Death at Christy Burke's (12 page)

So chances were the old lady was not out there vandalizing the pubs of Dublin.

Michael chatted with Bill a while longer, then said his goodbyes. He had learned a great deal in his time at the Bleeding Horse. What it boiled down to, and what he told Brennan on the phone when he called to report on his talk with McAvity, was that all four of the Christy’s regulars had their troubles.

Brennan

Brennan Burke had found a new calling, and it seemed as natural to him as his vocation to the priesthood. Some might say more natural. He was on the job at Christy’s once again, pouring pints as if he had been doing so all his life. The regulars and other customers seemed to take him in stride; he was Christy’s own grandson after all.

Michael O’Flaherty, dressed as usual in his Roman collar, was seated at the bar with the four daily communicants, gostering away about nothing in particular until Jimmy O’Hearn announced that he had to leave.

“Where are you off to at this time of the evening, Jimmy?” Frank Fanning asked him.

“I have work to do.”

Work? Brennan had never thought of the bar stool boyos in the place as being on the payroll anywhere; they punched the clock so regularly at Christy’s, he wondered when they had the time, or the sobriety, to carry out more onerous responsibilities.

“Where do you work, Jimmy?” Michael asked him.

“On the high seas, Michael. I take people out fishing. Usually, of course, in the morning, when the fishing is best, and the drinking is best put off until later! I don’t do it every day. Some of my mornings are a little too painful. In this case, though, I promised a crowd I’d take them for an early evening run. So I’m signing out.” He lowered his voice. “But not before hailing Mary and the Five Sorrowful Mysteries.”

“You say the rosary before you set sail?” Michael asked, surprised.

“No, just a little word with those ones at the table behind us.”

He was referring to five women who had come in earlier. They were middle-aged to elderly and, when they had seated themselves at their table, they had looked to the bar expectantly, and one made a signal to Brennan. He caught on: they were to be provided with table service. He went to them immediately and took their orders, pints of the black stuff for all but one of them. They were attired in dresses or trouser suits in pastel colours, and looked as if they had just had their hair styled. There was a scent rising from them that was familiar: hair spray? Each had a cigarette burning in an ashtray. Now they were deep in conversation, and it was almost time for a refill.

Jimmy O’Hearn whispered to Michael and Brennan: “They’d talk the ears right off your head, and every word of it would be bad news. They don’t call them the Five Sorrowful Mysteries for nothing. But good souls, all of them. They do the stations of the cross every week, and . . .”

“Oh, which parish are they in?”

“Well, they’re in different parishes, but I don’t mean the stations in church, Michael. I mean they do a bit of a pub crawl, you know . . .”

“Sure they’re on the piss, like the rest of us. Come in for their vitamin G!” Frank Fanning whispered and winked at O’Hearn.

“They start off at the Parnell Mooney,” O’Hearn continued, “and drop in here, so we see them regularly. They put away a good few pints before they set out for their next stop, or a couple of them do anyway. They never have the money for a taxi at the end of their outing, so the guards usually give them a lift home.”

Michael whispered back, “They look as if they were lifted right out of the Catholic Women’s League or one of the bridge clubs in my home town of Saint John!”

“Sure we’re all the same people, separated by a mere ocean of water.”

O’Hearn went over to the women and greeted them, and they said hello. After a few seconds chatting, O’Hearn invited Michael to their table.

“These fine ladies are dying to know who you are, Michael. A new priest in the local, and them not informed about it! Ladies, this is Monsignor O’Flaherty from Canada.”

“Don’t be listening to him, Monsignor,” one of the women said. “But now that you’re here, I’m Mary Daly, this is Mary O’Brien, Kathleen O’Rourke, Eileen Sullivan, and Beatrice Walsh.”

O’Flaherty called each by name and said he was pleased to make their acquaintance. They offered him a seat, and he joined them as Jimmy O’Hearn waved goodbye and left the premises.

Brennan could hear the conversation at the Five Sorrowful Mysteries’ table and was glad he wasn’t a part of it. He heard O’Flaherty commiserating with Mary Daly about the herniated disc in her lumbar spine. The pills she was on for pain counteracted other medication she was taking so, if she seemed a little spacey, that was why. She had to avoid alcohol. Mary O’Brien should be walking with a cane but someone in her block of flats needed the cane more than Mary, so she went without. There were plenty worse off than she was. Kathleen O’Rourke was being given the runaround by the medical establishment — she wouldn’t mention any names — who kept telling her there was nothing wrong with her. Did she look stupid to Monsignor? No, she did not. So of course there was something wrong; she knew it, but the doctors in this city weren’t willing to expend the resources necessary to diagnose and treat it. Eileen Sullivan had a shoulder so bad she couldn’t wash her walls or ceilings, and her home was a disgrace. So as much as she would like to invite Monsignor to dinner some evening, she could not in all conscience have him in her home. Beatrice Walsh was waiting for surgery, and had been waiting for months. She wouldn’t be so indelicate as to describe her trouble in mixed company, but listeners were left with little doubt that the problem was not quite life-threatening but gruesome nonetheless.

O’Flaherty must not have wanted to impose on their girls’ day out any longer; he excused himself and returned to his place at the bar.

Brennan wondered about Jimmy O’Hearn, heading out on a fishing trip with a considerable amount of alcohol on board. He was about to seek reassurance from his cronies when O’Flaherty relieved him of the task.

“So Jimmy’s gone fishing, eh?” Michael said to Frank.

“Yes, odd time for it, but he’s off.”

“Will he be all right, do you suppose? After, em, being in here . . .”

“Sure he’ll be grand. You’ll never see Jimmy O’Hearn legless, with drink or otherwise! He lives on a boat. He can walk like a man on deck and on land.”

“Lives on a boat, here in Dublin?”

“He does. It’s docked at Ringsend.”

“A houseboat, is it?”

“No, a regular sailboat. He’s rigged it up with all the mod cons.”

“Beats paying rent, I’d say.”

“Well, he pays a docking fee of some kind. And he does odd jobs about the place. The marina. But I hear they gave him a special deal because of his history.”

“Oh?”

“Ever hear of the O’Hearn Yacht Company?”

“Well, no, but that’s no reflection on the boats or the family name. It’s just me. I grew up in one seaport, I now work in another, and I spend a couple of weeks here in Dublin every year. Yet I’ve never been a man for boats. I couldn’t tell you why.”

“Don’t let Jimmy talk you into one of his fishing charters then. He’ll have you halfway to Scotland. But anyway, he’s one of the O’Hearn Yacht O’Hearns. The family has an illustrious history. Or they did have. For over a hundred years the family business was building boats. More like a hundred and fifty years. I think it was the 1840s when Old O’Hearn — this must have been Jimmy’s great-great-grandfather — started up the business. World-renowned they were for it. It was quite a thing to own an O’Hearn boat; not too many in Ireland could afford one, but they sold well in England and Europe, and then in America. Every boat was different, and each one had a distinctive — what would you call it? — a bowsprit? No, a figurehead, I think it was. O’Hearn would do a little individual carving for each boat. Might be the owner’s profile, or that of his wife, or some little joke. Anyway, when you had an O’Hearn boat, you had one of a kind. They don’t have the company anymore, but Jimmy’s never lost his taste for it.”

“Never lost his taste for what? A pint of porter?” Michael and Frank turned to face a short man with dishevelled grey hair who had just come in the door. Brennan had seen him before, but they had never met. Must have been before he assumed his duties behind the bar.

Frank Fanning nodded at the newcomer. “Blair,” he said in greeting.

“Evening, Frank,” the man replied, then turned a pair of small, glittering eyes on Michael. “Who’s this now?”

Frank offered the briefest of introductions. “Michael O’Flaherty, Blair McCrum.”

“O’Flaherty. A new face. Father O’Flaherty, I should say. Where’d you drink before now, Father?”

“He’s Monsignor O’Flaherty, Blair,” Frank Fanning put in.

“Other side of the Atlantic, to tell you the truth, Mr. McCrum, er, Blair. I’m here on holiday.”

“But you don’t sound like an American at all, Monsignor.”

“I’m not an American. I’m Canadian, but all my people came from here.”

McCrum did a double take when he noticed there was a new face behind the bar as well.

“Well! This is the day for surprises. Who is this, standing in for Finn Burke while he is a guest of the state? Again.”

“This is a direct descendant of Christy Burke, so govern yourself accordingly, Blair,” Tim Shanahan warned him.

“Direct descendant? How’s that? What’s your name? What’s your father’s name?”

“I’m Brennan Burke, son of Declan, grandson of Christy.”

“And where did you come from, just in time to save the day for your unfortunate Uncle Finn?”

“Finn had me flown in by helicopter from Canada for the occasion. We touched down in the exercise yard in the Joy just to say hello. That raised holy hell, let me tell you. Then I was dropped off here.”

The man glared at him, floundering for words. Served him right. Brennan didn’t like his manner, whoever he was. McCrum? Right. “What can I get for you?” he asked him then.

“I’ll have a Powers if you’d be so kind.”

Brennan poured him his whiskey and took his cash.

When he had his drink in hand, McCrum leaned towards Frank and spoke quietly. “Well, young Nugent will be grateful that this man has stepped into the breach.” He gestured to Brennan with his glass.

“Is that so?” Frank said, indifferently.

“You know what they say. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.”

“I’m not quite following you, Blair.” But he didn’t appear to care much; he stretched around McCrum in order to have a word with Michael.

But McCrum hadn’t finished. “You’ll never guess who I saw in O’Connell Street this afternoon.”

“You’re right, Blair, you’ve got me stumped. So, Michael, how long are you —”

“A certain young lady from this very neighbourhood.” He waited. “A certain young lady who is sometimes seen in the company of one Sean Nugent, apprentice barman of Dublin City! Sean the sweet lad who works two jobs and studies for his degree when he can, one course at a time, so he’ll have a future to offer this young female who obviously is less appreciative than she might be of Sean’s efforts to make something of himself. I hear they haven’t been keeping company as of late. Did you hear anything, Frank?”

“Where would I hear something like that, Blair?”

“Well, what’s being put about is that, after all the attention Sean has lavished on her, not to mention the money that he works those long hours to earn, she’s taken up with a young fellow about five years her junior and the arse out of his pants. There’s a lesson in that for all of us, boys; save your money, some women are just as happy with scruff from the slums. The lad’s got the same bit of equipment in his trousers as the rest of us, and that’s enough for her. Anybody with eyes in his head could see that about her.”

Brennan was of a mind to pick the offensive man up and throw him out the door without even opening the door first. But he wasn’t about to start evicting Finn’s clientele. At least, not this early in his career.

Frank Fanning seemed to have succeeded in tuning McCrum out and directed his attention to Michael O’Flaherty’s questions about the photos displayed behind the bar. Frank pointed to this or that picture and gave a little spiel on the people portrayed in them. Christy Burke in his Volunteer’s uniform. Various participants in the Republican struggle, some well known, others who had fought without attaining glory.

“And if you know where to look in there —” Frank’s gaze went beyond Brennan to the deep recesses of the bar “— you’ll see a picture of Christy, Finn, and Finn’s son, Conn, all behind the bar together, the three generations. Finn cherishes that photo. It was taken by Finn’s wife, Catriona, shortly before Christy died. You look at the three Burkes lined up there and you’ll see photographic proof that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. They look like the same person, at different ages.”

“And where’s Conn now? I don’t see him stepping in to ease the burden now that Finn’s out of play.” McCrum again.

“Conn’s in London, Blair,” Fanning replied. “He’s working there.”

“The Brits had better watch their backs with that young hothead on their territory. But Catriona was a lovely soul. Died too young. Not sixty years old and her heart went on her. Such a shame. There were a few lonely years for Finn after that, with the children grown and on their own. But he hasn’t lacked for female company in recent times, isn’t that right, Frank? A handsome older man in good health, physically and financially, well that’s a draw to a lot of women, no question. But you have to be careful who you take up with.”

“I’m sure you’re careful yourself in that regard, Blair,” was all Frank said.

“You’re right on the money there, Frank. Nobody is going to be Mrs. Blair McCrum unless she passes muster with my dear mother and my uncle Diarmuid. And nobody has! They’ve saved me from the pitfalls more than once, let me tell you!”

He stopped long enough to take a sip of his whiskey, then got his second wind. “But none of that is news. The news of the day is that Finn is pleading not guilty to all the charges. Well, what would you expect? And he’ll go to trial some time in the fall. He’s got his lawyers working on the bail hearing. So you might see him here any day now.”