Mr. Flood's Last Resort(40)

“We?”

“Well, me. For the sake of the investigation,” he adds.

St. Valentine stops picking his teeth. “It’s a plan.”

“It wouldn’t be right,” I say, before I change my mind. “I can’t let anyone in without Mr. Flood’s permission.”

St. Valentine rolls his eyes.

“I understand how you feel, Maud.” Sam’s face is easy, reasonable. “But wouldn’t a quick search of the house set everyone’s mind at rest?”

“As much as I disagree with her, Maud’s right.”

“Thank you, Renata.”

“And she won’t be persuaded otherwise, Sam; she has great integrity when she isn’t playing poker.” Renata adjusts her headscarf. “So now we have three questions: what does the old man have on his son, what does Gabriel want so badly from the house, and what have the Floods to do with the disappearance of Maggie Dunne?”

I take a small square bundle from my handbag and untie it, spreading the Mass cards out on the coffee table.

“Maybe these will help to enlighten us. Let’s see if you can read another set of cards, Renata.”

*

SAM STUDIES the notepad in his hand. “So now we have it. The Mass cards were issued by four different churches in London and two in the southwest of England, specifically Dorset. The earliest card was issued in March 1977 and the last card was issued in January 1990, just weeks before Mary Flood’s death.” He glances up at me. “We are all agreed that, for the most part, the majority of the Masses were offered by two churches.”

Renata nods. “St. Joseph’s, East Twickenham, and Our Lady of Lourdes, Wareham.”

Sam continues. “Most of the Masses were requested on Gabriel’s behalf between August 1985 and January 1990. Many were offered on consecutive days or even on the same day at different churches.” He glances up at us. “In addition, there were a number of Masses offered for Marguerite between 1977 and 1990.”

“At Our Lady of Lourdes,” adds Renata.

“With difficulty we have made out the signatures of the priests who issued these cards: Father Quigley and Father Creedo.”

“Good,” says Renata. “So we start with these two priests and see what they can tell us.”

Sam puts down the pad. “I’ll take Father Quigley.”

“No,” I say, “I’ll do a detour on my way home.”

Sam smiles. “Maud, let me. We’re a team, aren’t we?”

St. Valentine turns over and leans on his elbow. “Go on, Maud,” he leers. “You’re a team, aren’t you?”

“It’s okay, Sam,” I murmur grimly. “I have a priest-wrangling background.”





CHAPTER 15




The age spots are moving on Cathal Flood’s face. See them slipping down his nose and sliding under his chin. They travel across his temples to meet between his brows, flickering moth-wing patterns and praying-mantis shapes. He grins, a geriatric Rorschach, and touches his finger to his lips. Then he turns his back to me and waves his arms and soon much more than his face is in motion.

All around him objects start to flutter and shake; anatomical wax models and broken lampshades take to the air, to be joined by yowling cats and revolving spiders. Glass jars bob by, filled with scrolled notes, or jittering eyeballs, or butcher’s gristle. Milk bottle tops and sardine tins twinkle and turn in starry constellations. Startling taxidermy creations hop, drag, and flutter by with odd mechanical actions. Unholy medleys, from farmyard and zoo, assemble and reassemble mid-air. Photographs of red-haired children spontaneously combust and drop, smoldering, into a pond where a coy nymph holds to her ear not a conch but a skull. She winks knowingly and drinks from it. Newspaper cuttings join in the furor, waltzing round the fountain, screwing themselves up into little balls and unfurling again, on each a smiling blond schoolgirl.

In the middle of it all stands Cathal Flood, conducting, with wet seeping through the arse of his trousers.

A woman in a yellow dress flies over, her face on fire. She turns her head with rapid jabbing motions. No eyes, no nose, no mouth, only a mask of flames that billow and spark with every movement. She is looking for something. She spots the old man, halts in mid-air, then plunges, feet first, her toes curved like claws.

*

I SIT up in the bed. In a few hours it will be time to get up. I won’t sleep again, I know that. There is no sign of St. Dymphna. Small mercies.



AS I get off the bus I think about Mr. Flood’s stark warning, of the consequences of going where I’m not supposed to go, even if it is to rescue a Siamese cat.

I will be gone.

And what if Maggie Dunne is living still? Holed up in some dusty corner of the house, in the attic, or in the basement?

Maud Drennan, the last hope of Maggie Dunne.

If I don’t find her no one will.

I will have blood on my hands either way.

Maggie’s or Beckett’s. Take your pick.

*

I’LL BE saving neither: the back door is barricaded.

It opens less than three inches on the safety catch, just enough for me to shout through. So I holler for a while then straighten up to find Mr. Flood standing behind me. He has picked up my handbag and is rifling through it. He is wearing a raincoat over paint-stained pajamas. His white hair sticks upright on his head.