Quirke 06 - Holy Orders

perfunctory, and seemed feigned. Abruptly he got up, in a flurry of black serge, and strode to the window and stood with his hands clasped behind himself, looking out at the lawn and the bare trees at its far edge. Thin sunlight was on the grass, giving it a lemonish hue. “What I don’t see,” he said without turning, “is the connection there could be between the unfortunate young man’s death and your wanting to see Father Honan.”
    “Well, there was a letter,” Hackett said, twisting sideways in his chair, the better to study the priest’s tall, gaunt figure dark against the window’s light. “A letter from you, in fact.”
    Now the priest did turn. “From me? To whom?”
    “To Jimmy Minor. About Father Honan.”
    “Ah.”
    Quirke had not said a word since they had come in; Hackett turned his head and glanced at him. He was slumped in his chair with eyes downcast, studying his hands where they lay clasped in his lap.
    The priest returned and sat down again.
    Quirke produced his cigarette case and held it aloft inquiringly. “Do you mind?”
    “Please, go ahead,” the priest said, his tone distracted. He seemed to be thinking hard.
    Quirke lit his cigarette. Hackett noticed that the hand holding the lighter trembled slightly. As the smoke drifted across the desk, the priest’s nostrils quivered. From outside came the ratcheting chatter of a magpie, followed by a blackbird’s sentinel pipings.
    “When,” Father Dangerfield asked, “did I write to him?”
    “The letter was dated last week. The seventeenth.”
    “Last week.” The priest looked down at the desktop with its inlay of green leather. Then he lifted his eyes again. “Have you got it, this letter?”
    “We have,” Hackett said. He had set his hat on his knees.
    “And may I see it?”
    Hackett passed over this blandly. “ Y ou don’t remember writing it?” he asked.
    “Yes yes,” the priest said, “of course, I remember now. I didn’t connect the name. Y ou must understand, a great deal of correspondence crosses my desk. He asked if he could see Father Honan. If he could interview him, I believe.” He was watching Quirke take a second long drag at his cigarette.
    “Did he say,” Hackett inquired, “what it was he wanted to interview Father Honan about?”
    “What?” The priest dragged his eyes away from Quirke’s cigarette and gazed at Hackett with his big pale eyes, seeming at a loss.
    Hackett smiled tolerantly. He brought out a packet of Player’s and offered it across the desk, with the top open. “Would you care for a smoke, Father?” he asked in a kindly tone.
    Father Dangerfield shook his head. “No, thank you,” he said, with a tense, pained frown. “I’ve given them up.”
    “Ah.” The detective began to take a cigarette for himself but thought better of it and closed the packet and put it away. He clasped his fingers together and twiddled his thumbs. “Did Jimmy Minor say,” he asked again, “what it was he wanted to talk to Father Honan about?”
    “When he wrote to me, you mean? No, I don’t think so. I can check his letter, if you wish.” He looked down at the desk again, as if the letter might magically appear there.
    “That would be helpful,” Hackett said.
    Suddenly Quirke stirred and got to his feet, seemingly with a struggle, and stood swaying. The other two men stared at him. “Sorry,” he said, with a wild look. His face was gray and filmed with sweat. “Sorry, I—”
    He hurried to the door, but had trouble opening it. Hackett and Father Dangerfield stood up together, as if to rush to his aid. They hovered irresolutely, looking at each other. At last, with a great wrench, Quirke got the door open and plunged through it and was gone.
    “Good heavens,” the priest said, and looked at Hackett again. “Is he—?”
    Slowly the heavy oak door, impelled by a draft, swung to and shut itself with a sharp click.
    * * *

    It took him a long time to find his way through the house. He stumbled along what he took to be the hallway down which the crippled old man had led him and Hackett after he had first let them in, but instead of arriving at the front door he found himself facing a floor-to-ceiling stained-glass window, or wall, rather. Behind it was a chapel, for he could dimly see through the lurid panes the pinprick ruby-red glow of what must have been the sanctuary lamp. He turned and blundered back the way he had come. The silent building seemed deserted—where could they be,