by Jon Cleary
“No, they can wait. Ten minutes’ waiting won’t hurt them.”
The housekeeper went away and Malone wondered what the local parish priest and his congregation would think of being kept waiting. Australians never liked to be kept waiting, not even by the Pope.
While he did his own waiting Malone covertly took note of his surroundings. Hourigan, it seemed, was an eclectic collector; the big drawing-room, one couldn’t call it a living-room, looked as if it had been furnished from a museum’s left-overs. There were Aboriginal bark paintings, Greek vases, an Egyptian sarcophagus, a Celtic stone cross, a French Impressionist painting and a Streeton landscape. The chairs, tables and couches were dark and heavy, right out of the middle of the worst of the Victorian period. A grand piano stood in one corner, covered with an emerald-green silk shawl; one could imagine a concerto being converted into a lively Irish jig. It was what Malone’s mother, who might have been able to afford one of the chairs, would have called a “nice home.”
Kerry, Archbishop Hourigan, came striding into the room. Malone’s first impression was that he would stride everywhere, even down from the altar to give communion (“Here, take this! Move on! Next!”). He was taller than his father, six feet at least, and heavily built; he gave corporeal meaning to the term “a solid church man.” He had a plump, blandly handsome face with the long Irish upper lip and eyes only a little darker than his father’s. His hair was thick, like his father’s, dark-brown and wavy and beautifully cut; he would hate to spoil it by having to cover it with a mitre. He had an air of arrogant authority about him that, Malone guessed, made junior priests and altar boys wish they were Presbyterians. He might question the Pope’s infallibility but never his own.
“A police officer to see me?” He had his father’s mellow-toned voice, but fruitier and better projected; he would never need a microphone in the pulpit, he would keep awake the dozers in the back pews of even the biggest cathedrals. “A parking fine or have I crossed against a red light?” He was all smiles; Malone waited for a blessing. Then he sobered: “No, Inspector, it’s more serious than that, isn’t it?”
“Much more, Your Grace. We’re investigating the murder of a young nun, Sister Mary Magdalene. Your phone number—or rather, your father’s—was in her notebook. She also had a date, or so her book said, with you yesterday at four p.m.”
All the colour, even the weight, seemed to go out of Kerry Hourigan’s face. He looked at his father and shook his head as if he had been punched. “Oh no! Not that girl . . .”
“Her?” Fingal Hourigan looked directly at his son; Malone and Clements might as well have not been in the room. “When they said a murdered nun, I never connected . . . Holy Jesus! We’ll have to have a Mass said for her soul!”
Malone was suspicious. How many nuns did Fingal Hourigan know? The Archbishop had collapsed into a chair and Malone, turning away from the old man, looked at him. “How well did you know her, Your Grace?”
“Eh? Know her? I—” He took out a handkerchief and wiped his nose without blowing it. Malone recognized the ploy, had seen it a hundred times; it was a way of gaining time while the thoughts were put in order. Kerry Hourigan put away the handkerchief, but not before Malone had recognized it as silk. The Catholic religious seemed to be living well these days: Ferragamo shoes, silk handkerchiefs . . . Peter’s Pence must be doing well against the devalued Aussie dollar. “I didn’t know her at all. She telephoned me, said she wanted to talk to me about something. She sounded rather—well, uptight, excitable. A lot of these young nuns are very militant these days. They want to change the Church, as if they have some right to take it over. Women are running amok.”
I should have Lisa here with me. Malone turned to Fingal Hourigan. “How did you know about her?”
“She came here to see my son and I told her she wasn’t welcome. I showed her the door and she left.”
“Just like that? How did you feel about that, Your Grace?”
The Archbishop didn’t look at his father. “I didn’t think it was very charitable.”
Hourigan didn’t seem put out that his son was criticizing him in front of strangers. “My son is a very charitable man. Sometimes he has to be protected from himself. Blessed are the meek, but not the militant, I keep telling him. We’re sorry to hear of the young girl’s death and we’ll have a Mass said for her, but she is no business of ours, Inspector.”
Malone wished he were better educated in the Bible; but he could think of no apt quotation to answer Fingal Hourigan. “So the girl was a complete stranger to you both, you know nothing about her?”
“That’s what we just said. Now if you’ll excuse us?”
“Inspector—”
Clements’ diplomatic cough sounded like a bad attack of croup. Malone looked at him and the sergeant nodded towards the grand piano, at something Malone had missed in his quick survey. On the silk shawl stood a gold-framed photograph of a woman, a handsome blonde woman in what looked like an artist’s smock. It was Miss O’Keefe, Mary Magdalene’s friend.
Malone kept his surprise to himself, said carefully, “That lady looks familiar, Mr. Hourigan. Who is she?”
It seemed to Malone that Fingal Hourigan was just as careful in his reply; at least he took his time. “She is my daughter Brigid. I don’t know where you would have met her.”
“My mistake,” said Malone. “I must have been thinking of someone else.” Then he looked at the Archbishop, who was still sitting in his chair. “I remember reading in the papers that you are only here on a visit. When will you be leaving?”
“I’m leaving on Saturday. I’m going back to Rome.” Kerry Hourigan stood up, regained some of his authority. “I take it you won’t be needing me again, Inspector?”
“Oh, I can’t promise that, Your Grace. Police work is much like religion, I should think—we never know what the sinners are going to do. You won’t be going to Rome, will you, Mr. Hourigan?”
“If I decide to go, will I have to get your permission?”
“I don’t think so. The last thing I want is to bring the Vatican down on my head.”
Fingal Hourigan abruptly smiled; his teeth were expensive and bright, but his smile was charmless, at least at the moment.
“You’re Irish, aren’t you? I’ve never known an Irishman yet who was a good copper. It’s something in our make-up.”
“Some of us keep trying,” said Malone. He looked at the Archbishop. “There has never been an Irish Pope, has there? But they must keep trying. Like us Aussies.”
The Hourigans looked at each other. Then Fingal said, “Goodbye, Inspector. Watch the dogs on your way out.”
But the dogs were not in sight as Malone and Clements walked down the driveway to the tall gates. It was still raining and Malone wondered if they were the sort of guard dog that only worked in fine weather.
“Like the dockers,” said Clements, who had his prejudices. Then he said, “Did you notice the chill when you made that crack about an Irish Pope? I thought my balls were going to fall off.”
“I didn’t mean anything by it.” As they got into the car the rain suddenly ceased and small patches of blue appeared in the low grey overcast; they were not sunlit and they reminded Malone somehow of Fingal Hourigan’s eyes. “There was a chill, too, when he mentioned his daughter.”
“Miss O’Keefe? I’ve got the feeling we’ve been listening to a pack of lies this morning. I wonder how many she’ll tell us when we find her?”
“How much do we know about Fingal Hourigan?”
“I only know what I’ve read in the papers.”
“How much is that?”
Clements thought for a moment. He chewed on his lip, a habit he had had since childhood. Then he shook his head. “Now you ask,” he said, “I know bugger-all about him.”
2
I
MALONE AND Clements drove out to see Brigid Hourigan, also known as Miss O’Keefe. They had no trouble in finding where she lived: Malone rang an art critic who
m he had met through Lisa.
“Brigid Hourigan? She lives at Stokes Point, got the sort of home no art critic could afford. She’s one of the best artists we have, but for some reason she almost never exhibits here in Australia—maybe she thinks she would be trading on her father’s name. All her stuff goes overseas and sells for big prices. She’s very popular with European collectors. She sort of takes the mickey out of religious art, without being blasphemous, like some of these young smart-alecs who paint naked Christs with big derricks. You and Lisa thinking of buying something of hers?”
“On a cop’s pay? Don’t be blasphemous.”
As they drove north out of the city the sky had begun to clear and the promise of a beautiful autumn day had begun to assert itself. Malone loved the change of seasons; it was almost as if it gave him the opportunity to change moods. Summer had been a fine season twenty years ago, when he had been playing cricket; but it was not a term in which to be slogging through an investigation; tempers were always cooler in cooler weather. He longed for winter, which was not his season of discontent.
“You think Old Man Hourigan will have phoned Miss O’Keefe?” said Clements.
“If he hasn’t, the Archbishop will have. Get the Irish and the Church together and even the confessional holds no secrets. So says my old man, a lapsed Irish Tyke.”
“My folks were Congregational. If they lapsed, they never knew.”
Stokes Point was a narrow strip of road and bush-surrounded houses on the eastern side of Pittwater, a wide stretch of yachting water twenty-five miles north of the city. The houses were a mixture, from old fibro weekenders to more expensive abodes by experimental architects. Brigid Hourigan’s was the grandest on the point.
The garden surrounding it was lush and semi-tropical; it suggested lassitude, an indolent passion for laziness. It was not well kept; if there was a gardener he believed in letting nature take its course. The house, large and terraced, had a Mediterranean look to it; several marble goddesses stood on the terraces, their hauteur spoiled only by scarves of kookaburra crap. Everything looked slightly run down, like a scratched and faded painting left too long in the open.
A young Italian houseman greeted them at the big teak front door. He was dressed in sandals, black slacks and a white jacket buttoned to the neck. He was belligerently unwelcoming till Malone produced his badge, then he looked suddenly afraid. “Does Signorina Hourigan know you are coming?”
“Possibly,” said Malone.
The houseman went away, glancing back at them over his shoulder as he went, and Clements said, “Signorina? Somehow it doesn’t go with Hourigan.”
The room in which they stood, though cluttered and untidy, had more taste to it than Fingal Hourigan’s drawing-room. There were antique Italian and Spanish tables and sideboards, chairs that might have accommodated the broad bums of conquistadores and condottieri, heavy figured drapes that suggested castles and palazzi. There were small pieces of statuary, but only two paintings, each in a richly carved frame. One was a Goya and the other was a Canaletto, but neither Malone nor Clements knew that. They both liked what they saw: neither painting had been done by a smart-arse.
Brigid Hourigan came into the room, the young Italian trailing her. She was dressed in a bright-red housecoat that threw colour into her face. She was younger-looking than Malone had expected; her photos did not do her justice. She was not strictly beautiful, but strikingly handsome, her thoughts hidden in her wide, heavily-lidded eyes which were much darker than her father’s. She was, Malone guessed, a dark-minded Celt, one who would never be sentimental about Gloccamorra or Mother Machree. She held an expensive cut-glass tumbler of whisky in one hand and looked ready to toss it at Malone if he asked the wrong questions.
“I have some bad news, Miss Hourigan—”
“Yes?” She gave nothing away: he might have been telling her it was going to rain again.
“Your friend, Sister Mary Magdalene—” He waited for some reaction, but there was none. Bugger it, he thought, they haven’t phoned her! What sort of men were Fingal Hourigan and this woman’s brother, the Archbishop? He said gently, “She’s been murdered.”
The whisky in the glass shook a little, but that was the only sign that she was upset. “Where? How?”
“She was killed with a knife. Her body was found outside a brothel in Surry Hills.”
“Oh Jesus God!” Then the reaction did set in; for a moment it looked as if she might collapse. The young Italian moved quickly to her, put his arm round her and led her to a chair. He looked in angry reproach at Malone, as if the latter should not have brought such news, but he said nothing.
Malone waited till Brigid Hourigan had recovered. Through the wide plate-glass doors of the big room he could see out over a broad terrace to the shining expanse of Pittwater. The Sunday yachts, glad of the break in the weather, were already beating their way up from the yacht club moorings at the south end of the big inlet. A small dinghy went by close inshore, sailed by a couple of teenagers whose shouts and laughter came up clearly, almost derisively. He looked back at Brigid Hourigan, was surprised to find she had been weeping: he hadn’t expected that of her.
“How did you know to come here?” She had the family’s deep rich voice. A family conversation must have sounded like an oratorio.
“Mother Brendan, at the convent, told us about a Miss O’Keefe. Then we saw your photo in your father’s house at Vaucluse. Didn’t he phone you we might be coming?”
“My father and I don’t communicate regularly.” She took a sip, a long one, of her drink.
“What about your brother, the Archbishop? Do you and he speak to each other?”
“Occasionally.” Then she seemed to realize that this interview might not be as short as she had hoped: “I’m sorry. Won’t you sit down?”
Malone and Clements lowered themselves into the big leather chairs; neither of them looked like a conquistadore. Australians can be heroes, but somehow never look heroic. Perhaps they are always afraid of being taken down a peg or two.
“Why the Miss O’Keefe? Did Sister Mary know who you really were?”
She hesitated, then said, “She always knew. We just thought it better the convent didn’t associate me with the Hourigan name.”
Malone wanted to ask why, but decided to leave that till later. “Were you close friends?”
She nodded. “I wish we’d have been closer. We might have been, if she’d lived.”
“Did she ever confide in you? Have you any idea why anyone would have wanted to murder her?”
“Not—murder her, no. But not everyone liked her opinions. She felt very strongly about certain things.”
“Such as?”
She looked up at the houseman hovering behind her and said, “Perhaps the gentlemen would like some coffee or a drink, Michele?”
“Coffee,” said Malone, and Clements nodded.
“Refill that for me,” she said and handed her glass to Michele, who then went out of the room. “I like my liquor. My brother, the Archbishop, preaches little sermons about it, but I think there are bigger sins. What do think, Sergeant?”
Clements was no authority on sin: “Inspector Malone tells me you have to be a Catholic to know what sin is all about.”
“How true,” said the Archbishop’s sister and looked at Malone. “I’ve been surrounded by sin all my life. Or the condemnation of it.”
“Did Sister Mary condemn it?”
“My drinking or sin in general?” She shook her head and all at once looked sad and older. “Teresa had more understanding than any young girl I’ve ever met.”
“Teresa?”
“Did I say that?” For a moment she seemed annoyed with herself. “Yes, Teresa. That was her given name before she went into the convent.”
“What was her surname?”
“She was known in the order as Teresa French.”
Malone sensed the evasion. “But French wasn’t her real name. What was it?”
Th
e Italian houseman came back with a tray on which were two cups of coffee, some biscuits and the refilled whisky glass. When the three had been served, he retreated to a corner of the room and stood there. His mistress made no attempt to dismiss him; she did not seem to think it odd that a servant should remain listening to her being interviewed by the police. But then servants in Australia, even immigrants, have always looked upon themselves as equals of their masters or their mistresses. Jack’s as good as his master was part of the national anthem, though Jack was never prepared to accept arbitration on the matter in case the decision went against him.
Brigid Hourigan sipped her drink, then said, “Hourigan.”
“Pardon?” said Malone, sipping the strong Italian coffee and trying not to make a face.
“Hourigan. That was her surname.”
Malone put down his cup, looked at the strong handsome face, saw the resemblance that had escaped him till now and said, “She was your daughter?”
She nodded. “Illegitimate, if you want to be bourgeois about it.” The second glass of whisky was loosening her tongue, though not thickening it; the voice was as rich and deep as ever. At the moment it was also sad and full of love and regret. “It doesn’t matter who her father was—he’s dead.” And sounded forgotten. “He was French—hence her fake surname. She was always religious, even as a child. I don’t know why, unless she inherited it from my mother—though she never met my mother. Perhaps she was just atoning for my sins. I’ve always been a sinner,” she said without coyness or pride.
“Perhaps her uncle influenced her?”
“My brother didn’t know she had become a nun till two years ago.”
“Did your father know?”
She shrugged. “Perhaps. My father seems to know everything.” The tongue certainly was loose.
“Had she been seeing much of your brother? I mean since he got back to Sydney?”
“I don’t know. She’d been pestering him—she told me that. And so did he. They didn’t see eye to eye on much connected with the Church.”