All souls imm-4

by John Brady

  “Miserable old day, isn’t it?” said Sheila Howard. Minogue pivoted around and stole a glance at her back. Her hair was tied up in a loose pony-tail and her jeans were faded. He guessed her pastel red polo-neck was lamb’s-wool. As she stretched into the cloakroom, Minogue looked down to see her bare heels stand out of her shoes. Crossan had made no reply to her. Minogue felt that he should fill the vacuum.

  “Par for the course, I suppose,” he said.

  “Are you a golfer?”

  “Well, no, in actual fact.”

  “Golf is for iijits, Sheila,” Crossan interrupted. “Hell is full to the brim of golf courses. Saving your husband and all that. I know he only bought his clubs to play with the tourists out in Lahinch.”

  Steps sounded softly and Dan Howard appeared in a doorway to the right. He took off his glasses with a smile, folded the newspaper and plugged it under his arm.

  “Come in, can’t ye,” he said. He reached out for Minogue’s hand.

  The Inspector sat in a heavily upholstered chair by the fire and made a quick survey of the room. High ceilings and long windows gave him a sense of comfortable spaciousness. Elaborately flowered plasterwork radiated from the centre of the ceiling, over an unlit chandelier. The antique furniture, few of the pieces with a shiny finish, suggested elegance without appearing lavish. Minogue’s amateur but wary eye recognised one of the paintings as a Paul Henry. The only clear concession to ego, he thought, was a writing bureau with elaborate inlay placed strategically by the window. At least it was covered in papers. Howard sat forward on the edge of a high-backed sofa.

  “Something to wet your whistles, men?”

  “Glass of Paddy,” said Crossan. “Nothing tricky, now.”

  “Any Irish,” Minogue said. “Jamesons if it’s easy to hand.”

  “I’ll get it,” said Sheila Howard. She walked to a cabinet and turned a key. Minogue spotted a wide array of bottles. She took tumblers from behind another door and began pouring whiskey. Then she took a small, ornate pail and left the room. Ice, Minogue realised.

  Howard spoke as though responding to a question which no one had asked. “The time of year, all right.”

  He ran his fingers back through his hair once and yawned. Minogue found more comfort in the chair and his nervousness began to ease. He looked at the turf burning vigorously in the fireplace.

  “Do you mean there’s an election coming?” asked Crossan. “Or with Captain Moonlight and his raiders out in the hills?”

  Minogue decided that Crossan’s tone was a way of keeping an edge on conversation with people he knew. Howard fobbed off the sarcasm with a flick of his head.

  “I meant the weather and the season that’s in it,” he said.

  “Ye’re well in out of the weather here,” Crossan said. “A glass of whiskey, a turf fire and all, begob. Ye’re truly a man of the people, Dan Howard. Where’s your high hat and your shillelagh, but?”

  Sheila Howard returned with the ice-pail and a jug of water. Minogue looked up at her in the doorway and felt his belly tighten again. She rubbed her hip against the door to close it.

  “What’s that about an election?” she asked.

  “Alo’s fishing,” Howard said. He winked at Minogue. “But the bait is old.”

  “Alo” from Howard, “Aloysious” with its full burden of ironic grandeur from Sheila Howard. The fancier name to keep Howard at bay, Minogue reflected. She placed the ice and water on the cabinet while she plucked one of a nest of tables from next to the sofa. The phone rang in the hall. She held her hand up before her husband rose.

  “The Chief?” Crossan asked. “A summons to higher office in Dublin?”

  “Hardly,” Howard answered easily. “More likely someone who thinks I can diddle the Revenue Commissioners for income tax or get their road tarred again.”

  Sheila Howard closed the door to the hall. Crossan pursued Howard with the pushy mischief which Minogue knew was playing to the gallery.

  “And can’t you do it, so?”

  “Ah, now, Alo, that class of thievery is well beyond a TD. For that you’d need the services of a barrister.”

  Crossan guffawed and his eyelids slid down a little. He sipped from his glass.

  “Damn fine, I’d have to say,” he said, and smacked his lips. “The duty-free always tastes better.”

  Howard looked sympathetically to Minogue.

  “Familiarity breeds…and the rest of it.”

  “With the exception of being married to the right person, I imagine,” Minogue offered.

  “Making a virtue out of a necessity there,” scoffed Crossan.

  “Aren’t you going to tie the knot yourself one of these days, Alo?” Howard asked.

  Minogue found himself liking Dan Howard’s easy retorts.

  “Tie the noose, you mean,” answered Crossan. “Or the yoke, maybe.” He nodded and held the tumbler against his chin as though considering sage advice.

  “So as the women of Clare can sleep easier,” Howard observed. “Or at least forget their daydreaming and attend to their louts of husbands.”

  Minogue smiled. Crossan seemed to take the repartee in his stride. It must be a friendship of sorts. Rivalry? Crossan put on a melancholy expression.

  “Ah but sure, how would we bring up the children?”

  Howard laughed and rested his head on the sofa-back. An older joke shared, Minogue believed, Howard rubbed at his eyes with thumb and forefinger and then looked at Minogue.

  “Alo digs with the other foot, I suppose you know,” he said.

  Minogue remembered Eilo McInerny’s mention of it and nodded.

  “Hence the expression ‘footless’ in relation to the amount of drink needed on this island,” said Crossan in a dry tone. “When we want to get beyond considerations of religion. Or lack thereof.”

  Howard stayed with the quickening pace of the exchange. “Are you lapsed, is it, Alo?”

  Crossan’s expression turned grave and mischievous. “More in the nature of prolapsed,” he murmured. “Herniated, you might say, from carrying such a heavy burden… Hiberniated, I suppose you’d say.”

  Howard chortled and looked at the Inspector.

  “I used to spend a lot of time and effort persuading Alo that he wasn’t an outsider. Then I realised he was milking me for my inherited faults.”

  “Such as?” Minogue asked.

  “Oh, you know. Having a pet Protestant, that sort of thing. We’re quite sophisticated here as regards the psychology, you know.”

  “For being townies,” Crossan qualified.

  “Maybe not as down-and-out cute as the people of west Clare proper,” said Howard. “Rossaboe people, now, they’re cute hoors.”

  So he knows me and mine, thought Minogue. He yielded to the polite dig which Howard had used to place him so that he could allow it to boomerang back to Howard with more velocity.

  “Cuter still after living in Dublin awhile,” he said.

  Crossan spoke as though addressing a jury timid of him.

  “Aha, yes. Well, I’d have to admit that being a God-fearing Protestant born, bred and starved here in Clare has its moments. Oh, yes. The urgency of the task of survival came to my mind as a newborn in the crib. ‘Litigate!’ the Lord bade me. ‘You’ll never want for a crust among such a disputatious people.’”

  The Inspector joined in Howard’s laughter.

  “There are said to be poor Protestants in Ireland,” Crossan was saying, and he sniffed at the rim of his tumbler. “Silk knickers and no breakfast. A romantic might consider that being an outsider.”

  “Was that how you found your niche looking after the outsiders and vagabonds in matters criminal?” Howard goaded.

  “If I do me job right, they don’t become criminals, Your Honour,” Crossan shot back.

  “Alo’s a ticket,” said Howard to Minogue.

  From the hall the Inspector heard Sheila Howard’s tone as she spoke into the phone. The fire and the whiskey had warmed his bones and dri
ven away the creaking dampness that had been with him all day. Crossan finished his drink and let the ice-cubes fall back to the bottom of his tumbler.

  “Well, now. In the course of a conversation, I explained Jamesy Bourke to this Guard here. Well, the best I could… So when Jamesy was shot and killed, I phoned his nibs here to see what the Dublin Guards might think.”

  Howard listened with a frown of concern and nodded occasionally.

  “And the answer is-nothing,” Crossan went on. “The Guards here are handling the matter themselves. We had this fact confirmed this very afternoon when we bumped into none other than Superintendent Tom Russell below at the station here in Ennis.”

  Howard folded his arms.

  “That kind of procedure or jurisdiction is reminiscent of another episode in Jamesy Bourke’s life,” Crossan murmured. He paused when the door opened and Sheila Howard entered the room.

  “Sorry,” she said. She sat sideways on the sofa next to her husband. Minogue noticed that she had no drink yet. Howard scratched his scalp.

  “Yes, well, the poor divil is at rest now,” he added.

  Sheila Howard had picked up on the changed atmosphere, Minogue noted. She sat very still, her expression unchanged. Crossan did not conceal his cynicism now.

  “The light of heaven to him.”

  “His people have a plot above in the old church ground in Portaree,” Howard said. “I think we can see him put with them there.”

  Crossan started to say something but stopped. Sheila Howard glanced at him and looked away.

  “Jamesy cut himself off from people so,” Howard added, and stared at the fire.

  “Someone will show up,” said Crossan. “Where there’s a will, there’s a relative.”

  No one spoke for several seconds. Minogue had a momentary mental snapshot of these four people, all preoccupied with their own thoughts, sitting here in a comfortable room with the night thick about the house. He recalled the slugs on the steps, the dripping undergrowth alive with creatures making their move as the rain had allowed them.

  “God, how things turn out,” said Howard at last.

  “This Spillner fella is well-to-do,” Crossan growled. “There was a big, black Merc, with an embassy plate on it, waiting outside the station and we going in there this afternoon. We fell to wondering if the same man is now back in Germany.”

  “And is he?” Sheila Howard asked.

  “We don’t know for sure if he’s gone or not,” Minogue answered.

  “Well, I believe I can find out,” said Howard.

  Sheila Howard bobbed back in the sofa as her husband stood. Howard headed for the hallway and closed the door behind himself.

  “Is Dan thinking of footing the bill for Jamesy’s funeral?” Crossan asked her.

  “Until someone comes up with a better plan,” she replied.

  Minogue let his eyes travel about the room. The colours muted by the light kept the room looking warm. Peach now, Minogue saw, perhaps ochre in daylight, and a definite orange, but none of these colours deadening. Waylaid by his own tiredness and lulled by the whiskey and the warmth of the fire, Minogue was slow to pick up on Crossan’s stare at Sheila Howard.

  The barrister spoke in a tone of strained politeness.

  “And how are your horses?”

  “They’re all well, thank you,” she replied. “They were asking for you.” Minogue almost laughed.

  “They have grand names, as I recall,” Crossan continued, still serious.

  “Another drink?” she asked. “Oh, but that ice is a shambles already. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  As she closed the door, Minogue heard Dan Howard saying thanks very much, Sean, say no more. He watched Crossan’s eyes lose their intensity, slip out of focus and turn flat as he stared at the fire.

  “Why are you taking digs at her?”

  “It’s a ritual,” Crossan replied dully. He didn’t look up from the fire. “Don’t fret over it.”

  “Work out your digs some other time then. We don’t want to be raising dust when we need to get something from the Howards.”

  Crossan gave a mirthless snort. “You think it’s sour grapes with me, Guard? I like horses, don’t get me wrong. I’m a horse-protestant, am I not? It’s in my blood.”

  “Beggars ride to hell. We need their goodwill here, so back off with the smart-aleck stuff.”

  Dan Howard returned to the sofa, frowning. Minogue felt suddenly irritated when the thought came to him: Had Crossan a sizeable chip on his shoulder? Was he here less to discover what had happened to Jamesy Bourke or Jane Clark than to embarrass the Howards? Self-absorbed and intent on his own battles, was Crossan’s judgement warped by some humiliation he had suffered at the hands of the Howards or their like? “Horse-protestant”: witty in context here, derisory everywhere else.

  “You were right,” said Howard. “That man was put on a plane today.” He shrugged. “I don’t know what to make of it. I suppose that bail conditions allowed him to leave for Germany.”

  Minogue decided it was time to change trains or, at the very least, to get on board. He sat forward in his chair.

  “I think I should tell you, Mr Howard-”

  “Dan.”

  “-Dan, that I’m not here tonight to discuss that case exactly. To be candid now, I have no jurisdiction at all in the matter. I am interested in an event which happened a long time ago. In relation to Jamesy Bourke and Jane Clark.”

  “Oh, I believe that I knew what you were here for now,” said Howard. “A man of my calling has to be aware of things that are being associated with his name.” He smiled wanly at Minogue and looked over at Crossan. “You know what I’m saying, like…?”

  The Inspector nodded. Dan Howard could pick up the phone day or night and check up on him. He might have already done just that.

  “Some peculiar things happened in that case. Or, should I say, didn’t happen.”

  Howard blinked and sat back. Crossan’s eyes stayed fixed on the fire as Minogue resumed.

  “Now, it’s not that the case is reopened, no. As a matter of fact, I’m on me holidays.” Howard’s expression changed into a look of puzzled humour. “I thought I’d just look into it. Satisfy myself that the case was merely, how can I put it, a little more full of… Well, I’d better be careful with a brace of lawyers in the same room. Let’s call them episodic incongruities which mark the proceedings of law. I want to be sure that justice has been rendered.”

  Howard smiled broadly as he leaned over to whisper to Crossan.

  “Where did you find him, Alo?”

  “Fell out of a bloody dictionary, by the sounds of that,” came the barrister’s droning reply.

  Howard turned to Minogue again.

  “I can tell you’ve had a lot of truck with the legal profession. Go ahead, now.”

  Sheila Howard returned with more ice. She left a scent in her wake as she passed the Inspector. Flowery with cloves in it somewhere, he thought. As though all other sounds in the room were silenced and all other movements were stilled, Minogue heard the movement of her jeans rubbing while she walked. A gust rattled the window-frame. Unsettled, Minogue tried to keep easing out his thoughts as though they were a net issuing over the thwarts of a boat. Her face turned to the window brought to Minogue a confused memory of portraits in the National Gallery. He realised with near alarm that he couldn’t seem to stop himself staring at her. As though aware of this, she hesitated before sitting down. Dan Howard was waiting for him to resume. Crossan was lost in the glowing fire, his fingers driven into his resting chin. Minogue sought out Howard’s eyes to bring himself back. “Now I don’t want to be asking you things that’d, you know,” Minogue began, “bring up old, em…”

  “Resentments,” said Crossan unexpectedly.

  “You mean about Jane Clark,” Howard said. “Oh, you needn’t be worrying there. We testified at the trial, Sheila and I. A lot of things came out.”

  Minogue dared a glance at Sheila Howard.
/>   “If you don’t mind, then…”

  Her forehead lifted and she nodded at him.

  “Well, let me go directly to the matter. Forensic evidence. I was much taken aback to discover, for example, that there were no statements from the County Coroner in the book of evidence used in the trial. As to how Jane Clark met her death exactly, I mean. If she was asphyxiated from smoke inhalation, for example, or died as a result of burns, or from injuries resulting from the collapse of the roof during the fire. Her remains were recovered from the bedroom. That suggests she was asleep and was overcome by smoke or fumes before being able to make the effort to escape the fire.”

  Minogue paused and glanced from face to face.

  “But in the heel of the reel, I suppose, there have been cases where people who are sober have gone to bed and a fire starts, and they are indeed overcome by the smoke quite rapidly. Such that they, em, perish in the fire. Now what I’m coming to is this: In what condition was Jane Clark when you left the cottage that evening?”

  Howard looked to his wife and then to his hands before looking back to Minogue.

  “Do you know,” he began in a quiet voice, “it’s a bad thing to talk about someone who’s dead and them not able to speak for themselves. Bred into us never to speak ill of the dead, no matter who, isn’t it? That night…well, hardly a day goes by that I don’t think of it or some part of it.” He released a long breath which whistled through his nose.

  “Jane Clark had a lot of drink that night,” he went on, his voice firmer. “I did too. So did Jamesy.” He began rubbing his knuckles and changing hands in the slow, measured rhythm Minogue associated with men who worked outdoors.

  “She could hold a lot of drink as long as it was whiskey, of all things. She kept whiskey in the house and I know that she took a drop of it even when she was on her own.”

  “How did you know, now?”

  “Well, there were times I’d go by and she’d be working on something. She did a bit of pottery-she had a wheel but no kiln. She was keen on setting up a darkroom. She had a plan to do a big coffee-table book on the ancient sites around Clare. It was the Burren she came to see. She’d often have a glass by her. Not a lot, now.”