Sister Caravaggio

by Maeve Binchy

  *

  As the van neared Dublin, the traffic on the motorway grew heavier and a mist began to fall. Occasionally, the van sputtered, but then recovered. ‘You have a family?’ Maggie asked.

  Alice overtook a line of cars and trucks. ‘Not a good story there, I’m afraid. My mother died, my father married again, my brother and I don’t like her, she doesn’t like us. Result? We don’t go there … she doesn’t bother us.’

  ‘What’s she like, your stepmother?’

  ‘She’s fine,’ Alice said, ‘if you like women with big tits and a voice that sounds like a cat being strangled.’ Maggie laughed.

  ‘Depend on no one, Maggie,’ Alice said in a detached tone. ‘Just yourself.’

  The convent van laboured where the motorway gradient became steep. Alice noticed that the fuel gauge had fallen sharply, but there were no filling stations and she did not want to make a detour. The events of the day were catching up with her. She had to blink to stay awake.

  Maggie’s head was lolling.

  ‘Maggie, wake up!’

  Maggie rubbed her eyes and uncrossed her legs.

  ‘I’m nodding off, Maggie. Let’s sing some songs.’

  ‘What would you like?’

  ‘Anything, just go for it,’ Alice said.

  ‘I love Leonard Cohen,’ Maggie suggested.

  ‘I said I’m trying to keep awake,’ Alice said.

  ‘Did you know that there are numerous versions of Ave Maria, but that the most popular was composed by Schubert?’ Maggie asked.

  ‘No, I didn’t know that,’ Alice smiled.

  Maggie cleared her throat. ‘I once sang this in the Christmas concert at school.

  Ave Maria, gratia plena Maria, gratia plena …

  Alice felt a jolt of something wonderful go through her. Maggie had a superb voice which, like her body, had remained hidden for so long. As they rolled eastwards, Maggie sang one aria after another until at last the two nuns saw the suburbs of Dublin.

  Dublin

  15 June, 7 PM

  Alice got on to the M50 at the Red Cow, headed north, crossed the toll bridge – making a mental note to pay the next day – peeled off at the Ballymun exit and came in along a west-to-east line through the north city. She was both energised and tense: energised to be back in the chase; tense about where she had decided to spend the night.

  They paused for a red light, and across the road on a street corner Alice saw a familiar huddle of hooded youths. This was the life she had forsaken for the tranquillity of Doon Abbey. Why then was she itching for action?

  ‘Where are we going?’ Maggie asked, as if she could read Alice’s thoughts.

  Alice took a deep breath. ‘To Ned’s place,’ she said. ‘It’s in one of those new Dublin developments on the Liffey. I kept a key. I know I shouldn’t have, but I did.’

  ‘Where did you keep the key?’ Maggie asked.

  ‘On my rosary beads,’ Alice replied, gunning the van as she pulled away from the lights. The red indicator on the petrol gauge began to flash. ‘Maggie, keep your eyes open for a filling station.’

  They came in through the inner city on roads where Alice had worked, both as a cop on the beat and later as a detective. Although the streets and intersections were all weirdly familiar, at the same time they all seemed strange to her now. She remembered an all-night place that had been held up so often that the gardaí had simply stopped responding to the calls. Slipping down a litter-strewn street, they glided into a cramped forecourt just as the van began to chug on empty.

  ‘Right, Maggie, get out the funds,’ Alice said, as she opened the door beside a low-octane petrol pump.

  She checked around. The place looked deserted. Set back from the forecourt was a lighted cubicle with a wire-mesh grille and the face of a youth with nose-studs sitting behind it. A sign read: ‘PRE-PAY – 24 HOURS’.

  ‘We’ll put in thirty,’ Alice said.

  She looked into the van. Maggie was staring at her.

  ‘Maggie?’

  ‘I must have left my handbag in the fitting room,’ Maggie said.

  ‘Fantastic.’

  Alice leant on the bonnet of the van. She had never been led to believe that the religious life was easy, she reminded herself. At least she had the convent credit card. Across the forecourt she peered in and then showed the card.

  ‘The machine is broken,’ the youth with nose-studs said. ‘We’re only taking cash.’

  ‘Where’s the nearest ATM?’ Alice asked.

  ‘It’s up there, about a hundred yards away,’ he said, pointing, ‘but it’s broken too.’

  Alice leaned in until her nose touched the metal bars. ‘This is a credit card. We need petrol. You need cash. What do I do next?’

  The youth stared insolently at her. ‘Try the pub,’ he said.

  Alice thought about leaving Maggie in charge of the van, but then thought twice.

  ‘We’re going to the pub,’ she said, opening Maggie’s door. ‘Come on.’

  Doonlish

  15 June, 7 PM

  Ned had been in Doon Abbey for an hour and still had not seen her. It was insane, he thought, how relentlessly cruel fate was. He had sworn he would not follow Alice down to her convent, made a vow with himself that he would not chase her. And now, here he was, in Doon Abbey, sent by the insurance company that had underwritten the premium on the Caravaggio.

  ‘And this is our little chapel,’ Sister Mercy Superior was saying.

  Something about this very large and overbearing woman gave Ned the creeps. It wasn’t exactly that he was afraid of her – although she towered over him – but there was something else, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Sweat stood out like silver coins on Ned’s forehead. When this was over, he was going to join a gym and lose ten kilos, he thought. He hated being fat.

  He saw the lighter patch on the wall where the Caravaggio had hung. The insurance company had refused to pay out in the absence of the CCTV footage, but the firm still wanted Ned to find out what had taken place. You never knew with insurance: the nuns might end up contesting the matter legally, and in such circumstances the company had to have all its ducks in a row. But where was she? This was an enclosed order, granted, but surely she came to the chapel regularly to pray? Ned forced himself to look at Sister Superior, whose large hands were balled into fists.

  ‘On the night of the crime,’ she said, ‘the steel gates were locked. No one could have got in or out.’

  ‘But someone did get in – and out, Sister.’

  ‘There is no need to state the obvious, Mr O’Loughlin.’ Sister Mercy Superior’s eyebrows knitted.

  Ned had booked a room in the local B&B on the main street in Doonlish. It was wet outside and well after the time he usually finished up work. God, he could murder a pint.

  ‘I’d like to see where the nuns sleep,’ Ned said.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘According to my schedule of arrangements, the fire escape is located in the sleeping quarters. We also insure you against fire, you know, Sister.’

  With great reluctance, Sister Mercy Superior led the way from the chapel, locking the door behind her, and headed out across the cloister.

  ‘I once knew a lady who became a nun here,’ Ned said as casually as he could, striding to keep up.

  ‘Oh really? When did she enter?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Ned lied. ‘Earlier this year, I think.’

  ‘Her name?’

  ‘It was Alice Dunwoody.’

  Sister Mercy Superior halted and turned her attention to Ned. He could see her dark eyes contract, as if a flashlight had been trained on them. Danger gathered in his stomach like a coiling conger eel.

  ‘Ah, yes, Sister Alice,’ the head nun said. ‘She is our latest novice.’

  ‘Might I just say hello to her?’ Ned asked with all the charm he could muster. ‘I know she’s probably not allowed visitors, but under the circumstances …’

  ‘Sister
Alice is most certainly not allowed visitors,’ Sister Mercy Superior replied in her cellar voice, and resumed their journey, ‘but in any event the issue doesn’t arise. You see, Mr O’Loughlin, Sister Alice left yesterday and has gone to spend a month in our mother house in Rome.’

  Dublin

  15 June, 7.30 PM

  A neon sign flickered on the corner as they approached the pub. Alice remembered this pub: it was a respectable operation run by decent people. She wondered would they remember her, but hoped they didn’t. A group of smokers, mainly men, were out on the pavement. As Alice and Maggie drew close, the men turned as one. There was a wolf-whistle.

  ‘Jaysus Christ!’ Alice heard as they made their way past the staring men.

  Customers stood three deep at the bar. All the tables were occupied and at the far side of a dance floor a band was wheezing into action. The noise level was intense. Alice really didn’t want to be recognised – not unless it was on her terms. If the theft of the picture was really tied to her being in the convent, then she needed surprise on her side.

  ‘They’ll only give us cash if we buy a drink,’ she said to Maggie. ‘Order two brandies. I’m going to the Ladies’.’

  She lowered her head and headed away from the bar. At the door of the Ladies’ she looked back. The male crowd had divided like the Red Sea as Maggie approached the bar. Alice saw her walking through, credit card held high. Dear Lord, thank you, she thought as she went into the toilet. It was amazing what a fantastic pair of legs could do.

  She went into a cubicle, sat down and took out a cigarette. Where was Ned? He had not written since she had entered Doon Abbey. And why was his mobile number out of service? She lit up and puffed smoke at the ceiling. In this part of town they had more on their minds than checking the toilets for smokers. Her phone rang.

  ‘Sebastian Hayes.’

  ‘Where are you, Alice?’

  ‘I’m, ah, in Dublin. What have you got for me on O’Meara?’

  ‘Poor guy was as thick as the first canal horse,’ Sebastian replied confidently. ‘Our people interviewed him after the theft and then had a look around his house. O’Meara kept saying that he liked the nuns; it was just their land he was after, not their paintings. But you may not like the next bit.’

  Alice closed her eyes. She could remember the face Sebastian put on for bad news.

  ‘O’Meara told his wife this morning that he thought you and another nun were in grave danger,’ Sebastian said. ‘He told his wife that he was going out to find you and warn you.’

  ‘He had a funny way of doing it, but oh, God, thanks a million; that’s all I need,’ Alice groaned. ‘Does his wife know what he was going to warn us about?’

  ‘He never told her. There’s more. You know the convent’s accountant who was found dead? Well he was murdered, Alice. Looks like a professional job. Just watch your back out there, okay? I have a bad feeling about this one.’

  Alice heard live music starting up outside. She took two last drags and potted the ciggie in the loo. They had nowhere to go tonight except to Ned’s apartment, and that presented a dilemma almost too cruel to consider. What if she walked in and found Ned with another woman? She closed her eyes as dismay gripped her. Yet if this was the case, who could blame poor Ned? Ned would be hopeless on his own, always had been. Who had set these events in motion but herself?

  She was looking forward to the brandy as she came out. Some sort of a dance routine with a couple of dozen people had started up. Alice looked to the bar, where she had last seen Maggie. Men at the bar were smiling broadly, nudging one another and clapping enthusiastically. Alice followed their gaze to the dance floor. She felt a catch in her throat. Six regimented lines of customers, men and women, were in the middle of a line-dancing routine, almost all of them were wearing cowboy hats. Alice found herself mesmerised by the steps. They kicked their heels hard, slapped their thighs and twirled with great cowboy whoops. Then, as the formation changed, and a new line came to the front, the spectators went wild.

  Alice knew that her mouth had fallen open. She recognised Maggie by her legs. There was Sister Mary Magdalene of that morning wearing a white, wide-brimmed Stetson. The man beside her nudged her playfully with his hip. Maggie nudged back. She slapped her thighs and kicked her heels. Oh, what a sight! Alice thought, as Maggie twirled and whooped.

  ‘And how about you, love?’ asked a bald man with huge biceps and tattoos.

  Alice considered chopping him with her forearm in his prominent Adam’s apple. Instead she said sweetly, ‘Thanks, but no thanks. We’re just going.’

  Dublin

  15 June, 8.15 PM

  ‘No one in Doon Abbey will ever know, I promise you,’ Alice said, as she steered the van into the basement car park in the IFSC.

  ‘I haven’t had a drink in fourteen years,’ Maggie said.

  They’d left the pub to a great roar of applause and disappointment. Alice had not even had time to drink her brandy. Now she backed the van into the spot where Ned’s BMW 5-Series normally sat.

  ‘I don’t know what came over me,’ Maggie said.

  ‘You drank brandy, you had fun,’ Alice said as they got out. ‘It’s not a sin.’

  ‘It is for a nun,’ Maggie blubbed. She was growing hysterical.

  ‘Maggie, this is only because I love you,’ Alice said, and smacked Maggie across the face.

  ‘Oh, Jesus!’ Maggie gasped.

  ‘Are we on message?’

  ‘Yes, Alice, absolutely.’

  ‘Then let’s go find our painting.’

  Alice led Maggie to a bank of elevators and pressed the button for the seventh floor. At the door of the apartment, she rang the bell.

  ‘I thought you had the key.’

  ‘Yes, but you know, just in case.’

  Alice didn’t look as much in control as she normally did, Maggie thought. After two rings and no reply, Alice took out the key. It was dark in the flat except for the reflection of the Liffey coming through two large picture windows. Maggie switched on the lights and looked around. The carpet was thick, the curtains were swooped back from the windows and the twinkling lights of Dublin could be seen. Photographs on the wall showed a pleasant-faced but rather overweight man posing beside golf clubs. He looked both nervous and caring. Had to be Ned.

  Alice was suddenly ravenous. She opened kitchen cupboards and looked in the fridge. Nothing in either that would be any good for supper. They had been going since morning and had eaten nothing.

  ‘We’ll call a takeaway,’ Alice said, opening a drawer.

  Maggie saw a stack of menus. Steamed chicken was a regular in Doon Abbey’s dining room; as Alice briskly ordered pasta and veal, Maggie realised she had never ordered food by phone before.

  ‘They say twenty minutes, so we have time for a shower,’ Alice said.

  ‘There are white towelling robes in there.’

  As Maggie disappeared, Alice sat down, took out her cigarettes, then put them away again. Ned disapproved. He was the kind of person who could tell if someone had smoked in a room within the last three years. She sighed and looked around. On a long and shiny dining table was a collection of Waterford Crystal glasses and heavy silver cutlery in felt-lined cases. Alice almost choked. Those were the presents his mother had given Ned in anticipation of his marriage to her.

  She got up and walked back to the kitchen. A yellow sticker on the fridge had a mobile telephone number scrawled on it. Something about the number seemed to draw Alice in. She shrugged and began to unbutton her blouse as she made her way into Ned’s bedroom.

  *

  Maggie stood under the hot water, inhaling the expensive shower gel. In Doon Abbey the shower was in a little plastic box that the nuns used on alternate mornings, and the water was never more than tepid. But this shower was luxurious: like the big head on the nozzle of a massive watering can, it rained hot water down Maggie’s back.

  She still felt guilty about what had gone on earlier in the pub. It had happen
ed so quickly: one minute she was at the bar, drinking her brandy, the next she was dancing, inches away from a large man who kept winking at her. In some weird way, that quick-lidded winking had made her feel good. Maggie raised her face and let the steaming water soothe her. She hadn’t done anything wrong, she reasoned; she was out in the wide world and life revolved on a different axis than it did in the time-warp of Doon Abbey.

  A blue disposable razor lay on the shower’s tiled soap tray. Maggie rinsed herself thoroughly. It sounded mad, but it was years since she had even seen a razor, let alone held one. She picked it up. One of the things she had often fantasised about over the years, albeit inappropriately, was shaving her armpits. Not being able to do so seemed like a symbol of her cloistered life, and sometimes, especially on a hot day, this small physical detail plunged her into despair. When she returned to the convent, would anyone know, she wondered? How could they? Botheration, why shouldn’t I, she thought? Quickly soaping up and then scooping the razor joyfully under her left armpit, Maggie began to sing.

  *

  Alice could hear Maggie in the spare bathroom, singing. Back out in the kitchen in her towelling robe, she looked again at the sticker on the fridge. Could it be Ned’s new number? Biting her lip, she picked up the wall phone and dialled. The number rang twice.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Ned?’

  There was a pause. ‘Who’s this?’ a man’s throaty voice asked.

  Alice dropped the phone.

  At that moment the doorbell rang.

  ‘Who is this?’

  Alice grabbed the swinging phone and plunged it back on the cradle.

  Maggie was standing in the doorway, also in a bathrobe.

  ‘Maggie, that’s the food. Let him in, will you?’ Alice asked weakly.

  She sat, afraid to move. That voice. Only one man in the world owned that voice, and his name was Bruno Scanlon Senior. Everything flooded back: the threats, the violence. And his curses after she had shot his son. But why was Bruno’s number on Ned’s fridge? She had to pull herself together, for Maggie’s sake.