Vengeance: A Novel (Quirke) (30 page)

But he knew that none of this was why he was here, loitering at dusk in front of a dead man’s house. He took off his hat and held it in front of him, against his breast, as if it were a shield to ward off something.

She was surprised to see him. “Back so soon?” she said, with her sly smile. She was wearing a dark green kimono—green again—and her slender pale feet were bare. Without shoes she seemed slighter and more delicate than ever, and the top of her head was barely level with his chin. In the lamplight her hair had the texture of hammered bronze. “Come through to the kitchen,” she said. “I was making myself a nice hot drink.” He walked behind her down the hall. It was plain to see that she was naked under the kimono. “Maid’s night off,” she said over her shoulder. “I’m all on my little ownsome.” And she laughed.

“What about the twins?”

“Oh, they’ve gone off,” she said lightly. “And so has my father-in-law. He’s in the hospital, in fact. He had another stroke this evening. Quite serious, it seems, this time.”

In the kitchen there was the throat-catching bittersweet smell of warm chocolate. A small saucepan was simmering on the stove. “Want some?” she asked. “I make it with real chocolate, not that awful powdered stuff.” She took up a wooden spoon and stirred the pot, peering into the steam.

“My daughter has recovered, by the way,” Quirke said. “In case you were wondering.”

“She must have quite a hangover.” She went to a cupboard and took down two white mugs. “A girl of her age had better steer clear of the gin. I should know.”

“It must have been more than gin.”

She glanced at him, then turned back to concentrate on pouring the hot chocolate into the mugs. “The boys were just playing, as usual. Your daughter isn’t used to that kind of thing, I imagine. Very straitlaced, isn’t she? She dresses like a nun. They tell me she has a boyfriend?”

“Yes. My assistant.”

“Hmm. A Jew, isn’t he?” She sniffed. “Anyway, I’m sure she’ll always be Daddy’s girl. You mustn’t let the Hebrews make her one of theirs.” She came and handed him one of the mugs, and clinked hers against it. “Here’s to fun.”

“What kind of drug did they give her?” he asked.

“Did they give her a drug? I told you, I only saw her drinking gin.”

He looked at the steaming umber stuff in the mug. “She’s had a lot of trouble in her life.”

“Yes. I could tell.”

“I have to protect her.”

She smiled. “Not doing a very good job, by the look of it. Aren’t you going to drink your chocolate? It’s very soothing. I think you need soothing.” She was standing very close to him. Behind the heavy fragrance of the chocolate he could smell her hair.

“Tell me what was in the note your husband left,” he said.

She sighed irritably. “Oh, there was no note.” She walked back to the stove and poured herself another go of chocolate and took a drink of it, clasping the mug in both hands. “I just said that to humor you, since you seemed so pleased with yourself playing the detective.”

“Were you having an affair with Jack Clancy?”

“With Jack? Certainly not.” She chuckled. “Jack Clancy—my God, what do you think I am? Not Jack, no.”

He caught something in her voice. “Who, then?”

She gave him a measuring look, thinking. “Why do you want to know?” He said nothing. She put her mug down on the draining board. “Give me a cigarette,” she said. “You know”—she leaned down to the flame of his lighter—“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking since Victor died. Well, you can imagine. He was such a torment to himself, I wonder if he’s not better off gone. Do you think I’m terrible, to say such a thing?” She went and leaned against the sink, crossing one arm under her breasts and holding the cigarette level with her mouth. In the opening of the kimono her right leg was bared to the thigh. “People didn’t know him. They took at face value the image he had of himself—the successful businessman, the expert sailor, the loving husband and responsible father. But really he was a mess. It took me a while to see that. Deep down he disgusted himself. He knew what he was, you see.”

“And what was he?”

She considered. “Weak. Spineless.”

“He had enough courage to kill himself.”

This seemed to interest her. “Do you think it takes courage to do that?” she asked. “I think it was cowardice.” She shook her head sadly. “Such a mess,” she murmured.

Quirke set the mug down on the table. He had not tasted the chocolate. “Could I have a drink?” he said.

They passed through to the drawing room. Mona lit lamps, and went to the sideboard and poured whiskey into a tumbler. Quirke looked at the garden’s velvet darkness pressing itself against the window.

“Are you an alcoholic?” Mona asked, in a tone of mild inquiry.

“I don’t know,” he said. He took the glass and drank off the whiskey in one gulp and gave her back the glass to refill. “Probably.”

She seemed to find his reply amusing. She smiled at him, arching an eyebrow, and turned and picked up the whiskey bottle.

“You slept with me once,” he said.

“Yes, I did. Like you, I’m curious.”

“You were curious, about me?”

“I was. Now I’m not anymore.” She moved to the sofa and sat down and crossed her legs. The wings of the kimono fell back on both sides to reveal one bare, glossy knee. “Remember how I said to you before that people think I’m a dimwit? They do. I mean them to.” She lifted a hand and pushed her bronzen hair back from her face at the side. “When I was a little girl,” she said, “I used to lie on the floor and pretend to be asleep, but I’d have my eyes open just the tiniest crack, so I could watch people, my parents, my brothers, my sister that I hated, without them knowing. Now I’m a big girl and I do the same thing, only instead of pretending to be asleep I pretend to be stupid.”

Quirke sipped his whiskey. “Why have you let me in on your secret?”

“I don’t know. I suppose because you’re pretending, too.”

“And what am I pretending to be?”

She studied him for a moment, cocking her head to one side, like a blackbird. “You’re pretending to be human, I think. Wouldn’t you say?”

He lit a cigarette. The flame of the lighter flickered, he noticed, for his hand was not entirely steady. “Did you know,” he said, “that Jack Clancy was planning to take over the business from your husband?”

She nodded. “Yes. Victor told me.”

“When did he find out?”

“The day before he killed himself.”

He looked at her without speaking. She held his gaze calmly.

“Was that why he killed himself?” he asked.

“Partly.”

He set his glass down slowly on the sideboard, next to the whiskey bottle. He would pour himself another drink, but not just yet.

“What else had he found out?” he asked.

“Oh!” She waved a hand. “He was impossible. So jealous.”

He waited. She regarded him with a slightly swollen look, as if struggling to keep herself from laughing.

“Who was it?” he said.

“Who was who?”

“Who was he jealous of?”

“Don’t you know?” Now she did laugh, giving an odd sharp little whoop. “Not
Jack
Clancy,” she said. “But you were warm.”

He was silent for a long moment, gazing at her. Then he took up the whiskey bottle and half filled the tumbler. He turned back to her. “The boy, then,” he said. “What’s his name?”

“Davy. And he’s not a boy, though he’s as pretty as one—don’t you think? And so—so
energetic,
with that kind of youthful vigor that gladdens a girl’s heart, I can tell you.”

Quirke sipped his whiskey. The glass knocked against one of his front teeth. “Are you still—seeing him?” he asked, surprised at how steady his voice was.

“For goodness’ sake!” she said, and gave another laugh. “I’m the grieving widow—I can hardly go about sleeping with people.”

“You slept with me.”

“I told you,” she said, with a sulky pout, “I was curious.”

He felt exhausted suddenly. He shut his eyes and kneaded the flesh at the bridge of his nose between a thumb and two fingers. He had a tearing sensation in his chest, as if there were an animal in there, raking at him with its claws.

He opened his eyes. “Jack Clancy’s death,” he said.

“What about it?” she asked. “I assume, since his scheme to take over from Victor had been found out, he decided to follow Victor’s example. Rivals to the end.”

Quirke shook his head. “No,” he said, hearing the weariness in his voice. “Jack Clancy didn’t kill himself.” She waited. “Don’t you know?” he said. “Haven’t you figured it out?”

She put a finger to her chin and looked upwards, mimicking a schoolgirl who has been asked a hard question. “Someone did it for him?” she said.

“Yes. Someone did it for him.”

“Not”—she sat bolt upright and slapped a hand on her bared knee and laughed—“not Maverley? Not that white rabbit? He adored Victor, I know, but I can’t imagine him killing someone in revenge for his death.”

“No,” Quirke said, “not Maverley.”

“Then who?”

He walked to the sofa and stood over her, the whiskey glass clenched in his hand. She leaned back a little, pulling the kimono closed over her knees, and the faintest shadow of alarm crossed her face.

“Are you pretending now?” he said. “Or are you stupid, after all?” He drank the last of the whiskey in the glass and held it out to her, and she took it, and set it down on the arm of the sofa. “Where are the twins?” he asked.

“I already said, they’ve gone.” She was watching him carefully, as if readying herself to forestall whatever move he might make. She was right to be wary. He was very angry. He put a hand into the pocket of his jacket and made a fist of it, digging the nails into his palm. “Good-bye,” he said, and turned abruptly and walked from the room, and along the silent hall, and opened the front door and stepped out into the fragrance of the night. He felt nothing, only the sensation of something icy melting in his heart.

13

A light fine rain was falling when they left the city, but it soon lost heart and stopped, and a watery sun came out and put a blinding shine on the road in front of them. They went up by the canal, past lock after lock, the suburbs on their left becoming more tired and shabby with each mile they covered. Then they turned onto the Naas Road, and the trees on either side seemed to hold themselves averted, gazing off elsewhere.

“I wish you wouldn’t smoke in the car,” Rose Griffin said. “I’d much prefer to breathe.”

Quirke opened the window a little way and pushed his half-smoked cigarette out through the crack. They went on for a long way in silence after that, until Rose spoke again, asking if he thought there might be somewhere they could stop to eat lunch. Quirke stirred himself and said he had not thought about lunch. There was, he said, a hotel in Cashel that might be tolerable. “Tolerable!” Rose said faintly, and sighed.

They spoke of Malachy Griffin. Rose said she was worried about her husband, about how sedentary he was becoming. “Couldn’t you and he take up golf?” she asked. Quirke glanced at her sidelong. “No, I suppose not,” she said. “Pity,” she added, with wistful regret.

She was puzzled as to the purpose of this journey, and Quirke, it seemed, was not inclined to enlighten her. Although she would not have thought it possible, he was even more taciturn than usual today, shut far off inside himself. She had the impression that he was suffering, gnawing away at some inner hurt.

“The trouble with Malachy,” she said, “is that he’s just not assertive enough.”

Quirke made a noise that might have been laughter. “Who do you want him to assert himself against?”

“Oh, Quirke, you know what I mean! My Mal has so much to offer, but he holds back. It’s an almighty shame.”

Quirke wondered doubtfully what it might be that Mal had so much of, but he said nothing.

The damp green of summer fields rolled past. It was midday and they were almost alone on the long road south. They passed through melancholy villages, ramshackle towns. More than once they were forced to slow to a crawl behind a farmer driving his cows. Outside Kildare town they met in the middle of the road a ram with elaborately curled horns and strings of matted wool hanging down on all sides. Rose sounded the horn impatiently, but the ram just stood there, head lowered, glaring at them, and in the end Quirke had to get out and wave his arms and shout before the beast would move. When he got back into the car Rose was laughing. “Oh, Quirke, you should have seen yourself!”

The road seemed endless. Fields, trees, then ragged outskirts, then long streets with pubs and drapers’ shops and general stores, then outskirts again, then trees again, then fields again. They crossed a bridge over a river, a broad slow stretch of stippled silver, with bulrushes at both sides and a single swan afloat in the shallows. The huge sky over the Midlands was piled high with luminous wreckage. On a hairpin bend some small creature, rat or squirrel, ran out from the verge and under their wheels, and there was a quick bump, and Rose gave a little scream. “Oh, Quirke,” she wailed, beating the steering wheel with her palms, “tell me why we’re going down to Cork.”

*   *   *

They stopped in Cashel, at the Cashel Arms Hotel, which even in the lobby smelled of cooked cabbage. With sinking hearts they allowed themselves to be conducted to the dining room, where they were given a table by a window looking down into a cobbled yard. “Order a bottle of wine, for pity’s sake,” Rose said. They ate doubtful fish with mashed potato; the cabbage they had been smelling since they arrived made a soggy appearance. But the wine was good, a lustrous Meursault that in Quirke’s mouth tasted of gold coins and melons.

Rose began to feel better. “Tell me,” she said to Quirke, “how is that lady friend of yours, the actress?”

“She’s very well,” Quirke said, but would not meet her eye. “Very well.”

“Is it serious?”

Now he did look at her. “Is what serious?”

“You and your lady friend, of course.”

“You make it sound like an illness.”

Rose shook her head. “Quirke, Quirke, Quirke,” she said, “what are we to do with you?”