Jan Karon - In the Company of Others

‘What are you up to, then?’ Liam asked Corrigan.

William thumped his cane. ‘A good question!’

‘I’m going up with the Gards and have Seamus Doyle show us through the cellar, for one thing.’

‘Sir,’ said William, ‘there’s a very sick oul’ woman up there. I’d like to ask ye not to trouble her.’

‘She must be troubled, Mr. Donavan, as must anyone else in the household at this time. Mr. Conor, I’d like you to come along.’

‘No way can I come up. We’ve eighteen for dinner this evenin’ an’ goin’ on six-thirty, by my watch. No, no.’

‘We’ll need a statement from you.’

‘My statement is that this whole bloody thing is a bloody torment, and I look forward to seein’ it bloody done with. That’s my statement.’

‘We’ll ask you to come to the station tomorrow. Noon sharp. We’ll be taking the painting with us for evidence, dusting for fingerprints, building a case. You say your brother knows nothing of the discovery?’

‘He doesn’t know,’ said Liam. ‘What could be th’ sentence for such as this?’

‘Ten years, and possibly a fine into the bargain. Please come with us, Reverend. As you were the one to discover the painting, you may be helpful.’

His wife had that look. ‘Detective Corrigan, you can’t possibly make use of the journal while you’re at Catharmore. Please be kind enough to leave it here and collect it when you’re done up the hill.’

Corrigan gave her a cold stare.

‘I’m reading it, sir.’

Corrigan stood, buttoned his jacket. No cigar.

He stared at his face in the bathroom mirror.

Bags under his eyes. A five o’clock shadow gone wild. No wonder Corrigan eyed him as if he were a common criminal. While banging around in the Catharmore cellar an hour ago, he reached up to scratch his chin and was dismayed to find he hadn’t shaved. What day was this, anyway, and what had he done with it?

To reckon whether his brain was still operative, he ticked off the list.

Up early this morning and a run by the lake.

Jack Kennedy’s for lunch.

Catharmore and the alarming overdose scenario.

Evelyn’s peaceful surrender, the simplicity of it; he would not forget the ease of both their spirits, and the benediction he felt.

He slathered on the shaving cream, ran hot water over the razor head.

Then he had written Henry and put it in the post box and gone with Liam to the unfinished guest room for a bit of hysteria, then off to the kitchen for a round with the detective, and then up to Catharmore for another plague of questions. All this followed by Paddy being put under arrest and taken away with the painting. Evelyn had been briefly questioned by Corrigan, with only Feeney in the room; at news of Paddy’s arrest, she had turned her face to the wall, stoical. As for Fletcher, Feeney was stern but forgiving, and bringing on a replacement for Eileen.

He felt the circumstances of the day in his bones; he was sautéed, baked, broiled, fried. Seven-thirty. In a half hour, dinner at Jack Kennedy’s. God help him.

The razor had made a clean sweep of the left jaw when he heard someone knocking; heard Cynthia say, Come in.

Then he heard Bella say Paddy didn’t do it, and then the sobbing, which went on for some time. He shaved the other side, wiped his face, stood frozen as a mullet, listening.

‘Come,’ said his wife, her voice nearly inaudible. ‘Come and tell me everything.’

‘Jack was usin’ me. He never meant to take me to Dublin to see Da, and New York was but a black lie, a bit of chat he might give any bird on the street. And th’ way he never met me in the lane as he said he would, and me waitin’ so many hours in th’ night, and for all that, I was still after doin’ something for him, something terrible.’

More sobbing.

‘Th’ cupboard business, like I said, was for credit cards an’ cash, an’ a fine watch to show his mates in Dublin. But the cupboard went wrong and he was angry about it, as if I’d let him down somehow. I was glad it went wrong, for I hadn’t wanted to be part of it, yet I couldn’t say no to him.

‘And so he’d seen th’ painting an’ thought it very grand, and I went on and on about its great worth, you see. Hundreds of euro it’s worth, I said, and he said he was sorry about not takin’ me to New York an’ all that, and if I’d stake him to another chance, on his word he would take me an’ we smoked a j together to seal th’ promise.’

‘You did drugs with him?’

‘Only th’ j an’ only th’ once. He withheld everything from me, including his charmin’ affections, but he was ever promisin’ more to come. ’t would be grand, he said.

‘I told him I was doin’ th’ concert for guests an’ he said would I keep them entertained an’ out of th’ dining room. Five minutes was all he needed, he said, but ten would be better, for he’d be liftin’ th’ painting off th’ wall and must then get round th’ house and into th’ lane. He said I’d see th’ painting again, in th’ form of fancy gear an’ nice pubs, an’ th’ bling I’d be flashin’ as he danced me round Dublin on his arm.’

Sobbing.

‘He had only a bicycle, you see, no van or car to put anything in, but he said he’d get a mate with a van an’ they’d carry it away. An’ so the painting disappeared as planned, and then th’ terrible uproar with th’ Gards, an’ Liam an’ Mum so broken by it, an’ even Mamó sufferin’. I saw it only as a painting, I didn’t know about th’ insurance an’ all that; I didn’t know it meant so much to Liam and everyone here. I thought they loved it because ’t was pricey, but they loved it for its beauty, Liam said, an’ ’t was nearly all he had from his oul’ da.

‘How did you feel about that?’

‘Sorry, very sorry to cause so much hurt, and frightened that I’d be linked to it, that Jack would be caught and confess.’

‘And then?’

‘I was to meet Jack th’ evenin’ after th’ fair and we would go away, but then he went and sliced that poor bloke nearly to bits. ’t was horrible to know I would have run away with someone after killin’ a man, an’ th’ whole thing so vicious. I knew deep inside he was a bad lot, Jack. I knew it, but I wanted to get away from Broughadoon for all that.’

‘Did he take the painting to Catharmore?’

‘I don’t know. I only know he’d done work in Paddy’s cellar an’ after that, came and went as he pleased, for th’ door was never locked. He sometimes slept there, he said, when his rent was late, and no one knew it-he was on th’ pig’s back, he said, to be goin’ in an’ out of such a grand place an’ no one the wiser. He never mentioned Paddy, I don’t think th’ painting was anything at all to do with Paddy. I think Jack couldn’t get a van or whatever he needed, an’ had no other place to put it ’til he could carry it away to Dublin. He had a mucker there, he said, who would fence it in London.’

‘Why no fingerprints on the cupboard or in the dining room?’

‘Gloves. Jack said he always wore gloves when stealin’ from th’ rich to give to th’ poor, which was himself.’

‘You must tell all this to your family, Bella, and then to the Garda.’

‘They say an accomplice gets th’ same punishment as th’ one doin’ th’ crime. I don’t want th’ terrible desperation of prison. My da knows blokes released from prison; ’t is a nasty life. I couldn’t do it, Cynthia, I couldn’t, please God.’

‘They will love you through this-your mother, Liam, Maureen, William. They will love you through it.’

‘No one really loves me, not even my da.’ Weeping. ‘I don’t deserve love, not from anyone.’