Mr. Flood's Last Resort(47)

“In a professional capacity.”

I smile at him and he smiles back.

We sit looking at each other, smiling, for a long moment.

“Let me properly introduce myself,” I say, with all the conviction I can muster. “I’m Inspector Maud Drennan.”

“Inspector, is it?”

I nod and smile again, with utter sincerity.

“Well now. Fair play to you,” says the priest.

I continue, breezily, “I’m investigating links between the Flood family and a missing-persons case.” Remembering my uniform, I reveal the name badge under my cardigan. “I’m undercover, posing as a care worker.”

The priest looks pleasantly aghast. “Missing persons?”

The door to the room moves slightly, as if blown by a sticky-fingered wind; Mrs. O’Smeary is no doubt getting an earful.

“Did Mary ever mention the name Maggie Dunne?”

The priest shakes his head.

“Or a village called Langton Cheney in Dorset?”

The priest shakes his head.

“Do you know who Marguerite might be?”

The priest frowns. “Now, that I do know.” He takes a deep breath. “The Flood family experienced a terrible blow long before the tragic death of Mary.”

“What sort of blow?”

“The death of the daughter, Marguerite,” says Father Quigley.

My heart pitches.

“Of course, Mary refused to talk about it. After Marguerite’s death Mary hardly spoke a word to anyone.”

“What happened?”

“The Floods left one summer with the two children and returned with only the boy, Gabriel.” He looks downcast. “Marguerite was a lovely girl. She had just turned seven years old. Very sturdy and exuberant, with this mass of red curls.”

Marguerite: the faceless girl in the photograph. The girl no one talks about.

“That’s terrible.” I pause. “How did Marguerite die?”

“The Floods went home for a visit and while they were there the child drowned in the sea. She’s buried in Wexford, so they say.”

“Mary told you this?”

“No, as I said, Mary never mentioned her daughter again.” He opens his hands apologetically. “And we didn’t ask. We heard it on the grapevine, you understand. People talk.”

We sit for a while in silence.

“Would you say that Mary was of sound mind?”

The priest smiles sadly. “I’d say she was a little delicate. Especially afterwards.”

I watch the priest. He sits with his hands folded and his eyes lowered, relaxed and full of post-pilgrimage contentment, despite all of the mothers and daughters dying of tragic accidents in the world.

Then I come out with it. “Did Mary ever feel threatened, do you think, living in that house?”

Father Quigley falters. “I can’t answer that, Maud.”

“Did she ever ask you, or a member of your congregation, for help?”

He frowns. “Not that I’m aware of.”

I study him. He looks out of the window, his jaw tight. My newfound police instinct tells me he’s holding something back.

I go to hand him the note.

“Keep it,” he says. “If it can help with your investigation.”

I fold it and put it in my handbag. “Thank you for your time, Father. If you think of anything else.”

The priest looks relieved. “I’ll phone the station.”

I rummage in my bag and pull out a pen and a scrap of paper and dash off Renata’s number. “This is my direct line, at the station. Please don’t hesitate to call.”

The priest calls out. “Mrs. O’Leary, will you please show Inspector Drennan out?”

Mrs. O’Leary shuffles instantly through the door.

*

IN THE hallway Mrs. O’Leary whispers, low and vicious, “You’re never a police.”

I glare down the full length of my nose at her. “And you’re never a housekeeper. Those cups were filthy dirty rotten; you ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

She pulls down the corners of her wide toad mouth, blinking at me behind her smeared glasses. “And you ought to be ashamed of yourself for bothering the Father and raking up old coals.”

“Did you know Mary Flood?”

She nods resentfully. “The Father was ever so upset about her accident. He’d been ever so worried about her leading up to it.”

As soon as she says it she knows she has made a mistake. I can see it.

“He was worried about her?”

“I wouldn’t know about that.”

“But that’s what you just said.”

She ferrets up her sleeve for a handkerchief and looks away, making a big point of blowing her nose.

“Mary was unraveled. Father Quigley told the husband to get her some help.”

“What gave Father Quigley that idea?”

The housekeeper frowns. She seems to be fighting against her natural bent to gossip.

“That’s not for me to say.”

“Look, if you tell me, I’ll leave.”

“And you won’t return to bother the Father?”

“No.”

Mrs. O’Leary narrows her eyes. “They say the daughter was destined for a home for the bewildered. Lord knows she was unhinged. If Mary brought her to Mass the girl would snap at people’s ankles and crawl under the pews. That’s if Mary could even drag her through the door.”