Benjamin Black - Even the Dead

“There’s one of the nuns,” she said slowly, “a young one, Sister Agnes, that was always nice to me. She wasn’t sly, like the others, who’d pinch your fags and and then run to the Mother Superior and tell her they’d seen you smoking. Sister Agnes had a soft heart. How she wound up in that place, I don’t know.”

“And is she still there?” Quirke asked. “Is she still at the laundry?”

“So far as I know, she is. Though I haven’t been back to the place since I got out of it.”

“Would you go back, now?” Quirke asked. “Just once? Just to see Sister Agnes, and talk to her?”

“I suppose I could,” Maisie said reluctantly. “I suppose they’d let me in.”

“I’m sure they would,” Quirke said. “I’ll go up with you, and wait outside.”

“But what if they won’t let me out again?”

“I’ll make sure they do. There’s no question of them keeping you there, no question of that at all. You have my word.”

She gazed at him doubtfully. Could she trust him? Could she trust any of them? She wished Dr. Griffin was here; he was the only one she had time for. Dr. Griffin was a gentleman, and now, God bless the mark, he was sick, and spent half his time in the bed.

She swallowed hard, and nodded. “All right,” she said. “Only how will I get in touch with her, with Sister Agnes?”

“I’ll phone the laundry,” Quirke said, “or Phoebe will, and say you’d like to pay Sister Agnes a visit, that you’d been wondering how she was getting on, since you left. Then, when you see Sister Agnes, ask her if she knows of Lisa Smith.”

“And if she says she does know her, what’ll I say?”

Now Phoebe spoke up: “Ask her to tell Lisa that Phoebe Griffin said hello. Then she’ll know I got her note, that we know she’s there, and that help will be on the way.”

Maisie sighed unhappily. The thought of setting foot in the Mother of Mercy gave her the shivers. “In what kind of a way are you going to help her?” she asked suspiciously.

“We’re going to get her out of that place,” Phoebe said. “I’m sure that’s why she wrote to me, to come and take her away.”

Maisie turned back to Quirke, shaking her head. “There’s no getting away from them, if they don’t want you to go.”

“They let you out,” Quirke said.

Maisie’s look turned evasive. “That was different. They were glad to see the back of me.”

“Why?” Quirke asked.

“Oh, just because.”

“Just because what?”

“They said I was a troublemaker. They took my babby from me and gave him away, to some swanky crowd in America, I suppose—” She stopped, glancing quickly at Rose, who still stood at the window with her back to the room. “Some family there, like. Not that they’d ever tell me. They never told anyone where their babbies had gone to. That’s no business of yours, they’d snap at you, and order you to get on with your work.” She paused again, and her look darkened. “Anyway, it was only because Dr. Griffin came up to talk to them that they let me go.”

“Well, this time I’ll go,” Quirke said.

Maisie looked doubtful again.

“I’d be very nervous, going in there,” she said. “I’d feel like some sort of a spy.”

“You’d be helping someone,” Quirke said, “the same way that Dr. Griffin helped you.”

There was a long pause. Maisie, looking miserable, heaved another sigh.

“All right then,” she said. “I’ll do it.”

She stood up. Quirke walked with her to the door. As she was going out, she caught him by the sleeve and drew him after her into the hall.

“What is it?” he said.

“Ssh!” Her voice sank to an urgent whisper. “You know them boxes of Player’s cigarettes, the navy blue ones with two hundred in them — do you know them?” He nodded. “Will you get me one of them?”

He laughed. “Oh, Maisie,” he said, “two hundred Player’s! You’ll smoke yourself to death. Let me give you money instead.”

She shook her head vehemently. “I don’t want money. I’ll do it for one of them boxes.” Her face softened. “I love the look of them — they’re real fancy, with the tissue paper inside and the lovely smell of tobacco.” She plucked at his sleeve again. “Not a word to Mrs. Griffin, mind! She’d be down on me like a ton of bricks.” She winked. “This is between the two of us.”

“All right, Maisie,” he said, laughing again. “It’s a deal.”

She grinned, and nodded, and hurried off.

He went back into the drawing room. Phoebe had taken up her handbag and was saying good-bye to Rose. She was on her way to meet David Sinclair. Rose went with her to see her out. Quirke took a cigarette from the box on the mantelpiece and lit it. When he turned, Rose was leaning in the doorway, watching him.

“Tell me what you’re up to, Quirke,” she said. “Somehow I don’t see you as a knight in shining armor, galloping to the aid of a damsel in distress.”

“Don’t you?”

“Seems to me it’s just another one of the games you play, these kids’ games you amuse yourself with.” She crossed the room to him and took the cigarette from his fingers. “I don’t care about this laundry and this girl who’s being held there against her will. I don’t care about any of that, Quirke. I don’t believe in chivalry. The world is full of girls in trouble, always was and always will be.”

“You’ve never been in a place like the Mother of Mercy Laundry,” he said.

“You think not? You know, darlin’,” she drawled, putting the cigarette to her lips, “there’s all kinds of institutions. There’s the famous institution of marriage, for instance. I’ve been in that, twice.”

He shrugged, smiling. “I’m sorry, Rose,” he said. “I don’t know what to say to you. I never do.”

“No, I guess you don’t.” She stepped closer to him and peered searchingly into his face. “There’s something different about you,” she said, “I can see it. You look—” She stopped. “I know what it is. You’re happy.” She laughed in wonderment. “I’m right, aren’t I? Yes. You know, I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you happy before, except maybe once, long ago, that time you were in bed with me. What’s happened? Have you met someone?” He said nothing, holding her gaze. She nodded slowly. “That’s it, isn’t it. Who is she?”

He turned away from her and walked to the window and stood with his hands in his pockets and his back turned to her.

“It’s the shrink, isn’t it,” she said. “What’s her name, Blake? The one Phoebe works for? Have I guessed right? I have, haven’t I. I can read you like a book, Quirke, I always could.”

Still he would not speak. She came and stood beside him, smoking his cigarette. They were silent, both of them, looking into the garden. Casey the gardener, a gnarled and wiry little man, was rootling among the shrubbery, hacking at something. The shadow of a cloud swished through the street; then there was sunlight again, as strong as before.

“Oh, how smart you are, Quirke,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“I underestimated you. Hell, you’ve got the whole thing figured out. First you get a head doctor all of your own, then you go up to that laundry and rescue the girl and make up for all the things you never did for your own daughter. Congratulations. It’ll be like going to that confession you Catholics have and telling all your sins and having them forgiven. My, my.”

He turned to her, his face flushed. “You really think that’s what I’m doing? You really think I’m that selfish?”

“You know you are, honey,” she said, smiling. “We all are. But I’ve got to confess, I’m jealous.”

“Are you? I’m sorry.”