The Disenchanted Widow (27 page)

Father Cassidy, as calm as a toad in summer despite the shock, and always thinking ahead, had decided to keep the mugging of Lorcan to himself. Best not to cause too much alarm. He’d announced to the gathering that a suspect package had been found by the stage door, “most likely a hoax,” and urged them to vacate the community hall in an orderly fashion. Yet his cautionary words had had little effect. At the utterance of “suspect package” a stampede had erupted akin to the bull run of Pamplona.

Now, back in the parochial house, having just seen out Dr. Brewster and with Lorcan recovering in the living room, Cassidy paced the hallway, awaiting the arrival of the constabulary. He eyed the telephone, and it suddenly occurred to him that he needed to alert Mrs. Strong.

A sudden rapping on the front door put paid to that. He turned to see the ruby cheeks of Rose McFadden at the frosted side panel.

That insufferable woman! What on earth is
she
doing here?

He pulled open the door.

“God, Father, was it a real bomb or one-a-them old hoaxes?”

“The police are investigating, Mrs. McFadden. That’s all I know. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

“Och, I know, Father. Most of them bombs is hoaxes anyway. But what I was gonna say is that the very minute ye made the announcemint, if I didn’t have the five numbers.”

Rose waited for the priest to fill in the blanks, but all she got back was a steely glare and a terse “
And?
”

“Well, Father, and I shouted ‘check’ and ‘yo-ho,’ but nobody could hear me in the din, like.”

“Really, Mrs. McFadden, this is neither the time nor the place. Now,
if
you don’t mind.”

“But Father, I won the twenty pounds!”

“Yes…yes, if you say so. I’ll see about that later. Now, I’m awaiting the arrival of the police. So if you’d be kind enough to—”

“Right-ye-be. I’ll call round the morra tae collect it. For ye know, the floribundas in the grotto are startin’ tae droop and I thought I’d buy some fresh ones with the money, like. ’Cos—”

Mercifully, the phone rang at that moment, affording the priest the perfect exit. He shut the door on Rose.

It was Etta Strong, wondering what was detaining her son.

“I’m terribly sorry, Mrs. Strong. I was just about to call you. I’m afraid Lorcan’s had a small mishap…”

There was an audible gasp at the other end of the line.

“Now, there’s nothing at all to worry about. He’s simply had a fall. The doctor’s given him the all clear and he’s recovering here at the parochial house.” He did not want to frighten the elderly lady by mentioning the police. She’d find that out soon enough. “I’ll drive him home myself in about half an hour.”

No sooner had he replaced the receiver than he heard a car in the driveway. The Royal Ulster Constabulary had arrived.

Soon enough came the sound of two car doors being opened and banged shut, followed by the crunch of regulation boots on gravel.

Cassidy checked his appearance in the hat-stand mirror. Smoothed his hair, adjusted his collar, and called on the stoicism of St. Paul to sustain him. This was turning out to be a very stressful evening indeed.

He took a few steadying lungfuls of air before opening the door.

“Thank you for coming so soon, officers.” He enunciated the words carefully and calmly. “It’s very good of you.”

The policemen removed their peaked green caps. “All part of the job, sir,” said Sergeant Ranfurley, entering first.

He was a bulky man, his girth boosted by a duty belt. From it dangled an array of accoutrements for the apprehension of the wayward: handcuffs, a baton, a holstered Ruger Speed Six pistol, ammunition. His assistant, the much younger Constable Johnston, similarly attired, seemed puny by comparison. He shuffled self-consciously in his superior’s wake.

“Has the bomb been—”

“Made safe?” the sergeant harrumphed. “A brick in a shopping bag, Father. It’s called ‘wasting police time.’ But we’re used to it, aren’t we, Constable?”

“Yes sir.”

There was a strained pause. “Etta Strong’s lad, ye say? Where would he be now?”

“Yes, Lorcan Strong. He’s in the living room. Allow me.”

Lorcan was sitting upright and nursing a glass of water when the door opened. He recognized Ranfurley immediately. His mother had had a few run-ins with the sergeant regarding after-hours drinking. He was an overbearing man by all accounts. One who enjoyed exerting his power within the small nationalist community.

“Took a wee bit of a fall, Lorcan,” he said now, leading the way into the room. “How’s the mammy?”

“Fine, thank you, Sergeant.” Lorcan did not care for the smirk that accompanied the word
mammy
. The constable, following behind, nodded briefly, his face stern.

Father Cassidy offered chairs. Constable Johnston sat down immediately, but a look from the sergeant had him springing to his feet again.

“Oh, I don’t think it’s a time to be sittin’,” Ranfurley grunted. He clasped his hands behind his big back and began a tour of the room. “No, I don’t think we should be sittin’ atall, in the circumstances. Wouldn’t be the first time you’ve had money stole, eh, Father?”

“That is correct. We had a break-in here last month.”

“Are ye takin’ notes there, Constable?”

Constable Johnston stood awkwardly, pen hovering over a notebook while Father Cassidy tracked Ranfurley’s inspection of the room with bemusement.

“We’re busy men,” the sergeant continued, pausing by a bookcase to run a pudgy forefinger down the spine of
Fundamentals of Catholic Dogma
. “Very stretched we are, Father, given the times that’s in it these days.”

I doubt that, thought Lorcan, still dazed but alert. The RUC of Tailorstown was probably the most underworked unit in the region. The predominantly Catholic village was rarely bothered by the constabulary’s attentions. Their duties amounting to little more than settling the occasional brawl outside O’Shea’s of a Saturday night, alerting the absentminded Paddy McFadden that he’d forgotten to turn his headlights on,
again
, and steering a rather “refreshed” Jamie McCloone away from his tractor on Market Day, he having celebrated the sale of a heifer a trifle too extravagantly. Such was the extent of the district’s lawbreaking—if one could call it that.

But all that could change, the artist thought ruefully. The startled face of his mother hove into his mind’s eye. God, he needed to call
her. His head began to throb again, and he pressed down firmly on the bandage. Perhaps he should not be too judgmental of Ranfurley and Johnston. They risked their lives every day simply by donning those dark green uniforms. That aside, he hoped they’d be quick.

“I fully appreciate that these are very difficult times, Sergeant,” Father Cassidy was saying with a note of impatience. He had his sermon to prepare for early Mass. A bath to take. His altar shoes to polish. Valuable time was being squandered. He turned to Lorcan. “Perhaps you’d like to give the gentlemen some details. Your mother rang earlier and will be expecting you shortly.”

“What did you tell her? I wouldn’t want—”

The priest raised his hand in a gesture of appeasement. In the midst of his pain Lorcan saw
The Saviour of the World
, an El Greco masterpiece, bar the robes and globe. “Now, I assured her you were fine, Lorcan, and that I’d run you home within—”

“We’ll ask the questions, Father,” Ranfurley interjected. “If ye don’t mind, that is.” No Taig was going to tell
him
how to do his job—least of all one in a frock with a girl’s hands and wearing women’s shoes.
What sort of man wears suede slip-ons anyway?

“Why, of course, Sergeant.”

Constable Johnston hovered nervously, pen still cocked above the blank note page.

“Now.” Ranfurley eyed Lorcan. “The Father says here that ye were mugged. Would that be right?”

“Yes, that’s a fair assessment. I was walking round the side of the building with the bag of money and—”

“What kinda bag was it?”

“It was rather distinctive, in fact. A kind of carpetbag with an emblem of the Blessed Mother on it.”

Ranfurley raised an eyebrow at the priest. “A funny sort of bag to put the spoils of gamblin’ in, if ye don’t mind me sayin’ so, Father.”

“It was the only one I could find big enough. The jackpot being rather substantial, I expected the takings to be equally so.”

“Right.” He turned his attention to Lorcan again. “And what color was this bag with the Blissed Mother on it?”

Father Cassidy gave a tactful cough. “May I just explain, that it wasn’t
our
Blessed Mother—”

“Well, whose Blissed Mother was she, then?”

“Our Lady of Guadalupe. The Mexican one.”

“Didn’t know ye had different types. Thought there was just the one.”

Cassidy did not care for the note of mockery. “There
is
just the one. But Our Lady has appeared in many places and in many guises across the globe.”

“If ye say. So, this bag with the Lady of Guady-loopy-whatever—”

“Guadalu
pay
. It’s a mountain in Mexico. The image is, as Lorcan says, quite distinctive.”

“Guadalu
pay
…begging your pardon. Would ye have a pitcher of her?”

Father Cassidy crossed to the glass-fronted bookcase and scanned an upper shelf. “Yes, here we are:
The Life of Juan Diego
. He was the visionary whom she appeared to.” He handed the book to the sergeant.

The depiction was of a crowned Virgin of dusky complexion clad in green-and-pink robes studded with golden stars. She was being held aloft by a banner-waving angel sporting red, white, and green wings, echoing the colors of the Mexican flag. From the figure there emanated an amber-tinged ethereal glow. Ranfurley studied the illustration. “Aye, unusual indeed. Wouldn’t be too many of these around.”

“No indeed,” Father Cassidy said. “It was given to me by the Bishop of Monterrey when I had the good fortune to be invited to
the Synod Conference on Latin-American Interfaith Relations in nineteen seven—”

“Aye…right, I’m gettin’ the pitcher,” said Ranfurley bluntly. “We’ll need tae be holding on to this.”

Father Cassidy removed the dust jacket and handed it to him.

“Now, Lorcan. What time would this of been that ye left the hall with the beg of money?”

“Hmm, let’s see.” Lorcan did a quick calculation. “It took us about fifteen, twenty minutes to count the money…so ten to eight.”

“You said ‘us.’”

“Fergal O’Toole and I.”

“Are ye gettin’ this, Constable?” Johnston was scribbling in the notebook. A seam of perspiration was forming on his upper lip. Lorcan reckoned the poor constable’s uniform to be as stifling for him as his bullying boss. “Young Fergal is Molly’s son. We’ll be needin’ his version of events, too.”

“Yes sir.”

“Yes, it would have been ten to,” Lorcan said.

“Ten to what?”

“Why, eight, of course.”

Over the sergeant’s shoulder, Lorcan saw Father Cassidy roll his eyes heavenward.

“Ten to eight then. See anything unusual in the vicinity, did ye?”

“No…nothing really.”

“And when ye got to the stage door, then what happened?”

“Well, that’s when I was attacked. I was pushed into the door from behind. I felt the point of a gun in the back of my head. I was ordered to drop the bag and was struck from behind. That’s all I remember.”

“And there were two of them?”

“Yes. A man and—”

“What kinda accent did this man have?”

“Oh, just ordinary. Regional. A bit guttural.”

“Gutter-what?”

“Deep. Throaty. The kind of voice that comes from drinking and smoking too much.”

“Hmph!” said the sergeant, pondering an ornately gilded portrait of Pope John Paul II. “That would account for most men round these parts, wouldn’t it, Constable?”

“Yes sir.” Constable Johnston looked up from his notepad and seized the opportunity to wipe the sweat from his lip.

“And the other boy’s accent, what was it like?”

“It wasn’t male, Sergeant. It was a woman’s voice.”

“A
wommin
?”

“Yes.”

Sergeant Ranfurley scoffed. “Dearie me! These Fenian vermin are really scrapin’ the saucepan now, gettin’ the missus tae share their durty work. And what kinda accent did this wommin have?”

“Belfast.”

“Belfast. Are ye sure about that?”

“Most definitely.”

“Not somebody from these parts, then?”

“Wouldn’t think so, Sergeant.”

Father Cassidy, still standing in front of his desk, shifted uneasily in his suede slip-ons. “Well, I’m bound to tell you, Sergeant, that that’s not strictly true. You see, I recently employed a new housekeeper from Belfast, a Mrs. Elizabeth Halstone.”

Lorcan bit his lip. He did not like the direction the interview was taking.

“Is that so?” said the sergeant, swaying back on his heels and sucking air through his dentures. “Elizabeth Halstone. I can’t say I’ve heard of her.”

“Well, you probably wouldn’t. I engaged her a few weeks ago. Miss Beard, the usual housekeeper, is indisposed.”

“Now that’s interesting,” said the sergeant.

He has a look in his eye, thought Lorcan; a look that’s putting two and two together and coming up with ninety-nine. He felt moved to quell the suspicion immediately.

“It wasn’t Mrs. Halstone.” Immediately, three sets of eyes were on the artist. “Well, it wasn’t her. I’ve spoken to her on two occasions. I know what she sounds like.”

“Do ye now?”

“Yes.”

“How well do you know this Mrs. Halstone, Father?” the sergeant asked, eyes still on Lorcan. “Her background. I imagine she came with references?”

“She did. And I have to say she gave me no reason to question her honesty and integrity.”

“Does she live here with you?”

“Oh, no. She’s renting the late Dora Grant’s cottage.”

“In that case, Johnston, we’ll not waste any more time here.” Ranfurley repositioned his peaked cap, and Johnston followed suit. “I’ll be wantin’ tae speak with you again,” he said, throwing Lorcan an inculpatory look. “Ye haven’t seen the last of us.”