She smiled. “Not doing a very good job, by the look of it. Aren’t you going to drink your chocolate? It’s very soothing. I think you need soothing.” She was standing very close to him. Behind the heavy fragrance of the chocolate he could smell her hair.
“Tell me what was in the note your husband left,” he said.
She sighed irritably. “Oh, there was no note.” She walked back to the stove and poured herself another go of chocolate and took a drink of it, clasping the mug in both hands. “I just said that to humor you, since you seemed so pleased with yourself playing the detective.”
“Were you having an affair with Jack Clancy?”
“With Jack? Certainly not.” She chuckled. “Jack Clancy-my God, what do you think I am? Not Jack, no.”
He caught something in her voice. “Who, then?”
She gave him a measuring look, thinking. “Why do you want to know?” He said nothing. She put her mug down on the draining board. “Give me a cigarette,” she said. “You know”-she leaned down to the flame of his lighter-“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking since Victor died. Well, you can imagine. He was such a torment to himself, I wonder if he’s not better off gone. Do you think I’m terrible, to say such a thing?” She went and leaned against the sink, crossing one arm under her breasts and holding the cigarette level with her mouth. In the opening of the kimono her right leg was bared to the thigh. “People didn’t know him. They took at face value the image he had of himself-the successful businessman, the expert sailor, the loving husband and responsible father. But really he was a mess. It took me a while to see that. Deep down he disgusted himself. He knew what he was, you see.”
“And what was he?”
She considered. “Weak. Spineless.”
“He had enough courage to kill himself.”
This seemed to interest her. “Do you think it takes courage to do that?” she asked. “I think it was cowardice.” She shook her head sadly. “Such a mess,” she murmured.
Quirke set the mug down on the table. He had not tasted the chocolate. “Could I have a drink?” he said.
They passed through to the drawing room. Mona lit lamps, and went to the sideboard and poured whiskey into a tumbler. Quirke looked at the garden’s velvet darkness pressing itself against the window.
“Are you an alcoholic?” Mona asked, in a tone of mild inquiry.
“I don’t know,” he said. He took the glass and drank off the whiskey in one gulp and gave her back the glass to refill. “Probably.”
She seemed to find his reply amusing. She smiled at him, arching an eyebrow, and turned and picked up the whiskey bottle.
“You slept with me once,” he said.
“Yes, I did. Like you, I’m curious.”
“You were curious, about me?”
“I was. Now I’m not anymore.” She moved to the sofa and sat down and crossed her legs. The wings of the kimono fell back on both sides to reveal one bare, glossy knee. “Remember how I said to you before that people think I’m a dimwit? They do. I mean them to.” She lifted a hand and pushed her bronzen hair back from her face at the side. “When I was a little girl,” she said, “I used to lie on the floor and pretend to be asleep, but I’d have my eyes open just the tiniest crack, so I could watch people, my parents, my brothers, my sister that I hated, without them knowing. Now I’m a big girl and I do the same thing, only instead of pretending to be asleep I pretend to be stupid.”
Quirke sipped his whiskey. “Why have you let me in on your secret?”
“I don’t know. I suppose because you’re pretending, too.”
“And what am I pretending to be?”
She studied him for a moment, cocking her head to one side, like a blackbird. “You’re pretending to be human, I think. Wouldn’t you say?”
He lit a cigarette. The flame of the lighter flickered, he noticed, for his hand was not entirely steady. “Did you know,” he said, “that Jack Clancy was planning to take over the business from your husband?”
She nodded. “Yes. Victor told me.”
“When did he find out?”
“The day before he killed himself.”
He looked at her without speaking. She held his gaze calmly.
“Was that why he killed himself?” he asked.
“Partly.”
He set his glass down slowly on the sideboard, next to the whiskey bottle. He would pour himself another drink, but not just yet.
“What else had he found out?” he asked.
“Oh!” She waved a hand. “He was impossible. So jealous.”
He waited. She regarded him with a slightly swollen look, as if struggling to keep herself from laughing.
“Who was it?” he said.
“Who was who?”
“Who was he jealous of?”
“Don’t you know?” Now she did laugh, giving an odd sharp little whoop. “Not Jack Clancy,” she said. “But you were warm.”
He was silent for a long moment, gazing at her. Then he took up the whiskey bottle and half filled the tumbler. He turned back to her. “The boy, then,” he said. “What’s his name?”
“Davy. And he’s not a boy, though he’s as pretty as one-don’t you think? And so-so energetic, with that kind of youthful vigor that gladdens a girl’s heart, I can tell you.”
Quirke sipped his whiskey. The glass knocked against one of his front teeth. “Are you still-seeing him?” he asked, surprised at how steady his voice was.
“For goodness’ sake!” she said, and gave another laugh. “I’m the grieving widow-I can hardly go about sleeping with people.”
“You slept with me.”
“I told you,” she said, with a sulky pout, “I was curious.”
He felt exhausted suddenly. He shut his eyes and kneaded the flesh at the bridge of his nose between a thumb and two fingers. He had a tearing sensation in his chest, as if there were an animal in there, raking at him with its claws.
He opened his eyes. “Jack Clancy’s death,” he said.
“What about it?” she asked. “I assume, since his scheme to take over from Victor had been found out, he decided to follow Victor’s example. Rivals to the end.”
Quirke shook his head. “No,” he said, hearing the weariness in his voice. “Jack Clancy didn’t kill himself.” She waited. “Don’t you know?” he said. “Haven’t you figured it out?”
She put a finger to her chin and looked upwards, mimicking a schoolgirl who has been asked a hard question. “Someone did it for him?” she said.
“Yes. Someone did it for him.”
“Not”-she sat bolt upright and slapped a hand on her bared knee and laughed-“not Maverley? Not that white rabbit? He adored Victor, I know, but I can’t imagine him killing someone in revenge for his death.”
“No,” Quirke said, “not Maverley.”
“Then who?”
He walked to the sofa and stood over her, the whiskey glass clenched in his hand. She leaned back a little, pulling the kimono closed over her knees, and the faintest shadow of alarm crossed her face.
“Are you pretending now?” he said. “Or are you stupid, after all?” He drank the last of the whiskey in the glass and held it out to her, and she took it, and set it down on the arm of the sofa. “Where are the twins?” he asked.
“I already said, they’ve gone.” She was watching him carefully, as if readying herself to forestall whatever move he might make. She was right to be wary. He was very angry. He put a hand into the pocket of his jacket and made a fist of it, digging the nails into his palm. “Good-bye,” he said, and turned abruptly and walked from the room, and along the silent hall, and opened the front door and stepped out into the fragrance of the night. He felt nothing, only the sensation of something icy melting in his heart.
