With Our Blessing

by Jo Spain

  Michael glanced up. ‘If that’s more snow in those clouds, we could end up getting stuck down here.’

  Tom’s brow creased with worry. Irish people were not used to dealing with inclement weather. Rain they could handle by the bucketload. Snow was a novelty and, when it did make a rare appearance, the resulting chaos made roads impassable across much of the country.

  Ray and Laura were sitting on stools at a high table inside the window of the dimly lit coffee shop, the only customers.

  There was no one behind the counter when they entered, but in response to the tinkling bell attached to the door, a little old woman, her short white hair standing on end, emerged through a curtain.

  ‘Well, well,’ she said. ‘It’s like Grand Central Station in here today.’

  ‘Good afternoon, miss,’ Tom said.

  ‘More police,’ she replied. ‘I suppose you’ll be wanting coffee. We don’t serve doughnuts.’

  Tom and Michael looked at each other, unsure whether she meant the confectionery or was calling them doughnuts.

  Tom guessed the former.

  ‘Three coffees would be great,’ he replied. ‘Would you mind terribly if we have our own sandwiches with the coffee?’

  ‘Well, I’d say yes, but then you might arrest me. I don’t want to end up a victim of police brutality. I know what goes on.’ She touched the side of her large nose with her finger.

  A young man emerged from behind the curtain.

  ‘Nan, what are you doing down here? Go upstairs and watch the telly,’ he said, trying to gently usher her away.

  She glared at him. ‘You’re always trying to keep me out of my own shop. Just like your father. Hoping I’ll die of boredom up there so you can claim your inheritance.’

  With one last glare at the two policemen, she left.

  ‘Sorry about that.’ The young man smiled at Tom and Michael. ‘She ran this shop for forty years. Hard to break the habit.’

  ‘She seems to have all her faculties,’ Michael observed.

  Their young server laughed. ‘No, she’s mad as a brush now. Thinks everyone’s a copper. Go on, sit down and I’ll bring your coffees. Three you said? Black, is it?’

  ‘With a jug of milk,’ Tom confirmed. ‘The copper filling the car outside is with us.’

  ‘You might have warned us,’ Michael said, as they joined Ray and Laura at their table.

  ‘It was funnier to watch your faces,’ Ray replied. ‘She asked us if we were here to interview her. I thought you’d phoned ahead as a joke.’

  The woman’s grandson arrived at the table with the coffees.

  ‘So,’ Ray said, turning to Laura. ‘Do you want to tell them, or will I?’

  ‘Well, I suppose I should tell the story. She was my aunt, after all.’ Laura shook her head, still coming to terms with what she’d learned.

  The absence of anyone else in the shop and the eerie quiet outside, despite the proximity to the motorway, put them all on edge. It felt like the right atmosphere for a chilling tale.

  ‘I don’t think I ever heard this story, growing up,’ Laura began. ‘It might have been referenced – poor Aunt Peggy, that kind of thing – but you know how Irish families are, though. Skeletons in every closet.’

  Everybody around the table nodded sagely. So many Irish families had the uncle who added coffee to his whiskey every morning, or the child, raised by grandparents, believing its mother to be its sibling. Not hanging your dirty laundry out in public was a national pastime.

  Laura took a deep breath.

  ‘There were nine in my mother’s family and she’s the youngest. She had a special bond with her sister Peggy, because she was the only sister still living at home when Mam was growing up. Anyway, one night Peggy went to a parish dance, which was apparently as thrilling as it got back then. She was seventeen. My mother was eight, so this was around 1963 or ’64.’

  Laura took a sip of her coffee. Like most Irish people, she was a good storyteller and knew how to pace a yarn.

  ‘Peggy was a real looker – dimpled cheeks, big blue eyes, that kind of thing. My mother remembers her that night as this vision going out in a cornflower-blue dress with a matching blue butterfly clip in her hair. Their brother Johnny was her chaperone and under strict orders to take care of her . . .’ Laura paused.

  The sense of foreboding was growing.

  ‘My mother woke in the early hours to chaos. There was shouting and banging downstairs, so she got up and peeped into the kitchen through a crack in the door. She was young and probably only realized later what had happened that night, but she remembers seeing Peggy sitting in a chair, dress torn, her lip split. My grandmother had her arms around her and was trying to get Peggy to say something.

  ‘The shouting had been between my grandad and Johnny and another brother, Kevin. Johnny had had a few drinks and left Peggy alone. Two local lads offered to walk her home, but, well . . . I don’t need to spell out what happened. They were brutal.’ Laura flushed. ‘Johnny found her where they’d left her, in a ditch at the side of the road. She was less than half a mile from home.’

  Tom felt a ball of anger and compassion rise in his chest.

  ‘The local priest got word of the episode and a few days later turned up at the house,’ Laura continued, in a hushed tone. ‘He told my grandparents that Peggy had led the lads on, they were good boys, one training to be a teacher, et cetera. Said Peggy would have to be packed off to the nuns in case she was pregnant. That’s where single girls “in trouble” were sent. It seems the only thing worse than getting yourself assaulted, back then, was other people finding out about it.’

  ‘And they just sent her off?’ Michael asked, incredulous.

  ‘Of course not,’ Laura snapped. ‘My grandmother was horrified. But the priest kept coming back and neighbours were starting to talk, saying that she left the dance with the lads, no decent girl would do that. None of us can imagine what it must have been like in rural Ireland in the sixties. Between the priests and the neighbours the pressure to send Peggy and her problems away would have been unbearable.

  ‘I’m not long out of Kerry, and I can tell you there are still villages that could have leapt straight off the pages of The Valley of the Squinting Windows.’

  Tom raised his eyebrows, surprised that someone so young was familiar with Brinsley MacNamara’s classic and controversial tale about an Irish town torn apart by gossip and malice.

  ‘It turned out the two lads were from prominent families,’ she continued. ‘They wanted her gone, and these people were used to getting what they wanted. Grandad caved first, but not because he didn’t love Peggy. She had taken to her bed after the attack and wouldn’t speak to anyone. Grandad thought that maybe the best thing for Peggy was to be away from the area for a while.

  ‘So they let the priest take her to the Sisters of Pity convent in Limerick. She wasn’t sent to one of the mother and baby homes run by the nuns, because they didn’t even know if she was pregnant at that stage . . .’ Laura paused.

  Her listeners were enthralled and horrified in equal measure.

  ‘The family was heartbroken. My grandmother kept sending letters to the convent but received no response. The priest had actively discouraged them from visiting. But after a month, Gran wanted to know if Peggy was expecting. She wanted to make sure the baby wasn’t adopted. Mainly, she wanted Peggy home.

  ‘My grandparents drove to the convent, but when they got there they had to fight with a nun just to see Peggy. When they did, she was unrecognizable. Her hair was shorn. She was covered in bruises and was half the size she’d been when she’d left Kerry. They wanted to take her out there and then, but Peggy started having some kind of fit. She just kept screaming, “You sent me here, you sent me here.” But she wasn’t pregnant.

  ‘My grandparents went berserk with the nuns, wanted to know what had happened. The nuns told them Peggy was harming herself, because the “incident” with the two lads had sent her mad. They reassured the family
that they would be better off leaving the sisters to deal with her, that they were professionals and could help Peggy.

  ‘My grandmother never got over it. She kept going back to the convent, each time determined to put Peggy in a car and bring her home, but half the time the nuns talked her down, and the rest of the time, they wouldn’t even let her in. Said it would just upset Peggy and the whole place. Grandad suspected the families of the two boys were pulling strings so Peggy would be kept in the laundry. They didn’t want her back, walking about the village, making them uncomfortable. I never met Gran; she died two years after Peggy left, of heartbreak, Mam says.

  ‘Years later, Mam went to look for Peggy herself. It wasn’t until then she found out Peggy was dead. She’d hanged herself from the window of her dormitory.’

  Everyone around the table winced.

  ‘She’d died five years before Mam went looking. The nuns hadn’t felt the need to inform her family. They wouldn’t even say where she was buried. Said she had committed a mortal sin and didn’t deserve to lie in a marked grave. She killed herself when she was twenty-seven, after spending ten years in the place.’ Laura shook her head. ‘That’s everything.’

  The story sounded completely incredible, and Tom knew he would have struggled to believe it if so much hadn’t already come out about religious institutions. It was only in the last decade that the government had been forced to compensate victims who’d been routinely abused and tortured as children in industrial schools run by religious orders.

  Now there was growing pressure from campaign groups to investigate the Magdalene Laundries and the role the state had played in their operation. The laundries had been originally conceived as charitable refuges for ‘fallen’ or abandoned women, but evolved into dumping grounds for all sorts of women regarded as ‘difficult’ by a judgemental society, heavily influenced by the Catholic Church. Some of the laundry inmates had had babies out of wedlock, others had reported abuse by a family member or neighbour; some just ended up there because they were homeless, had committed a minor crime or were moved from other institutions. The women claimed they were shamefully mistreated – forced to work from morning until night for no pay, underfed, beaten, abused and generally treated like prisoners.

  The campaign thus far had been conducted largely under the radar. The government had managed to force the religious orders to provide a tiny portion of redress for the industrial school victims but, scorched by that experience, it was maintaining that the Magdalene Laundries were the domain of the Church, and families had sent their relatives there freely. The campaign groups, though, had ample evidence that the courts had sent girls to laundries for petty offences and that many young girls had been sent there directly from orphanages. All the institutions of the state, including the police, were implicated in sending girls to the laundries – and keeping them there.

  Willie sighed.

  ‘Your aunt’s story isn’t all that unusual,’ he said. ‘It was meant to be the case that the girls were released from the laundries if a family member came for them. But more often than not, they were worse than jail for people with no money or power. Slave labour for the nuns, that’s what those girls were.’

  ‘It’s a heartbreaking tale, Laura,’ Tom added. ‘Your mother was very brave to share it.’

  ‘It is horrific,’ Michael said. ‘I’ve heard of the laundries, I just don’t think I ever realized what went on in them. But – and I don’t want to take away from Laura’s story – is it relevant to this case? Was Mother Attracta even in the laundry at the time? And was she involved with whatever went on?’

  ‘I think it’s significant,’ Ray said. ‘Sister Concepta said Mother Attracta had been a nun since the 1960s, and she didn’t mention her being anywhere other than at that convent. And it doesn’t matter whether Mother Attracta was complicit in the bad things that happened in the laundry. A lot of people seem to have been damaged by those places. We have to at least consider the theory that somebody could be taking revenge, and Mother Attracta was a target just because she was there.’

  Laura fidgeted in her seat.

  ‘I’m not sure I’m comfortable with where that thought leads,’ she said. ‘My mother is full of rage at what happened to her sister. She wants justice for her. For Mam that means exposing the truth. Not murdering someone.’

  Tom interrupted, before Ray could respond to Laura. ‘We shouldn’t jump to any conclusions.’ For all his intelligence, the detective sergeant could be emotionally oblivious. ‘It’s important to know the background of the convent. That doesn’t necessarily mean that the murder has any connection to the laundry. The laundries closed years ago. It’s a very long time to nurse a grudge.’

  ‘1996,’ Willie said.

  They all looked at him.

  ‘That’s when the last one closed.’

  ‘I didn’t realize it was that recent,’ Tom said.

  A clock chimed in the shop.

  Darkness had fallen.

  Chapter 16

  Kilcross garda station was en route to the convent. It sat amid pretty, quaint houses, most of them shimmering with Christmas lights under freshly snow-topped roofs.

  The sergeant, Ciaran McKenna, was a laid-back, friendly man in his early fifties. His youthful face was unlined, only his greying hair betraying his age.

  Tom was relieved to note the man’s relaxed demeanour. Some officers reacted badly to the Dublin-based murder team stepping on to their ‘patch’. This sergeant looked like he would be a help rather than a hindrance to the investigation.

  Ciaran told them that members of the divisional crime scene unit, an offshoot of the Technical Bureau, had attempted to isolate the scene in the hall where the nuns had found the blood and broken glass.

  He paused before continuing, nervously. ‘I don’t know what you’ll make of this. The nuns cleaned the hall.’

  ‘Cleaned the scene?’ Tom repeated, incredulously. ‘What? Why? That’s a criminal offence.’

  ‘I don’t think they realized that.’ Ciaran shook his head. ‘Said the glass and blood were distressing. It’s just something they do – cleaning, I mean. Not much else to do up there. They’ve no television.’ He pronounced this last sentence as if it was a crime.

  Tom was flabbergasted. ‘Well, we’ve senior crime scene investigators coming down tomorrow. Unless the nuns used industrial-strength bleach, the team will hopefully pick up something. I can’t say it’s not a blow, though. Can you come over in the morning and tell us what you know about the place and the victim?’

  ‘Sure. You don’t need me tonight?’

  ‘Morning is fine. I want to see the nuns this evening. This Father Seamus . . .?’

  ‘An obnoxious old fool – inflated sense of his own importance.’

  ‘We have to talk to him, too,’ Ray said. ‘Does he stay at the convent as well?’

  Ciaran snorted. Tom rolled his eyes.

  ‘What?’ Ray said.

  ‘No,’ the sergeant answered. ‘He doesn’t stay at the convent. They have this odd rule about “no men”. You’ll find him at the priest’s house a few yards down from the church, in the village.’

  ‘Well, we’re staying at the convent,’ Ray retorted, petulantly.

  ‘I’m sure they’ll be able to control themselves,’ Ciaran responded, deadpan.

  ‘The Reverend Mother,’ Tom interjected. ‘What was she like?’

  The sergeant pursed his lips.

  ‘Not pleasant,’ he replied.

  That made two witnesses with nothing nice to say about the victim.

  *

  The convent was a mile south of the village.

  A glassy sheen made the narrow country road treacherous. Between concentrating on driving and the moonless dark night, they almost missed the left turn Ciaran McKenna had instructed them to take.

  Once on the even narrower road, it was only minutes before the high walls of the convent became visible. They pulled through the tall, open iron gates into a large, gra
vel-strewn yard.

  The convent was an austere and oppressive building, standing three storeys high. A few windows on one side of the lower floor were lit, but the upper two floors remained cloaked in darkness.

  The front was coated in grim grey pebbledash. The bottom floor appeared to have been updated with modern window fittings, but the huge oak door looked like an original fixture. To its left ran a long, windowed corridor.

  ‘It’s scary, isn’t it?’ Laura came up beside Tom quietly.

  She stared, wide-eyed and apprehensive, at the building in which her aunt had died.

  ‘I’m sure it doesn’t look so intimidating in the daylight,’ he said.

  ‘It probably looks worse,’ she replied, and started towards the door.

  Tom followed his team. He looked at the backs of Laura and Michael’s heads and gave his own a quiet shake. Laura was mulling over her family history. Michael’s focus was half at home with his wife. Add to that the niggling worries Tom harboured about his own daughter’s news and really, out of the four detectives, only Ray could be said to have his mind fully on the case.

  The large door opened before they had the chance to use the old-fashioned brass doorknocker. Sister Concepta stood in its frame, ready to greet them.

  ‘Detectives, fáilte. I heard the cars. Come in out of the cold. Tar isteach.’

  Fáilte and tar isteach – welcome and come inside.

  They made their way into the impressive entrance hall. It had high ceilings and was brightly lit, with doors off to all sides. A broad staircase stood to their right and an overhead balcony faced them.

  A rudimentary cordon had been set up in the left-hand corner of the hall around a door and a half-moon-shaped walnut table, upon which sat a large vase filled with red roses.

  ‘Thank you for offering us refuge, Sister,’ Tom said. ‘I fear the weather is deteriorating.’

  ‘It’s our pleasure, really.’ She lowered her voice. ‘I told the others how Mother died. I hope that’s okay.’

  ‘Necessary, I imagine.’ He looked around. ‘The convent is bigger than I’d expected.’