Benjamin Black - Even the Dead

“How do you judge that?”

Quirke smiled his gentle little smile. “Sister Dominic,” he said, “I know you value the privacy and seclusion that you depend on for your work here in the laundry. Imagine the publicity it would attract if the Guards were to arrive at your door and demand that you hand over a material witness to what was most probably the deliberate killing of a young man. Lisa, you see, was in the park the night her boyfriend died. I know that Inspector Hackett, of Pearse Street Garda Station, is actively seeking the whereabouts of Miss Costigan. Wouldn’t it be better if she came with us now? Wouldn’t that be better than that Inspector Hackett and his men should come to you?”

* * *

Lisa Costigan hadn’t changed out of the dark blue housecoat that all the laundry’s inmates wore. She was carrying a small pigskin suitcase. She seemed to be in shock. Her cheeks were hollow and she walked with her shoulders hunched. She kept glancing to and fro, anxious and disoriented. Phoebe gave a little cry and ran to her and made to embrace her, but the young woman drew back, staring dully. She had a shocked, empty look, as if she had been incarcerated for years, and now could not believe that she was free.

“Are you all right?” Phoebe asked.

“Yes,” Lisa murmured. “Yes, I’m all right.” She tried to smile. “I didn’t think you’d come.”

Suddenly she began to cry, weakly and without sound, from weariness, it seemed, more than anything else. Phoebe put an arm around her shoulders and led her forward. “It’s all right, Lisa,” she said. “You’re free, now. You’re safe.”

Quirke and Phoebe walked with her between them down the drive, to where the taxi they had come in was still waiting for them.

At the gate Lisa stopped and drew back. “Where’s my father?” she asked, eyeing the taxi. “Is he here?”

“No, he’s not,” Quirke said.

She gazed into his face. “He’s not?”

“No.”

It was hot, in the sun. The taxi’s engine was running, and there was a smell of exhaust smoke on the air.

“Where are you taking me?” the young woman asked.

“To a place where you’ll be safe,” Quirke said.

Lisa turned to Phoebe. “I didn’t know if you’d get my note. I took a chance.”

“Yes, you did,” Phoebe said, “and it worked.”

In the taxi Quirke sat in the front, beside the driver, and Phoebe and Lisa Costigan got into the back seat. Lisa asked for a cigarette. Quirke gave her one from his case, and held the lighter for her. She was trembling.

She turned to Phoebe again.

“I lost the baby,” she said.

May Hackett was excited, she couldn’t deny it, though it made her feel a little foolish. When she was at school, years ago, her class was told one day that a new girl would be joining them, all the way from South Africa. For a week before the girl’s arrival, May and her classmates could talk of nothing else. What would she be like? May had never seen a black person before, except in the pictures, like Gone with the Wind and Show Boat . They had been told she spoke English, but would they understand her accent? And who would be chosen to share a desk with her? The week went slowly, and at last the girl arrived. To everyone’s surprise, and secret disappointment, she wasn’t black at all. In fact, she had ash-blond hair and blue eyes. Her name was Johanna de Kuyper, and she was Afrikaans, which was what the Dutch settlers in South Africa called themselves. After she got over an initial shyness, Johanna turned out to be quite ordinary, except when she talked about things like snakes, and the lovely white beaches there were around Cape Town, and the number of servants her family had — all black, of course — and how lazy they were, and how they stole things.

In her heart May knew it would probably be the same with the daughter of that blackguard Joe Costigan. And yet, all morning, she had been fizzing with anticipation. She had cleaned the house twice, and lost count of the number of times she had gone up to check the spare back bedroom and make sure that everything was ready for the guest’s arrival. She changed her clothes a number of times, too. First she had put on her blue frock, and even a string of pearls. Then she caught sight of herself in the mirror and saw how ridiculous she looked in such a fancy getup. So she took off the frock and the pearls and put on an old tweed skirt and the brown housecoat she wore when she was doing the cleaning. She went to the mirror again. This time she looked like a priest’s housekeeper, so it was back upstairs again for another deperate search through the wardrobe and the chest of drawers. In the end she shut her eyes and chose a dress at random — she only had three or four outfits, so the choice wasn’t wide — and when at last she heard the squad car pulling up outside she was glad to think that she looked her usual self. Hackett, when he had phoned, had warned her the girl was in a bad way with her nerves, and that it would be best not to make a fuss.

When Lisa Costigan came in, May saw that her husband had been right — the girl was in an awful state, pale as a ghost and trembling all over as if she had been struck by lightning.

“You’re very welcome,” May said, and took the suitcase from the girl and led her into the living room.

Dr. Quirke was there, and his daughter, whose name for the minute May couldn’t recall. Phyllis, was it?

Hackett, coming in behind the others, had a sheepish look, and wouldn’t meet her eye; she supposed he felt awkward, having to let the great Dr. Quirke see where he lived.

She hadn’t met Quirke before, though she had seen his picture in the papers. But her husband had talked about him so much over the years that she felt she knew him. He was grave and polite, and even made a little bow when they shook hands. She knew the type; her own father had been that way, wary and secretive. Hackett had told her Quirke was a drinker, just like her father.

“This is very good of you, Mrs. Hackett,” Quirke said, keeping her hand in his for longer than politeness required.

“Oh, you’re very welcome, Doctor,” she said. She was flustered, and felt herself blushing a little, to her anoyance. “Any Christian would do the same.”

The Quirke girl hung back, smiling vaguely, her hands together at her waist. She was pretty, in a severe sort of way. She had something of the look of her father, but not much. The black dress with the white lace collar suited her too well. It had been a hard life for her, up to now — Hackett had told her the girl’s history — and by the look of her, things wouldn’t be much easier in the future.

She turned her attention back to Lisa. Who would have thought it? Joe Costigan’s daughter, staying here in this house, a virtual fugitive. There was that to be said for being married to Hackett: life was never dull for long.

They went upstairs together, the girl holding on to the banister rail as if she were afraid she might fall, and May behind her, carrying her case. In the room the girl sat down on the side of the bed with her knees pressed together and her hands in her lap and her eyes flickering here and there, taking in everything in the room. She was like a creature brought in from the wild.

“Will you be all right, now?” May said.

Lisa looked up at her and tried to smile.

“Yes,” she said, “yes, I’ll be fine. I’m just a bit—”

“I know, dear, I know. Maybe you’d like to lie down and have a rest? You can unpack later. I’ll leave your suitcase here, look, at the end of the bed. There’s the wardrobe there, and you can use any of those drawers for your things. The bathroom is across the landing.” She smiled. “I’ll leave you, so, and let you get your bearings. If you want anything, just give a call down the stairs and I’ll come up.”