Himself(73)

There is a hot draft on her ankles and she lifts up the edge of the tablecloth. Underneath the table a dog-shaped cloud of soot turns belly up for a scratch.

‘Oh God, there’s all soot under here.’

Mrs Cauley nods. ‘Yes, but that’s an Irish wolfhound.’

Shauna knocks back her drink in one.

Bridget looks under the table. ‘I’d say that was more of a terrier.’ She pours another brandy. ‘Of course, this isn’t normal soot. It’s a sign.’

‘What sort of sign?’ Shauna wails.

‘A sign that a terrible storm is coming,’ says Bridget.

Shauna points to the window. ‘But there’s a clear blue sky.’

Bridget nods, ‘And doesn’t it seem harmless? Don’t be fooled, Shauna. There’s a tempest on its way that will level this town.’

Mrs Cauley wipes her face with a corner of her sooty kaftan. ‘Well, we’d better get another one down our gullets then, for fortification.’

By the time Jack Brophy arrives Mrs Cauley is in the drawing room conducting the Glenn Miller Orchestra on the record player and Bridget Doosey is flapping the soot back up the chimney with an ornamental parasol. Upstairs, Shauna is dancing and coughing along the corridors with a wicker rug beater, her pink-rimmed eyes streaming.

All of them are twisted on brandy.

Jack returns to his car and comes back up the drive holding a gas mask confiscated from an armed robber in Castlebar. Shauna puts it on with a whoop of delight and waltzes off again.

Bridget raises a vase full of brandy. ‘Chin, chin,’ she roars.

Jack laughs. ‘I won’t ask. May I?’

Mrs Cauley nods and Jack turns off the record player. From the hallway they can hear the muffled strains of a song of Shauna’s own design.

Mrs Cauley smiles up at him, her face filthy and her eyes bright. ‘To what do we owe this pleasure, Jack?’

Jack takes off his cap. ‘I’m afraid I’m not here on pleasure, Merle.’ He glances at Bridget Doosey.

Mrs Cauley waves her hand. ‘Say your piece, Jack, don’t mind that old crow, she knows all my business soon enough anyway.’

Jack puts his cap down on the table and runs his fingers through his hair. ‘Someone matching Mahony’s description was involved in a robbery this morning.’

Mrs Cauley stops smiling. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Gavaghan’s Wholesale was turned over.’

Bridget anchors her broom in the middle of the Persian carpet. ‘On the Carrigfine road?’

Jack nods. ‘There’s a witness. The assistant caught the thief red-handed and took a hiding for it. He’s up in the hospital now.’

‘What has this to do with us, Jack?’

‘The witness gave Mahony’s description, Merle.’ Jack says quietly.

Mrs Cauley shakes her head. ‘No way; it wasn’t Mahony.’

Bridget sweeps herself forward. ‘He must be mistaken.’

‘Let’s hope so,’ says Jack. ‘But it’s my duty to check it out. You understand that, don’t you, Merle?’

Mrs Cauley nods slightly.

Jack puts his cap back on. ‘Is he here? I’d like a word with him.’

Mrs Cauley purses her lips. ‘He’s not in at the moment.’

‘Have you seen him this morning?’

‘Of course I have.’

‘At what time?’

‘Time? Oh come on.’ Mrs Cauley gestures around the room. ‘I’ve had my hands full, Jack, as you can see.’

‘I see. Is it OK if I go up to his room? Take a look around?’

Mrs Cauley looks doubtful.

‘I could come back later with a warrant?’

‘I’ll call Shauna.’

‘There’s no need to bother her. I’ll go on up myself. I know the way. The guest room to the front of the house?’

Mrs Cauley draws herself up in her wheelchair. ‘What did you say the name of the witness was?’

Jack goes out of the door. ‘I didn’t.’

As Jack gets into the squad car he holds his hand up to Bridget at the window.

Bridget drops the net curtain. ‘I don’t know why he’s smiling, when there’s a biblical variety of storm coming.’

Mrs Cauley frowns.

Bridget pulls on her cardigan. ‘Now don’t fret. Mahony wouldn’t get involved in that kind of thing. You know that. There are a thousand Irishmen fitting his description: tallish, dark and handsome.’

‘Of course it’s not bloody Mahony. Someone’s trying to frame him.’

‘It’s possible.’

Mrs Cauley looks up. ‘Something doesn’t feel right. With him.’

‘Him?’

‘That one, Brophy.’

‘What?’

‘Oh, I don’t know.’

‘Well then, neither do I.’ Bridget ties a scarf about her head, tucking her sooty hair under it. ‘You worry about that lad too much. Mahony is cast iron, you know that.’

Mrs Cauley nods. Thoughtful.

‘I’m off home to shut the felines in. I’d advise you to batten down your hatches, old lady.’

Mrs Cauley, already a million miles away, waves her hand. ‘Leave that bottle where I can reach it, Doosey.’