
The two women watched McGarr approaching them. Obviously they thought he would turn away and enter the house, but when he reached for the small, wrought-iron gate that opened onto the front lawn, one of them turned as though she would flee and the other looked trapped.
“Please don’t leave. I just want to ask you a few questions.
“Missus—?”
“Brady.”
“And Missus—?”
“Herron.”
“I’m Peter McGarr, Garda Soichana.” He touched the brim of his panama. “I understand, Missus Brady, you have some information about a policeman visiting the Caughey apartment sometime this afternoon?”
She had rested one hand against her cheek and with the other held an elbow. It was a defensive posture. She turned her head to the other woman, who said, “I didn’t say a thing, honest, Mary.”
“Can you tell me the time?”
She turned back to McGarr. Her face was long and gaunt, her build cowish with bony shoulders under a cardigan, wide hips, thin legs, and house slippers made of some shaggy pink material. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know.”
“No,” she shook her head. “I don’t.”
“And this source. Is he or she available?”
She blinked.
“Well?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“Surely you don’t mean to tell me that all this report amounts to is…” He considered both of them closely: two hausfraus, one Catholic, the other Protestant, but as alike as two peas in a pod, except for the numbers of their children. He didn’t want to be hard on them. After all, what else did they have but the telly and gossip, and at least the latter was participatory and more immediate. Both of their hubbies were probably down in some pub, bashing them back with the boys, but he had his job too. “…idle gossip?”
Her head jerked back, but she had more mettle to her than McGarr had imagined. Her eyes narrowed, and through her bottom teeth she said, “I can assure you it’s not.” She stepped around him and, taking long strides, walked out of the front yard and into the house, leaving gate and door wide open.
“Pleasant evening,” McGarr said to the other woman, taking a Woodbine from his pocket. “May I offer you a cigarette?”
She only shook her head and regarded him closely.
Mrs. Brady reappeared with a child in her arms.
It was hard to tell if the youngster was a boy or a girl, and McGarr considered briefly letting her carry the bundle back to bed, but it was better to put the questions now while the memory was still fresh.
“Your name?” He reached out to stroke the child’s cheek, and only grudgingly did the mother allow him to complete the gesture.
“Antony,” she said. Her jaw was set.
“And how old is Tony tonight?”
“Four and a half.” Her tone was bold, challenging, but again McGarr thought it best to placate her. The source of her rumor could in no way be considered evidence, but at other times McGarr had received valuable information from children.
“And Tony—did you see a policeman this after’?”
She looked down at the child. “Go ahead, Tony. Don’t be afraid of the—” she paused, “—gentleman.”
It was a nice touch, and the other woman smiled.
The child nodded. His nose was wet.
“Did you ever see him before?”
The child shook his head.
“What did he look like?”
The child only stared at him.
“Did he have on a blue suit with silver buttons and a cap?”
Again the child shook his head.
“Who did he look like then? Did he look like your father?”
Yet again the child shook his head, but he also raised his arm and pointed at McGarr.
“He looked like me?”
“Yes,” he said, lisping. “He was a detective.”
“Was he now?” McGarr enjoyed children, especially when they surprised him. “And how could you tell?”
“Because he had a hat on.”
“Like mine?”
The child only shrugged.
“Was it yellow, like this, and made of straw?”
“No. It was black.” He yawned.
“Could it have been the postman?”
“No,” said the mother. “He had come and gone at four. I spoke to him myself.”
McGarr didn’t doubt she had. “You’re sure it was black?”
“Of course he’s sure,” his mother said.
It was late. McGarr tipped his hat. “Ladies. Tony. You’ve been most helpful.” He did not add that he’d be calling on them in the morning.
Driving back to the Castle to file a preliminary report, McGarr was attracted by all the cars parked in front of Jury’s, a modern hotel here in Ballsbridge, and it occurred to him suddenly and precipitously that he had not had a drink all day long.
But McGarr did not stop. The hotel was some executive’s idea of the type of setting foreigners would appreciate when they came to Dublin, not realizing that those same people had probably suffered through places more interestingly sterile and had not journeyed to Ireland for a poor imitation of what they had back home. The ersatz bric-a-brac and plastic barstools had the look, the feel, even the smell of chintzy modernity and corporate profits. Then why the crowds? The Royal Dublin Society horse show was only three days off and exhibitioners were arriving.
But something had again reminded him of the man in the picture—small and sallow, dressed in the leathers, standing by the motorcycle, smiling. What was it about him? Where had he seen him before? He still didn’t know.
McGarr drove into the city, the streets of which on this summer Friday night were nearly empty, the blat of the Cooper’s engine echoing off the hot brick of lightless, Georgian row houses, the glass of shops and businesses, government buildings, and at last Hogan’s on South Great George Street, where he was something of a regular. The Castle was only around the corner and up the street.
McGarr imagined that at one time the solid mahogany, the brass and cut-glass and mirrors with frosted patterns had seemed new and artificial, but there was a difference here—that Hogan himself had not thought of profits first. He and his family were proud people, and they had established a premises that would convey that pride for generations, if not longer.
Family—what was it about the man in the picture, Mairead Caughey’s uncle? On her mother’s side.
Hogan’s was also crowded—boutonnieres, tails and morning pants, and tall gray hats that the women were now wearing askew on top of their hair; and flowing pastel dresses, sleeveless, made of the new synthetic materials that clung like finer, smoother skin, and that special smile—. A wedding.
Yes, he decided and not for the first time, his people were tribal, clannish, and the old rituals (marriages, births, christenings, funerals, and wakes) were the ones that mattered.
He thought of the elderly, portly woman slumped in the chair and the bruises on her throat. He thought of the daughter playing the piano in the long front room. Her long, sloping breasts. And the man again, the one in the picture.
The barman caught his eye and rapped his knuckles on the wet wood. McGarr nodded and a large whisky was placed in front of him. It was Hogan’s own blend, and it had been aged in sherry casks, down in the dark cellar. Pride again, McGarr thought. And details—that was it—the details mattered. Attention, nothing slapdash.
He raised the glass to his lips and became immediately aware of the slightly sweet flavor of the charred sherry cask, more a perfume on the back of the tongue than a flavor that altered the mellow, amber fluid. And McGarr drank it slowly, standing there amid the hubbub yet apart from the others, the whisky and his thoughts and the customs of the pub providing him refuge. It was not his celebration, and other details—his own—were awaiting him. He finished the drink and walked to the Castle, leaving the car where it was.
At home in Rathmines, Noreen, his wife, had been waiting up for him. She had taken a nap, after having closed her shop on Dawson Street, and was now altering the dress she planned to wear to the Hunt Ball, the premier social event of the Horse Show. It was satin, and in the mirror she could see that the tuck she had taken in the back smoothed the slight wrinkling she had noted earlier.
She was small and trim with curly copper hair and eyes no different from the bottle green of the dress; and standing there in the mirror she looked to McGarr like a jade figurine—her beauty finer and more delicate even than that of the young Caughey girl out in Ballsbridge. It had something to do with the contrast of colors or her proportions, which McGarr thought perfect, or the way that she carried herself without any spare movements. Graceful and fluid and—.
“How does it look?” she asked him, turning only her shoulders so the line of her back and hips and chest was obvious.
McGarr knew the look and what she really meant—the slight wrinkling of the brow, the special light in those green eyes.
The Death of an Irish Tradition Page 2
