The Death of a Joyce Scholar by Bartholomew Gill

Author:Bartholomew Gill [Gill, Bartholomew]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Mystery
ISBN: 9780749003722
Publisher: San Val
Published: 1989-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

There was no morning meeting.

Before McGarr left his house in Rathmines, he got a call from McKeon saying that the sexton of St. Michan’s had phoned in a complaint that some young people had remained in the church after it was locked at night and had obviously spent the night there, sleeping in the pews. When he had approached to chuck them out, two had threatened him.

The hair on the tops of their heads had been twisted into spikes; they were wearing denim and leather and metal. One was carrying a stout stick. Another had said he had a gun and pretended to reach for it under his jacket.

By the time McGarr arrived, all exits from the church and the surrounding streets had been blocked off and uniformed police were having all they could do to keep the crowds back.

It was perhaps the worst place in Dublin for any sort of confrontation. At one end of the narrow, shop-lined, laneway was Grafton Street, Dublin’s premier shopping district; at the other was Clarendon Street and Powerscourt, an arcade of shops and eateries. Now, in the summer, it was packed with tourists. Behind was Wicklow Street, another commercial artery, and it was into the curb there, where O’Shaughnessy stood, that McGarr swung his Cooper.

He got out, since the superintendent was too tall and at sixty-four too old to be bending to the low car, and they spoke across its forest-green roof.

“They’re still in there. Two girls and two boys.” O’Shaughnessy let go the last word hesitantly. “Having done who knows what the night long. Sexton says the place reeks of drink.” His clear blue eyes flickered up at the spires of the church. He was a profoundly conservative man, and a muscle was working on the side of his face.

“Sexton locked them in and made the call. He says they’ve tried to break out and now he can hear them smashing things. Then, we’ve got Guards.” With his broad chin he indicated the cordon of blue uniforms at the end of the street. “I’d hate to…” Have to arrest them in the church, he meant. “But…” With the other police present, the sort of “interview” that both knew was necessary would be impossible in public, where there might be witnesses. “I’ve said they’re wanted for questioning in the Coyle case. And nobody will doubt…” They resisted arrest.

McGarr stepped back from the Cooper’s open door. He removed his hat and his suit coat, which he folded neatly on the backseat. He slid his watch off his wrist. He reached below the driver’s seat for the weapon he kept there, and he tasted the gall that he had repressed since learning of the attack on Ward.

Raising the Walther to pull back its slide and load the chamber, he saw nothing but its black matte barrel and the V of its sight. Nobody attacked one of his staff with impunity. Nobody could be excused for smashing in an ear or breaking a wrist or stealing a handgun or, for all he knew, committing murder.

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