A Carol for the Dead, page 17
Just then she came back, and at the same time the waitress returned with the receipt and my card. I gave her a tip and short-circuited Fran’s protest by standing up to leave. ‘All done,’ I said.
‘Thank you. But it’s not who’s paying for lunch I’m concerned about. It’s you and that wolf who’s really a sheep.’
‘Hey, come here,’ I whispered, forcing her to lean closer to hear what I had to say. When she was within range, I kissed her on the cheek. ‘Thank you for the pressie,’ I said, and moved towards the door. ‘It’s very sweet of you.’
‘Don’t worry, I wore a burqa going into the record store,’ she said, catching up. ‘So when are we going to discuss you and Finian?’
‘Another time, eh? All I’ll say is, he has from now to Christmas Eve to make some kind of move. Otherwise, that’s it.’
‘Oh, yeah? And reindeer will fly.’
The polythene bags delivered by Keelan were on my desk. Peggy had left the office early to do some Christmas shopping. At this time of year, the working environment was laid back. If it wasn’t urgent business, forget about it; if it needed planning and concentration, start on it afresh in the New Year.
I sat in my swivel chair and opened the bag, which was packed with sheets of soft foam protecting and separating the thong and the piece of bone Sherry had removed from Mona’s fist. The bone carving – I knew it was an artefact immediately – was about the size and shape of an extended lipstick. There was some dried-out soil adhering to it, but I could make out a number of indentations along its length, and the flat end had been formed into a kind of plinth. For a moment I thought it might be a chess piece.
I took a toothbrush from the top drawer of my desk and began a gentle flicking motion, which dislodged most of the crust. In the same drawer I found a toothpick, another implement of incalculable value to an archaeologist, and I began to tease out the grime from the grooves carved into the bone. As I worked I considered the difficulties of dating the object – not in terms of its absolute age, carbon-dating would establish that, but in terms of its usage. For example, was it an heirloom that had been in circulation for some time before it ended up in the mire with Mona? And why was it that, when so much of her own skeleton had been dissolved by the bog acids, this item had survived along with the hand that clutched it so tightly in death?
When I’d finished cleaning it, I counted ten parallel grooves that circled around the bone to join up with a single groove running from the base to the smooth conical top, which was like an unopened mushroom cap. The artefact was of such a familiar design that I didn’t even need to look it up, but it added to my excitement when, a couple of minutes later, I compared the object in my hand with an illustration in a book on the Boyne Valley. Among the ceremonial artefacts found inside the passage tombs is a carved stone phallus about twenty-five centimetres long; and a miniature replica of it had been buried with Mona.
I was stunned. I finally had a direct link between Monashee and Brú na Bóinne across the river, between Mona and the Neolithic people who had built Newgrange. And this once more raised the issue of her age, something I had almost given up on.
Turning the carving upside down, I noticed a perforation under the plinth, scooped out to leave a tiny arch of bone. I picked up the thong and saw that I would have no difficulty threading it through the hole.
Mona had been strangled with her own necklace, from which this pendant had hung – until the ligature snapped. In her death throes she’d somehow managed to keep the pendant in her hand. But had it been the death-grip of a desperate woman trying to tear the ligature away from her throat, or had Mona delibe– rately taken the phallic carving with her to her grave?
Later than I had hoped, I found myself sliding open the door of my wardrobe in search of something to wear to the Carews’ soirée. My taste in clothes is eclectic, to say the least: gypsy girl from Carmen one day, power broker from the City the next. And, chameleon-like, I tend to match them to my mood, even to my surroundings. This is sometimes planned (as in the Christmas-cracker effect) but more often accidental (as on my visit to the abbey, when I could have said ‘snap’ to Sister Campion).
I wondered if Miss Marie Maguire had been anxious about her appearance that night in Castle-boyne over a century earlier. Unlike our modern anxiety caused by too much choice, in her case it was probably a matter of hoping that her one good dress would be suitable. And what of my great-grandfather? What would have been his concerns? Not what he wore, unless his suit was threadbare. He might have been hoping to walk Miss Maguire home. No: she lived in Celbridge, at least two hours’ journey by horse-drawn coach. She must have stayed the night in Castleboyne – not with him, of course; with friends of the family. Did he leave her home, and did they get to embrace downstairs while all were asleep above? A hug, a kiss … what else? Were they aroused by each other? Had they then to deny their passion, telling each other that it would show a lack of respect and that they should remain virgins until their wedding night?
And was that such a bad idea? I wondered, flicking through the hangers on the rail. In a very real sense, it made you totally each other’s on that occasion – and forever more, if you remained faithful. But it provided no other guarantees.
I selected a couple of garments and laid them on the bed. One was an ivory satin blouse with a high neck that buttoned on the side. No. The other was a red jersey dress with a pleated bodice and a mandarin collar, close-fitting, soft on the skin; seasonal and sexy. But which shoes? I drew the mirrored door closed and opened another one.
The idea of staying overnight with Finian began to preoccupy me. It had awoken desires that had been dormant for quite some time. But was I just focusing my sexual needs on him because he was the nearest available attractive male, or was it something deeper? And, if so, why now?
Boots? Not with that dress. With a black three-quarter-length flounced skirt I had rarely worn, and that blouse I’d rejected – plus another leather jacket I owned, black, looser than the one I had worn on Sunday. I slipped on the jacket and held the blouse and skirt up against it in the wardrobe mirror. Getting there.
Hair? In the mirror I could see my half-wet hair had divided downwards into two scraggy sections. It suited the Romany look I was aiming for perfectly, and I could keep it intact with some gel. No need for the hairdresser. If the total look wasn’t right, I would revert to the red jersey dress – or maybe not: by the time I was finished accessorising it, I’d probably look like something Jocelyn Carew could hang on his Christmas tree.
I sat on the edge of the bed. If Maria and Peter had married, then they were responsible for my presence in the world. But no one in the future would ever owe their existence to me. And that suddenly seemed so important. Because time’s getting on, dear, that’s why. The witchy version of my mother’s voice was at it again.
I was getting broody. But it was easy to dispel. I just thought of the genetic experiment nature had conducted on the infant buried at Monashee.
Chapter Seventeen
The evening was cold but dry. Arm-in-arm, Finian in a full-length black coat, we strolled towards Fitzwilliam Square from Leeson Street, the vista provided by the elegant lines of Georgian terraces drawing our eyes towards the outline of the National Maternity Hospital in the distance.
‘Last time I was there was when Jennifer was born,’ said Finian. Jennifer was one of his sister Maeve’s three children.
The subject of children was never far away these days, it seemed. We had been talking about how family politics can be tricky at this time of year. Maeve was of the view that their father would be better off in a nursing home, and Finian was interpreting her decision not to formally invite them to her house in Galway for Christmas – as had been traditional since their mother’s death a decade ago – as a way of making her point. It made little difference to Finian, but he knew Arthur would miss seeing his grandchildren on the day. So both of us were feeling the pressure applied – although in different directions – by members of the family living away from home.
‘My advice is to assume you’re invited. So ring Maeve tomorrow and ask her what time she’s expecting you on Christmas Eve.’
‘Wow, you can be scary sometimes,’ he said, hugging me closer. ‘I’ll give it a go. Now, on the subject of “lying-in homes”, as they used to be called …’ He waved a hand in the direction of the maternity hospital. ‘Allowing for the fact that a considerable part of Ireland’s history was lost in the fire in the Public Records Office in 1922, I can find no trace of a maternity home run by the Hospitaller Order in any part of the country. And that’s from the Middle Ages right up to the foundation of the State.’
‘I got the impression it was in or near Dublin.’
‘Can’t have been.’ Finian shook his head firmly. ‘It’s estimated that by 1700 there were no nuns at all in the city of Dublin. That’s how successful the Penal Laws were. And in the following century there were only two communities recorded on the entire island – and the Hospitaller Order wasn’t one of them. Most of the religious orders for women, the ones we’re familiar with, were established in the nineteenth century after Catholic emancipation.’
‘Curiouser and curiouser, eh?’
‘But, then again, Grange Abbey doesn’t officially exist either.’
‘I’m not surprised. Go on.’
‘Medieval land ownership in the bend of the Boyne is reasonably well documented, but your nuns don’t turn up on any deeds or charters. As you know, practically all of the land around there was owned by the Cistercians until the Anglo-Normans arrived.’
I nodded. Mellifont Abbey had been founded by the Cistercian Order, and it was they who introduced the idea of granges, separately run farms on their estates – one of which was Newgrange.
‘After the Normans took control of the area, they granted some land to Augustinian canons from a Welsh monastery called Llanthony. But I can find no reference to the Hospitaller Order of St Margaret being endowed with any property.’
‘It was granted directly by Henry II, according to the abbess. Maybe that explains it.’
‘Hmm. That would make their non-existence in the records even more mysterious. Especially when every monastic settlement was inventoried for Henry VIII’s confiscations.’
‘Maybe they were deliberately overlooked – something to do with the reason they got a royal charter in the first place. Also, Sister Campion said they were technically a pious society. That might have got them off the hook.’
‘The people who framed the Penal Laws against Catholics wouldn’t have been impressed by technicalities. No – the Grange Abbey nuns were an exception to the rule. A big exception …’
We had paused outside a discreetly lit shop window with a display of gold jewellery based on Celtic designs.
‘We could ask Dr Carew,’ I said. ‘He’s good on the history of medicine in Ireland, and they’re a nursing order, after all … Oh, that’s stunning.’ I was pointing at a ribbon torc, a neck decoration consisting of a strip of hammered gold twisted into a continuous spiral. ‘It’s so simple, so beautiful.’
‘Wouldn’t you prefer a bone pendant?’ said Finian facetiously. I had told him about the find on the way to Dublin.
‘And end up in a bog-hole? No, thanks.’ I dug him in the ribs affectionately and we moved on.
‘Joking aside, I wonder if that carving had something to do with her death. And, if so, is it wise for you to be in possession of it now?’
‘You’re not being superstitious, are you?’
‘No, I’m just urging caution, considering the threat you got this morning.’
‘But whoever sent me the card didn’t know the carving even existed.’
‘The same way as Traynor’s killer couldn’t have known about the pattern of injuries to the body found in the field? Yet somehow he or she did. I don’t know who or what you’re dealing with here, but I think you’d better take it for granted that they probably know more than you about that woman and why she died.’
All the rooms of the house, including the staircases and landings, were thronged with writers, journalists, artists and especially environmentalists, many of whom had worked on Jocelyn Carew’s election campaigns. Some guests were gathered in small groups, talking and laughing; others, singly or in pairs, glasses of wine in hand, wandered around admiring the paintings and prints covering the walls, and the sculptures that seemed to occupy every available space.
We eventually got to the drawing room on the second floor and headed for a quiet corner between a baby grand piano and one of the Georgian windows looking out on the street. Finian was wearing a plum-coloured bow tie – outrageously colourful for him – and a charcoal-grey silk jacket. We chatted for a while, and then he said, ‘I must go and find Jocelyn so I can introduce you.’ Our host had been downstairs, deep in conversation with the country’s Attorney General, when we arrived.
‘Before you go, who’s she?’ I had been observing a woman, dressed in brown, flitting in and out of the company like a wren in a hedge. It had taken several sightings of her to establish that she had her hair in a chignon and that her jacket and skirt were almost Edwardian in style.
‘That’s Edith, Jocelyn’s wife,’ Finian said discreetly.
‘I’m going to get myself a glass of wine,’ I said. ‘Meet you back here.’
I eased my way past people and furniture, but found my passage momentarily blocked as the crowd parted to make way for a group of four young people, two of each sex, each one carrying a folder of sheet music. They took up a position in a corner near the fireplace, and I decided to stay and listen. There was no need to go into the next room for drinks – a woman came past with a tray, and I took a glass of red as the ensemble started to sing ‘The Holly and the Ivy’.
Nice touch, I thought. Carols to remind us of the reason for our festivities. The singing was sublime, the harmonies complex but unforced. After the applause they introduced their next choice, ‘The Wexford Carol’.
Good people all, this Christmastime,
Consider well and bear in mind
What our good God for us has done,
In sending His beloved Son …
Just above the applause when they had finished, I could hear Finian laughing. He was out on the landing with Jocelyn Carew.
‘Yes, that was the Rotunda …’ I heard Carew saying as they came into the room.
Finian led him over to me. ‘As I was saying, Illaun is trying to … well, something’s rotten in the Royal County – she can explain it herself. Jocelyn Carew, Illaun Bowe.’
Carew held my fingertips and bowed. ‘Delighted to meet you.’ He was wearing a razor-sharp, double-breasted navy suit. His accessories were a bright-red cravat, ruby cufflinks in his crisp white shirt and a tiny red rose in his lapel. He stood to his full height and looked me over lecherously – in a theatrical way, of course. ‘Pulchritude in pursuit of putrescence, eh?’ His lips were red and sensual, and made more prominent by a close-shaven white beard and moustache. His colourful, well-preened appearance was in marked contrast to his wife’s drab plumage.
‘Well … yes, sort of.’ Bons mots are difficult to reply to. ‘I’m trying to find out as much as I can about an order of nuns who ran a lying-in home –’
‘Ah, what wonderful terminology …’ Carew affected the pose of someone hearing sublime music. ‘Sounds so benign, too. Much more reassuring than some of the other places still trading when I was a boy. I mean, would you like to have been carted off to a place called the “Hospital for Incurables” or even “Rest for the Dying”? Or how about, saints preserve us, a place known as “the Colony for Mental Defectives”? But I digress. Sorry, m’dear.’
‘If you don’t mind,’ Finian interjected, ‘I’ll leave you both to it.’ He slipped away and mingled with the crowd.
‘Please continue,’ said Carew.
‘This was a home for well-off girls who became pregnant.’
‘Up the pole, m’dear, to use the medical term. Daddy’s little filly fucked by some stable boy and about to drop a foal.’
‘Eh, yes. But they also claim to have provided the same care for the poor.’
Carew snorted and made an outlandish gesture with his arms, reminiscent of a pantomime dame. ‘Who are these paradigms of virtue? Do tell.’
‘The Hospitallers of St Margaret of Antioch.’
Carew raised his eyes to the ceiling and squinted, his habit when calling on his reputedly extraordinary memory. ‘According to my father, who was a Church of Ireland clergyman, Catholic nuns were always to be treated with the utmost respect, particularly an order of midwives – an anomaly within the Roman Church – that had a house on the Dublin–Meath border near where I grew up … because, he told me in the gravest tones, they carried out a duty for which all Christians should be grateful.’
‘And they were the Hospitallers of St Margaret?’
‘Indubitably. And that was their lying-in home.’
‘Not in the city, then?’
‘No, no, dear heart. Goodness me. It had to be away from prying eyes.’
‘And did your father tell you what this duty was?’
‘The strange thing is, it never occurred to me to ask him. I assumed they provided a discreet service to protect reputations, arranged for the products of sexual indiscretion to be sent for adoption and so on. And I took my father’s words to imply that they looked after our crowd as well.’
So that was it. The order had been able to come through the vicissitudes of Church and State unmolested, because both sides of the religious divide were beholden to them. The rich were always prepared to pay to smooth over domestic difficulties, especially illegitimate pregnancy. The religion of those who could assist in the cover-up became irrelevant. In the case of the Protestant aristocracy, it was probably an additional safeguard against claims on their property if infants were spirited away to the Catholic side, from where there was scant hope of legal redress. The silence of both sides was the deal that sustained the system.
