Mr. Flood's Last Resort(46)

I say nothing.

She taps me on the arm. “Do you know what I’ve learnt from life?”

“Is it profound?”

“Not at all; it’s very simple. Just be sincere and everything else will follow.”

I think about this. “Do you think Sam is sincere?” I hazard.

“Yes.” She looks at me closely. “I do. Why do you ask?”

“He seems too good to be true, you know, with his yin and everything.”

She smiles. “Sam is a diamond.”

“You’re the expert.”

“In men—not at all, but I am an expert detective’s assistant.”

“Do you have to wear fishnets for that?”

She laughs. “Father Quigley from St. Joseph’s has just returned from Fuengirola. He’s been on retreat, apparently.”

“Really? In Fuengirola?”

“That’s what the housekeeper said.”

“Then I’d better pay him a visit.”





CHAPTER 18




I look at the priest and then I look at the plate of biscuits. I wonder how many I should take, or if I should take any at all. The housekeeper wears spectacles smeared with fingerprints. She has a hint of frog about her, sticky wide-ended fingers and big soft-boiled eyes blinking behind cloudy lenses. She has a habit of licking her bottom lip with a quick dab of her tongue, just like a frog. The priest’s house has a thick air of damp that I blame on the housekeeper; she would no doubt thrive in such an environment. I wonder if she mists the curtains and waters the carpets. I imagine the biscuits to be soft. I take a malted milk and I’m proved right.

Father Tom Quigley looks at me with concern. “Let me get this straight, Maud. You are here to ask me questions about a deceased parishioner?”

I nod and chew. “That’s right, Father.”

“And you would prefer to talk to me about this matter, rather than the family of the deceased? Now, why is that?”

I think about whether I should drink the tea, for the cup, stained with old dribbles, is none too clean. I wonder if the housekeeper even washes them. She probably just licks them with her nervous tongue. I glance across at her; she’s pretending to pick the fluff off the antimacassars.

The priest follows my gaze. “Thank you, Mrs. O’Leary; I think we have everything we need. I’m sure the housekeeping can wait until after our visitor has gone.”

Mrs. O’Leary straightens herself up, sends a sneer in my direction, and ambles out of the room on a rackety set of legs.

Father Quigley leans back in his chair. He is a jovial, well-put-together old man and no doubt a credit to the priesthood. He has a tanned, happy face, a frequent laugh, and a generous shape to him, all of which attest to a willingness to enjoy life, despite his pastoral responsibilities. Mrs. O’Leary said I was lucky to see him without an appointment as he had only just returned from a pilgrimage: to lie on a beach by the looks of it.

He smiles at me. “And do you have a name for this individual?”

“I do, Father,” I say. “Mary Flood.”

He sits up in the chair. “Mary Flood?”

“You said a fair few Masses for her.” I take Mary’s Mass cards out of my bag and hand them to him. “Do you remember?”

He flicks through the cards. “I do of course. Fire away.”

“Did you know Mary well?”

“Quite well.”

“And the rest of the family?”

He shakes his head. “Not at all. When Mary passed away it was impossible to keep in contact with the family. Cathal wrote and warned me not to contact them again. A curious note.”

The priest eases himself out of the chair and goes over to a filing cabinet by the window. “It’ll be in here somewhere. Under F, no doubt, after Flanagan and before Foley.”

The priest bends over, straining the arse of his black trousers.

“That’s a big Irish contingent you have there, Father.”

“Here it is.” He smiles and straightens up. “I’m a great man for the organization of things.”

He hands me a one-sided letter on the back of a betting slip that reads:

Dear Priest,

I’ll thank you not to call at the house or make further ingratiations or gestures of sympathy. Similarly, please inform your congregation that well-wishers, professional commiserators, and prying old biddies bearing casseroles and unidentifiable crap in Tupperware boxes are not welcome at Bridlemere. Neither myself nor the boy are interested in the ministries of you or your church. In fact, if any of your number darkens my door again you’ll receive the toe of my shoe right up your hole.

Yours, etc.,





Cathal T. Flood





*

I FEEL the priest watching me. I look up to catch him readjusting his expression from excited mirth to diligent calm.

“Mary had a fall, Father Quigley?”

“She did indeed.”

“A tragic fall, up at the house?”

The priest nods. “Yes. It was entirely tragic.”

“An accident, was it?”

A flicker of understanding crosses the priest’s face. He holds his hands up. “Now, as much as I love answering your questions, Maud”—he leans forwards and lowers his voice—“in what capacity are you making your inquiries?”