Midnight Runner - Jack Higgins [67]
T he traffic was light because of the lateness of the hour. Quinn lit a cigarette and leaned back in the seat. He'd always liked cities at night, particularly late at night. Rain-washed deserted streets, that feeling of loneliness. What the hell am I doing? he asked himself, and the thought had been immediately overwhelming.
They moved down toward the river, the Tower of London, St. Katherine's Dock, and finally came to Wapping High Street and pulled in at St. Mary's Priory. He'd last been here a year before, on one of his London trips for the President. It was a grim building in gray stone, with a great, well-worn oak door which stood open. A bell tower could be seen, and the roof of a chapel beyond the high walls.
"I won't be long," Quinn told Luke, got out, and crossed the road.
A sign said ST. MARY'S PRIORY, LITTLE SISTERS OF PITY: MOTHER SUPERIOR, SISTER SARAH PALMER.
"We never close," Quinn said softly, and passed inside. In a cubbyhole, the night porter sat drinking tea and reading the Evening Standard. He glanced up.
"Good evening."
A notice on the wall said: The chapel is open to all for private worship.
"Is the Mother Superior in?"
"I saw her go into the chapel a little while ago, sir."
"Thank you."
Quinn crossed to the chapel door, which stood open, and passed inside.
R upert, parked some distance behind the Mercedes, had seen Quinn cross the road and followed him, pausing only to read the sign before venturing in.
He adopted the simple approach and said to the porter, "Where did my friend go?"
"The chapel, sir, he was looking for the Mother Superior."
"Thank you."
Rupert moved to the open chapel door and could hear voices. He peered in. It was very dark, the only light the candles up by the altar. He went and sheltered behind a pillar and had no difficulty in hearing what was being said.
W hen Quinn stepped into the chapel he paused and looked toward the image of the Virgin, the candles burning in front of it so that it seemed to float in the darkness beside the altar. Sister Sarah Palmer was on her knees scrubbing the floor, a menial task usually performed by novices, but in her case designed to teach her humility, in spite of being Mother Superior. It was cold and damp and there was the unmistakable chapel smell.
"Candles, incense, and holy water," he said softly. "You'll have me crossing myself next."
She paused and looked up at him calmly. "Why, Daniel, what a surprise. Where have you come from?"
"Kosovo."
"Was it bad?"
"Too many bodies in the streets."
She dropped the scrubbing brush in her pail and mopped the floor with a rag. "As bad as Bo Din?"
"Different, but as bad in its own way."
She squeezed out the rag. "What is it, Daniel?"
"Helen's dead."
She stayed there on her knees, staring at him. "Oh, dear Lord." She got up as he dropped into one of the pews, and sat in front, half-turned toward him. "What happened?"
He started, then, and told her everything.
Afterwards, she said, "God has placed a burden on you, Daniel. What has happened is a terrible thing, but you must not allow it to destroy you."
"And how would I do that?"
"By seeking refuge in prayer, by reaching out for God's support..."
"Instead of seeking revenge?" Quinn shook his head. "But that's all I feel. It's a strange thing, suffering. I've discovered that there is the possibility of solace in making the other person suffer. It's as if nothing is enough. By letting Rupert Dauncey off the hook, I've extended his suffering, his punishment."
"Such thoughts will destroy you."
"If that is the price, I'll pay it." He got up, and so did she.
"Why did you come here, Daniel? You knew I couldn't condone your intention."
"Yes, but it was important that you hear the facts from me and perhaps understand my future conduct."
"So what do you expect, a blessing?"
"It wouldn't come amiss."
There was steel in her voice, a kind of anger, and for a moment she seemed the young nun at Bo Din again.
What she did then was the hardest thing she'd ever done in her life. She said,