Free Holy Orders A Quirke Novel by Benjamin Black Page B

Hackett said.
    Quirke frowned. “A gardener? Who?”
    “Jimmy Minor. Out the back of the house in Rathmines where his flat is he had a bit of a garden going, a plot, like. Spuds, beans, carrots too, I think. They were just starting to come up.”
    Quirke wanted another whiskey and was trying to catch the eye of Paschal the manager, but Frankie spotted his empty glass and put away the rag and came down behind the bar, cracking his knuckles and grinning. “Same again, Captain?”
    Quirke nodded sourly.
    “Did he own the place?” he asked Hackett.
    “No. The landlord let him at it. Nice little plot, well tended. Good soil there, plenty of leaf mold laid down over the years. He’d have had a tidy crop. The potatoes, I’d say, would do particularly well.”
    They fell silent, the two of them. Frankie brought Quirke’s drink, but sensing some darkening of their mood he set it down without flourishes and said nothing, only took the ten-shilling note Quirke proffered and turned to the till.
    Quirke cleared his throat. “So otherwise you found nothing,” he said.
    Hackett did not answer, but reached inside his jacket and brought out from the breast pocket a creamy-white envelope and placed it on the bar. It had Jimmy Minor’s name and address typed on it, and in the top left-hand corner, in dark blue lettering, was stamped the legend:
     
    Fathers of the Holy Trinity
    Trinity Manor
    Rathfarnham
    County Dublin
    “It was with his stuff,” Hackett said.
    Quirke picked up the envelope, opened it, and took out the letter, feeling as he did so a sort of click in the region of his breastbone. Was it the look of the paper, the smell of it that had set something going in him? Then he remembered: he had been given a letter like this to carry with him when he was being sent to Carricklea; strange, how clearly he remembered it, after all these years. We are directed to entrust this boy into your care … He blinked the thought away. The letter, this letter now in his hands, was typed, in very black ink, on a single sheet of embossed paper—the fathers, it was clear, did not stint themselves in the matter of stationery. The Rathfarnham address was stamped here, too, and underneath it the letter began.
     
Dear Mr. Minor,
We are in receipt of your letter addressed to Father Michael Honan, to which I have been directed to reply by Monsignor Farrelly, our Father Superior.
You do not make it clear in what connection you wish to interview Father Honan, but in any case it is not possible for you to do so. Father Honan is extremely busy at present, as he is about to embark for the mission fields in Africa, and is therefore unable to comply with your request.
If you require information about the work of the Trinitarian Fathers, here or abroad, please address your questions directly to Msgr. Farrelly, or to me.
Yours in the Grace of Our Lord Jesus Christ,
Daniel Dangerfield, FHT
    Quirke read it over twice, then looked at Hackett. “‘Daniel Dangerfield,’” he said. “That’s a mouthful.” He put the paper down on the bar, where it slowly closed itself along its folds, like a fly-eating flower. “What’s it mean?”
    “Don’t know,” Hackett said shortly.
    “Then why…?”
    “The name was familiar,” Hackett said. He took out a packet of cigarettes from his jacket pocket, offered one to Quirke, took one himself, and flipped up the lid of his Zippo lighter. He thumbed the blackened wheel to make a spark. “Honan,” he said, narrowing one eye against a cloud of cigarette smoke.
    “Familiar in what way?”
    “I couldn’t think, at first, only I knew I knew the name. Then I remembered.” He drank the last of the port, smacking his lips, and held the darkly smeared glass up to the light and peered through it. “There was a complaint made against him—this was a few years ago. Father of one of the young fellows at Windsor College—it’s run by the Holy Trinity order—came in with some story about his son being mistreated