Quirke 06 - Holy Orders

she said, in a neutral voice.
    They walked on. The doorman at the Shelbourne in his gray coat greeted them, lifting his top hat. Across the street a line of jaunting cars were parked, the horses steaming in the sun.
    “How did they keep it out of the papers?” Phoebe asked.
    “Holy orders, from on high. The Archbishop’s Palace telephoned the newspapers, told them the church was treating Honan’s death as an internal matter and said no report of it was to be printed yet, until they’d completed their inquiry.”
    “Can they do that? Can the church do that?”
    “They can. Carlton Sumner, at the Clarion, raised an objection, of course. The Archbishop himself phoned him. His Grace was prepared, he said, to hurt Sumner where it would really hurt—in his pocket, that is.”
    “What did he mean?”
    “Oh, the usual. If Sumner went ahead and printed the story, the bishops would be directed to write a pastoral letter to be read out from every pulpit in every church in the country next Sunday morning, instructing the faithful to shun not only the Clarion but all of Sumner’s other publications too. And the faithful, as always, would obey. It’s what’s known as a belt of the crozier. It’s very effective.”
    Phoebe was shaking her head incredulously. “Poor Jimmy,” she said.
    They crossed at the top of Dawson Street. A chauffeur in a peaked cap was maneuvering a long sleek Bentley through the narrow entranceway of the Royal Irish Automobile Club.
    “I might be going away myself,” Quirke said, glancing at the sky.
    “Away? Where to?”
    He smiled. “Like you, I’m not sure.”
    Phoebe nodded. “I’ll ask you a version of the same question you asked me: what about Isabel?”
    “No,” Quirke said, “Isabel won’t be coming with me. If I go.”
    In front of Smyth’s on the Green there were daffodils set out in pots. Quirke had never been able to see the attraction of these vehement, gaudy flowers.
    “Where are we going?” Phoebe asked.
    “Just here,” Quirke said, pointing across the road to Noblett’s sweet shop on the corner of South King Street. In the window were displayed all manner of confections set out in the shop’s own royal blue boxes. They crossed the road, and as they entered the shop the little bell above the door gave its silvery tinkle. The girl behind the counter was tall and soulful, with pale features and long black hair. She smiled at them wanly.
    There used to be, Quirke said to the girl, a box of sweets called, if he remembered rightly, Fire and Ice. “They were pineapple-flavored, and came in two sorts, clear amber and a white crunchy kind. Do you still sell those?”
    “Of course, sir,” the girl said. She came from behind the counter and opened a narrow panel behind the display window and reached an arm through.
    Phoebe was watching Quirke with a puzzled smile. “Don’t you remember?” he said. “I used to bring you here every Christmas when you were little and buy you a box of them—Fire and Ice.”
    “Oh, yes,” Phoebe said. “Of course—of course I remember.”
    “Here you are, sir.”
    The girl held up the box for Quirke to see. Under the cellophane covering the sweets were as he had described them, light amber and chunks of snowy white.
    “Yes,” Quirke said, and had to smile. “Yes, that’s them.”
    * * *

    They walked in St. Stephen’s Green, under the budding trees. The sunshine for all its brightness gave little warmth, and the air was sharp. Ducks waddled on the path beside the pond, waggling their tails and quacking. “This is where we used to come, then, too, after we’d been to Noblett’s and you’d had your sweets. Then we’d go to the Shelbourne and you’d drink hot chocolate and put your sweets under the table and eat them on the sly.”
    Phoebe nodded, smiling. She had the box of sweets under her arm. “Tell me where you’re going, Quirke,” she said.
    “Hmm?” He looked at her distractedly, calling his thoughts back from the days when she was young and still thought he was her uncle.
    “ Y ou said you were thinking of going away?”
    “Did I? Oh, I don’t know. I may have to go. We’ll see.”
    He stopped, and put a hand on her arm and made her stop with him. “I’m sorry, Phoebe,” he said.
    She gave him a puzzled look. “For what?”
    “For everything.” He gazed at her, still holding her by the arm, smiling at her helplessly. There was so much to say, and, he realized now, no way of saying it. It seemed to