The Brothers' Lot - Kevin Holohan [98]
Sheehan quietly cleared his throat and Father Mulvey drew in another sharp breath to add to the chestful of anxious air he was already harboring. He could not read this ambiguous sound from Sheehan. Was it a chuckle, a sound of disapproval, of approbation? He uncrossed and recrossed his legs and fixed his eyes on the fingers of Sheehan’s left hand where they drummed lightly and soundlessly on the small pile of pages he had already read.
Sheehan stopped suddenly and looked up. He took his pipe from his mouth, noted with indifference that it had gone out again, and laid it softly in the purple tin ashtray to his right. “Mr. Madden seems to be working prolifically,” he said softly.
“Oh yes, Father, he is,” blurted Father Mulvey, glad for the long-awaited opportunity to exhale. “He is most enthusiastic about this undertaking. I believe he is afire with the light of faith. Almost inspired, you might say!”
“So how much longer do you think it will take Mr. Madden to finish the revised Life of O’Rahilly?” asked Father Sheehan casually. He took out his pocket watch and checked it against the pendulum clock.
“Well, at the back there you have the drafts he brought me this morning for the chapters that bring the story up to date, including the collapse of the oratory and the bleeding statue.”
“I must say, this is fascinating, truly fascinating,” said Father Sheehan as he flipped through the pages.
Mulvey felt his unease take wing and soar away into a huge blue yonder of future prestige.
From under the sheaf of papers Sheehan took that morning’s The Way Forward. It was opened to an inside page. He glanced at it distractedly and shook his head sadly. “Tragic. Shocking,” he said, almost in an undertone.
“What’s that, Father?” inquired Mulvey brightly.
“Chap found hanged this morning.”
“Oh, the Lord bless us and save us,” hushed Mulvey, and quickly crossed himself.
“Would you listen to this: Citizens of Howth were shocked and saddened by the discovery this morning of a hanged man on the channel marker at the southeast entrance to the harbor. The man was found at 5:15 this morning by Mr. Fergus Stokes who was taking his boat out. The county coroner was immediately called to the scene.”
Sheehan paused and looked carefully at Mulvey, who shook his head ruefully: “One has to feel sorry for someone who will go to such terrible lengths as to take his own life. Surely the poor man couldn’t have been in full possession of his wits.”
Sheehan selected another illuminating tidbit from the article: “‘He was fond of a pint, but no, I don’t think that was anything to do with it really, though he had seemed to be a little down of late,’ said Patrick Iveagh, an acquaintance of the deceased.”
“Oh, the drink is a curse upon this troubled, benighted nation,” said Mulvey vehemently.
“It is, Father Mulvey, it is,” concurred Sheehan softly. “But you know what puzzles me most about this case?” He read again in the same measured, mildly curious tone as before: “The deceased, Marcus Madden, B.A., was best known for his Life of Venerable Saorseach O’Rahilly, the founder of the Brothers of Godly Coercion. He had in recent years fallen on hard times and was believed to have taken to the drink.”
Mulvey’s apprehension swooped back out of the wide blue future and collapsed around him like a wet tarp thrown from a third-floor window.
“I believe you have a little bit of explaining to do, Father Mulvey,” Sheehan said softly, and held the newspaper across the desk, lest Mulvey should for a moment doubt the veracity of Marcus Madden’s sudden, brief, and surprising resurgence into the public eye.
“Well, Father Sheehan. This is an unexpected pleasure, I have to say. Tea, Father? No? Fine. You can leave us, Mrs. Broderick.”
The woman pointedly sniffed her distaste for Loughlin’s haughty tone and left the office.
“Please, Father, have a seat. What can I do for you? Father Mulvey is not joining us?”
“Father Mulvey has some urgent internal administrative matters