The Disenchanted Widow (41 page)

Little does she know, thought Bessie, as she finally—and with immense relief—shut the door on Mrs. McFadden. With a bit of luck, Father Cassidy wouldn’t even have the luxury of telling her that her job was finished. If there was any justice in the world, he was in the clink by this stage, counting the bars on his cell window, as opposed to counting his priestly blessings.

Chapter forty-six

C
an anything be sadder than work left unfinished? Yes: work never begun.

Lorcan Strong stared at the unfinished portrait of the Countess, turning over in his mind the aptness of the observation. Yet he felt certain that Christina Rossetti had not been pondering the whole sorry field of reproduction painting and counterfeit art when she coined those words.

Sir Joshua Reynolds’s portrait had indeed been a thing of beauty—but no more. The villainous had forced the guiltless to misappropriate its beauty for the purpose of duping the unsuspecting. Lorcan’s hand—his right hand, which had brought so many things of beauty into the world, whether by breathing new life into an Old Master or deepening the mystery of reality through his own work—had created
that
: an exact replica of a masterpiece.

Esthetic desecration should be alien to an artist’s hands. Those hands are for giving, not taking; for creating and sharing, not grasping and amassing for oneself.

With that in mind he crossed to the portrait, took a steadying breath, raised a craft knife, and prepared to commit his first act of vandalism against—but for the sake of—true art.

And so the blade went through the Countess of Clanwilliam: through the flesh tints of her plain visage, the muted hues of her pale bosom, into the rich fabric of the magenta dress, the delicate leaves of the book she held.

He sliced through the Van Dyke browns, the Prussian greens, the indigo sky, the carmine roses, the glossy black of her abundant hair, until the fruits of the hours and days of his forced labor behind locked doors hung in tatters, unrecognizable in the wooden frame.

The assault over, he lifted the ruined work off the easel, ripped the shreds from the stretcher, levered the staples from the frame, broke it up, and tossed the lot into a garbage bag.

He would not be saving the stretcher for another canvas. Every trace of the painting had to go. As with Blennerhassett himself, he wanted the thing out of his life for good. He understood Bessie’s need to get away from the cottage. The ill-starred well would always be a reminder. He, on the other hand, need not be party to such reminders. He could destroy the object. Burn it. Bury it. Throw it into the nearest river and hope to forget it.

He heard the phone ring as he was securing the bag. A few seconds later, his mother’s voice, calling up to him. “Lorcan, dear…one of your colleagues…Stanley from the museum.”

He went down the stairs, gripping the garbage bag.

“Stanley, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“How ye, Lorcan…Some good news and bad. Which d’ye want first?”

“Now, let me guess…The Empire’s been bombed, but luckily you weren’t in it at the time.”

“Not funny! No, oul’ Feel-the-Pain’s in hospital…Isn’t expected tae last.”

“That
is
bad news.” Lorcan was recalling that his last conversation with Fielding-Payne had been less than cordial, with a
heated exchange on the finer points of ladies’ corsets. “He seemed in rude good health when I last saw him.”

“Aye, it happened only a couple of days ago. They say it’s a stroke. There’s word that the powers that be are gonna ask
you
tae take his place.”

“Don’t know why they’d want
me
.” He was aware that Stanley liked a bit of gossip. He guessed it came from isolation, of a working life spent handling fossils in a darkened room for most of the day.

“Well ye see, his niece is doin’ your job now. Nice bitta skirt she is, too. Would suit you down to the ground. I’m sure they wouldn’t want till be sendin’ her away just ’cos you’re comin’ back. Well I hope they’re not, anyway, ’cos—”

“Get to the point, Stanley. Is this one of your inventions?”

“No, it’s true! Catherine at reception said she’d typed the letter till ye yesterday. Just thought I’d let ye know in advance, like. You’ll soon be back anyway.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it. Well, thanks for letting me know, Stanley.”

“No bother.”

“See ye soon then. Regards to Catherine.”

“Will do…Oh, Lorcan, hold on a wee minute.”

“Yes?”

“See, when ye take over…ye wouldn’t do a mate a favor and get me moved out of them bloody fossils, would yeh?”

Lorcan grinned. Stanley looking after his own interests, as usual.

“Yes,” he said, “it’s high time you moved on from there. I’m told there’s a vacancy in Stone Age Artifacts.”

“But…but…”

“Not modern enough? Right you be, Stanley: Bronze Age Implements it is then. I’ll make it a priority.”

“Now, come down here to the kitchen, Herkie,” Rose said kindly. “The work ye’re gonna be doing for Uncle Ned might take a lot
outta a wee boy like you. So a wee bite tae eat first, tae keep yer strength up.”

Herkie struggled up onto a high stool, eyes widening at the feast laid out on the table. There was a hefty slice of sponge cake, a Wagon Wheel, two bourbon creams, and a jam tart. Rose had provided the banquet as a salve to ease Herkie’s pain. For what she had to say to him would be discomforting at best.

“Now, you and me’s gonna have a wee talk while ye eat that,” she said, pouring Herkie a glass of fizzy orange and sitting down opposite.

“How much are ye gonna pay me?” asked the bold Herkie—never one to mince his words when it came to the subject of money. A childhood spent hearing his mother complain about not having enough of it, and his jobless father concocting ways of relieving other people of theirs, had him believing that theft was the speediest and most painless method of acquiring it.

He took the slice of sponge cake in both hands.

“Now, Herkie, I think ye have a wee confession tae make?”

“I said me confession last Sa’rday.” He well remembered the embarrassment he’d caused his mother and the resulting drubbing he’d taken on the backs of the legs.

“Aye, so ye did, but did ye tell Father Cassidy about the pension money ye stole outta me handbag, son?”

Herkie took a gulp of orange and gaped at Rose over the rim of the glass, cheeks going pink.

She waited for his shame to subside and for an explanation to be offered. When none was forthcoming, she said, “Now, I know it was you, so don’t deny it.”

Herkie had a sudden brainwave. Through the open door he heard Veronica snuffling about the yard. “Maybe the pig took it.”

Rose tried not to smile. “Well, ye see, Veronica wouldn’t be able to open the big clip on my handbag. And before ye blame Gusty…”

She reached into her apron pocket and drew out the telltale Milky Way wrapper. Rose had held on to the evidence, fully intending to report the theft to Sergeant Ranfurley. But the bomb scare had intervened, and while it had created unprecedented upset in her life, God-blissus-and-savus, it had nonetheless solved the riddle of the stolen pension.

“I found that outside there on the doorstep and neither Gusty nor Veronica eat choclit bars, truth be told.”

Herkie knew the game was up. Two fat tears rolled out of his baby-blue eyes and traveled all the way down his cheeks, to fall off his chin and onto the plate.

“Don’t tell me ma! She’ll kill me, so she will.”

“No, I’m not gonna tell yer ma. That’s why I brought ye down here. Ye’re gonna do a bit of tidying up round the place, tae make up for the money ye stole. ’Cos ye have tae do penance for breaking the Eighth Commandment. Ye get nothing in life for free, Herkie. Is that all right now?”

Herkie nodded, mollified that his sin would be kept secret. The backs of his legs would remain pain free, and his ma would never know about all the lies he’d told her regarding his expeditions to Kilfeckin Manor.

He could live with that.

Chapter forty-seven

A
re you looking for something, dear?” asked Etta Strong, coming into the living room.

She had entered through the door that led from the bar to their living quarters. Lorcan had not been expecting that.

He quickly stuffed the wad of Aunt Bronagh’s international money orders into his trouser pocket and turned to face his mother. He noted she’d been to the hairdresser.

“No…no, just…just seem to have mislaid one of my cuff links,” he said, abashed. “You’re not back at your station already, are you? I’m surprised.”

“Oh, my legs are fine now. And, if I’m honest, I missed the banter…Chatting to customers keeps me occupied.”

“Can I get you anything?”

“No, no, son. You carry on. Brother Brendan is out there, counting the takings from his charity boxes. You know how long it takes him. His eyesight isn’t the best. I thought I’d get him a cup of tea.”

“Wouldn’t a pair of glasses be more appropriate?”

“Away on with
you
.” She headed in the direction of the kitchen but paused. “Oh, before I forget. Socrates says he lost his dentures on Saturday night. You didn’t come across them, did you?”

Lorcan, bemused: “No. I don’t believe I did.”

“Are you sure?”

“Well, I think I’d remember something like that. How on earth do you mislay a set of dentures?”

“They’re a new set, you see, and he had them wrapped in a hankie in his pocket.”

“What stunning logic! They don’t call him Socrates for nothing, do they?”

“Now, don’t be cruel, dear. He was keeping them out until he got used to them.”

“I don’t really see, but—”

“Oh, another thing, now that I’ve got your ear.” Etta came closer to him, her voice a whisper. “It’s about Gusty.”

“Why are you whispering? There’s no one around, and you’re not in the confessional.”

“Shush!” She cast a look at the open door. She heard Brother Brendan coughing softly and the chink of coins. She caught Lorcan’s arm. “I’m worried about Gusty.”

“Er, right. Why?”

“Well, when he was leaning over to change one of the beer kegs yesterday, I’ll swear I saw the strap of a lady’s slip sticking out from under his shirt.”

Lorcan exploded with laughter. “That’s ridiculous!”

“I know.”

“You were just imagining it, Mother. The light can play tricks.”

Etta’s lips formed an
O
of pained disapproval. “Well, I hope so.” She glanced back at Lorcan. “You look as if you’re going somewhere.”

“Yes, I have a bit of business to attend to in Killoran. I won’t be long.”

She continued on into the kitchen—but returned a moment later. “D’you know what Brother Brendan told me?”

“No, tell me.”

“He said that Father Cassidy left the parish yesterday.”

“Oh…” Lorcan was astonished by the speed with which events had moved, but very glad they had.
Little does she know.
“That’s a bit sudden, isn’t it?”

“Well, that’s what I said to Brother Brendan. But apparently he’s got bronchitis. He’ll have to have treatment, and then he’s off to recuperate in Donegal with the nuns, poor man.”

“I see.”

“You know, I never liked the sound of his cough,” Etta said, her features scrunching up with concern. She decided to sit down after all, as if the move might lighten the great burden of injustice dealt the priest. “And all those cigarettes can’t have helped him. I expect he’ll be given a parish over there when he’s better. Well, the air’s cleaner for a start. Do him good.”

“Hmm.” There was really nothing more Lorcan could add. Cassidy had fooled them all.

He was gone, though, to that foreign land across the border—out of reach of the authorities. But, more important, he was rendered powerless. Powerless to destroy the blameless in the pursuit of some fatally delusional, flag-waving cause.

Chapter forty-eight

B
essie Halstone had come to the end of her sojourn.

She sat on a bench at the front of Rosehip Cottage, taking the sun on her bare arms and legs, eyes shut, thinking her own thoughts—thoughts that rarely focused on the present, but fluctuated between past and future, between regret and the torment of not knowing what lay ahead.

The relief she’d allowed herself, following the priest’s removal and the Dentist’s demise, was short-lived. Finally she could stop running, but like a harried deer, the fear of capture was snapping at her heels once more.

It had been a turbulent week, starting out with her harassment at the hands of the RUC and ending with Father Cassidy turning out to be a terror suspect. What could possibly happen next?

Her thoughts returned to Ranfurley. A week was time enough for him to have checked her out and alerted social services that Herkie was a truant. Oh, God! Lorcan’s assurances that he wouldn’t bother her were all but forgotten. Soon the sergeant’s angry features were morphing into those of her sister, Joan.

Bessie shifted uneasily on the sunseat, anxiety rising, blind to the beauty that lay all around her—the flower-filled garden, the rolling fields, the serenity and calm of the distant mountains. She
recalled the dream she’d had at the table in the parochial kitchen—a prophetic one, as it turned out.

No, she wouldn’t be welcome in Joan’s home. But Joan was the only family she had. They’d never been close as children, lost to each other through their parents’ lovelessness. Why should adulthood be any different? Joan the sanctimonious one, Bessie the rebel. Born opposites, with traits as ingrained as lettering through seaside rock; Bessie inheriting the genes of one parent, Joan the genes of the other.

Yes, she’d make her way to Joan’s unwelcoming door, suffer the indignation, eat humble pie. There were plenty of hotels in Sligo. She’d pick up some seasonal work. She sighed, tried to content herself with the thought. It was summer, after all.

But time was marching on. She wouldn’t make any money sitting in the sun. They had to hit the road. And fast. Ranfurley could be on his way to the cottage right this minute. She’d go indoors and make an immediate start on the packing. The cottage needed a clean as well. Gusty Grant had to be told of her plans.