anger. He was a dangerous person. Not violent, not menacing, even, yet in some way dangerous, all the same. That was why she had let him go, before; he had been too much for her. She stood up, not looking at him. She wanted him to leave. Something had come into the house with him, the presence of which she felt only now; it was as if some animal had loped in silently behind him and hidden itself and now was getting ready to spring out at her. She felt suddenly vulnerable. It was catching, whatever it was that was tormenting him.
“I have to change,” she said. “I’m going out.”
“Where?”
“Just out.”
“A date.”
“Yes. A date.”
It was a lie, but it did not matter, he was not listening. A dense shadowy glow had come into the window now, as it always did at this time of day. She felt like shivering. That strange light was on Jack’s face, a phosphorescent sheen. What did you do, Jack? What did you do that made your partner shoot himself?
5
Quirke had no birthday. He had been an orphan-he was an orphan still, he supposed, though it was odd to think so-and his records, if there had been any, were lost. Not knowing his date of birth, and therefore having no particular day on which to celebrate the annual crossing over as others did, was not something that troubled him. He knew his age, more or less accurately, though he did not know how he knew it. Someone, at some time, long ago, when he was a child, must have told him, and the figure must have impressed itself on his mind, though he could not remember being told, or having been told. It was just there, an accumulating number, as meaningless as any other, and as lacking in significance for him. Each New Year’s Day he took down mentally another used-up calendar from his inner wall, and lifted a glass in a sardonic toast to himself. It amused him, especially when he was in his cups, to picture his gravestone and the lopsided legend on it: a blank, a dash, and then a date. Of course, they could count back, his relicts, and put in a notional year of birth, but it would not be certain they were right: whoever it was who had told him how old he was might have lied, or might have been mistaken.
Phoebe, of course, insisted he should have a birthday, and would pick a date each year and surprise him with it. This year she chose a random day in June, just because it was summer and the sun was shining. She and David Sinclair, Quirke’s assistant and her boyfriend, took him to dinner at the Shelbourne Hotel. She had reserved his favorite table, in the corner by the window to the left that looked across the street to the trees in St. Stephen’s Green. The evening was overcast and muggily warm, but Quirke nevertheless was in his black suit, the jacket fastened tightly and his white shirt cuffs on show. Phoebe wished he would let her take him over and smarten him up a bit, get him fitted for a good three-piece tweed suit in Brown Thomas and buy him a shirt or two of some shade other than white. It was not that he did not spend money on his clothes-that suit was Italian, his shoes were handmade-but he always managed to look dusty, somehow. Not dirty, or unlaundered, or shabby, even, but as if he had been standing for too long in some spot where a very fine silt had settled on him, out of the air, without his noticing. Her present to him this year was a tie of shimmering green silk. She apologized for being so unimaginative, but he said no, it was very handsome-he took it out of its cellophane wrapper and held it up to the light from the window and turned it this way and that, an emerald snake, and thought of Mona Delahaye-and besides, he said, he had been in need of a tie for ages, most of the ones he had being old and greasy by now. Sinclair had bought him a book, Yeats’s Autobiographies in the handsome new Macmillan edition in its smart cream jacket. Quirke, to hide how touched he was, pored over it for so long, with his head bent, that Phoebe in the end had to take it away from him.
They had ordered Dover sole and a Sancerre that when it came was interesting enough though almost colorless. Quirke was fussy about his wine. Tonight he was making himself drink slowly, his daughter saw, and she wanted to tell him she appreciated it-Quirke with drink taken could be difficult, especially on occasions such as birthdays or other supposed celebrations-but she said nothing, only filled his water glass to the brim and passed him the plate of bread rolls. She felt sorry for him. He seemed slightly lost, in the awkwardness of the moment, suffering smilingly the enforced gaiety that none of the three of them could quite carry off. She supposed he found it difficult to make the adjustment between work and here, and probably David’s presence made it more difficult still. But then, David too was being required to adjust. How strange it must be for both of them, dealing with the dead all day and now being here with her, marking an invented day of birth, with the elegantly crisp wine and the fragrance of the food and the glint and shimmer of that suddenly sinister-seeming tie.
“I met someone yesterday who knows you,” Quirke said to Sinclair, looking at him over the rim of his glass.
Sinclair’s expression turned wary. “Oh, yes?” he said.
“Young chap, name of Delahaye. Jonas Delahaye.”
For a moment Sinclair looked as if he would deny knowing any such person, thinking himself the victim of one of Quirke’s odd jokes; Quirke had an unpredictable sense of humor. But then he nodded. “Oh, yes,” he said again, more flatly this time.
Phoebe was looking from one of them to the other with lively interest. She enjoyed watching them together, though in a slightly guilty way. They made her think of two highly strung but excessively well-behaved prize dogs, Quirke a black boxer, say-were there black boxers? — and David one of those purebred terriers, aloof and watchful and not averse to showing a fang when the occasion required. David’s attitude to Quirke was always circumspect, and Phoebe wondered how they managed to work together. But then, the Saddle Room in the Shelbourne was bound to be a far cry from the pathology department of the Hospital of the Holy Family. Or so she supposed, looking doubtfully at the half-eaten fish on her plate.
“Delahaye,” she said. “Why do I know that name?”
“The father… died,” Quirke said.
Phoebe frowned. “Yes, of course, it was in the papers. What happened?”
“Shot himself.”
She flinched. “The papers didn’t say that.”
Quirke shrugged. “Well, no. Our fearless purveyors of the truth in the news don’t report suicides.”
Sinclair with his fork was picking over the bones of his fish with fastidious thoroughness. “How was Jonas?” he asked.
“Very calm,” Quirke said drily. “And the brother, the two of them-very calm and collected.” He turned to Phoebe. “They’re twins, Jonas and-what’s the other one called? James? Have you met them? Replicas of each other.” He turned back to Sinclair. “You know both of them?”
“Hard not to-they’re never apart. I see them in Trinity now and then-they play cricket. Tennis, too, championship standard. I had a match against Jonas once.” He shook his head ruefully. “Never again.”
“Yes,” Phoebe said, “I remember that. He did trounce you.” Sinclair looked at her dourly and she smiled and touched the back of his hand.
“They work-worked-for their father, yes?” Quirke said.
Sinclair turned to him. “I believe so. One is in the shipping end, the other in road freight, I think. Don’t ask me which does which-they probably swap around and no one notices. I doubt they actually work. It wouldn’t be quite their style.”
Quirke was looking out the window at the trees across the road. Their tops were touched with the last copper glints of evening sunlight. Since he had met them, the Delahaye twins had been on his mind. Their manner, especially Jonas’s-cool, amused, faintly insolent-had fascinated him, and unnerved him, too, a little. Theirs was not the demeanor of sons suffering from the shock of their father’s sudden death, as Hackett had charitably suggested might be the case. Quirke knew about shock. In his work over the years he had dealt with many people in various distraught states. In some cases, it was true, the bereaved, especially sons, behaved in what might have seemed a callous or uncaring fashion in the immediate aftermath of a death, but that was the result of bravado mixed with helplessness. For sorrow does baffle, especially the young. The Delahaye twins, as far as he could see, were not baffled, they were not helpless.
“Is it known,” Phoebe asked, “why their father killed himself?” She had been watching Quirke. She knew that
