"Ah ."

"She remembered your mustache."

"Not so unusual for a brother to call on his sister now and then, surely?"

"Perhaps she didn't know you were her brother."

Latimer nodded. He seemed calm, reflective. "Yes," he said, taking up Quirke's earlier question, "Mr. Ojukwu telephoned to tell me that my sister had performed an abortion on herself and was hemorrhaging badly. What she was thinking of I don't know. She has a doctor, after all, she should have had more sense. And why didn't she call me in the first place? It's not as if we had any secrets from each other. Although I suppose she would have felt a certain reluctance, sitting there in that house of shame in a swamp of her own blood with her black lover boy in attendance."

"What did you do?" Quirke asked again.

Latimer, with one hand on the pistol, slipped the other inside the breast-flap of his coat and put on a Napoleonic frown, pretending to work hard at remembering. "First of all, I told Sambo to make himself scarce, if he knew what was good for him. He didn't need telling twice, believe me. Gone like a shadow into the night, he was. I should have brought Big Bertha here"* he hefted the gun*"and shot the fellow, as my father would have done, but I missed that opportunity. Anyway, I was distracted, trying to patch up my unfortunate sister. She was very poorly, as you can imagine. She'd made a surprisingly awful hash of things, given her training and experience. But there you are, people will dabble in specialisms they know nothing about."

"When did she die?" Quirke asked, keeping his eyes on the road ahead.

There was a pause. Latimer, still looking out at the sea, frowned, and twisted up his mouth at one side, still making a pretense of racking his memory. "We made a great effort, both of us. A wonderful girl, April. Wonderfully strong. In the end, though, not strong enough. I think perhaps she wanted not to be saved. I can understand that." He shifted on the seat, grimacing, as if something had suddenly begun to pain him mildly. "I told you, didn't I, Quirke, that you knew nothing about families* I said it to you, I said, you've no experience of such things. The closeness of people in a family. April and I were close, you know. Oh, very close. When we were little we used to say that we'd marry each other when we grew up. Yes, we'd marry, we agreed, and get away from Pa." He sighed, almost dreamily, and laid his head back on the seat. "Fathers and sons, Quirke," he said again, "fathers and daughters. He loved us very much, our Pa, first me, and then April. What games he used to play with us, under the sheets. He was so handsome, so* dashing, as the English say. He was pleased as Punch when April came along; he had so wanted a girl, and now he had one. He was growing tired of me, you see, I knew that. I tried to warn April, when I thought she was old enough to understand. I said to her, He's fed up with me, and besides, you're a girl, he'll go for you, now He's fed up with me, and besides, you're a girl, he'll go for you, now. But she was too young, too innocent. She was six or seven, I think, when Pa turned his affections on her." He paused. When he spoke again his voice had changed, had become distant. "I used to hear her in the night, crying, waiting for him to come creeping along and slide into bed with her. She was so small, so young." Latimer started up. "Really, Quirke, for Heaven's sake!" he cried. "That light was red! You'll kill the lot of us if you keep on like this* where did you learn to drive?"

Phoebe closed her eyes. She thought of April sitting on the bench in Stephen's Green that day, smoking, remembering, and then the way she laughed when the gulls came swooping down, flailing and screeching.

"I tried to tell our dear Ma what was going on. Of course, she couldn't take it in. I don't blame her; it was simply beyond her comprehension." He nodded to himself. "Yes, beyond her. So then, since there was no help there, I had to take action myself. What age was I? I must have been* what?*fifteen? Why did I leave it so long? Fright, I suppose, and that awful * that awful embarra.s.sment embarra.s.sment, that shame shame. Children blame themselves in these cases, you know, and feel they must keep silent. But April, my poor April* I couldn't let it go on. So I plucked up my courage and went to Uncle Bill"* he turned to Phoebe*"that's William Latimer, the Minister. I went to him and told him what was going on. At first he wouldn't believe it, of course*w ho would, after all?* but in the end he had to. Then I went to Pa and told him what I had done, and said that Uncle Bill was going to go to the Guards, though I have to say I'm not sure he would have, thinking what a scandal there would be; Little Willie, as Pa used to call him, was already well on his way up the greasy pole and had no intention of sliding down again. It didn't matter. The fact that I had told someone* anyone*set me free in an odd way. Can you understand that? So I confronted him, confronted Pa. We were in the garden, by the summer house. I was crying, I couldn't stop, it was so strange, the tears just kept flowing down my face, though I didn't feel in any way sad, but angry, more like, and* and outraged outraged. Pa said nothing, not a word. He just stood there, looking away. I remember a vein in his temple, beating* no, fluttering, as if there were something under the skin there, a b.u.t.terfly or a wriggly worm. It was in the summer house that Ma found him, late that evening. The weather was so beautiful, I remember, high summer, and a golden haze, and the midges in it like champagne bubbles going up and down." He picked up the revolver and looked at it. "I wonder why we didn't hear the shot," he said. "You'd think we'd have heard it, a gun this size, going off."

They were on the long curve towards Sutton. Now and then a single snowflake would come flickering haphazardly through the air and melt at once to water on the windscreen. Phoebe had drawn herself into the corner of the seat with her arms crossed tightly, clinging onto herself.

"This is terrible, Latimer," Quirke said, "a terrible thing to hear."

"Yes, it is," Latimer agreed, in a throwaway tone. "Terrible is the word. We were bereft, of course, April and I. Despite everything, we loved our father* does that seem strange? Ma didn't count, of course, we took no notice of her, she might as well not have been there." He heaved a whistling sigh. "But it was wonderful, then, what April and I developed between us. Pa had trained us for it, you see, and we were grateful to him for that. True, the world would have frowned on our* our union, if it had known about it, but somehow that made it all the more precious for us, all the more* sweet." He broke off. "Have you ever loved, Quirke? I mean, really loved? I know what you feel about your"* he cupped a hand beside his mouth and lowered his voice to a stage whisper, as if to keep Phoebe from hearing* "about your darling daughter here." He coughed, resuming a normal tone. "What I'm talking about is is the word. We were bereft, of course, April and I. Despite everything, we loved our father* does that seem strange? Ma didn't count, of course, we took no notice of her, she might as well not have been there." He heaved a whistling sigh. "But it was wonderful, then, what April and I developed between us. Pa had trained us for it, you see, and we were grateful to him for that. True, the world would have frowned on our* our union, if it had known about it, but somehow that made it all the more precious for us, all the more* sweet." He broke off. "Have you ever loved, Quirke? I mean, really loved? I know what you feel about your"* he cupped a hand beside his mouth and lowered his voice to a stage whisper, as if to keep Phoebe from hearing* "about your darling daughter here." He coughed, resuming a normal tone. "What I'm talking about is love love, a love that is everything, a love that pushes everything else aside, a love that consumes* a love, in short, that obsesses obsesses. This is nothing like the stuff you read about in novels or nice poems. And poor April, I really think she was not up to it. It was too much for her. She tried to escape, but of course she couldn't. It wasn't just that I wouldn't let her go* I paid for the rent in her flat, did you know that? oh, yes, I paid for all sorts of things* but that she couldn't free herself. Some bonds are just too strong"* he glanced back at Phoebe*"don't you think so, my dear?"

At Sutton Cross he directed Quirke to turn right, and they began the long ascent of the hill. There were cows in frosty fields and people trudging along at the side of the road in hats and heavy coats, like refugees fleeing a winter war. The flakes of snow were multiplying now, flying horizontally, some of them, while others seemed to be falling upwards.

"So the child was yours," Quirke said.

Behind them Phoebe made a small, sharp sound and put a hand to her mouth. Latimer turned to her again.

"Are you shocked, Miss Griffin?" he asked. "Well, I suppose it is shocking. But there you are. G.o.d allows certain things to happen, seems even to want them to happen, and who are we, mere mortals, to deny a divine wish?"

"Did you know she was pregnant?" Quirke asked. He was leaning forward, peering hard past the clicking windscreen wipers into the snow.

"No," Latimer said, "I didn't know, but I can hardly say I was surprised, given my training. I could have done something to prevent it, I suppose, but somehow one doesn't think clearly in the throes of such pa.s.sion. Do I feel guilty? you'll ask me. Guilt is not the word. There is no word for it. That was the thing, with April and me, there were no words adequate enough* ah, here were are!" They had gained the summit and pulled into the parking place. The dusty ground was whitened here and there with frost, and before them and on two sides the sea stretched away, pockmarked and pistol-gray. "You can stop here," Latimer said. "This will do* no, leave the car facing that way, the view is so nice."

Quirke brought the car to a stop and did not switch off the engine. Phoebe suddenly needed very badly to pee. She said nothing, only cowered back farther into the corner of the seat, her hands clasped in her lap and her elbows pressed to her sides. She shut her eyes; she thought she might scream but knew that she must not.

Quirke turned to Latimer. "What now?"

Latimer seemed not to have heard; he was gazing down the hillside, nodding to himself. "This is where I brought her, that night," he said. "I stopped the car just here and lifted her out of the backseat, wrapped in a blanket. She felt so light, so light, as if all the blood she lost was half her weight. You'll laugh at me, I know, Quirke, but the moment had a strong sense of the religious, of the sacramental, though in a pagan sort of way; I suppose I was thinking of Queen Maeve and the thunder on the stones and all that. Silly, I suppose, but then I can hardly have been in my right mind, can I, given all that had happened in the previous few hours* all that had happened, indeed, in all those years when April and I had only each other, and when it was enough."

When he stopped speaking they could hear the wind outside, a faint, vague moaning.

Quirke said, "You went back and mopped up the blood, made the bed."

"Yes. That too was a religious ceremony. I felt April's presence very close*s he was with me* she's with me still."

"It was you who was watching my window, wasn't it?" Phoebe said.

Latimer glanced at her, frowning. "Your window, my dear? Now, why would I do that? Anyway, enough questions, enough talk." He lifted the pistol and pointed it at Quirke and then at Phoebe, waggling the barrel playfully. "Get out now, please," he said, "both of you."

"Latimer," Quirke began, "you can't*"

"Oh, shut up, Quirke," Latimer said wearily. "You have nothing to say to me* nothing."

They got out of the car, all three. Latimer held the gun down at his side to conceal it, though the place was deserted, except for, way off down the hill, a man in a duffle coat and cap, plodding along with a white dog at his heels. Quirke took Phoebe by an elbow and drew her in behind him, so that she was shielded by his bulk.

"Are you going to tell us what you did with the body?" he said. "Tell us that, at least."

Latimer waggled the gun again limp-wristedly. "Stand over there, by those bushes," he said. "Go on, go on."

Quirke did not move. He said: "You didn't bring her out here at all, did you? This is not where you left her. I know you're lying."

Latimer, still pointing the gun in their general direction, had opened the door on the driver's side and was climbing in behind the wheel. He paused, and smiled, making a rabbit face and twitching that ridiculous mustache. "Obviously I can't fool you, Quirke," he said, shaking his head in rueful, mock admiration. "No, you're right, I didn't bring her here. In fact, I'm not going to tell you where she is. Let her be gone into the air, like dust, like* incense."

"No!" Phoebe cried, stepping out from behind Quirke's sheltering back and freeing her elbow from his grip. "You can't do that," she said. "It's the last insult to her. Let her have a grave, or a place, at least, someplace where we can come and* and remember her."

For the first time Latimer's look hardened, and his mouth compressed itself into a narrow, bloodless line. "How dare you," he said softly. He was behind the wheel now, with the door still open and one foot on the ground. "You think I'll let her be anywhere, for you and the rest of her so-called friends to come and pretend to mourn her? She was mine, and she'll stay mine. You were the ones who tried to take her from me, you and that Hottentot, and the guttersnipe reporter, and that other s.l.u.t. But you couldn't take her, and you can't. She's mine forever now."

He drew in his foot and slammed the door, then rolled down the window. He was smiling again. "Really, this is such a nice car, Quirke," he said. "I hope you aren't too attached to it." He winked then and turned to face the windscreen, and the engine roared as he trod on the accelerator and the great car leapt forward, over the frozen dust and through the gap in the low wall there. They walked forward, father and daughter, to the wall and stopped there and watched the Alvis b.u.mp and roll its way down the steep, slanting track. Then they heard the flat crack of a gunshot, and the car wallowed drunkenly to the right and the wheels on the driver's side sank into the heather and the machine reared up sideways and seemed to hang for a long moment before pitching over on its roof and then turning in clumsy, lateral somersaults down the long, uneven slope, until they could see it no more. There were cliffs down there, and they waited, as if they might hear, from all that distance, the terrible splash of the car going into the sea, but there was nothing, only the gulls crying and the man's white dog way off there in the bracken, barking.

IT WAS HARD GOING ON THE HILLSIDE, AND QUIRKE AND INSPECTOR Hackett had scrambled only halfway down when they had to give up. The heather was slippery under the slushy snow, and there were hidden rocks that they knocked their ankles on and loose stones on which they slipped and slid. "Ah, let them young fellows at it," Hackett said, stopping and lifting his hat to scratch his head. A long way down in front of them three young Guards in climbing gear and stout boots were negotiating the last steep stretch before the cliffs fell sheer away into the sea. The cuffs of Quirke's trousers were soaked, and his shoes were wet through. Hackett sat down suddenly in the heather, his hat on the back of his head, and planted his elbows on his knees. There were flakes of snow in his eyebrows. "By G.o.d, Dr. Quirke," he said, "this is a queer thing altogether."

There were two Garda cars and a jeep parked above them, behind the low wall. Quirke had taken Phoebe down the hill road on the other side, to a cafe there. It was shut at this still early hour, but he had banged his fist on the door until a woman came and let them in. Quirke told her there had been an accident, that a car had gone over the cliffs, and he would have to telephone the Guards. His daughter was in shock, he said, and needed something hot to drink. The woman stared at them, then bade Phoebe to follow her out to the kitchen, where she would make tea for her and give her something to eat, she said. Phoebe, dull-eyed, did as she was told. At the door to the kitchen she stopped and turned to look back at Quirke, and he made himself smile, and nodded, and told her it would be all right, that everything would be all right. Then he went back up the hill to wait for Hackett and his men.

He had sat there on the wall, smoking, his overcoat b.u.t.toned to the throat and the brim of his hat pulled low against the randomly billowing snow. He did not know how much he should tell Hackett of what Latimer had told him. He thought of Celia Latimer sitting by the fire in her husband's study with her hands folded in her lap, weeping for her lost child. Then he had heard the sirens in the distance.

Now Hackett from where he sat in the heather was squinting up at him with that lazy, shrewd eye of his. "You don't make an easy time for yourself, do you, Dr. Quirke?" he said. He found a clump of tough gra.s.s among the heather and plucked a blade of it and put it in his mouth. Melted snow shone slick on the shoulder tabs of his American coat.

"None of this was my doing," Quirke said.

Hackett grinned. "Sort of an innocent bystander, is that it?" He heaved himself to his feet, grunting. The snow, indecisive and spa.r.s.e, was making the morning air soggy and coldly damp. Going up, they found a stony pathway through the heather. At the top, where the Garda cars were parked, the detective halted and stood with his hands on his hips, surveying the view of hill and sea and distant islands. "Isn't it a grand spot?" he said. "Snow or no snow."

They turned in the direction of the squad cars. A Guard got out of one of them. He wore a cape and a cap with a shiny peak. It was the bony-faced sergeant from Pea.r.s.e Street. He gave Quirke a hard look. "I hope you got the insurance fixed up," he said, "on that car of yours."

The Inspector looked at Quirke and grinned, and together they turned and gazed off through the snow down the hillside, towards the steadily graying sea.

23.

THERE WERE ONLY THE THREE OF THEM NOW, PHOEBE, ISABEL, Jimmy Minor. They met in the Dolphin Hotel at half past seven as usual, though everything else was different and would never be the same again. Patrick Ojukwu had been deported. Inspector Hackett, under instructions from the Department of External Affairs, and accompanied by a second plainclothes man and a civil servant, had escorted him to the airport that morning and put him on a flight for London, from where he would travel on direct to Lagos. None of them had been allowed to see him before he went. He had gone back from Isabel's house to his flat in Castle Street, where he was picked up by the Guards and brought to the Bridewell station and held in a cell there overnight. There had been no question of an appeal. Patrick was gone and would not return.

Phoebe felt strange. She was calm, despite everything that had happened, calm to the point of numbness. It was like the feeling she would have if she had not slept for many nights. Everything around her seemed unreally clear and defined, as if bathed in a sharp, strong light. She had sat in the kitchen of the cafe in Howth for an hour, drinking cup after cup of horribly strong, sweet tea, and then Quirke had driven her home. He had wanted her to come with him to the flat in Mount Street and rest there, but she had preferred to be in her own place, among her own things. She had walked through the day in a sort of dream. She could not remember now how she had filled the hours. She had not gone to work but had phoned Mrs. Cuffe-Wilkes and told her she was sick. Then she had sat by the window for a long time, she remembered that, looking down into the street. She had not realized before how interesting it could be just to watch the world as the day slowly pa.s.sed by. People came and went, house wives going to the shops and returning again, schoolchildren trudging along with their satchels, mysterious, shabby old men about their f.e.c.kless doings. A Guinness dray had come and delivered barrels of stout to the pub across the way, the big brown-and-white horse standing in harness and now and then stamping one hoof, and lifting it again and setting it down on its tip as delicately as a ballet dancer. Though it was an overcast day the light underwent many subtle, almost surrept.i.tious changes, through all the shades of gray from pearl to lead.

For a long time she did not think about April at all, or about April's brother. It was as if her mind had set up a barrier, a cordon sanitaire, to protect her. The worst thing of all, now, was not knowing for certain if April was dead or alive. Was Oscar Latimer to be believed? He was a madman and could have been making it all up. It was true that Patrick had seen poor April after she had done that terrible thing to herself and had described what a perilous state she was in, but that did not necessarily mean that she was going to die. Maybe Oscar had been able to stop the bleeding*he was an expert doctor, after all* and then had taken her somewhere and hidden her until she recovered and was well enough to go away, to En gland, maybe, or* or America, or* or anywhere. She could be there now, on the other side of the world, embarking on a new life. April would be capable of that, Phoebe was sure of it. April could cut herself off from everyone and everything she had known and not look back once.

Phoebe thought of the watcher below her window. Oscar Latimer had denied it was he who had stood there on the edge of the lamplight, night after night. If it was not Latimer, who was it, then?

Now, in the Dolphin, she did not tell the other two that she had been in the car with Quirke and April's brother. She might have confided in Isabel, but not Jimmy; she did not trust Jimmy anymore. For his part, Jimmy said he was sure she knew what had happened on Howth Head, and was furious that she would not tell him. How was it Oscar Latimer had been in Quirke's car? Did Oscar know where April was or what had happened to her, had he said? Phoebe stayed silent; she owed it to April to keep her secrets. She could feel Isabel watching her, though; Isabel was not fooled.

Jimmy Minor complained violently about Patrick for keeping silent all that time and not telling them what he knew of April and the trouble she had got herself into. He believed that Patrick was the father of April's child, and Phoebe said nothing to enlighten him. She watched him as he sat there, his little legs dangling, going over and over and over it all, or all of it that he knew, and it came to her that what he felt for Patrick was not, in fact, hatred but something else entirely. She received this illumination calmly, almost with indifference; nothing, she felt, would surprise her ever again.

She finished her drink and said she would have to go, that she was to have dinner with her father and Rose Crawford. She could see they believed she was lying. Isabel said she too would have to leave shortly, that she was on in the second act and would be in trouble already and would get shouted at for not being there for the first. She was pale, paler even than usual, and looked tired and disconsolate. She had sat for the past half hour nursing her gin and tonic and saying nothing of April, or Patrick, or of any of it. Phoebe knew there had been something between Isabel and her father, and she supposed it was over now, and that Isabel was sad.

They knew, all three of them, that this was the last time they would meet here like this, that the little band was not only diminished in number but was no more.

WHEN SHE CAME OUT OF THE HOTEL IT WAS SNOWING STILL, NOT heavily, though the street already had a thin, frail coating of white. She decided to walk to the Shelbourne. Her hat, the black velvet one with the scarlet feather, would be ruined, but she did not care. The lights from the shop windows shone on the snow, making her think of Christmas. There would be real Christmases again, now, Rose Crawford would make sure of that. Phoebe pictured the three of them, her and Rose and her father, sitting round a table with a turkey on it, the crystal sparkling and a big bowl of holly in the middle, its polished leaves reflecting the fairy lights on the tree. When she tried to imagine her father's face, though, the expression on it, she felt a p.r.i.c.k of doubt in her heart.

The doorman at the Shelbourne scolded her with mock seriousness for venturing out into the snow with those thin shoes and that poor little hat, the feather of which was thoroughly bedraggled by now. She went up in the lift to the top floor, and through the door with the green baize on it that led to Rose Crawford's suite. A waiter in a tailcoat let her in and escorted her to the sitting room. Rose was there, and Quirke, and Malachy Griffin, too. Rose came to meet her and kissed her on the cheek. "My Lord"* she p.r.o.nounced it Lawd Lawd*"but you're cold, darling! And look at your shoes! Take them off at once, while I find you some slippers."

Quirke wore a black suit and a red silk tie, and his shirt was starched and very white. When he got dressed up like this he seemed to her very young, a big schoolboy, scrubbed and awkward, out for a treat with the grown-ups. She noticed he was drinking water with ice and a slice of lime* at least, she hoped it was water, and not gin. He would need to be on his best behavior to night, for she was sure it was to night that Rose would make her announcement, that this was the reason they were here, the four of them. Rose went off to one of the bedrooms to search for a pair of slippers, and the waiter came and asked Phoebe, in that confidential way that waiters did, what she would like to drink. Nervously she asked for a sherry, and when he brought it to her she spilled some of it because her hands were unsteady. She was so excited she felt that she was herself a gla.s.s filled to the brim that she had been given to carry and which she was terrified she would let spill or drop. Malachy asked her if she was all right, and she said yes, and he said that Quirke had told them what had happened on Howth Head. She turned quickly to her father* how much of it had he told?* but he would not meet her eye.

"Yes," Rose Crawford said, coming back into the room, "that poor man, killing himself like that. What was the matter with him? Was he so upset about his sister disappearing?"

"You're lucky he didn't take you with him," Malachy said.

"And your lovely car!" Rose cried.

Quirke looked into his gla.s.s.

For dinner they were served roast pheasant, which Phoebe did not like but which she made herself eat, determined to do nothing that might impede in the slightest way the steady progress of the evening towards the moment that she knew would come, when Rose would put down her gla.s.s and look about the table, and smile, and begin to speak*

"More potatoes, Miss?" the tailcoated waiter murmured, leaning down at her shoulder. He smelled of hair oil.

Time dragged. Rose talked of her visit to America. "Boston looks so bare in wintertime, the gra.s.s on the Common turned to straw by the cold and the pond iced over. I always feel sorry for the ducks; they look so puzzled, slipping and sliding on the ice, not able to understand what's happened to the water." She turned to Phoebe. "My dear, everyone, but everyone, asked after you and told me to be sure to give you their love, especially"* she put her head on one side and arched a mischievous eyebrow*"that nice young Mr. Spalding from the Chase Manhattan, you remember him?" She glanced at the two men. "Very handsome, handsome, very very rich, and a great admirer of Miss Phoebe Griffin." rich, and a great admirer of Miss Phoebe Griffin."

Phoebe was blushing.

"What's this?" Malachy said. "You had an admirer, and you didn't tell us?"

"He wasn't an admirer," Phoebe said, concentrating on her plate. "And anyway he had a fiancee."

"Oh, she's long gone," Rose said. "Mr. Spalding is quite free and unattached." Malachy coughed, and Rose glanced at him and lifted that eyebrow again. "Yes," she said, with a mild little sigh, "I guess it's time." She put down her gla.s.s. Phoebe felt something swell up suddenly inside her, and she went hot, and accidentally knocked her fork against her plate, producing a ringing chime. "We have a little announcement to make," Rose said, looking at her and then at Quirke. "I confess"*s he picked up her napkin and put it down again*"I confess I'm feeling somewhat nervous, which as you all know is not like me." Quirke was watching her and frowning. The waiter came to clear the plates but Rose told him to leave them until later, and he went away again. Rose by now was looking decidedly fl.u.s.tered. "I had my speech all prepared," she said, "but I'm afraid I've clean forgotten it. So I'm just going to say it right out*"

She reached forward and took*

Phoebe stared, baffled.

It was Malachy's hand that Rose took* Malachy's, not Quirke's.

"*that Mr. Malachy Griffin has kindly asked me to be his wife, and I, well, I have kindly accepted."

She laughed helplessly. Quirke had turned to Malachy, and Malachy smiled, shyly, sheepishly, queasily.

THE REST OF THE EVENING Pa.s.sED FOR PHOEBE IN A HOT FOG OF stupefaction, anger, and pain. There would be no cozy Christmases after all, no sea voyages to the Isles of Greece, no games of happy families. How could she have thought that Quirke would marry Rose, that Rose would marry him* how could she have allowed herself such a foolish dream? She looked across the table at Malachy, sitting there in what seemed a befuddled amazement, and she almost hated him. What was Rose thinking? She would make the poor man's life a misery. Quirke she tried not to see. She could have hated him, too. She knew it was Sarah he had wanted, all those years ago, and instead of marrying her had let her go with Malachy. Now he had done it again. Would he be maundering in regret over the loss of Rose, too, twenty years from now? She hoped so. He would be old then, and Rose would probably be dead, and the past would repeat itself. She saw the two of them, Quirke and Malachy, shuffling along the pathways in Stephen's Green, picking over together the lost years, Quirke sourly unmarried and Malachy a widower again. They would deserve each other.

When finally the evening was over, and Phoebe was putting on her shoes and her poor, ruined hat, Rose took her arm and led her aside, and looked at her searchingly and said, "What is it, dear, what's the matter?" Phoebe said nothing was the matter, and tried to break free, but Rose held her all the more tightly. Quirke and Malachy were still at the table, sitting in silence, Quirke smoking and drinking whiskey and Malachy doing nothing, as Malachy usually did.

Phoebe turned her face aside; she was afraid she might begin to cry. "You said it was my father you were going to marry," she said.

Rose stared. "I did? When?"

"That day outside the American Express place, you said it then."

"Oh, my," Rose said, and put a hand to her cheek. "I probably did. I'm sorry. I always think of Malachy as your father* he was was your father, for so long." Dismayed, she let go of Phoebe's arm at last. "My poor, dear girl," she said. "I'm so sorry." your father, for so long." Dismayed, she let go of Phoebe's arm at last. "My poor, dear girl," she said. "I'm so sorry."

Quirke had finished his drink, and the waiter brought his overcoat and his hat. There were good nights. The waiter held the door open. Quirke followed Phoebe out, and through the green baize door. She felt the tears welling in her eyes now but forced herself to hold them back. She did not take the lift but hurried to the top of the stairs. Quirke was at the lift, calling to her to wait, and saying something about a taxi. She went on, down the staircase. The doorman smiled at her. Across the road, in the Green, behind the black railings, the branches of the trees were laden with snow; she saw them through a shimmer of unshed tears. She turned and walked away along the pavement, hearing only her own m.u.f.fled footfalls and the dinning tumult in her heart.

Quirke came out of the lift and went through the revolving door out onto the steps. That morning he had got a call from Ferriter, the Minister's man. The Minister, Ferriter had said, in his soft, smooth voice, was sure he could count on Dr. Quirke's discretion in the matter of his nephew's tragic death. Quirke had hung up on him and walked into the dissecting room, where Sinclair was sawing through the breastbone of an old man's corpse and whistling to himself. Quirke had thought of April Latimer, whom he had never known.

Now he looked up and down the street, but his daughter was nowhere to be seen. A taxi drew up, and he climbed in. The driver was a sharp-faced fellow in a cap, with the stub of a cigarette stuck in one corner of his mouth. Quirke sank back luxuriantly against the greasy upholstery, chuckling to himself. Rose Crawford and old Malachy* ha!

The driver turned to him. "Where to, squire?"

"Portobello," Quirke said.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.

BENJAMIN BLACK, the pen name of acclaimed novelist John Banville, is the author of Christine Falls Christine Falls and and The Silver Swan. Christine Falls The Silver Swan. Christine Falls was nominated for both the Edgar Award and Macavity Award for Best Novel; both was nominated for both the Edgar Award and Macavity Award for Best Novel; both Christine Falls Christine Falls and and Silver Swan Silver Swan were national bestsellers. Banville lives in Dublin. were national bestsellers. Banville lives in Dublin.