WHEN HE STEPPED INSIDE THE HIGH, ARCHED DOORWAY OF ST. Mary’s he caught at once the unmistakable smell of the past and the years fell away like the leaves of a calendar and he was an orphan again. He stood in the silent hallway and looked at the statues in their niches of Mary and Jesus and Joseph-gentle Joe held what seemed to be a wood plane in his improbably pale hands and looked both resentful and resigned-until a young nun with front teeth so prominent they seemed almost prehensile led him along soundless corridors and stopped at a door and knocked softly and a voice spoke from within.
The Mother Superior, when she stood up behind her desk, was tall and gaunt and grimly handsome. It was the priest with her, however, who spoke first. He was potato-pale with pale-red hair and green eyes that were sharp yet muddy; Quirke knew the type, remembered it, from Carricklea days, and nights. The cleric came forward, smiling unctuously with his mouth only, a hand outstretched.
“Mr. Quirke,” he said. “I’m Father Harkins, chaplain here at St. Mary’s.” His eyelashes, Quirke saw with almost a shiver, were almost white. He took Quirke’s hand but instead of shaking it he drew him by it gently forward to the desk. “And this is Sister Stephanus. And Sister Anselm.”
Quirke had not noticed the other nun, standing off to his right, beside a vast, empty fireplace of marble and polished brick. She was short and broad, with a skeptical yet not, he thought, unsympathetic look. The two nuns nodded to him. Father Harkins, who seemed to have taken it on himself to be the spokesman, said:
“You’re Mr. Crawford’s son-in-law? Mr. Crawford is a great friend of ours-a great friend of St. Mary’s.”
Quirke was conscious of Sister Stephanus’s keen eye scanning him, like that of a fencing opponent, searching out his weak spots. The priest was about to speak again but the nun said:
“What can we do for you, Mr. Quirke?”
Hers was the voice of authority, and its tone told him who was really in charge here. Still she gazed at him, cool, candid, and even, it might be, a little amused. He fumbled his cigarettes from his pocket and lit one. Sister Stephanus, who had taken her seat again, pushed a large crystal ashtray to the front edge of the desk where he might more easily reach it. He asked about the child, saying her name would probably be Christine and that if she had a surname it was likely to be Falls. “I think she was brought here from Ireland,” he said. “I have reason to believe she came to St. Mary’s.”
The silence that fell in the room was more eloquent than any words. Sister Stephanus touched lightly in succession a number of objects set out before her on the desk-a fountain pen, a paper knife, one of two telephones-taking care not to move any of them from their places. This time when she spoke she did not look at him.
“What was it you wanted to know about this child, Mr. Quirke?”
This child.
“It is,” he said, “a personal matter.”
“Ah.”
There was another silence. The priest looked from the nun to Quirke and back again but had no word to offer. Suddenly, from where she stood by the fireplace, the other nun, Sister Anselm, coughed and said:
“She died.”
Father Harkins whirled on her with a look of panic, drawing a hand up sharply as if he might run forward and strike her, but Sister Stephanus did not flinch, and continued to regard Quirke with that cool, measuring gaze, as if she had heard nothing. The priest looked at her and licked his lips, and with an effort resumed his bland smile.
“Ah, yes,” the priest said. “Little Christine. Yes, now I…” His tongue snaked over his lips again, his colorless eyelashes beating rapidly. “There was an accident, I’m afraid. She was with a family. Very unfortunate. Very sad.”
This left yet another, trailing silence, into which Quirke said:
“What family?” Father Harkins lifted his eyebrows. “The family that the child was with-who were they?”
The priest gave a breathy laugh and this time lifted both his hands as if to catch an invisible, tricky ball that Quirke had lobbed at him.
“Oh now, Mr. Quirke,” he said in a rush, “we couldn’t be giving out information of that nature. These situations call for great discretion, as I’m sure you’ll-”
“I’d like to find out who she was,” Quirke said. “I mean, where she came from. Her history.”
The priest was about to speak again but Sister Stephanus drew in a slow breath through her nostrils and he glanced at her uncertainly and was silent. The nun’s smile deepened. She said softly:
“Don’t you know, Mr. Quirke?”
He saw at once that he had blundered. If he knew nothing, they need not tell him anything. What did he have, other than a name? Abruptly Sister Stephanus rose from her chair with the brisk finality of a judge delivering a verdict.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Quirke, that we cannot help you,” she said. “As Father Harkins says, these matters are delicate. Information of the kind you ask for must be kept in the strictest confidence. It is our covenant, here at St. Mary’s. I know you’ll understand.” She must have pressed a bell under the desk for Quirke heard the door behind him open, and she looked past him and said, “Sister Anne, please show Mr. Quirke out.” She held out a hand to him and he had no choice but to rise too and take it. “Good-bye, Mr. Quirke. So nice to have met you. Please give our kind regards to Mr. Crawford. We hear he’s not in the best of health.”
Quirke, irritated by her queenly plurals, had to admire the deftness with which she had brought the encounter to a close. As he turned away he glanced at Sister Anselm, but she was gazing grim-faced into a far corner of the ceiling and would not return his look. Father Harkins stepped forward, glistening with relief, and walked with him to the door. He seemed about to put a friendly hand on his shoulder but thought better of it. He said:
“You’re not one of the Order yourself, I take it, Mr. Quirke?” Quirke looked at him. “The Knights, I mean? Of St. Patrick? Mr. Crawford is a lifelong member, I believe. In fact, if I’m not mistaken, a founding member.”
“No,” Quirke said drily, “I’m sure you’re not mistaken.”
The bucktoothed nurse opened the door for him, and swinging himself forward on his stick he yanked himself from the room, like an angry parent dragging away a stubbornly recalcitrant child.
Seeing him come stumping down the steps Andy Stafford took his knees from the dashboard of the Buick and sat up hastily and donned his chauffeur’s cap. Quirke got into the car without a word, refusing his help. He seemed mad. Andy did not know what to think about that. What had happened in there? He could not get the suspicion out of his head that Quirke’s coming here had something to do with the kid. It was crazy, he knew, but there was still that feeling in his spine, like something cold rolling down inside it.
They were on the driveway when Quirke tapped him on the shoulder and told him to stop. He had been looking back and had seen through the bare trees Sister Anselm come out by a side door of the orphanage. “Wait here,” he said, and got himself out of the car, grunting.