Sister Caravaggio

by Maeve Binchy

  Sive made it clear that a ring of some sort was expected as a natural consequence of these developments, and he had picked out rather a nice one, featuring small diamonds set in white gold. During the weeks that followed, Ned became aware of a complex series of plans, bookings, purchases, fittings and future commitments that had been triggered by this gesture. Not only was Sive his fiancée, but she seemed to have every intention of marrying him.

  One nagging doubt remained. Did Sive really love him? Could anyone love Ned? And if not, could you have a marriage without love? Sive was a graduate in History of Art, which accounted for her simple good taste in clothes and furniture. She had a modest private income. There was some sort of job in a friend’s fashion boutique, where she worked – when she felt like it – in the late afternoons. Time was not a constant pressure, as it had always been with Alice.

  But now Alice had reappeared, and all Ned’s old feelings for her – feelings that, he had to admit, were different to his feelings for Sive – begun to creep all over him. Which was in a way shameful, since he was in bed with Sive, hoping to drift off to sleep between her brand new, coffee-coloured Egyptian cotton sheets.

  Dublin Northside

  18 June, 12.05 AM

  Sebastian Hayes surveyed the devastation. The burning truck, the two inert bodies on the grass, their hair-ends charred, their clothes impacted with the contents of refuse sacks.

  ‘Goodnight, sir.’ The guard’s deep voice was deferential. ‘I’m afraid it’s just another of those gangland crimes. Unfortunate Russian prostitutes being disposed of by our friend here. Both of them after dying of smoke inhalation.’

  ‘What makes you think they’re on the game?’ Sebastian asked.

  ‘The underwear,’ replied the guard. ‘We’ve laid them out decent now, but you should have seen them when we dragged them out of the lorry there.’

  A high, quavering voice came from behind them. ‘Lookit, I said I’d take the extra load for a few bob. I was doing the old bitch a favour, so how in Jaysus’ name was I supposed to know it was two blinkin’ corpses?’

  Sebastian turned. A squat, dishevelled man was being led over to the garda squad car. Sebastian motioned the arresting guard to bring the man to him. He looked him in the eye and spoke in his best interrogation voice: ‘Describe the old bitch to us, if you please.’

  ‘Flagged down my lorry, she did. Big fat lardy one, she was. Noisy too. Give you a headache, she would. Swore it was her granddaughter’s poodle was after dying and she couldn’t pay the removal charges. I even gave her a rebate, I did.’

  ‘What do you mean, a rebate?’ Sebastian asked.

  ‘Bate me down with her shrieking, she did. Got a fiver off. Said I was taking the food out of her grandchildren’s mouths. Loaded up the poodle herself. I told her the blinkin’ compressor was on the blink, and she said that was grand, sure the poor poodle wasn’t going anywhere. Then I had to wait for her to bring the unfortunate dog out. Wouldn’t let me help her. Kept me there five minutes. If I’d a known she was sneaking a live cat in as well, I’d a refused to have anything to do with her. It isn’t right, so it isn’t.’

  ‘You are in serious trouble, my friend,’ Sebastian said. ‘And why did you start the fire? Were you hoping to cremate the poor girls en route?’

  ‘That wasn’t me!’ the driver shrieked. ‘Honest to God!’

  ‘Might have been the cat,’ the guard said.

  ‘Are you having a laugh?’ the driver demanded. ‘That’s shocking, that is.’

  ‘Take him away,’ Sebastian sighed. He had never felt such desolation.

  It was going to be a long night.

  Dublin Northside

  18 June, 1 AM

  The air was so sweet. She could not get enough of it. Barbed wire seemed to have been sewn through her eyelids. She managed to flick one eye half-open for a moment and could make out lights and moving shadows.

  She tried to focus.

  ‘Hey, chief! This one’s waking up too!’

  Lights were flashing on her eyelids. She forced both eyes open. An orange bulb winked through the darkness, blurred by rain.

  ‘Yeah, still to the good,’ a deeper voice said. ‘She’ll be OK.’

  ‘Did you see the legs on the other one?’

  ‘Don’t mind that sort of talk,’ said the deeper voice.

  ‘Let me in there.’ This was a familiar voice. ‘I’ve done the first-aid resuscitation course.’

  The familiar voice stopped. There was the sound of heavy breathing.

  Alice opened her eyes, and saw Detective Sebastian Hayes, on his knees, crouched over Sister Mary Magdalene. She stared. They were kissing. The old traditional French kiss. It brought her right back to the dance halls of her teenage years. Maggie was arching up slightly to clamp her mouth on his.

  ‘Having fun, officer?’ Alice asked.

  18 June, 7.50 AM

  Dark Heart kept two full-length mirrors in her boudoir, so that foresight and hindsight were permanently available as she worked swiftly, adding layer upon layer. Perfection was, as always, her implicit aim. We must endeavour to serve through excellence, maintain standards. Put our best foot forward, preferably shod in Prada, or, this morning, of necessity, encased in sensible Ecco walking shoes.

  A lesson had to be taught. She donned the feathered hat that completed her ensemble and posed for a final inspection: she had to declare herself fully satisfied. Her outfit, objectively speaking, was perfect. Next, she swallowed two high-performance aerobic pills, washed down by a tipple of Cointreau. Early in the day, admittedly, but serving the same useful purpose as the tot of rum given to First World War soldiers before they went over the top. All done. Ready to depart. Dark Heart flung open the bottom sash of her bedroom window and filled her lungs with blessed morning air.

  Dublin, Doonlish

  18 June, 8.15 AM

  Sebastian drove fast. Driving was his favourite thing. He loved guiding his Ford Mondeo around narrow country roads. Alice sat in the passenger seat, wide awake but lost in thought, while Maggie slumped in the back, out of it. The police doctor had said that it could take several days to recover from smoke inhalation – a judgement that Sebastian had tried to impress on the two women as he set out for County Kildare. Alice was having none of it.

  ‘This is our case now every bit as much as yours,’ she told him. ‘Besides, Bruno is relying on us.’

  Sebastian checked Maggie in his rear-view mirror. The doctor had said she’d been particularly badly affected by the smoke. Sebastian felt so protective towards her, now that he had brought her back to life. Maggie was soft and yielding. And rather lovely in her awkward way, even when dressed in the baggy running shorts and the pink check shirts that both women had picked up in the Sandyford Aldi at opening time. He thought of the damp strands of fair hair on the pink check of Maggie’s collar. She and Alice had taken a shower in the garda station. Maggie smelled of regulation garda shampoo, but even so …

  A blaring motor horn dragged Sebastian back to reality. He had drifted right across the road.

  ‘Would you like one of us to drive?’ Alice said.

  ‘No thanks,’ said Sebastian, thin-lipped. ‘I’ll manage.’

  ‘Then keep your eyes on the road,’ Alice said, ‘not on your passenger in the back.’

  Alice was forlorn. Back in Dublin, she had seen Maggie looking at Sebastian. Her eyes had gone cloudy. Alice realised that the kiss of life had changed everything for Maggie, had brought out in Maggie basic longings that had been long suppressed. That made Alice sad: the thought of returning to Doonlish without Maggie overwhelmed her.

  Sebastian steered the car even faster through narrow curving laneways burgeoning with green leaves, bushes, fronds and other forms of new life.

  ‘I had a rather interesting meeting late last night,’ Sebastian said.

  ‘When you two were on your city tour.’

  Alice closed her eyes in resignation.

  ‘I was with Davy Rainbow,’ Seba
stian went on. ‘A telephone call came through. It was a hospital in Tralee ringing to tell him that his good friend, Sister Winifred, had just given birth to a lovely baby girl.’ Silence followed, but only for a couple of seconds.

  ‘What?’

  Maggie was sitting bolt upright.

  ‘Sister Winifred is alive?’ she cried.

  ‘Not only alive but breast-feeding, according to Davy,’ Sebastian said.

  ‘Who’s the father?’ Alice asked.

  ‘You don’t want to know,’ Sebastian said, a bit too smugly.

  ‘Who’s the father, you eejit!’ Maggie shouted.

  Sebastian cursed himself: he’d been doing so well. He took a deep breath and said, ‘Jeremy Meadowfield.’

  Doon Abbey

  18 June, 8.30 AM

  Sebastian pulled in at the gates of Doon Abbey on Alice’s instructions. In the distance, at the other end of the long avenue, the outline of the castle convent was just visible. Alice got out of the car, walked around to the back and opened the door. Maggie was very pale, and breathing fitfully.

  ‘Maggie, can you manage?’ Alice asked.

  With effort, Maggie swung her legs out. Alice noted Sebastian’s eyes in his wing mirror. Alice helped Maggie to stand.

  ‘I want you to take deep breaths,’ Alice said. ‘Here, put your hands on my shoulders.’

  Maggie did as she was told and breathed in deeply.

  ‘You’re not well,’ Alice said. ‘We’re driving you back to the convent.’

  ‘We’re in this together,’ Maggie gasped.

  ‘Not any more,’ Alice said. ‘Listen, I think we’re within an ace of solving the crime – and I couldn’t have done it without you, seriously. But now, you’ve got to get well. The doctor said so.’

  Maggie tried to protest, but the fight had gone out of her. Alice helped her back into the car, and they drove in through Doon Abbey’s gates. As they passed the gate lodge, Alice was sure she saw two heads at the window, sinking out of view.

  Doonlish

  18 June, 8.45 AM

  Davy Rainbow’s cottage was a riot of colour: green leaves, yellow dandelions, purple loosestrife, straggling bluebells, and a drift of somniferous poppies under the hedgerows. Sebastian listened to the silence, measured by the ticking of the engine after he had switched it off.

  ‘Nobody here,’ Alice said.

  ‘He was here last night,’ Sebastian said solemnly.

  ‘Maybe he’s babysitting,’ said Alice dryly, and got out.

  Now that she and Sebastian were a team again, she felt coolly determined, in charge. The little cottage was cold, and smelt musty. Lino covered the floor. An over-full bookcase stood along one wall, a picture of a horse hung askew beside an ancient television set. A mid-size statue of the Infant of Prague stood on the dresser.

  ‘Cup of tea?’ Sebastian asked.

  Bruno, according to the deal he had struck with Alice, would have called Metro at seven sharp that morning and asked to meet him here, at Davy’s cottage, saying he had the painting. Whoever was in league with Metro would be told of this rendezvous, Alice reckoned. The main players would be flushed out at last.

  ‘There’s sugar over there on the dresser …’ Sebastian began, but Alice was standing in the middle of the kitchen, both hands held up for silence.

  ‘What is it?’ Sebastian asked.

  ‘Are you carrying?’ she asked quietly.

  Sebastian blinked, then patted the gun at the small of his back and nodded. ‘Why?’ he whispered.

  ‘Because I think we’re about to have a visitor,’ Alice said.

  Sebastian listened, then he heard it: the sound of gravel crunching underfoot. A heavy foot, by the sound of it, coming around the side of the cottage. I’ll hide, Alice mouthed.

  Sebastian had already un-holstered his gun and clicked off the safety catch as Alice dived into the kitchen’s shadowy corners. A burly woman flung open the cottage door. Her face was obscured by a greasy veil. She was wearing black gloves, and holding a large box beneath her left arm. She was breathing heavily, as though she had been carrying this weight over a long distance.

  ‘Davy?’ she called. ‘Davy, are you here?’

  ‘Hold it right there, ma’am!’ Sebastian said as he stepped out, brandishing his gun. ‘Put the box down,’ he continued. ‘Very slowly.’

  The big woman dropped the box on Sebastian’s foot, chopped down at his gun arm and butted him with her black-veiled head. Sebastian’s gun flew over his shoulder, knocked three cups from their hooks on the dresser and then discharged like thunder. Alice ducked instinctively as the ricochet pinged around the room and shattered Davy Rainbow’s kitchen window.

  Sebastian had slipped and landed awkwardly on his back. The woman jumped on him, her black-gloved hands tightening on his throat. Dark wraparound glasses hid her eyes and black hair tumbled loosely around a bulbous face. From her throat curled a high snarl.

  In one fluid movement, Alice grabbed the Infant of Prague from the dresser and swung it with maximum force on to the woman’s head. Sebastian’s black-clad assailant toppled over.

  Sebastian rolled out from under her, and climbed somewhat unsteadily to his feet. He gave Alice a sheepish grin.

  ‘Thanks, partner,’ he said. ‘I owe you one.’

  The woman on the floor, who now looked like a heap of black clothing, groaned and began to stir.

  ‘Why would a gangster carry rosary beads?’ Alice mused and pointed.

  The figure on the floor began to howl.

  ‘Holy Mother of God,’ Alice whispered. ‘It’s Sister Diana.’

  Dublin Southside

  18 June, 8.50 AM

  As Ned sat in the breakfast nook tucking into his nicely soft-boiled egg, he could hear Sive singing in the shower. She had a tasteful, high, somewhat reedy soprano, but always sang in tune, unlike Alice, whose tastes had run to raucous renderings of ‘Hotel California’.

  Ned was listening to the BBC Home Service (as he still called it), which was full of soothing, faraway problems. Nonetheless, he could not stop thinking of the missing painting – which, of course, made him think of Alice. Even though Sive was cool and ladylike, Alice was something different. He used to imagine Sive in late middle age, enjoying the finer things in life with him, but now, when he thought of late middle age, he thought of Alice and an empty space opened up inside him.

  Sive had left the bathroom, and was answering the intercom. He hadn’t heard it ring. She seemed to be conversing with someone she didn’t know – presumably a tradesman or delivery boy. Ned helped himself to a second cup of Earl Grey.

  Sive stormed into the breakfast nook, stony-faced, her cerise cashmere dressing gown wrapped tightly around her slim frame. Her skin, normally as smooth as café au lait, was blotched white and crimson. Her eyes blazed, and her voice was as piercing as a broken razor blade scraping glass.

  ‘Is everything permitted, then? Are there no boundaries?’

  Ned stared at her. ‘What’s the problem, darling?’

  ‘Some woman downstairs on the video-phone. I asked her what she wanted. She says she wants you.’

  ‘Me? Why on earth? Did you recognise her?’

  ‘I couldn’t see her face. She’s wearing a big hat, with feathers, and it gets in the way of the camera. She knows your name. She says it concerns your girlfriend. Of course I said I was your girlfriend – your fiancée, in fact – and she simply laughed and informed me that I was living in a fool’s paradise. She said the love of your life is Alice Dunwoody. She said you would never walk to the altar with me. You’ve got some explaining to do, Ned.’

  There were tears now, and a look of despair on Sive’s face.

  Ned was on his feet. ‘Why don’t I see what’s going on,’ he said.

  ‘I’d rather you had nothing to do with her,’ Sive snapped.

  ‘Darling …’

  Sive drew herself back, wrapping the dressing gown more tightly around her greyhound midriff.

  �
��But if that’s what you want,’ she declared, ‘then I won’t stand in your way.’

  Doonlish

  18 June, 8.55 AM

  Sebastian reached in his pocket and passed a large cotton handkerchief to the recumbent Sister Diana. The nun wiped her eyes, blew her nose, removed her tight black cap, rolled over and sat up.

  ‘I’m really sorry I hit you,’ Alice said to Diana.

  ‘It was for my own good,’ Diana said glumly. ‘This has all gone too far. I never thought I’d see the day when I was wrestling with a policeman.’

  ‘All this poitín,’ Sebastian said in amazement, lifting out a bottle from the box. He turned to Alice. ‘Did you know about this?’

  Alice shook her head dismally.

  ‘And I suppose Davy Rainbow is your distributor?’ Sebastian said to Sister Diana. ‘Was it him who suggested you steal the Caravaggio?’

  Sister Diana didn’t reply. She was staring over Sebastian’s shoulder at the dresser. Alice followed her gaze.

  ‘The little rat!’ Diana exclaimed. ‘That’s where he had it hidden!’

  The bullet from Sebastian’s gun had ripped a hole in the back of the dresser and in the process had revealed a long, cylindrical metal coil.

  ‘What on earth is it?’ Alice asked.

  ‘It’s the worm I use to distil the poitín,’ Diana replied, as the telephone by the broken window rang.

  Alice picked it up. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Alice?’

  Alice frowned. ‘Maggie?’

  She could hear Maggie’s laboured breath.

  ‘Oh, Alice, I think you’d better come up to the convent straight away,’ Maggie said.