Himself(57)

‘Tolerance and forgiveness have their place but not when the moral fabric of a town is threatened.’

‘Quite so. There was a blessing in Father Hennessy’s passing that brought you to Mulderrig, Father Quinn.’

‘You nursed Father Hennessy?’

‘I was with him when he died.’

‘Did he ever regret his stance on this matter?’

‘I believe he did in the end, Father.’

‘But yet the town loved him?’

‘Ah, the town will be in your pocket soon enough, Father. It’s just a case of them getting used to you. How long have you been with us now?’

‘Twenty-six years.’

Róisín smiles behind the door.

‘Ah well, they are slow, Father. In most things they are very slow. And so Mahony refused the money?’

‘He did. He’s adamant he’s staying.’

‘And he couldn’t be encouraged to leave by a greater sum of money, Father? Perhaps his anonymous benefactor could increase their donation? I’m sure that would be feasible, given the circumstances.’

‘I don’t think so. Mahony believes he is here on a mission. He says that he has unfinished business.’

There is the bright sound of silver on china.

‘Thank you, Father, just one lump.’

Róisín removes a toad intent on burrowing into her hair.

‘You see Mahony believes that his mother met with a bad end, and of course Mrs Cauley with her imagination is egging him on.’

‘She is a truly awful individual. I’ve heard that they were interrogating people up at the village hall during the auditions.’

‘They did, Mrs Farelly; they treated them like crime suspects.’

‘How dare they? And then of course the play, which is no more than a chance for her to spread her wanton influence. With him cavorting on the stage, half-dressed and spewing profanities. But the people are enraptured by him, are they not, Father?’

‘His growing popularity is of mild concern to me.’

‘Mrs Cauley planned it that way, of course. Mahony has his feet under the table now, so to speak. Can’t you stop that play?’

‘I only wish I could, Mrs Farelly.’

There’s a pause and a faint murmur, and Father Quinn’s voice again, softly. ‘I hope you understand, I had to ask.’

‘I don’t know any more than you do, Father.’

‘Could the girl really have left town, baby and all?’

‘It’s possible, but . . .’

Silence.

‘Would it be fair to surmise that someone took the matter into their own hands?’

‘I think it would, Father.’

‘Some poor soul finally driven to act, through desperation?’

‘Yes, Father.’

‘Then God forgive them.’ A sly tone comes into Father Quinn’s voice. ‘Sometimes there’s no agency in digging up the past, is there, Mrs Farelly?’

‘None whatsoever.’

‘Whatever grounds Mahony is here on, whether justified or not, he is clearly a corrupting influence on our village.’

‘He is, Father.’

The priest sounds louder and brisker, as if he’s got up and is pacing the room.

‘I can assure you, Mrs Farelly, that I shall preserve the good in this town and protect the villagers by removing this second threat quickly and cleanly.’

‘The village will thank you for it, Father.’

Róisín frowns and extracts a small frog from her cleavage.

‘I spoke to Jack Brophy to see if the guards could assist us with this matter. I told him that I have reason to believe that Mahony poses a serious threat to Mulderrig. I said that in my considered opinion the man is mentally unstable.’

‘What did Jack say, Father?’

‘He said he’s had a few jars with Mahony and he seems like a grand lad.’

Róisín smiles.

‘Brophy told me that unless Mahony stepped out of line there was nothing he could do.’

A momentary silence falls in the library.

‘Just how difficult can it be to encourage the illegitimate son of an underage whore to step out of line?’ says Father Quinn, his voice oiled and crawling.

‘Exactly, Father, exactly, but if he doesn’t?’

‘He will.’

‘But he’s a cute one; he has the village on his side.’

There’s a long pause.

‘Couldn’t we find out a bit more about him, Father, something that would put people off him? He’s come wearing his best face. He may have left another one behind in Dublin.’

‘Bravo, Mrs Farelly. I’ll start digging today.’

‘There’s sure to be a rake of dirt on a man like him. You could start at the orphanage perhaps?’

‘St Anthony’s? I have it in my notebook here.’

There is a low murmur that Róisín doesn’t quite catch, and then they both laugh.

Róisín shakes her head in dismay. For the widow and the priest have become even more unwholesome than the snub-nosed toad sat in front of her licking its own eyeball.

Róisín shuts herself in the kitchen. She takes her apron off and puts it on again. She picks up a potato and starts peeling it in an agony of indecision.