The Disenchanted Widow (40 page)

“Now, you listen tae me, ye goddamned hypocrite. You’re the worst kind—absolutely the worst kind—I’ve ever come across in all my entire workin’ life. And I’ve met many’s the psycho in my twenty-three years on this patch, believe you me. You make Ted Bundy look like Mary friggin’ Poppins. Takin’ holy orders so ye can skulk in the dark and bomb the life out of innocent people, while stupid young lads take the rap. Have ye ever seen what a bomb can do to a human being?” He shook him. “Have ye? I thought I’d seen it all in this job, but you, you take the bloody—”

“Sergeant.” Johnston had a hand on his shoulder, pulling him back. “Sarge, don’t waste your energy.”

“Aye, yer right, Johnston. He’s not worth the bloody energy.” He released his grip. “Get the hell outta here.”

Cassidy righted his collar, bent down, and retrieved the missal. He straightened himself and smoothed his hair into place.

“May God forgive you, Sergeant,” he said.

With that, Father Connor Cassidy walked—a free man—from the room.

Chapter forty-five

B
essie had just finished setting the table when she saw the emergency services depart. She’d remained by the kitchen window, not allowing herself the luxury of relaxing—of immersing herself in the tried-and-trusted ritual of setting out the china, cutting slices of cake, arranging biscuits on a plate—until she’d seen the last of Blennerhassett with her very own eyes.

It was only when the body bag had been zipped over his face and his carcass shoved into the ambulance that she could finally breathe more easily. The villain who’d made her life hell—the accursed IRA enforcer who’d terrorized her weak-willed husband and, as a sorry consequence, herself—was no more.

It was over.

She’d never have to hear his horrid name again, set eyes on his horrid face.

The back door opened and Lorcan came in.

They stared at each other. He shrugged, his look unreadable.

“I’m sure you need a cup of tea after all that,” Bessie said, teapot in hand.

“Yes, please.” He took in the beautifully laid table, the sugary fare he certainly had no stomach for.

He sat down. She poured the tea. An air of sadness hung over the room.

“This could be the wake,” he said.

Bessie laughed mirthlessly. “I doubt many will be mourning him. Celebratin’ more like.”

Lorcan ignored the comment. “Where’s Herkie?”

“Watching TV.”

“He didn’t see anything?”

“No…not that he didn’t want to, mind. Wanted to know if the—” She couldn’t bring herself to utter the nickname. “If he’d be in China by now.”

Lorcan gave a small smile. She offered him a cigarette. To her surprise, he took it.

“No, I can’t eat, either,” she said, surveying the spread. “Don’t know why I bothered putting all this stuff out.”

“Force of habit.” He drew on the cigarette. “We all have our ways of coping.”

“You’re…you’re not sorry he’s dead, are you?”

He shook his head.

“What I can’t understand is, how the—” She was going to use the
B
-word but checked herself in time. “What I mean is, how on earth did he find me? Here, of all places.”

“My fault, I’m afraid. All my fault. I didn’t want to tell you because I didn’t want to worry you. It was the wrong decision. I’m sorry. I thought I was protecting you and Herkie.”

“But how?”

He went on to explain his involvement with Blennerhassett, beginning with his abduction on the Antrim Road; being coerced into replicating the portrait of the Countess; the threats against his mother. And finally the misfortune of being made to take a leave of absence by his supervisor at the museum, thus affording Blennerhassett the opportunity of visiting Tailorstown.

“When he came to the pub I wanted to tell you, to warn you. It was on my mind to tell you not to park your car at the front of the cottage, but…”

“My God!” Bessie was gobsmacked. “I had no idea.” She got up, went to the window to gaze out at the well. The well that had ended their troubles—both hers and Lorcan’s—so neatly. “And…and after all that…what he put you through, you…you wanted to
save
him.”

“Save him, yes. But, only so he could be held to account. I would have turned him in—have no fear of that. I’d had enough of the blackmail.”

“What are the chances, huh?” Her smile was grim. “I leave Belfast to get away from him, and end up running into him ’cos of you. Ye couldn’t make it up.”

She paced the room, arms folded tight. “God, what about the RUC? They’ll be wanting to question me again. I can’t face Ranfurley. Once was bad enough.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll deal with that. I’m sure they know all about him. They’ll be glad he’s been taken out—to use the vernacular.”

Lorcan leaned across the table and extinguished the half-smoked cigarette. “What will you do now?”

“Well, I can’t stay here…my sister, Joan, in Sligo, I s’ppose…till I get meself a job. Don’t want to—we don’t really get on—but it’s somewhere to stay till we get back on our feet. Don’t have the money to rent another place. Gusty was very kind to let me rent this place so cheap.”

“You wouldn’t stay on here?”

She jerked a thumb at the window. “Knowin’ that psycho met his end in that yard? Don’t think so. Every time I looked out there I’d see him. Even sitting here in this kitchen gives me the creeps. I could’ve met me death in that chair you’re sitting on.”

A door opened and there was Herkie, bounding into the room and swooping down on the cake stand.

“Where’s your manners, son?” Bessie grasped the cake-laden hand before it reached his mouth.

“Sorry, Ma. Aye…hello, Mr. Lorcan. I finished the pitcher last night. Canna get me money now?”

Lorcan ruffled his curls. “The hero of the hour! Of course you can, Herkie.”

Herkie beamed with pride. Bessie pinched his cheek.

“Did I kill the Dentist, Ma?”

“No, you did not indeed, son. And for God’s sake, don’t go round sayin’ that to anybody or you’ll get the pair of us arrested. D’ye hear me?”

“Ma, mind when you were in the chair…all bleedin’ ’n’ all…and I was cuttin’ the rope?”

“How could I forget it?”

“Well, you said ye’d buy me a new Action Man
and
a hundred Nicky Bocker glories.”

Bessie sighed. She wanted desperately to lie down. “Tomorrow, son. Yer ma’s tired.”

Lorcan stood up. “
I’ll
take you for your well-deserved reward, Herkie. No time like the present. A hero can’t be kept waiting.”

Herkie looked up at Lorcan. Bessie mouthed a “thank you” over the boy’s head.

“God, canna, Ma?”

There was a knock on the door.

“Coo-ee, Mrs. Hailstone! It’s only me: Rose McFadden.”

“Oh, God!” Flustered, Lorcan threw Bessie a warning look and took Herkie by the hand. “See you later.”

With that, he and the boy dashed out the back door, leaving Bessie to her fate.

Bessie opened the front door on a panting Rose weighed down by carrier bags.

“God-blissus, Mrs. Hailstone, are ye all right? Gusty said he saw the amb’lance earlier and I thought something terrible had happened to ye.”

“No, nothing like that,” said Bessie, shutting the door behind her, and wondering how on earth she was going to explain the ambulance. “Come in and sit down. I’ve just made a pot of tea.”

Rose eyed the inviting table of goodies. “Well, I wouldn’t mind a wee cup atall, Mrs. Hailstone.” She eased herself into a chair with a sigh. “God, me back. I feel like Barkin’ Bob’s mule, truth be told.” Her eyes roamed over the table. “What a lovely spread. Did ye bake all this yerself?”

“Oh, it’s just simple stuff,” said Bessie, making light of the complicated marble cake, the dainty Viennese whirls. She refreshed the teapot and poured a cup. “I enjoy making my own things.”

“I agree with ye entirely, Mrs. Hailstone.” She shed an Aran cardigan and hung it on the back of the chair. “There’s nothing like yer own bitta bakin’. As I always say tae my Paddy: You don’t know the Divil what’s in any of that shop-bought stuff, or what kinda durty kitchens they’ve come outta. A friend of mine worked in a bakery once, and she tolt me she wouldn’t ate a crumb of anything she made, for the man runnin’ it was inclined tae stick his fingers into every bowl of stuff she was mixin’, and accordin’ tae her, his hands neither seen soap or watter from one end of the week tae the next.”

Bessie nodded in understanding. Mrs. McFadden could have been describing her former boss, Scottie “Butler” Yeats from My Lovely Buns.

Rose drew a breath and dived into a shopping bag. “And on that very subject of bakin’ and the like, Mrs. Hailstone, I brought ye a wee gift.”

“Oh!”

She produced a cake tin and took off the lid. “Me toffee tipsy Irish whiskey layer cake with crushed nuts and touch-o’-mint,” Rose announced proudly. “The one—” She stopped abruptly and pressed a hand to her bosom at the very memory of it. “God, I still get the palpitations even thinkin’ about that day. Ye were so good to sort it all out. That’s why I thought I’d make ye the wee cake as a present, like.”

Bessie took the tin. “Oh, you shouldn’t have, Mrs. McFadden…but thank you very much. It looks delicious.”

“I’m glad ye like it. A lot of work went intae it. Wouldn’t be a cake I’d make very often.” She reached for a Viennese whirl. “Only for special occasions, if ye get me meanin’. And what was the amb’lance doin’ here did ye say?”

Bessie, unused to Mrs. McFadden’s tendency to skip from topic to topic, was caught off guard. She took a mouthful of tea to buy time.

“What ambulance was that?”

“Oh, the one Gusty saw comin’ outta the backyard there this mornin’. He thought he saw a fire engine, too. But since he didn’t see no flames comin’ outta the roof, he thought maybe it was just a red van. ’Cos ye know, Freddie Dabbs, the butcher, drives a red van, and maybe he was leavin’ off a bitta beef with ye. Dora used tae buy a pound-a mince steak and a bag-a chicken giblets off him every Monday, for a drop-o’ soup tae take her through the week. But…” Rose reached for the teacup.

Bessie, sitting there nodding politely, wisely decided to let Rose ramble on. Now she understood completely why Lorcan was always so eager to get out of the woman’s way.

“…and anyway, as I was sayin’, Mrs. Hailstone—and I said this tae me Uncle Ned, too, when I was makin’ his bed this mornin’ and gettin’ him intae a clean set of drawers: ‘That amb’lance,’ sez
I…‘that amb’lance maybe broke down and pulled intae Dora’s yard for tae—’”

“Gosh, you’re spot-on,” said Bessie with relief, offering Rose a slice of marble cake. “The engine was overheatin’ and he called in here for some water.”

“There ye go!” Rose smiled broadly. “God, I just knew I was right. Wait tae I tell Uncle Ned that.”

Bessie eyed the clock and tried not to yawn.

Rose coughed politely. Then: “Now, there’s another wee thing of a delicate nature I need tae straighten out with ye.” She rummaged in her handbag and brought out a small brown paper bag. She pushed it across the table.

Bessie was nonplussed. It had been an extraordinary day so far. She’d nearly lost her life at the hands of the Dentist, but instead, he had lost
his
at the bottom of a well not ten yards from where they were sitting.

Her thoughts raced. She opened the bag with a sense of foreboding, and drew forth her missing panties.

“My goodness, how did you come across these?”

“Well, tae cut a long story short, I was ridin’ me bike along the county road out there on me way intae the town last week, when I saw them lyin’ on the roadside.”

Rose felt bad about telling the lie to cover up for Gusty. She fully intended to confess the sin to Father Cassidy the following Saturday evening.

“Now, I had an idea they might-a been yours when I saw them, and not the underwear of any of the wimmin livin’ round these parts. For most of the wimmin in these parts—meself included—would be wearin’ the full brief ’cos we wouldn’t be able tae get intae a pair of wee skimpy things like that. Not that I’m sayin’ there’s anything wrong with them, mind you. It’s just that when a
wommin gets up in years, like meself, she gets a wee bit broader of the beam, if ye get me meanin’.”

“Can’t understand how they made their way all the way out to the road. I had them pinned on the line.”

“Well, ye know, Mrs. Hailstone, maybe the wind blew them off.” A force-twelve hurricane couldn’t carry them that far, Bessie thought. “Or maybe a magpie caught a-holt of them.”

Rose saw Bessie’s look of incredulity. “Oh, d’ye see them black-beaked scissortails? They’d take the food outta yer mouth if ye forgot tae shut it when ye were eatin’. But of course a city wommin like yourself wouldn’t be expected to know the like of that.”

Bessie’s eyelids were beginning to droop, but she clung on, prepared to learn the thieving habits of every magpie in the vicinity of Tailorstown. Then, mercifully—

“God, is that the time? I have tae get my Paddy his tea. If he doesn’t have it on the dot of three he gets that old acid influx, so he does.”

Bessie helped Rose to her feet.

“Thanks very much for the lovely cake, Mrs. McFadden.” She held up the lingerie. “And these.”

“That’s no bother atall. Now, there’s just one more wee thing, Mrs. Hailstone.” Her voice dropped to a confessional whisper. Bessie, suddenly fearful she might decide to sit down again, moved to the door. “Now, that lovely wee boy of yours, wee Herkie…ye wouldn’t mind sendin’ him down to Uncle Ned’s the morra in the forenoon? Ned has a few wee jobs that need doin’ round the place. And he’s been so good so far.”

“No problem, Mrs. McFadden. I could use the hour of peace.”

“Oh, and another wee thing, Mrs. Hailstone. This is just for your ears, mind, but I think it’s good tae warn ye, ’cos tae be forewarned is tae have four arms, or whatever it is they say.

“I was talkin’ tae Betty Beard the other day and she tolt me her mother is very well mended. She’d come down with a Baker’s cyst, don’t ye know. Betty sez she’ll be comin’ back tae her job next week. Now, I’m sure Father Cassidy will be tellin’ ye that the morra anyway. But it’s good tae be a couple-a steps ahead, is it not?”