Benjamin Black - A Death in Summer

Costigan. Yes, of course.

“I remember,” Quirke said.

“Do you?” Costigan looked exaggeratedly pleased.

Yes, Quirke remembered. Costigan had padded into the pub that day and delivered a warning that Quirke had ignored, and afterwards he had been attacked in the street and given a beating that had left him with a broken knee and a limp for life. He remembered, all right. Now he ground the butt of his cigarette under a heel and began gathering up the newspapers. “Nice to see you again,” he said, beginning to rise.

“Very sad,” Costigan said, “about poor Dick Jewell.” Quirke slowly sat down again. He waited. Costigan had turned his attention to the moorhen and her brood. “Lovely spot, this. You live nearby, don’t you?” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Mount Street? Number thirty-nine?”

“What do you want, Costigan?”

Costigan put on a look of innocent surprise. “Want, Dr. Quirke? I was just strolling along here and saw you sitting and thought I’d stop and say a word. How are you, these days? Did you recover from that mishap you had? A fall, wasn’t it, down some steps? Very unfortunate.”

Costigan was a leading light in the Knights of St. Patrick, a shady and powerful organization of Catholic businessmen, professionals, politicians. It was the Knights, among others, that Quirke had provoked, which was why he had ended up with a smashed knee at the bottom of those steps that night-three years ago, was it, four? He said, “Why don’t you say what you have to say, Costigan?”

Costigan was nodding, as if he had come to an agreement with himself on something. “I was just thinking,” he said, “walking along here this lovely morning in the sunshine, how different things often are to the way they seem. Take the canal, there. Smooth as glass, with those ducks or whatever they are, and the reflection of that white cloud, and the midges going up and down like the bubbles in a bottle of soda water-a picture of peace and tranquillity, you’d say. But think what’s going on underneath the surface, the big fish eating the little ones, and the bugs on the bottom fighting over the bits that float down, and everything covered in slime and mud.”

He turned his bland gaze to Quirke, smiling. “You might say that’s how the world is. You might say, in fact, that there are two distinct worlds, the world where everything seems grand and straightforward and simple-that’s the world that the majority of people live in, or at least imagine they live in-and then there’s the real world, where the real things go on.”

He took out a gold cigarette case and opened it on his palm and offered it to Quirke. Quirke shook his head. “No, thanks.” He should stand up now, he knew, he should stand up and walk away from here. But he could not.

Costigan struck a match and lit his cigarette, and dropped the spent match on the ground beside Quirke’s right shoe.

“I needn’t ask which is your world,” Quirke said.

“Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong, Dr. Quirke. That’s where you’re wrong. I don’t operate in either world exclusively, but somewhere in between the two. I acknowledge them both. I have, you might say, a foot in both. People must have sunshine and calm water with baby ducks on it, if they’re not to sink into despair. Deep down they know how things really are, but they pretend not to, and manage to convince themselves, or to convince themselves enough to keep the pretense going. And that’s where I come in, me, and a few others of a like mind. We move between the worlds, and it’s our job to make sure the appearances are kept up-to hide the dark stuff and emphasize the light. It’s quite a responsibility, I can tell you.”

There was silence then between them. Costigan seemed quite calm, cheerful, almost, as if he were greatly pleased with his little speech, and were thinking back over it admiringly.

“Did you know Dick Jewell?” Quirke asked.

“I did.”

“I wouldn’t have thought he was the kind of person you and your cronies would find congenial. You’re not going to tell me he was a member of the Knights, and him a Jew?”

“I didn’t say I knew him well.”

“He certainly lived in the second world, among the big fish.”

“And he was also a benefactor of many of our projects.”

“Such as St. Christopher’s?”

Costigan smiled and slowly nodded. Quirke wondered if he might be a spoiled priest, for he had a priestly manner, bland and soft but with an interior hard as stone. “Such as St. Christopher’s,” he said, “yes. Where I believe you spent a little time when you were small, and where I believe you visited again the other day. Might I ask, Dr. Quirke, what exactly it was you were after?”

“What business is it of yours?”

“Just curious, Dr. Quirke, just curious. Like yourself, I imagine. For I know you are an inquisitive man-you have that reputation.”

Quirke made himself stand up. The bundle of newspapers under his arm was the size and heft of a schoolbag, and he felt for a dizzying moment as if he were a small boy again, standing accused before the Head Brother or the Dean of Discipline. “Have you come to threaten me, like the last time?” he asked.

Costigan lifted his eyebrows and his hands in unison. “Quite the contrary, Dr. Quirke,” he said. “Like the last time, I’m giving you a friendly tip, so you can avoid getting into-what shall we say?-a threatening situation.”

“And what is it, this tip?”

Costigan was gazing up at him with what seemed a lively and sympathetic air, though stifling a smile. “Leave off this amateur detective stuff, Dr. Quirke. That’s my tip. Leave it to the real detective, to-what’s his name?-Hackett. Dick Jewell, St. Christopher’s, the Sumners-”

“The Sumners? What about the Sumners?”

“I’m telling you”-a touch of weary exasperation had come into his voice-“you’d be best advised to lay off. You’re a very inquisitive man, Dr. Quirke, very inquisitive. It got you in trouble before, and it’ll get you in trouble again. And speaking of trouble: what is it the French say- cherchez la femme? Or should I say, give up cherchez ing la femme. If you’ll take my advice. Which I hope you will, if you’re wise.”

The two men gazed at each other, Costigan calm as ever, Quirke turning pale with outrage and anger. Costigan chuckled. “As you see,” he said, “you find out a lot of things, moving between the two worlds.”

Quirke began to walk away. Behind him, Costigan called his name, and despite himself he stopped and turned. The man on the bench made an undulant swimming motion with one hand. “Remember,” he said, “the little fish, and the big fish. And the mud at the bottom.”

Dannie Jewell had known Teddy Sumner since they were children, when the Sumners and the Jewells were still friends. She did not like Teddy, really-he was not an easy person to like-but she felt something for him. They both had things to cope with: their respective families, for a start. But Teddy was peculiar, with peculiar ways. There was the fact that he had no interest in girls. Dannie often asked herself if it was just that he had no interest in her, but no, she believed it was a general indifference. This she considered a point in his favor. It was positively restful to have someone around that you did not have to watch every word with, and who, when you did say something, did not take it as significant in the way that fellows almost always did. In fact, she, for her part, had not much interest in boys. They were all right for playing tennis with, or calling up when you felt low, as she did with David Sinclair, but when they started getting soppy or, worse, when they tried something on and were rebuffed and then got angry, they were either frightening or a bore.