The Brothers' Lot - Kevin Holohan [61]
Brother Loughlin sat forward in his too, placed his glass on the desk, and put his right hand gently over his left in a gesture of undivided attention. “And what might these unhelpful facts be?”
“Well, I couldn’t help noticing that Brother Boland had quite a cut on the back of his right hand. Now, the first thing an investigator would do—and don’t get me wrong here, he would be only doing his job—would be to check if the blood on the statuette was Brother Boland’s. If it turned out to be the same type then there would certainly be a temptation to take the blood on the statuette, the cut in Brother Boland’s hand, put them together, and poof! No more miracle.” Father Mulvey raised his left hand and spread his fingers wide in a gesture of evaporating dreams of beatification, fame, pilgrimages, papal visits, souvenir shops, and renown for the Brothers of Greater Little Werburgh Street, North.
“I see your point,” replied Brother Loughlin levelly.
“Now, of course, if the blood on the statue did not match Brother Boland’s, then we would have a much stronger case for a miracle. So, if you were to go and get the statuette and bring it here to me, then I could initiate the investigation, hopefully happy in the knowledge that the blood on it was not Brother Boland’s. And you know what, Brother? If Brother Boland could possibly remember anything that Venerable Saorseach said to him during the miracle, it would be all the better for us.”
“I see your point, Father.”
“Call me Martin.”
“Why don’t you help yourself to another dram of whiskey there, Martin, while I get the statue and have a little chat with Brother Boland.”
Father Mulvey smiled back winningly and poured himself another generous measure of Brother Loughlin’s whiskey.
In fifteen minutes Brother Loughlin returned to the office with a broken statuette. It did not require much in the line of acuity to see that it was a completely different statuette, but it was generously edged with fresh blood. Father Mulvey took it, looked at it, and then at Brother Loughlin. He nodded meaningfully.
“Good work, Brother. Brother Boland didn’t mention anything that Venerable Saorseach had said to him by any chance, did he?”
“Ah, no, he didn’t. He didn’t say a whole lot. He was very reluctant to give up the statue.”
“Not to worry. There’ll be plenty of time for that.”
“I see.”
“Well, I’ll take this over to the Bishop’s Palace first thing in the morning and we’ll get the ball rolling,” said Father Mulvey, suddenly standing up.
“You’ll, uhm …”
“I’ll be in touch.” Father Mulvey transferred the statue to a plastic bag and held out his hand to Loughlin. “In the meantime, keep everyone out of the oratory. I’ll have a man over first thing in the morning to take some measurements and photographs and then you can start fixing things up.”
The Brother took the priest’s outstretched hand and shook it. Mulvey pressed firmly and Loughlin couldn’t help thinking he was doing it deliberately to increase the soreness of the fresh cut in his forearm.
“Very nice work, Brother,” said Father Mulvey mischievously. He released Loughlin’s hand and pulled the door open. “Sleep well,” he called, and let himself out the front door, which he pulled shut behind him with a cavalier flourish.
Brother Loughlin stood and stared at the door. In his pocket he fingered bits of the freshly broken statuette along with the one he had wrested from Brother Boland. He had a sudden thought.
“Feck! Relics!” he shouted, and bolted out of his office.
22
Ah, would you look at that for a mess. Isn’t it disgraceful? Ah, God help us, but that’s a terrible sight and all them little statues too. Most of them destroyed. Broken to bits. That’s a shame that is. Terrible sad it is.”
From the bottom of the stairs Dermot McDermott could hear Ray McRae’s lamenting voice. “Christ on a crutch!” he muttered to himself, and stomped heavily up the stairs.
“Ah, there