‘Look, girl. Memories are long in Eire. Things happened when people were small, and you don’t tend to forget. Ask anybody. Don’t get upset.’
‘I’m not, Mrs Cussen.’
‘That’s good, Magda. If somebody here pulled that wicked old bastard’s tubes out so he choked to death, well, serve him right for what he’d done to them children. That’s what I say. If the law doesn’t do what it should, then people will.’
‘People?’ Magda asked, thinking, what is Mrs Cussen saying?
‘Children grow up, and if they take it into their heads to take revenge, then there’s no power on earth’ll stop them if they’ve a mind. And who’s to stop them anyway? It’s maybe the only right thing. That’s the way to see it, Magda.’
‘The only right thing?’
‘There, now. Talk over. Them old prayers have shut up, thanks be to God. Time we got on ourselves, or we’ll be for it from them old black bats.’
In a daze, Magda went to put her floor things away and collect her polishing stuff. She was so bemused she had to go back twice for the Mansion Polish and felt a fool. Mrs O’Hare laughed at her and said she’d forget her head next if it wasn’t stuck on.
Chapter Twenty-Six
‘Father Doran?’ Nurse Gaffney woke him with a quiet smile in her voice.
He came to. He felt warm. Had he often felt snug? He did not think so. In a way, it was almost shameful to realise that it was this heart attack that had brought him to understand what folk called comforts. Perhaps it was something from his past, when as an infant he must have been wrapped in his blanket for parading out in his pram. They had done that at Killiney. He could just about remember the tap of the sea dotting his cheek as he looked at the waves there. A long strand, now so fashionable he believed, property developers hard at work.
‘Not more fluids.’ He pretended a groan. ‘I’m waterlogged.’
‘No. Visitors.’
He supposed it was the bishop, but saw the two standing there looking in through the picture window.
One was a plain woman with dark hair, not smartly dressed but definitely no casual passer-by. The man standing with her seemed not quite as tall as she, stocky, maybe even portly. Wavy hair, a little short of middle-aged, businesslike, intent on duty. A passing doctor talking to a nurse who walked alongside did not even attract a glance. He felt a faint foreboding.
‘Who are they?’
‘Gardai.’
‘I wasn’t even in my car last night.’
She smiled at his joke. ‘I think it’s routine.’
‘The surgeon hasn’t left an instrument in me, has he?’
‘They just want to ask you a few questions, Father. They won’t take more than a few minutes.’
‘Now?’
‘The doctor says they can.’
‘Very well.’
He was also curious. Often parishioners got up to all sorts of tricks that sometimes had to involve him. One of his regulars at weekday Mass had given an alibi – a robbery, supposedly armed – as presence at the service on a particular day. Mercifully, or perhaps not, Doran could not remember. The police accepted his word somewhat doubtfully, though it was honestly given. There had been other instances, several including shop-lifting by women, no men oddly enough, a statistic he learnt was commonplace.
He recognised neither of the two Gardai.
The nurse admitted them and gave them chairs, carefully positioned a distance away. Father Doran was propped up. He was able to sit up fairly well, though with discomfort. His chest had started to pull across, the pain stretching from armpit to armpit. It had alarmed him at first, but he was assured it was quite the regular thing.
‘Morning, Father Doran. Hope this doesn’t trouble you too much.’
‘Good morning. Not at all. Anything I can do to help.’
‘Good of you to see us.’
The woman spoke first, affability itself as she gestured to herself and her colleague.
‘I’m Maria Finty. This is my senior, Joe Murragh. We’ve got to show you our ID. They’re quite clean and not likely to contaminate your injury.’
‘We’re threatened with all kinds of punishment if we do,’ Joe Murragh said, earning a mock grimace from the nurse as she left.
The two Gardai sat looking round at the array of gadgetry.
‘How are you, Father?’
‘As well as can be expected.’ He made a slight joke of the response, glancing at his strapping on his exposed chest. ‘I’d thought I was going to be cocooned in plastic, but they had me up the very first day after the operation.’
‘Marvellous,’ Maria Finty said. She looked the more gingerish of the two, as if it was her first visit to a hospital where serious work was done.
‘Look, Father,’ Joe Murragh began. ‘The minute you get to feeling tired, you just say and we’ll duck out.’
‘We don’t want to outstay our welcome.’
‘The nurse won’t let you,’ Father Doran said lightly, now concerned.
‘I’m sure.’ Joe Murragh glanced at Maria and nodded.
She pulled out a notebook and consulted the first page she flipped open.
‘We won’t need to record this, Father, so feel free to say whatever.’
‘Sounds very serious.’ His bantering tone caused no appreciable slackening of their crouched attitude.
‘The matter under consideration is the way you were suddenly taken ill, in so serious a manner that you needed rapid medical attention and care, and then transfer to hospital and heart surgery.’
‘Well, quite. Out of the blue.’
‘You never experienced any heart difficulty before of any kind?’
‘No. I told the doctors all that. Dr Strathan was surprised, but managed me very well.’
‘We have also spoken to the doctors here, Father,’ Maria Finty said. She seemed the less worried of the two, Joe Murragh appearing uncomfortable at having to question a priest. ‘They said we can ask for any kind of medical details, if you wish to divulge them.’
‘Heavens, I’m not concealing anything. Nurse will bring you the data, if you can understand them.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Ask the doctors for my records. Feel free.’
Still no slackening of the tension in the two Gardai.
‘When you were taken ill, was anyone on hand to help you?’
‘Yes.’ Doran was taken aback. It might have been the kind of thing detectives asked at the scene of a crime. He was almost amused. ‘The sisters, the staff of St Cosmo Care Centre.’
‘Nobody immediately there?’
‘What is this?’ He let his amusement show. ‘It is an old folks’ home, remember.’
‘Yes, Father.’
Joe Murragh smiled at that, and nodded to Maria Finty to take up the thread. Doran felt it was something of an act, the sort when two detectives cross-questioned a suspect. But suspected of having done what, fallen ill?
‘Who was first to help you?’
‘I have little recollection. Ah, I believe it was Sister Stephanie. She is the senior nun at the St Cosmo.’
‘What happened then?’
‘I can’t exactly recall. Is it important?’
‘Anything you might be able to remember could be significant, Father.’ Her notebook, that worrying implement, now came into play. Something in it made her brow clear. ‘What is the last event that stays in your mind before you felt unable to move?’
‘I think I had just come from one of the wards.’
‘You remember which?’
‘Yes. I spoke with several old folk. One was the second alcove, two old gentlemen there. The next one was a slightly larger area with two ladies. Then one old man on his own.’
‘You had had tea with Sister Stephanie?’
‘Yes.’
‘What did you have?’
‘Goodness.’ He pondered. ‘Tea, with milk. I try to keep away from sugar, but occasionally…’ He would have shrugged to show an innocent
failing, but did not dare for fear of pain. ‘Piece of cake. Then I went to see the old folks.’
‘You took nothing with them?’
‘No.’
‘Absolutely nothing?’
‘They’d already had their tea.’
‘The point is, Father,’ Joe Murragh stirred with impatience, ‘we spoke with one of the consultant physicians, the cardiac man, who was somewhat puzzled by the sudden onset of your symptoms. And the severity.’
‘Well, heart attack.’
‘Sure, but they commented, as Dr Strathan did, on the similarity of the symptoms to some kind of toxic substance.’
‘Toxic? What does that mean?’
‘Apparently the heart responded differently to various drugs.’
‘Drugs?’
‘Yes. Could it be possible that you unwittingly took something that might have brought on this attack?’
‘I can’t even begin to imagine.’
‘You had nothing besides the tea Sister Stephanie gave you?’
‘Nothing. Oh.’ He smiled, self-indulgence. ‘I had a drop from Mr Gorragher. He has a small bottle on occasion, and it’s his fancy to provide me with a nip. He is so proud of it, and delights in my staying to talk a little of innocent memories. Against the cold, you understand.’
They relaxed somewhat as if they had reached the end of an approaching run.
‘Mr Gorragher?’
Father Doran knew they had no need to write the name down.
‘A very old gentleman. It seems unlikely that he will ever leave the Home.’
‘We heard.’
‘Did you notice anything unusual about the taste?’
‘No. You surely can’t think…? That’s impossible.’
‘Of course. We’re just eliminating possibilities.’
‘And,’ Maria Finty put in, ‘once we’ve done we can all go home and delete the file.’
‘File?’ Now Doran was startled. A file on his illness. Why, for Heaven’s sake? ‘Is there some possibility that there may have been some contaminant in somebody’s drink?’
‘It’s remote, but Dr Strathan did make that comment when he first saw you.’
‘He said nothing about it to me.’
‘Well, of course he wouldn’t. You were not in a condition to chat much.’
‘I suppose not.’
‘You were taken ill as you left the St Cosmo?’
‘Yes. I felt a griping pain, as if I had eaten something that disagreed. Colic. I believe,’ he offered helpfully, ‘that suggests heart pain at first, particularly when it comes out of the blue.’
‘And then?’
‘I was taken to the sick room. I’m unclear about the actual details. A Nurse Tully was called to sit with me.’
‘And the nuns, of course. Anyone else?’
‘Oh, there was one girl, a trusted girl called Magda, one of the Magdalenes who now works in our establishments. She sat with me for a short time.’
Father Doran felt that same sense of misgiving he had when Magda spoke about her friend, some friend who had possibly not been treated well – could this memory be actually false? He could think back over how slightly shocked he had been when, possibly mistaking what the girl said, she had spoken of God maybe not playing fair with her friend who had died so sadly at some establishment. His memory of the conversation was fuzzy.
‘Magda. Anybody else?’
They were compiling a list, Doran knew now. They were going to take this further, exploring the past. Had people, including the Gardai, nothing better to do?
‘Not that I can recall, no.’
‘Father.’ Joe Murragh crossed his legs, sighing at the effort it seemed to cause him, or maybe his loss of concentration in a difficult moment. ‘Look. Have you ever heard of any other event at the St Cosmo?’
‘Event?’ The twinge of apprehension recurred. Did he need a lawyer now? ‘What event?’
‘There was some business a while back. We investigated.’
‘Could you remind me?’
‘A very elderly priest was admitted there. He was ill, but the doctors cleared him to go to a final care home where he would have good nursing. Support systems, drugs and the like.’
‘Ah, I do remember hearing about it, yes.’
‘Father Kilfoyle, it was.’
‘Didn’t he die?’
‘That was it.’
‘He died,’ Maria Finty said, the lightness having gone from her voice, ‘when some obstruction happened. It was put down as an accident.’
‘At first,’ Joe Murragh added.
‘Then it seemed the obstruction to Father Kilfoyle’s airway was only part of the problem. Some fluid was misdirected into his vein.’
‘It was almost as if the tube had been moved.’
‘Deliberately?’
‘We’re not making that allegation, Father. We’re commenting on the first notes Dr Strathan made at the time, and that he reported to the coroner when Father Kilfoyle was found dead.’
‘Dr Strathan reported something odd about my heart attack?’
‘Not really. He submitted his extensive notes to the cardiac unit when you were admitted here.’
‘It’s what usually happens.’
‘Dr Strathan made no suggestions about foul play.’
From an innocent greeting of hello, to foul play and serious allegations all in a few minutes? Father Doran found events racing through his mind, but they were not quite in sequence as they ought to have been. Something kept intruding, as if a cinema reel was shaken up and the frames patterned out into kaleidoscopic images.
‘Thank goodness for that.’
‘Nor have the doctors here, Father.’
‘That’s a relief.’
He ignored the vision of a face, a glance, a darkness with another face, possibly asleep, across a room where there was only night’s gloaming.
‘Can you not be more specific?’
‘I wish we could, Father. We have little to go on.’
‘What are you implying?’
‘We’re trying hard not to imply anything at all, just examine events as they occurred. That is, the ones we know the sisters and the inmates of the St Cosmo Care Home can be sure of.’
‘Have you ever felt any kind of animosity directed towards you at the home?’
‘Certainly not. The people are all kindly.’
‘And nobody has shown you the slightest resentment?’
‘Nothing like that.’
‘Do you know any of them from before you took up your appointment, Father?’
‘No. At least, I don’t think so.’ He frowned, now becoming tired. ‘You can never quite be certain. So many people in a parish, you understand, speak to you. You can’t be absolutely positive.’
‘We understand.’
‘One can’t always be bothered to try.’
‘Try?’ Maria Finty picked up.
‘Try to recall where this face was seen last, where that person was when we previously spoke, that kind of thing.’
‘Of course. We’re the same.’
‘Has anybody at the St Cosmo ever mentioned Father Kilfoyle to you?’
‘No, pretty sure, no.’
‘And you get on well with them?’
‘Certainly.’
‘Father Doran. Please don’t mind if I ask this, only it’s in the manual, sort of. Is there any event you might remember that could have any bearing on you, your career, your position?’
‘What kind of thing?’
‘Some criticism, perhaps, a disgruntled parishioner who could have misinterpreted something you once said or did?’
‘I’m not at all sure of your meaning, Mr Murragh. Do you mean have I ever been guilty of a felony?’
‘Nothing quite so serious.’ The detective’s eyes twinkled, and Father Doran suddenly realised, This is a dangerous man; he isn’t the placid Maria Finty, who is brought along merely to disarm whoever’s being interrogated. And it was an interrogation, not
merely a few questions asked by a couple of people in for a chat about the crops and the weather. Not quite a cross-questioning, for then they would have brought a recording device. ‘Only a bit of tidying up to do, then we can report, close the file, and all go off to the racing at Fairyhouse where Maria here loses all her ill-gotten gains.’
‘Sad to hear it,’ Father Doran said.
‘Nothing we can put down in that particular column?’ Joe Murragh said with finality.
‘Nothing, no.’
‘Where were you before here, Father?’
‘I had rather a roving commission. I had been wondering exactly what direction my vocation was taking me, so I took a year as interlude. The hierarchy allowed me to take up duties in three different diocese.’
‘You met a great many people in different locations?’
‘Yes. I can let you have a list of the places, if you wish.’
‘That would be fine, Father. Just to dot the i’s and cross the t’s. No need to hurry at all.’
He already has the list, Father Doran knew instantly. He envisioned a list on A4 paper, with pencilled notes from the scrupulous hand of Maria Finty and a covering letter from Bishop MacGrath, and knew Murragh was fishing away, seemingly idle. Would it be disarming to mention, quite casually, that several incidents had occurred at one or two places that could be open to misinterpretation? Harmless to admit them now, surely, in these cynical times when everything was subjected to appraisal by a press avid for concealed conspiracy. It was a sorry world.
‘That was some time ago, was it? Or recently?’
So he knows that too, when and where.
‘Oh, four years back, I think. From there I came to my parish here, and I must say I’ve enjoyed the experience very much. Hard work, of course, and unrelenting. But work done properly is never easy, or it has no merit at all.’
‘Well, that’s it, Father Doran.’ The priest did not detect what signal passed between the two, but they instantly rose as if physically connected. ‘We’ll say goodbye and wish you well.’
‘Do I have anything to worry about?’
Father Doran could have kicked himself, but judged it was not too serious a mistake. Maybe an innocent suffering from a sudden health setback such as his would naturally ask that kind of question, round the chat off.
Bad Girl Magdalene Page 29
