Authors: Graham Masterton
‘I can’t let you have the key. I’ll have to call our legal advisers. I can’t let you have it.’
‘Reverend Mother, we already have a search warrant for the entire convent premises and surrounding grounds. Your legal advisers are aware of that. You can call them if you like but it won’t make any difference and it will only delay matters. I’m asking you now for the key to that cupboard, since you obviously have one.’
Mother O’Dwyer’s eyes were suddenly filled with tears. She crossed herself twice and when she spoke her voice quivered with emotion. ‘I can’t let you have it. I
can’t
! The whole congregation will be devastated and brought to ruin. Oh, God in Heaven. Oh, Mary! Oh, what brought this on us? Oh, Jesus!’
‘The key, please, Mother O’Dwyer,’ said Detective Sergeant Ni Nuallán.
Mother O’Dwyer took a few deep breaths to compose herself and then she reached underneath her scapular with both hands. After a moment’s fiddling she drew out a long fine chain with a small key fastened to the end of it.
‘There,’ she said. ‘But may I plead with you that what you find inside that cupboard you treat with the utmost respect and consideration for those involved?’
‘I have no idea what’s in there yet,’ said Detective Sergeant Ni Nuallán. ‘I can’t make you any promises until I find out what it is.’
She walked back to the statue of Saint Margaret, bent down and unlocked the door in the plinth. Inside, two shelves were stacked with hardback ledgers with maroon marbled covers, at least ten of them, as well as two expanding pocket files, fastened with thin green twine. Detective Sergeant Ni Nuallán tugged on her black latex gloves and then she lifted out the ledgers and the files and laid them on the floor. As she did so, she could see Mother O’Dwyer standing in the open doorway of her office watching her, a diminutive black figure, and whatever was recorded in these ledgers, she almost felt sorry for her.
Sister Rose helped her to carry the books into the room where she had been examining the convent’s records with Sister Caoilainn. She set them out on the table and then picked them up one by one. They smelled of musty paper and incense. Each ledger had a handwritten label stuck to the front that read
Saint Margaret’s Refuge
Deceased
, with the dates underneath. The earliest ledger was dated September 1932. The latest was dated was June 1973. Nearly forty-one years of dead children.
Detective Sergeant Ni Nuallán opened up the first ledger. The names of all the children who had died at Saint Margaret’s Mother and Baby Home were written down here, in neat purple script. Their names, their mothers’ names, the date of their birth and the date of their death, along with the cause of death. The Bon Sauveurs may have done everything possible to conceal the way these children had died, but at least they hadn’t been so heartless as to leave their lives completely unrecorded.
Sarah Joan Donohue, born 17 October, 1931,
of Mary Fiona Donohue, of Margaret Place, Cork.
Died 11 September, 1932, of bronchitis.
William ‘Billy’ O’Keeffe, born 12 July, 1928,
of Ciara O’Keeffe, of Glasheen Road, Cork.
Died 21 September, 1932, of choking.
Detective Sergeant Ni Nuallán turned the page, and every page was the same. Hundreds of children who had died of respiratory problems, of measles, of chickenpox. One of the most common causes of death among the little ones was ‘failure to thrive’. The ledger was even frank enough to record several deaths from ‘malnutrition, as a result of persistent ill-discipline’. In other words, the children had misbehaved and had been punished by the nuns by not being fed.
In the later 1930s she noticed that an increasing number of deaths were attributed to ‘vaccination against diphtheria’.
She closed the ledgers and opened up one of the expanding files. It was crammed with letters, still in their torn-open envelopes. She took out some of them and read them. Most of them were concerned with finding adoptive parents for Saint Margaret’s children – or not, in some cases.
Aidan is slow in his cognition and finds simple tasks quite difficult. We are trying to find a place for him where he can be put to manual labour and given the constant admonishment he requires. Failing that we may have to him committed to St Kevin’s lunatic asylum.
‘Right,’ Detective Sergeant Ni Nuallán to Sister Rose. ‘I’m taking all of these away with me and I’ll write you a receipt. If you can give me a hand to carry them out to my car.’
As she left the convent she noticed that Mother O’Dwyer’s office door was now closed. It was still raining outside so she and Sister Rose had to hurry across the car park, like thieves hurrying away from a robbery.
* * *
Before she started up her engine, Detective Sergeant Ni Nuallán called Katie.
‘You were wrong about the picture, but you were right about Saint Margaret.’
She told Katie about the ledgers and files that she had discovered under the statue.
Katie said, ‘That’s fantastic. Perhaps we can find out now who has such a grudge against the Bon Sauveurs. Mind you, from what you’ve said, that sounds like half of Cork.’
The morning was sunny and clear as Josh Teagan trotted back into the stable yard with Saint Sparkle, but bitingly cold, so that the four-year-old bay was steaming.
‘Ah, he’s fit as a fiddle,’ said the jockey after he had dismounted. ‘He’ll be passing the post before the rest of the field have even made their minds up which fecking race they’re supposed to be running in.’
Riona patted Saint Sparkle’s glossy flank and said, ‘Fantastic. Take him in, Ryan, would you, and give him a good rub down.’
Her grey-haired stable lad lifted off Saint Sparkle’s saddle and numnah and slung a large chequered cooling blanket over his back. Then he led him away, his hoof beats echoing like castanets against the surrounding buildings.
‘Best fecking horse I’ve ridden in years,’ said Josh, watching him go. ‘You only have to get that feller up to speed and he just keeps on going. Fade? He don’t know the meaning of the word. Mind you, he’s a horse. He wouldn’t know the meaning of any word, would he? Well, maybe “giddup!” and “whoa!”.’
‘I suppose you want paying,’ Riona interrupted him, reaching into the pocket of her fake-fur jacket and taking out a thick folded bundle of euros.
‘Always helps,’ said Josh, wiping his red-tipped nose on his sleeve. He watched her counting out notes and then he said, ‘Listen, I was talking to some of the lads, Thursday night.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘Well, it was Willie Sandford’s wedding ceilidh, at the Mills Inn, you know, at Ballyvourney. The banter was savage like, but one or two them was telling me serious that I should be wide.’
‘Really? And why’s that?’
‘After that O’Grady Steeplechase, there’s some of the trainers saying that Weatherbys and Horse Racing Ireland should be looking into what you’re up to, and even some of the bookies, too. There was a couple of managers there from Boyle’s and Paddy Power’s, like, and they was both sure that Sparkle would get the trip. Him being blown up like that – that was too fecking obvious by half.’
‘Maybe they should mind their own business,’ said Riona. ‘They can say whatever they like but they’ll have to prove it first.’
‘Oh, come on,’ said Josh. ‘Sparkle’s a stayer and everybody knows it.’
Riona handed him his money and then she said, ‘Okay. Maybe you’re right. But it hasn’t been easy lately, the way things are. Too much competition and not enough cash flow. Too many breeders finding a way to finagle me out of their stud fees. I’ve had some unexpected expenses, too. People to pay off. Well – like
you
, for instance. It’s not cheap keeping people’s mouths shut.’
‘I wouldn’t rat on you, Riona, and you know that.’
‘If you did, you’d never ride another race in your life, I can tell you. And not just because you were barred.’
‘I’m only suggesting that you keep sketch for the race officials. Do you still have Sparkle the Second here or has he gone off to the knackery?’
‘He’s here still. I was going to keep him till April at least.’
‘Tell me you won’t be entering him for any more races. You’d be caught rapid for sure. If I was you, I’d be disposing of him as soon as I could.’
‘You’re not me, thank God, but I’ll have a think about it,’ said Riona. At that moment she had seen Andy Flanagan’s Range Rover approaching along the avenue of lime trees, its transmission whining and its grimy windscreen glinting in the sunlight. ‘Thanks for the heads-up, anyhow. I’ll see you tomorrow so.’
‘Thanks for the lids,’ said Josh, holding up his money.
He walked off to Saint Sparkle’s stable to collect his padded jacket and his motorcycle helmet. Meanwhile, Andy Flanagan circled his Range Rover around the stable yard with its exhaust rattling and pulled to a halt beside Riona. He climbed out, chafing his hands together.
‘Good morning, Riona! Fine cold morning!’
‘You’re looking pleased with yourself.’
‘I am, yes. I’ve found them for you. Sister Nessa and Sister Virginia, the two of them.’
‘That’s good news. Come inside and tell me about it.’
They went into the house and Riona took off her fur jacket and threw it across the back of the sofa.
‘A nice hot cup of tea would crown me sure,’ said Andy, still chafing his hands.
‘Just tell me where they are,’ Riona told him.
Andy took a dog-eared spring-bound notebook out of his coat pocket, licked his thumb, and turned over the first few pages.
‘Sister Nessa was out in Africa for a while, so I guessed that if she’d come back to Cork she might have wanted to put her experience to good use. Well, you know these nuns, one or two of them like to do saintly works now and again. I talked to more balubas than you could shake a stick at, but I tracked her down in the end all right. She’s fit and well and living in Dunmore Gardens in Knocka with some other auld wan.’
‘And Sister Virginia? Sister Virginia is the one I really want, more than any of them.’
‘It was a fierce pain in the arse finding
her
, I can tell you. I went to Carrigaline, which was her last-known residence, and asked in just about every fecking shop on Main Street. In the end I found that she had made friends with one of the women who used to serve behind the counter in Phelan’s Pharmacy. This woman had moved down to work in the post office at Minane Bridge, and thank God when I went down there she was still there. A right heifer, so she was, too. But Sister Virginia had sent her a Christmas card and it had her address on it. Iona Park, in Mayfield. She’s staying with one of her cousin’s daughters.’
Andy tore the page out of his notebook and handed it over. Riona glanced at it quickly and then said, ‘That’ll be all, then, Andy. Thank you.’
‘Do you want to settle up, like?’ Andy asked her.
‘I will as soon as I’ve made sure that both of these sisters are actually there, at these addresses, yes.’
‘I’ve no reason to doubt that they’re not. But fair play to you. I’ll wait for you to ring me. And if you ever need any more detectivizing, you know where to come.’
He held out his hand but Riona didn’t take it, so he shrugged and said, ‘Oh, well. Good luck to you anyway,’ and walked out of the living room into the hallway.
‘Looks like you have another visitor,’ he said as he opened the back door. A red Audi was parked next to his Range Rover, although there was nobody in it. Riona recognized it, though: it belonged to Saint Sparkle’s owner, Gerry Brickley.
Andy drove off in a cloud of sour-smelling exhaust. Riona was about to cross the yard to Saint Sparkle’s stable when Gerry came out of the stable next to it, closing the door behind him. He was wearing his usual Crombie coat and a pork-pie hat, and his face was as brick-red as ever.
‘Riona!’ he called out.
‘Gerry! This is a surprise!’ said Riona.
He came up to her, taking a leather cigar case out of his inside pocket and removing a cigar. ‘Yes, well, I had an early meeting in Coachford with O’Donovan’s Engineering so I thought I’d drop in to see how your new barn was coming along.’
He looked around and said, ‘I thought you were building it right over there, where that old tractor shed was.’
‘Things have been a bit delayed,’ said Riona. ‘I’ve been having a few problems with the planners.’
‘You should have told me,’ said Gerry. ‘I know a couple of amenable fellows on the planning committee. Mind you, what are they objecting about? It’s a horse barn, for Christ’s sake, on a stud farm, up back of leap. I didn’t know you hadn’t even started construction. I needn’t have rushed all of that helium up to you so urgent, and charged you for it.’
‘Never mind,’ said Riona. ‘I should have it all sorted soon enough.’
Gerry looked back towards the stables and said, ‘Don’t you think that Sparkle’s carrying too much condition? How’s he been breezing lately?’
‘That wasn’t Sparkle you were looking at,’ said Riona.
Gerry was about to light his cigar but now he snapped his lighter shut and said, ‘What?’
‘That’s not Sparkle in there. That’s another bay. O’Donoghue’s Delight.’
‘You’re codding me, aren’t you? I was sure that was Sparkle. He has the same red bruise on his right front hoof. I noticed it after he dropped out at Mallow.’
‘No, Sparkle’s in that stable right there, next but one. Come and take a look at him. I’ll just fetch my jacket.’
Once she had put on her jacket, Riona took Gerry over to Saint Sparkle’s stable. Inside, Ryan was rubbing down the horse’s legs with liniment. Dermot was there, too, sitting on a bale of hay, drinking from a bottle of Murphy’s and talking to him. He stood up when Riona and Gerry came in and looked around for somewhere to hide his bottle, but gave up in the end and set it down on the stable floor.
‘What’s the craic, Mr Brickley?’ he said, giving him the thumbs up.
Gerry didn’t answer him but walked slowly around Saint Sparkle, patting his sleek sides now and again, as if to affirm his ownership.
This beautiful thoroughbred, he’s mine
.
‘He’s in grand condition, Mr Brickley,’ said Ryan. ‘I don’t think we’ll be having any trouble with him when he runs at Punchestown.’