Benjamin Black - Holy Orders

“I met him — I didn’t say I knew him.”

“Even so, if you knew anything about him you’d know how he — well, how he exaggerated. There was a side of him that was always a little boy who loved the movies. It was one of the things that made him so lovable.”

Her eyes glistened. Frowning, Quirke glanced towards Phoebe, then turned back to Sally. “You realize,” he said, “we may never find out who killed your brother.”

Sally looked at him. The light in her eyes had turned cold, and there was no sign of tears now. “ I’ll find out,” she said. “I won’t rest until I do.”

Phoebe gazed at her, wondering at the sudden hardness in her voice, at that icy light in her eye. It occurred to her that she might have misjudged Sally Minor. She thought yet again of the hidden pistol wrapped in its red rag, and this time there was nothing amusing about it.

“Miss Minor—” Quirke began, but the girl interrupted him.

“Call me Sally, please,” she said. “I always think ‘Miss Minor’ sounds like the name of a car.” She smiled, though something brittle remained in her look.

Quirke nodded. “All right — Sally.” He paused. “The police have a hard time of it, in this city,” he said. “You know how it is — the authorities are not trusted, it’s part of our colonial heritage. People by instinct won’t talk to the Guards, and so—”

Sally interrupted him again. “You don’t think I’m holding something back, do you?” she said, her smile growing all the more brittle.

A faint flush appeared on Quirke’s brow. “No, of course not,” he said, in a thickened voice. “I just thought there might be something you’re not aware of, that you haven’t thought of. Phoebe”—he glanced towards his daughter—“Phoebe says you have the feeling someone might be following you.”

Phoebe frowned at him but he ignored her. Sally looked down, and fingered the clasp of her handbag. “I’m sure I’m just imagining it. I suppose I was frightened, when I heard of James’s death—”

“How did you hear?” Quirke asked.

Sally made a small grimace. “My brother phoned me — I mean Patrick. He had that much decency, at least.” The subject of her family was obviously an embarrassment to her, and she blushed. But was she blushing, Phoebe wondered, or was she angry?

“It must have been a great shock,” Quirke said.

Sally gave a doleful shrug. “My hands were shaking for days afterwards,” she said. Then she looked up. “But I’m not afraid now, Dr. Quirke.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Quirke said.

“Oh, I am afraid, in a way. It’s frightening not to know what happened to James, and why.”

“And you wonder,” Quirke said, “if you’re in danger too?”

Sally turned to Phoebe. “Do you think we could have some more tea?” She smiled apologetically. “I’m thirsty all of a sudden.”

“Would you like something stronger?” Quirke asked. He turned about in his chair and caught the waitress’s eye. “What will you have?” he said, turning to Sally again. “A sherry, maybe?”

“No, no,” she said. “Tea will be perfect.”

The waitress came, and Quirke asked her to bring another pot of tea, and added, conscious of Phoebe’s eye on him, that he would have a glass of wine. Phoebe smiled at him grimly, lifting an eyebrow, but he would not look at her. At least, she thought, he had not asked for whiskey.

“What about that thing in the paper,” Sally asked, “that splash in the Clarion ? Did the couple come forward, the couple who found James’s body?”

“I’m afraid,” Quirke said, “that was just the Clarion making noise, as usual.”

“But what about the couple?”

“There was no mystery about them — they gave their details to the Guards on the night that Jimmy’s body was found. They knew nothing, they only happened on the — on the body.”

Quirke was watching the waitress making her way towards them, bearing a tray with their tea and his glass of wine. She handed him the glass and he took it in both hands, almost reverently, and set it on the table. Phoebe tried not to let him see her watching him. His little rituals always fascinated her, fascinated and appalled her, but most of all they made her feel sorry for him. Poor Quirke: he was so transparent. He sat there, making himself not look at the glass, and she counted off the half dozen beats before he picked it up, trying to seem nonchalant, and failing. He took a long sip, followed by a grimace and a quick drawing in of breath. He set the glass down on the table again and cleared his throat.

“ Do you think you might be in danger?” he said to Sally.

Phoebe poured the tea, while Sally watched her. A gust of rain clattered against the window above them, and something outside, an awning, perhaps, flapped in the wind and made a noise like distant thunder.

“My brother,” Sally said slowly, still with her eyes on Phoebe’s hands distributing the cups, “my brother used to be involved with — he used to be involved with a bad crowd.”

“You mean Jimmy?” Quirke asked, sounding puzzled.

“No, no, my other brother — Patrick.”

“Ah, yes. I met him. A bad crowd, you say?” He looked doubtful.

“Yes,” Sally said, and hesitated. “Well, you know what it’s like, up there on the border.”

Quirke frowned. “Do you mean the IRA?”

“Yes,” Sally said, and nodded, pressing her lips tightly together, and for a second Quirke had a vivid memory of her mother, standing in his office that day, with her son’s body laid out on the slab in the next room, her mouth small and wrinkled. “It was a long time ago,” Sally said, “and he was young.” She laughed. “You wouldn’t think it, would you, seeing Patrick now, that he was ever young.”

Quirke dipped his head and took another quick go from his glass, as if, Phoebe thought, he imagined that if he did it quickly enough no one would notice. “Did he”—he hesitated—“did he take part? I mean, was he active?”

“No,” Sally said, “I’m sure he wasn’t.”

Phoebe was looking from one of them to the other. “The IRA?” she said to Sally. “Are you joking?” She turned to Quirke. “They’re not — they’re not serious, are they? I mean, the IRA is just a bunch of hotheads, aren’t they? Crackpots and hotheads?”

“Well, they take themselves seriously,” Quirke said mildly.

“I used to think they were a joke,” Sally said quietly, “until they blew up a Customs post a few miles from where we lived. One of their own men died in the explosion — he’s held up as a martyr in the locality, now. But it gave our Patrick the fright he needed, and before we knew it he had packed himself off to Dublin to study for the law.” She laughed coldly. “And now he’s a thoroughly respectable pillar of the community.”

“I remember that bombing,” Quirke said, “but it’s a long time ago now. Do you really think Jimmy’s death might have been in some way—?”

“No,” Sally said, “I’m sure it wasn’t. Only, when something as dreadful as that happens, you imagine all sorts of things”—she turned to Phoebe—“don’t you?”

“I’m sure it’s true,” Phoebe said. Yes, it was true; she knew from experience that it was.

Sally turned back to Quirke. “What about this priest you mentioned,” she said. “Have the Guards talked to him?”

“No,” Quirke said, “but he talked to me.”

Phoebe was startled. “How did that come about?” she asked.

“He phoned me up. We met in Flynne’s Hotel.”

This time it was Sally who spoke. “And?” she asked.

“And nothing. He said he knew nothing about Jimmy, had never met him or spoken to him.”