Mr. Flood's Last Resort(62)
“The poor woman’s frantic.”
“She’s always frantic. The poisonous old mare.”
“She seems nice enough. She was a friend of Mary’s, wasn’t she?”
Cathal regards me in disgust. “Is that what she said? Then she’s a bloody liar as well as a filthy brasser.”
“So they weren’t friends?”
He scowls. “That one was always slithering around here, inviting Mary to garden parties and gin palaces and fecking orgies. Mary held no truck with her. Mary was a decent woman.”
“She was a religious woman, Mary?”
“In a way.”
“Fair play to her, the church is the place to be,” I say coyly.
Cathal’s reply is steeped in scorn. “I never had you down as a sheep.”
“St. Joseph’s is no trek and Father Quigley lays on some nice hymns.” I watch him out of the corner of my eye.
He rinses his brush in the little pot clipped to his palette and wipes it dry on a bit of rag. He selects another brush and carries on painting as if absorbed in his work.
Finally, he says, “If you want my advice, steer clear of priests, especially that one. He’s a great man for meddling in other people’s business.”
“You know him?”
He glances at me. “There’s a surprise. I suppose you’d like a tale about that?”
“If you like.”
“I think you’ve had enough stories now, Drennan.” Cathal concentrates on the canvas, the tip of his tongue touching his top lip. “I’ve told you where sticking your coulter in will lead.”
CHAPTER 29
Renata sways into the room, a look of high intrigue on her face.
“It’s Father Quigley.”
“On the line?”
She nods. “He wants to know if Inspector Drennan can make a house call. He has some information for her.”
“Tell him she’s out in the patrol car after a cat burglar but she’ll be with him as soon as she can.”
Renata smirks. “He asks if she can come directly, before the housekeeper returns.”
“She’ll see what she can do.”
*
THE PRIEST himself opens the door and practically lifts me inside, checking up the path behind me. There is no one there but St. Valentine, who has dogged my step since I left Renata’s, scuttling invisibly by my side and spitting on the pavement.
I follow Father Quigley into his study. His Fuengirola tan hasn’t quite packed its bags yet but there’s an ashen edge to his complexion that comes with long hours shut in confessional boxes or drinking tea in hospices.
He shakes my hand. “Thank you for coming, Maud. I’ll make this brief just while Mrs. O’Leary is out, you know. She has a great ear for conversation.”
He waves me to an armchair.
St. Valentine settles on the edge of the priest’s desk with the expectant air of an audience member taking his seat. He removes a toothpick from the sleeve of his robe and applies it to his few remaining teeth.
“Her heart is in the right place.” Father Quigley glances towards the window. “But I’ve never known anyone with such a thirst for a drop of scandal or a dribble of gossip.”
“Is this about Mary Flood, Father?”
“No,” he says. “It’s about Marguerite. And it isn’t at all good.”
*
“MARGUERITE WAS sent to a children’s home?”
The priest nods. “The church had connections with the place, so Father Creedo knew a few of the residents, including Marguerite.” He hesitates. “I hope you didn’t mind me being proactive, so to speak.”
“Not at all, Father.”
“Only I noticed Father Creedo’s name on the Mass cards.”
“Of course. We had previously made inquiries—”
“And you heard nothing? Well, Creedo is a devil to get hold of.” He beams at me. “He’s in Paraguay now, would you believe? That’s where I found him.”
“All credit for tracking him down, Father.”
Father Quinn looks delighted. “I’m a bit of a one for solving the mysteries on the television there. What great gas being a detective.”
“It has its moments.”
“As that wee Belgian fella said, it’s all about the little gray cells.”
“It is, Father.”
“Putting two and two together.”
St. Valentine stops picking his teeth. “Get him to speed up a bit. You’ve fifteen minutes: O’Leary’s waiting at the bus stop with a bag of chops.”
I address him brightly. “Now, Father, tell me what you want to say, or else Mrs. O’Leary will be through the door with her ears wagging.”
Father Quigley nods. “Marguerite was a long-term resident at the home. Father Creedo saw her arrive as a kiddie and met with her over the years. Although he lost contact with her when he moved to another parish.”
“So Marguerite didn’t die?”
The priest is grave. “No. She attempted to murder her brother.”
“She tried to kill Gabriel?”
“She took the little fella by the hand, led him down the garden, and tried to drown him in the pond. Afterwards the girl showed no remorse. In fact, she solemnly promised to try it again, so they sent her away.”