by Maeve Binchy
‘A Claddagh ring. They tell me it is from the west of Ireland,’ he said as he removed it and handed it to her. ‘You see? Two hands enclosing a human heart,’ he said as she discreetly inhaled him.
‘The heart is so delicate it needs to be held gently, yes?’ he smiled.
The mobile in her handbag rang. She took it out, looked at it and recognised the caller. She handed back the ring.
‘Would you excuse me for a moment? I’ll need to take this outside.’
He watched as she got up and walked from the table. Her size turned him on. In Paris and Madrid over the years, he had known such women and discovered that their size masked a different femininity. But sadly, now, he would never get to know hers.
He looked up, his smile disguising his surprise: he had not heard her return.
‘I’m dreadfully sorry, but something has arisen and I must go,’ she said, gathering her shopping bag and her green hat, with its crimson band.
‘The loss is mine,’ he said. ‘Another time?’ He stood up and took her hand. It was firm, strong.
‘Love Conquers All,’ he said.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Nothing. Just one of my favourite Caravaggios, this one in Berlin.’
She withdrew her hand. Another time. For sure.
As she walked away, Metro began to sweat again. The feeling of being vulnerable, which he had felt earlier, washed over him in waves. Brice was dead. Dark forces of unknown provenance were closing in. His hand trembled as he took out his phone. Only once in the last five years had he made this call – and that also had been in a dire emergency. The number rang just once.
‘It’s me,’ Metro said. ‘There is a problem.’
Doonlish
17 June, 3 PM
Alice felt herself sinking. Her instinct told her that she was within an ace of solving the crime, and over the years she had learned to trust her instinct.
‘What does everyone think the significance of the letter “M” is?’ she asked, as a gust of wind hit the Mondeo. ‘Why would someone carve “M” into the back of a corpse?’
‘The first indications are that he wasn’t dead when the carving was done,’ said Sebastian, and winced. ‘Sorry, ladies.’
‘But why “M”?’ Alice persisted.
‘“M” is for murder, that’s for sure,’ said Billy Heaslip.
Sebastian closed his eyes briefly. ‘“M” is for Metro,’ he said. ‘Metro is a very dangerous Eastern European drugs lord who just happens to live near here. Brice worked for Metro. The killer was sending a message to Metro.’
‘Or Metro himself killed Brice,’ Heaslip suggested. ‘Then he signed off.’
Sebastian often wondered how people like Billy Heaslip had ever been let into the gardaí.
‘“M” stands for Michelangelo,’ Maggie said. ‘Caravaggio’s full name was Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio.’
‘So the killer was sending us a message about the Caravaggio,’ Sebastian said. ‘But what’s her message?’
‘Or,’ Alice said, ‘someone else was sending us a message about the killer.’
‘So what do you think the “M” stands for?’ Heaslip asked.
‘“M” also stands for mercy,’ Alice said, ‘with a capital “M”.’
No one dared speak for several moments. Sebastian cleared his throat.
‘I know you were once very good at this, Alice,’ he said, ‘but, let’s face it, things have changed.’
‘You can say that again,’ Alice said quietly.
‘Do you need a lift back to the convent?’ he asked, in a voice that contained concern and suspicion in equal parts.
‘No, we’re fine, thank you,’ Alice said. ‘Come along, Sister Mary Magdalene. Let’s leave this one to the boys.’
The fresh air was a blessed relief.
‘What do we do now?’ Maggie said as they walked down the lane to where Alice had parked the van. A hearse with a coffin had just pulled up, and Maggie made the sign of the cross. ‘I mean, I don’t know about you, but I’d be afraid to go back to Doon Abbey. Who could I trust?’
‘But where would you go, Maggie?’ Alice asked, with genuine concern.
‘I don’t know,’ Maggie said, and her shoulders slumped. ‘Oh God, you’d have to ask yourself, is all this really worth it?’
‘What do you mean?’ Alice asked, as her mobile chimed a message.
‘You know, people dying – and all for what? For that painting? D’you want me to be honest? I never liked it. The eye of Judas! God forgive me, but he gave me the creeps.’
Alice was reading the message.
‘I know it’s worth a fortune – God knows why – and that it has to be returned to the abbey,’ Maggie said, ‘but when you weigh it all up against what we’ve seen, I think I’d rather be without central heating for the next twenty winters than have to go through all this again. Alice? Alice?’
Alice was biting her lip. She pocketed her phone.
‘What I’m saying is, I think maybe we should both call it a day,’ Maggie said. ‘I’ll go home to my parents – that’s if they’ll have me.’
Alice was walking briskly towards the Berlingo.
‘Alice? Where are you going?’
‘Sister, I’m going to find our Caravaggio,’ Alice said.
County Kerry
17 June, 5.30 PM
Davy drove fast from Dingle through the little hamlets of Milltown and Ventry, and on out the coast road past Coumeenoole Strand. Around Slea Head, the Great Blasket loomed closer, and out in front the Sleeping Giant was like St Patrick on his back sunning himself. He decided to pull in for a better view.
That was something else she had taught him: to welcome the good feelings, invite them to stay, not to reach for the bottle. He laughed at how easily he was able to dismiss his old habit of reaching for a bottle every time anything went wrong. He gazed happily at purple heather hills, streams, whin bushes, a brown donkey drinking at a tiny waterfall: hidden worlds within hidden worlds, spread out on different limbs of the Kerry valleys. There was the Atlantic Ocean, and way across, America! He’d never been. Maybe one day. Maybe. If all the dots joined and his life smoothed out like the sea towards the far horizon, maybe then he’d go.
An hour later, he sat in the Grand Ballroom of what was once a former hotel but now was the Sybilslea Writers’ Retreat. This was where Sister Diana had told him to go. The assembled audience was predominantly female, loud and talkative. Solitary males stroked their beards, groups spoke in hushed tones. He recognised nobody. But Sister Diana had sworn that this is where he should be; and Davy was here because he was in love.
‘Reverend Fathers, ladies and gentlemen.’
Davy looked up. The girl at the microphone had a clipboard and began to read from it.
‘The three short-listed stories for the annual Sybilslea Short Story Competition are as follows.’
The chatter trickled to an uneasy silence. As the short-listed writers’ names were read out and they made their way to the front of the hall, a woman walked up the aisle to an empty seat. Davy blinked. She was wearing a bright-patterned shawl over a black and white spotted dress. Her hair was tied back tightly with a red scarf, knotted behind. Her profile was one of calmness, serenity even. Davy stood up. He could not speak. People were staring at him. He took a step into the aisle and began to gurgle. The woman turned around and looked straight at him.
‘Sit down!’ people in the audience hissed.
‘Oh no!’ Davy cried as he fainted.
Chapter Six
Dublin
17 June, 7 PM
The sun was still shining brightly on the high chimneys of the Jesuit Residence at Aylesmere as Alice pulled in by the roadside under a canopy of beech trees.
‘Let’s think this through very carefully,’ she said. ‘The Rector, when he called me, said that he needed to speak to me urgently. He then said – although I didn’t ask him – that his sister, Mercy, had handed him our number.’<
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‘Maybe he knows that she did it,’ Maggie said. ‘He knows she’s a sexual deviant from way back. He’s seen all these murders and wants to turn her in.’
‘Or maybe she’s not acting alone,’ Alice said.
‘You mean …?’
‘Maybe there are two big women,’ Alice said.
Maggie blinked rapidly. ‘Sister Diana!’ she gasped.
‘Exactly.’
‘But … but Diana looks as if she wouldn’t hurt a fly,’ Maggie said.
‘Believe me, I’ve put away criminals with the faces of angels,’ Alice said.
‘Which leaves Sister Winifred,’ Maggie said.
‘You think she could be the one?’ Alice asked.
‘Nothing would surprise me any more,’ Maggie said. ‘Why has she gone missing? Where is she?’
Children were kicking a ball to each other on a square of green. Alice, suddenly, would have given anything to be ten years old again.
‘Wait a minute,’ Maggie said. ‘What did the Rector say about the mobile-phone number?’
‘He said that Sister Mercy Superior had given it to him,’ Alice said.
‘That’s not what you just told me,’ Maggie said. ‘You told me he said that his sister, Mercy, had handed him our number.’
‘Jesus!’ Alice exclaimed. ‘She’s been up here all the time!’
She drove the Berlingo in the gates and parked by the steps that led to the hall door. ‘Just stay close to me, Maggie, okay?’ she said, and rang the bell. She hadn’t let Maggie see it, but she’d fitted a stack of two-euro coins into her left fist.
The noise of a man grunting with effort came from within, then the heavy door was slowly pulled back and Brother Harkin’s pale face appeared.
‘God bless you, Sister Alice,’ Brother Harkin said, inclining his head, ‘and Sister Mary Magdalene. The Rector is expecting you.’
He’s really a lot stronger than he looks, Alice thought as she stepped inside and glanced down at the man’s hands. They were very wide and large, with prominent knuckles.
‘Thank you, Brother,’ Alice said, ‘and God bless everyone in Aylesmere.’
Brother Harkin shook his head. ‘All we can do is pray that He does, Sisters, and that these terrible troubles come to an end soon.’
Bent almost double, he led them along the dim, polished hall, into the anteroom, with its dark red paper, its portraits of long-dead deans and rectors, bishops and cardinals. The huge crucifix soared above the fireplace, reproving and accusing.
‘Just a moment, dears. I’ll let him know you’ve arrived.’
Brother Harkin touched the dividing door and allowed it to slide back the merest fraction. Through a few inches of air, he slipped like a wraith.
Alice reflected on the telephone call she’d just had with Ned on her way here.
‘I want you to go back to the convent,’ Ned had said. ‘This is too dangerous.’
‘I can handle it, Ned,’ she said. She hadn’t yet told him about her suspicions concerning Sister Mercy Superior.
‘If your own safety is not a concern, then think of the safety of that nice nun you’ve landed into this mess,’ Ned said.
‘Maggie volunteered,’ Alice said.
‘Your problem is that you’re completely selfish!’ Ned cried.
‘Talk to you, Ned.’
You can’t slam down an iPhone, but she would’ve if she could’ve.
Brother Harkin reappeared, beckoning wordlessly, and they went through. The Rector sat behind his desk of polished mahogany, on his mahogany chair upholstered in episcopal velvet.
‘So good of you to come,’ he said as he stood up and made his way around the desk. He shook both their hands warmly. ‘Thank you so much for responding to my call.’
‘Our pleasure,’ Alice said, but her eyes were discreetly checking the dark corners of the room.
‘Pray be seated, Sisters.’
Alice transferred the stack of coins to her right fist. Where would the attack come from?
‘You’ll be wondering why I asked you to visit,’ the Rector began. ‘You see, I understand perfectly the terrible circumstances you find yourselves in. The business about the painting grieves me, frankly – not to mention the awful murders. I cannot sleep for thinking of what is happening out there. And yet, and yet …’
Alice and Maggie leaned forward expectantly.
‘And yet … I have something I want to tell you but cannot tell you.’
Alice shook her head. ‘You mean …?’
‘You are Sisters of the Church. You understand the seal of confession.’
‘Of course, Father,’ Alice said.
‘You see,’ he went on, ‘I have spent the last twenty-four hours, since we met, on a mini-retreat in your Doon Abbey.’
Alice and Maggie turned to one another.
‘When I am there, the members of your little community always take the opportunity to make their confessions to me,’ the Rector said. ‘And not just the religious community, let me say, but also those living in the immediate vicinity.’
So that’s how he was handed our number, Alice thought, relaxing her fist. ‘Please go on, Father.’
‘You understand that as far as I am concerned, the confidentiality of the confessional is one of the cornerstones of our religion,’ the Rector said.
Alice nodded. ‘Yes, Father.’
‘Well, yesterday evening in the church in Doon Abbey, I heard confessions,’ the Rector said. ‘No one had come into the box for ten minutes, and I was just about to leave, when all light on the other side of the grille was blacked out.’
Maggie’s intake of breath made Alice flinch.
‘It was a very large person,’ the Rector said. ‘Enormous, in fact.’
CCTV, Liffey Valley, Alice thought glumly. The Rector closed his eyes. The women waited. The Rector was now transfixed on a possibly non-corporeal item somewhere in midair between the two nuns.
‘Yes, go on, Father.’
It reminded Maggie of the time her brother had spilled the day’s milking and had come in to try and tell her father.
‘A very large … female person?’ Maggie suggested.
Alice had had a car like this once, when she was a trainee; every time it started, it stopped.
‘Ah, Father Rynne, I understand your discretion, and it’s entirely admirable,’ she said. ‘But three people have died in as many days. Doon Abbey is in turmoil, and at risk of closing down. Your own sister may lose her home if the picture isn’t recovered. What are you trying to tell us?’
The Rector seemed about to speak, but then a little snort of pain erupted from his nose.
‘I am forbidden by my religion and by my God.’
Alice looked into the Rector’s troubled, tear-brimming eyes.
‘What does our Blessed Lord prohibit you from doing, Father?’ she asked gently.
The Rector shuddered. ‘From discussing details divulged in the confessional,’ he whispered. ‘You see, I want to tell you, but I cannot. I want to do what is right, but I am torn apart, Sisters, torn apart.’
‘And yet you asked Sister Mary Magdalene and myself to come here,’ Alice persisted.
‘We promise we won’t breathe a word,’ Maggie said.
The Rector nodded, but remained mute.
Alice’s mouth was hard-set as she looked at Maggie. ‘Did the penitent confess to the murder of Jeremy Meadowfield?’ she pressed. ‘Father?’
Perhaps the Rector nodded, just minutely; or perhaps he didn’t.
‘Does the penitent know where the Caravaggio is?’ Maggie asked.
The Rector dabbed his eyes. Alice felt a surge of sympathy for this grown man, locked in turmoil between his duty to the God he worked for and the awful secrets that he carried. He clearly wanted to help them, but at the same time felt unable to do so. She had to find a way of extricating the information.
‘Okay, how about this?’ Alice said, pulling her chair closer to his desk. ‘You don’t have t
o say anything. I’ll say a name and you just raise your finger if that name is, shall we say, significant to the current investigation. All right?’
The Rector stared at her, then steepled his handsome hands and wiggled the little finger of his right hand in a gesture that reminded Maggie of a tadpole in a jam jar.
‘Great. Let’s do a trial question. I’m Sister Alice and this is Sister Mary Magdalene. True or false?’ Alice asked.
The women stared. The Rector’s head sank. The little finger twitched.
‘Ah!’ Alice cried. ‘Okay!’
‘The Pope’s a Catholic,’ Maggie ventured.
A hesitation, then a twitch. Maggie gave Alice a discreet thumbs-up. Alice got up and went around so that she could bend down to the Rector’s ear.
‘The penitent was a woman,’ she whispered.
Two pairs of female eyes fastened on the waxen mould of priestly hands. This time the little finger fairly jumped.
‘Whew!’ said Alice, and leant in again. ‘The penitent is a member of a religious order,’ she said into his ear.
Alice stared. The hands could have belonged to a handsome corpse.
But then, the finger jumped.
‘Oh, goodness, this is killing me,’ Maggie said.
‘So, here is another question,’ Alice said. ‘The penitent you refer to confessed to stealing the Caravaggio and is your own sister, Sister Mercy Superior. True or false?’
The silence was like dawn in a morgue. Both women were transfixed on the Rector’s little finger with an intensity they had previously reserved only for the monstrance. The little finger moved minutely.
Maggie turned to Alice and mouthed, ‘Wow!’
‘We appreciate this, Father,’ Alice said, ‘and you have our word that we have never been here. Isn’t that right, Maggie?’
‘We have never ever been here,’ Maggie said. ‘But …’
Alice shot her a look. ‘What?’
‘I think we should prove the theorem,’ Maggie said.
‘Prove what theorem?’
‘I mean, if we say another name, his finger shouldn’t move at all, right?’
‘Of course.’
‘Well then …’
Alice sighed. The Rector remained frozen. ‘Okay, Maggie, if you insist.’