The Death of an Irish Sinner

by Bartholomew Gill

  “Please tell me about yesterday. Where were you? What did you do and see?”

  “Don’t you have it in your reports? I spoke to Superintendent Ward—at length.”

  McGarr sat next to Noreen. He had this information, of course. The Manahan woman said she had spent the day in prayer, rest, and reflection, as she always did on Saturdays at Barbastro, because—in her words—there was a “necessary ritual to the day.”

  Said ritual had involved—on the night before Mary-Jo Stanton’s murder—sleeping on boards covered only by a blanket, which she did once a week, “as prescribed.” When Delia Manahan awoke, she resumed the Major Silence that she had entered into during the evening, and she kissed the floor.

  A half hour was allotted for washing and dressing, and another half hour of silent prayer that prepared her for mass in Barbastro’s chapel on the main floor at the east end of the house.

  Throughout that time, the Major Silence was still in force but was broken after mass when a communal breakfast was served in the “refectory,” by which Manahan meant the large formal dining room of the house.

  “Since on Saturdays I have no work apart from the duties I’m assigned here, I spent the day saying the rosary, reading from the gospel for the commentary I was to give in the evening,” she had told Ward. “Of course, there was the Angelus at noon.”

  When questioned about the commentary, the woman had explained how days usually ended at Barbastro and other Opus Dei residences. “After we return from the work day, we finish whatever spiritual reading we’re unable to get through during the day, and we spend another half hour in silent prayer. It’s then our apostolic duties commence.”

  In the margin, Ward had written “spreading the word, recruiting new members,” as though to suggest that McGarr—heathen that he was—would not know the meaning of the word.

  To fulfill her recruitment duties, Manahan presided over a circle of younger men and women who met with her weekly in the library of Barbastro for about an hour and a half.

  After that, Manahan’s day ended in the chapel, where the collective conscience of the group was examined through a reading from some sacred text and a commentary given by a different member each night. “It’s important that the commentary be spiritually appropriate,” she had told Ward, so she usually discussed it beforehand with the director.

  “And the director is?” Ward had asked.

  “Father Fred.”

  After the reading, the Major Silence began again, and the Opusians passed upstairs to their respective rooms for further reflection and prayer before bed.

  All on a weekday.

  Yesterday being a Saturday, however, instead of commuting into Dublin and her work as a solicitor for the poor and disabled, Manahan had passed the day in prayer and meditation focused on a “spiritual problem that I have discussed only with the director and do not wish to divulge.”

  And she had remained in her room until informed by Father Fred about Mary-Jo Stanton, whereupon he had advised her to stay in her room. “So, you see—I was here all day long.”

  “Did you leave for any reason?” Ward had asked.

  “No.”

  “Not even to eat?”

  “No. I have not eaten since lunch.”

  “Who might have wanted to murder Mary-Jo?”

  “I have no knowledge of other people’s unspoken wants, most especially in that regard.”

  “Did you speak with Miss Stanton at any time during the day?”

  “Yes—I believe we passed pleasantries during breakfast, as was our wont.”

  “And she seemed…?”

  “Cordial, as always.”

  “Then do you know of any unpleasantness in her life recently?”

  “If you had known Mary-Jo, you would understand that she did not allow unpleasantness into her life. And if perchance something untoward were to happen around her, she would never so much as acknowledge it, much less speak about it.”

  And so the interview had proceeded on the night before, with Delia Manahan taking what McGarr feared would be the “company” stance on the “unpleasantness” of the cilicio that had been clamped around Stanton’s neck and tightened down until it drew blood. Before the elderly woman died of a heart attack.

  “You reside here?” McGarr now asked.

  “Obviously.”

  “And you told Superintendent Ward that you did not leave this house at any time yesterday, is that right?”

  Manahan nodded.

  “Not even, say, to take a turn down the driveway or around the lawn.”

  “If you mean did I go into the garden, no, I did not.”

  “What about those binoculars? What do you use them for?”

  “Birding. I’m an avid birder.”

  “Did you bird from these windows yesterday?”

  “Not that I can remember. When I pass by the window or hear birdsong in the gardens, then I use them.”

  “But not yesterday.”

  “Not that I can remember.”

  “Not even when the police arrived?”

  “That was after dark, after Father Fred informed us of what had happened and ordered…advised us to remain in our rooms.”

  “How do you know he spoke to the others? Did you discuss Miss Stanton’s murder amongst yourselves?”

  Delia Manahan only regarded him, which was as much of an admission as he was likely to receive, McGarr suspected.

  “Who do you think could have done such a thing?”

  Again she only stared at him.

  “I conclude you have an opinion.”

  Her blue eyes neither wavered nor blinked.

  “I would surmise, from your involvement in Opus Dei, that you are committed to God and the truth.” McGarr let that sit for a moment or two then. “Well, are you?”

  She nodded. “I’m committed to God, Who is the truth.”

  “But you’re declining to help me discover the truth in this matter.”

  “God knows the truth, which is all that matters.”

  “And you’re content to allow Mary-Jo Stanton’s murderer to go unpunished?”

  “No sin goes unpunished. Ultimately.”

  McGarr had heard this very woman utter that statement before, he was now certain, but where? “Do I know you?” he asked again.

  Her eyes began to shy, but she pulled them back and held his gaze.

  “We’ve met, I’m sure, and it’s only a matter of time before…”

  Again the woman glanced at her wristwatch. “Really—this is becoming tedious. And may I ask, who is this woman?”

  “My wife, Noreen.”

  “Should she be here?”

  “The formal interview was last night. I’m just trying to piece things together, and Noreen was a longtime friend of Mary-Jo’s.”

  “My parents own Ilnacullin,” Noreen put in. “I’ve been coming here all my life. Mary-Jo was a friend of my parents.”

  In the silence that ensued, McGarr wracked his brain trying to remember just where, when, and under what conditions he had met Delia Manahan.

  It was the problem with police work, he had been telling himself for…oh, the last decade; he met, interviewed, talked to, and observed so many people in the course of a single day—to say nothing of the decades of his career—that it was impossible to remember them all. His brain neurons were simply overloaded with stimuli, was all it was.

  Yet if truth were told, he also knew that there had been a time when he forgot nothing, nobody, not a face or a statement. He could still remember telephone numbers from his youth, the number plate of his father’s first motorcar, the name of every boy in his school.

  But the number plate of his own car? At the moment, he could not remember it for the life of him.

  Deciding on a different tack, one that would keep Delia Manahan talking until he could remember where he had met her, McGarr asked, “At what level are you involved in Opus Dei—numerary, supernumerary, cooperator?”

  “Really, now�
�I’ve important things to do. As I told your assistant last night, I’m a numerary.”

  “Which is the highest level.”

  “No. Being an actual priest is the highest level of involvement in the work.”

  “The work of God.”

  The woman did not respond, but her nostrils flared in pique, McGarr supposed, at his obtuseness.

  “Therefore, you’ve dedicated your life to God.”

  Having twined her fingers at her waist, Delia Manahan firmed her upper body, as though steeling herself.

  “To the work of Opus Dei, which is the work of God.”

  Because Delia Manahan either did not possess or had plucked her eyebrows, her face—unrelieved by cosmetics of any kind that McGarr could see, and set off by her brilliant white hair—presented a severe appearance. But for her blue eyes, it was colorless, although, like the rest of her, well formed. “Work being one way to honor God,” she added.

  “But do you serve Opus Dei directly as a solicitor?”

  She shook her head, then touched the band of her ponytail, which raised her significant breasts, which were encased—McGarr could see through the diaphanous silk blouse—in a lacy brassiere. “No, I serve the poor and those who are oppressed, and in that way—as well as through the work of being a solicitor—I serve God.

  “But again, I don’t see the purpose—”

  “Do you receive compensation for your work? A salary? Fees?”

  “Both, depending on what basis and for whom I work.”

  “What happens to that money?”

  The hand came down from the back of her head, and her eyes flashed. “Oh, I see where you’re going with this. Do I fork over my earnings to Opus Dei and live here on virtual—that’s wrong, on spiritual—air, whilst my earnings flow into the coffers of avaricious priests?

  “The answer is yes. That’s why I drive a new Jag and have a closet full of expensive clothes, one child at the Sorbonne, the other at Brown. Really, now.” Placing her hands on the arms of the chair, Manahan pushed herself to a stand on the strength of her biceps, rather like a gymnast. “I am neither the murdered nor the murderer, and you’re disrupting the spiritual rhythm of my day. And I won’t have that on this of all days.”

  Noreen moved forward on the love seat, as though to stand, but McGarr stayed her. “Sit down, please. You can answer my questions here or in Dublin. Your choice,” he said, addressing Delia Manahan.

  Hands again clasped at her waist and breasts militant, she regarded him. “Really, I should have a solicitor present.”

  Which would do what to the spiritual rhythm of your day, McGarr wondered. “Your choice. We’ll wait. In the meantime, tell us how you came to be involved in Opus Dei.”

  The woman glanced at the clock on the mantel, then strode to the window and looked out. In spite of the flare of her shoulders and the expanse of her chest, she was a trim woman and fleet.

  “Expecting somebody? Or are you looking for your brother.”

  All in one motion, she turned to them. “How did you know Frank is my brother?”

  “We could begin with his patent pseudonym,” McGarr replied, if only to shatter the high seriousness of the interchange. “Whoever gave him the surname has a sense of humor. And your last name before you married was…?”

  Her wrist came up; she glanced down at her watch. “Really, now—you must go. I have to finish my prayers before the mass.”

  McGarr kept his hand on Noreen’s knee. “Tell me your maiden name first. And then how you came to be involved in Opus Dei.”

  “If I do, will you leave?”

  McGarr now stood. “Obviously, you were married. Are you still? I have it that Opusian numeraries take a vow of celibacy.” And poverty and obedience, which vows are renewed yearly, according to the source that Ward cited in his report.

  The woman was fingering the gold ring on the fourth finger of her left hand, which was, McGarr assumed, the ring she was given when, after having served five years as a novice, she swore an oath of fidelity to Opus Dei in the presence of the order’s regional vicar and two witnesses.

  “It implies that the oblate, who with the ceremony becomes a numerary, is now married not to the Church but rather to Opus Dei,” the report said.

  Delia Manahan turned her back to them and spoke to the window. “True, I was married. I have two children. But I was always religious. My father had been a priest, my mother a nun before…Suffice it to say that after my husband died suddenly, leaving me with two young children, I needed some emotional and spiritual support.” A hand moved to her eyes.

  “Which was when…which was when Gerry helped me out enormously with…with everything, including my spiritual needs, and I decided it was time for me to turn to Christ.”

  “Through Opus Dei.”

  She nodded and pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of her bright blue slacks. “Thank God for Opus Dei.”

  “Geraldine Breen, the…house manager? Is that what she is here?”

  Again she nodded. Before blowing her nose. “Really, you’ll have to excuse me. I hope you realize how…extraordinary all of this is for me. For us.”

  “Us, who?” You and your brother? McGarr wondered. Or you and Opus Dei? If Dery Parmalee was right in his claims about the history of the order, murder and other forms of pillería were standard operating procedure.

  Slowly she rounded on him, her eyes filled with tears. “Opus Dei, you fool. Do you think all of this is mere sham?” A hand gestured to the walls, as though to mean Barbastro itself. “Do you think we’re pretending here and that all of what we profess is just a…ruse to enrich ourselves and obtain power over others?

  “See this ring? When I swore my oath of fidelity to this order, I swore it before an empty cross. The cross was empty because, as our founder wrote, ‘When you see a poor wooden Cross, alone, uncared for, and of no value and”—she sobbed—“and without its Crucified, don’t forget that that cross is your Cross…the Cross which is waiting for the Crucified it lacks, and that Crucified may be you.

  “Now, get out! Your—your disbelief reeks, I can smell it on you! And I won’t have caviling heretics in my presence on this of all days!”

  “Your maiden name, please.”

  “Manahan,” she shouted, rushing at them. “Now get out, before I ring up Brian Doherty!”

  Who was commissioner of the Garda Siochana, and McGarr’s ultimate boss.

  “And your brother’s first name is actually Francis?”

  “Yes, dammit, yes it is.” Wrenching the door open, she shoved Noreen into the hall. Her face was distorted with fury. “And if you report his whereabouts to anybody, I’ll see—we’ll see—that you suffer for it.”

  McGarr stepped out of the room.

  “Remember, the Cross and your soul, if you have one. You’ll be on it sooner than you think.”

  Delia Manahan slammed the door, having uttered a lie in failing to reveal her maiden name.

  McGarr had seen the woman before, but where? “Do we know her?”

  “Now? She wouldn’t allow it.”

  “No—before. I’ve seen and spoken to her…and as part of an investigation.” At least that much had returned.

  “Well—Chief Super or Super Chief—I’m not always gracing your forensic presence, am I? And I hope that only once in my life will I be forced to clap eyes on that piece of holy work. Severe is not the word for her. Did you catch her eyebrows? It takes planning and skill to look like that.”

  Lost in thought, attempting to spool back through the compendium of cases that he’d investigated over the years, McGarr turned down the hall toward the door of the Opus Dei cleric with the Italian last name.

  “And by the by,” Noreen asked, taking his arm,

  “where do you stand on the issue?”

  “Which issue?”

  “God in particular, religion in general.”

  Well away, McGarr thought, if Barbastro and its occupants were any measure of those who stood close.

/>   CHAPTER 12

  RUTH BRESNAHAN knew from the moment she walked into the Claddagh Arms that she was a sight for sore—no, aching—eyes.

  The barman had a face, as the saying went, like a plateful of mortal sins. Not only was his nose in rosy ruin, but his eyes were downright patriotic in color. Buried in two pouches of deep bruise, they were—like the flag—a mix of green and white but mostly orange/red.

  Yet Bresnahan could not fault the man on his taste. He knew rare, somewhat aged beauty when he saw it, she concluded from his fractured smile.

  “Haven’t I told ya’—when was the last time I told ya’—yeh’r’ me heart’s desire,” he barked in the pancake accent of a true Dub’. “Yeh’r’ altogether the darlingest girl to set foot in this kip since…well, since I t’rew open the doors in 1787 or thereabouts.”

  “My sentiments entirely,” Bresnahan replied, sliding onto a bar stool. “Have I told you I enjoy candor in a man. And plain old good sense.”

  She crossed her legs, which were much exposed courtesy of her chrome yellow miniskirt. “May I confide in you? Do you have a name?”

  “That’s Jam.”

  “Jam?”

  “No, That’s Jam. It’s what me father uttered at the moment of my conception, and what me mither—never seeing the darlin’ man again—preserved in me name.”

  “Her own being Crock-et, I suppose.”

  The twin pouches of bruise widened, and his smile appeared again. “I like that. You have wit as well as beauty.”

  “Make that great beauty, and you have me on toast, Jam. Because—come closer while I tell you—it’s not easy being beautiful. In fact, it’s a curse. Men ogle me, women are jealous of me, and barmen, such as yourself, come on to me so brazenly that for a moment I thought we might be old friends. Or lovers. Do I remember you? Or you me?”

  Jam was aptly named. His slack jaw having dropped open, he looked only stunned.

  “Now then—” Bresnahan placed her purse with its Glock and Garda credentials on the bar and squared the armament of her significant chest. “Repeat after me—‘Oh, great mistress’…say it.”