Himself(51)

Mahony is lying on the floor reading poetry and smoking.

Upstaged by the newest dead man in her life, Johnnie is nowhere to be seen. But Mahony suspects, from the tapping of a cane on the ceiling above them, that he’s most likely pacing the master bedroom.

‘A priest haunting a commode,’ chuckles Mrs Cauley. ‘It’s sublime, isn’t it? Is he there now?’

Mahony glances up at Father Jim, who is in the corner leaning on a bookcase. ‘After a fashion.’

‘Then he needs to get his dead finger out and tell us who did him in.’ She studies the empty commode. ‘There’s no doubt in my mind that he was done in. How did he die? He succumbed to a short and violent illness. Someone had a hand in it.’

Father Jim scowls. ‘Pneumonia, he had a hand in it, along with his good pal heart failure.’

‘Think about it,’ Mrs Cauley whispers. ‘The town was desperate to rid themselves of Orla. She was wild, unpredictable, a real troublemaker.’

‘Does this wagon ever stop?’ mumbles Father Jim.

Mrs Cauley purses her lips. ‘Having someone like Hennessy fighting Orla’s corner would have presented a major obstacle to getting rid of her. He wouldn’t have taken any of their crap.’

Father Jim nods and searches in his pocket for his pipe. ‘She’s right there. Tell her, lad.’

Mahony looks up from his page. ‘You’re right. He wouldn’t have taken any crap.’

‘They had to do away with Hennessy before they could get to your mother. Which is why Doosey kept her own counsel; she realised it was a dangerous game to be on Orla’s side.’

‘What with all the letter bombs and poisoned scones and the like?’

Mrs Cauley looks at him. ‘Don’t be flippant.’ She picks up the doorstop and sets it again on the middle of the tea tray. ‘Hennessy may just hold the key to this case.’

‘It’s not always that easy.’

‘You underestimate these dead you know. They hang around the place, don’t they, watching, haunting? That makes them prime witnesses in my book. You just need to know the right way to talk to them.’ Mrs Cauley pushes herself up in the bed and fixes the commode with an exacting glare. She speaks very slowly and very loudly. ‘Now then, Hennessy, tell us what you know about the disappearance of Orla Sweeney.’

‘I’m dead, I’m not fecking stupid,’ mutters Father Jim. He sits down at the end of her bed, chewing the stem of his pipe. Even in death he has a fine high colour to his cheeks.

‘Come in, Hennessy. I’m not receiving you.’ Mrs Cauley taps the tea tray pettishly. ‘Now, Father, will you stir yourself and move this doorstopper? Isn’t it light enough even for a dead old badger like yourself?’

Father Jim shakes his head. ‘How do you put up with this, lad?’

Mrs Cauley listens carefully for a moment then she glances across at Mahony. ‘He must have heard something in confession. They’re all in there day and night bleating about their sins and holding out their gruel bowls for holy redemption.’

Father Jim grimaces. ‘Oh, they came to confession all right. It was all “Forgive me, Father, for amn’t I after getting a baby from using the wash flannel off me husband?” Or, “Forgive me, Father, for I looked at me cow the wrong way.”’

‘Ask him, Mahony.’

‘Tell her she’s an eejit.’

Mahony puts down his book. ‘He said he heard nothing useful.’

Mrs Cauley grunts. ‘Does he know that the seal of confession doesn’t apply if you are a priest who is mortally dead?’

‘Sweet Lord Jesus Christ, give me strength,’ moans Father Jim.

‘He’s aware of that.’

‘Let’s try this then.’ Mrs Cauley’s hands scuttle across the tea tray. ‘Listen carefully, Hennessy. What happened on the day Orla Sweeney disappeared? Did this happen?’

Mrs Cauley slides the doorstopper towards the words ‘fowl play’, the nearest she could find to ‘murder’ in Bridget Doosey’s back copies of Ireland’s Own.

Father Jim passes a hand across his forehead. ‘Make her stop.’

‘Father Jim’s off for a bit of a lie-down.’

Mrs Cauley frowns. ‘He’s been dead for twenty-six years, hasn’t he had enough of a lie-down?’

Father Jim wanders back to the commode and sits down. He lights his pipe with the faint flame of the afterlife, which always burns cold. Occasionally he glowers over at the figure on the bed.

‘You can’t expect too much from them,’ says Mahony.

Mrs Cauley puts her head on one side, her eyes narrowed under her poker visor. ‘I think you’re reluctant to get properly involved. You’re holding back, Mahony.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Well, if you were to listen to them . . .’

Mahony looks up at her. ‘Then no doubt they’d have me running all over the town. Pouring libations onto Biddy Gavaghan’s grave, delivering a kick up Frank Kiernan’s hole, that sort of thing.’

‘Exactly. You don’t want to be put out.’

‘It’s not that. It’s just that they don’t always have great memories. They’re a little lost.’