‘Hennessy,’ he said, ‘I’m glad to see you fixed up. It wasn’t a pleasant experience having to stop you in your last job.’
‘All’s fair in love and war,’ Hennessy said agreeably.
‘Your wife didn’t think so.’
‘She was a bit put out,’ Hennessy admitted.
‘I didn’t blame her.’
‘Women seldom appreciates a principle.’
‘A lot of men have the same failing.’
‘That’s why I hope I can claim a modest place among the trusted and the true.’
‘You can,’ Fitz assured him.
Hennessy looked pleased.
‘Well, then. I’d better be leaving. I’ve to see Rashers and then go up to my dinner. I have a few sweets for him as well. You’d be hard set to decide which of them has the sweeter tooth—himself or his dog.’
Fitz smiled and held open the door. A thought struck him.
‘By the way,’ he said, ‘what sort of a place is it you’re doing the watching in?’
Hennessy hesitated. Then, with an air of apology he said:
‘Well—as a matter of fact—it’s a sweet factory.’
‘I see,’ Fitz said gravely.
He had been right. The expropriators were being expropriated.
Hennessy checked his pockets to be sure he had the sweets and that the drop of whiskey was still safe. It was. He anticipated a complaint from Rashers for not having visited him for so long. The new job and the night work had upset his routine. The whiskey would heal the breach. Maybe Rashers would be out in the streets, selling badges or playing his whistle to the crowds. If so he could go up for his dinner and call on him later. He went down the stairs into the hall again. A cold blast of air flowed from the streets through the open door. He went through the hall towards the backyard where a sack hung in place of the original door of the outside privy, then turned to descend the stairs that led down to the gloom of the basement. He expected the dog to start barking. There was silence. He hesitated in the half-dark, convinced now that Rashers was out. As he waited he noticed, for the first time, a heavy smell. It was not the usual smell of damp earth and decaying woodwork. It was sweet and sickly and, it seemed, intermittent. A thought struck him which made his blood turn to ice. He groped for his matches, lit one, held it above his head. The door to Rashers’ den was closed. He lit another match and slowly opened it. A stench of decay flowed out and choked him. He was certain now.
‘Jesus protect us,’ he said.
Through the window with its broken sheets of cardboard that flapped in the wind a feeble light entered the room. He forced himself to investigate, crossing the floor fearfully, step by step.
The Reverend Ernst Boehm proved both amicable and talkative. He said nothing at all about the notice on the wall. Perhaps he did not see it. He wore the thick glasses of the scholar with lenses that looked like the bottoms of twin jamjars. But he remarked appreciatively on each course as it was served and he praised the wine without reservation. Father O’Sullivan was delighted, Father O’Connor was proud. The huge fire blazed cheerfully in the grate, the dishes and the glasses reflected its red and yellow flames. Their faces above the shining white tablecloth were slightly flushed. St. Brigid’s was enjoying a rare moment of elegance.
Father Boehm spoke interestingly of St. Patrick and early Irish monasticism, referring frequently and often confusingly to the Annals of Innisfallen, the Annals of Clonmacnoise, the Chronicum Scottorum, the Book of Leinster, the Annals of Tigernach, the Annals of the Four Masters. He mentioned Plummer’s Vitae Sanctorum Hibernia and paused to offer some penetrating comments which, however, were difficult to follow. In a lighter mood he praised Kuno Meyer’s recently published Ancient Irish Poetry and, offering them a quotation, pursed his lips and wrinkled his massive forehead as he explored his labyrinthine memory. An abrupt and triumphant exhalation of breath signalled that he had cornered one. In a deep voice which had a slight accent he began a poem of the ninth century called ‘The Hermit’s Song’.
‘I wish, O Son of the Living God
O Ancient eternal King
For a little hut in the wilderness
That it may be my dwelling
Quite near, a beautiful wood
Around it on every side
To nurse manyvoiced birds
Hiding it with its shelter’
The mention of birds and woods caused Father O’Sullivan to glance automatically at the shamrock in the bowl. It was withering fast from the heat of the fire. He quickly returned his attention to the poem, a little puzzled because it did not seem to rhyme.
‘A pleasant Church and, with the linen altar cloth
A dwelling for God from Heaven
Then, shining candles
Above the pure white Scriptures
Raiment and food enough for me
From the King of fair fame
And I to be sitting for a while
Praising God in every place.’
Father Boehm beamed at them. Father O’Connor praised its simplicity and grace.
‘What a pity we cannot all follow the poet,’ he remarked, regretting the need to be involved with the world.
Father Boehm said his sermon would treat of the three great saints of Gaelic Ireland: Patrick, Brigid and Colmcille. Brigid was peculiarly appropriate, he suggested, since she was the patron saint of their parish. Did they know there was a legend that she had once hung her cloak on a sunbeam? That was amusing, of course. But beautiful too. Had it not charm? Father O’Connor agreed to play for benediction on the harmonium. He hoped it was serviceable. It was so long since it had been used. Father Boehm wanted the final hymn to be ‘Hail, Glorious St. Patrick’.
‘With a thunder,’ he enthused, ‘Grandioso. An Anthem of triumph.’
Father O’Connor, thinking of the harmonium, promised to do his best.
It was at that moment the clerk knocked on the door and opened it with a look of anxiety and apology. Father O’Connor was displeased. But the clerk remained fidgeting and looking uneasy so he excused himself and went out to see what was amiss. When he returned Father O’Sullivan asked:
‘Is something wrong?’
‘A child has brought a message and it is somewhat garbled. Someone has been killed—or has been found dead, I cannot be sure which—in Chandlers Court.’
‘Do you know who it is?’
‘No. The message is very unsatisfactory.’
‘One of us had better go,’ Father O’Sullivan decided.
He rose automatically. But Father O’Connor knew his place. He was the junior. There was an important guest to be looked after.
‘No, no, Father—please,’ he said, ‘the duty is mine.’
‘Dear me,’ Father Boehm said.
‘I’ll go immediately,’ Father O’Connor decided.
‘Take a cab,’ Father O’Sullivan advised.
‘Yes. I’ll do that. It will mean I can get back in time for benediction.’
He made his apologies to Father Boehm who waved them away. He quite understood. He consented to a little more wine but studied the exact amount scrupulously and then motioned its sufficiency to Father O’Sullivan.
‘Wine is a blessing in moderation, an imperfection in excess,’ he explained. His genial smile pleased Father O’Sullivan, the attentive host. He listened with meticulous interest while Father Boehm discussed the early Irish Penitentials, referring initially to Zettinger on Cummean, but later and in more detail to Finnian of Clonard.