“I know,” Quirke said.
“Of course you do- doesn’t everyone?” Quirke caught the note of bitterness in his voice. “Conor Latimer, the man they couldn’t kill. And it was true; the British would have shot him but for who he was. Friend of Oliver Gogarty and George Bernard Shaw, Yeats and Lady Gregory- Lady Lavery, too, though we don’t mention that particular connection too often in the family, if you know what I mean. Were you aware that Bertrand Russell made a plea for clemency when the court-martial found him guilty?”
“You were in the Rising too, weren’t you?”
“Oh, I was, yes. I was no more than a lad and hardly knew one end of a rifle from the other. Conor had been in training for months, up in the Dublin Mountains.” He paused. “He was a hard man, Dr. Quirke, a mad Fenian without respect for God or man. He was my older brother and I loved him, but by Jesus I was afraid of him, too. It was like being around some kind of half-tamed animal; you could never tell what he would do next. And it’s from him that April got her wild streak. She’s the dead spit of him, the dead spit.” He drank off the last of the whiskey in the glass and helped himself to another splash. “And she never got over the loss of him, either. She adored him. When he died, although she was only a child at the time, something broke in her, that was never healed.” He sighed. “And now, God only knows what kind of trouble she’s after getting herself into. And as for her poor mother-”
There was a light tap on the door, and Ferriter entered. As he crossed the room he seemed to trot somehow on tiptoe, stealthily. He leaned down and spoke into the Minister’s ear.
“My sister-in-law and her son are here,” Latimer said to Quirke. “I asked them to come in; I hope you don’t mind.” He nodded to Ferriter, who once more withdrew, as silent as a shadow.
Celia Latimer was as meticulously groomed as she had been the last time that Quirke had seen her, in Dun Laoghaire, but today, behind the calmness of manner and the queenly smile, he detected something drawn and anxious. She wore a mink coat and a little hat the size and blackness of a bat, held in place with a pearl pin. “Dr. Quirke,” she said, extending a gloved hand. “Very nice to see you again.”
Quirke looked at the proffered hand; from the way she held it out to him, extended flat with the fingers dipped, it seemed she expected him to kiss it; instead he shook it briefly, feeling again that momentary, suggestive pressure. Oscar Latimer kept close behind his mother, bobbing busily from one side to the other, his face appearing now at her left shoulder, now at her right, as if she were a life-size doll that he was holding upright and walking along in front of him, as camouflage, or a shield. He nodded curtly to Quirke.
“I asked Dr. Quirke to come along here today,” Bill Latimer said, “to be with us, because of his connection with April- I mean, his daughter’s connection. He’s as concerned as we are to know what’s going on with April.”
Oscar Latimer and his mother turned their heads and gazed at Quirke with blank inquiry. He returned their look, saying nothing. He wondered if they knew about the blood in April’s bedroom. If they did, it would account for those fan-shaped clusters of worry lines at the outer edges of Celia Latimer’s eyes, and for the rabbity twitching of her son’s upper lip, where that ginger mustache, which surely must itch, looked more halfhearted and incongruous than ever. Oscar drew up a chair for his mother and placed another beside it and sat down. Now he and his mother and Quirke were set in a half circle in front of the desk.
“Yes,” Celia Latimer was saying to her brother-in-law, in an acid tone, “I’ve no doubt Dr. Quirke is concerned.” She was looking pointedly at the whiskey glass standing on the blotter, and Latimer snatched it up guiltily and carried it to the cabinet in the corner and put it away. His sister-in-law turned to Quirke again. “Have you heard something of April, Dr. Quirke?”
Quirke suddenly found himself thinking about the smell of Isabel Galloway’s skin. It was a warm, soft smell, with an undertone of what must be greasepaint; it had reminded him of something, and now he realized what it was. He saw himself as a boy, sitting cross-legged on a rug before a fireplace with sheets of paper strewn around him. The sheets were written on, and he was using the back of them for drawing paper. He must have been in Judge Griff n’s study, where often he was allowed to play while the Judge was working there; the sheets of paper he was drawing on must have been discarded drafts of judgments. The day outside was cold, a day like this one, in the depths of winter, but the fire was hot, and there were chilblain diamonds on his legs, and his forehead was burning in a way that he could just bear but that was pleasurable, too. Never such happiness since then, never such safety. He was drawing with crayons, and it was the waxen smell of them that he must have been remembering when in the bedroom in her little house by the canal Isabel Galloway put her face close to his, her face that seemed to be burning too, as his had burned that day, long ago, in front of the fire, in Judge Griff n’s room.
He blinked. “What?” he said. “I’m sorry?”
“I said, have you heard something of April?” Celia Latimer asked again. “Has she been in touch with your daughter?”
He leaned forward to stub out his cigarette in the ashtray on the corner of Latimer’s desk. “No,” he said, “I’m afraid not.”
She looked to her brother-in-law, returning to his chair. “And what do the Gardai say, William?” she asked.
Latimer did not look at her. “The Gardai, as such, aren’t involved, only this man Hackett, the detective you met at the house that day. In fact”- he glanced darkly in Quirke’s direction-”I’m not sure why he was brought into it in the first place.”
Quirke returned his look with a level stare. He disliked this large, truculent, stupid man. He wanted to be elsewhere. He thought of the sunlight outside, shining so wanly, so tentatively, on the grayed lawn. Portobello.
Oscar Latimer, who so far had been silent, now gave himself a sort of angry shake, clasping his hands on the wooden arms of his chair as if he were about to leap up and do something violent. “It’s disgraceful,” he said, his voice cracking. “First, strangers knowing our business, then the Guards! Next it’ll be the newspapers- that will be a fine thing. And all because my sister couldn’t be trusted to run her life in any sort of responsible fashion.” His mother put a restraining hand on his arm, and he stopped talking and pressed his lips shut. There were spots of color high on his cheekbones. He had, Quirke thought, the striving, hindered air of a man elbowing his way through a seething mob.
Bill Latimer turned to his sister-in-law again. “I’ve told Hackett, the detective, that discretion is paramount. I presume”- he gave Quirke another hard glance-”we’re all agreed on that?”
Quirke had been puzzled and now suddenly was not. He realized at last what was taking place here, and why he had been summoned to be part of it. A ceremony of banishment was being enacted. April Latimer was being tacitly but definitively thrust by her family out of its midst. She was being disowned. Her brother, her uncle, even her mother, would no longer be held accountable for her actions, not even for her being. And Quirke was the neutral but necessary witness, the one whose seal, whether he offered it or not, would be put upon the covenant. And what, he asked himself, if she were dead? That possibility too, he realized, was to be incorporated in the anathema.
ROSE CRAWFORD WAS WAITING FOR HIM IN THE BACK BAR AT JAMmet’s. There was a bottle of Bollinger in an ice bucket on the table before her. She had gone back to America before Christmas to attend to her financial affairs, and had returned on the Queen Mary, which had docked in Cobh that morning. She complained of the train from Cork, saying it was cold and dirty and without a dining car. “I had almost forgotten,” she said, “what this country is like.” She had brought him a box of Romeo y Julietas and a novelty tie with a half-naked blonde with an enormous bust and cherry-pink nipples painted on it. She was wearing a blue silk suit and a silk scarf loosely knotted at her throat. Her hair, in which she was letting some of the silver show, was done in a new style, parted in the center and drawn back sweepingly at both sides. She appeared crisp and fresh, and her manner as usual was one of dark and skeptical amusement. “You look very well,” she told Quirke, and signaled to the barman to open the champagne. “Certainly better than the last time I saw you.”