The Rosary Garden by Nicola White (best books to read now TXT) 📕

the water to run hot. It didn’t. She turned it off and went to bed with her make-up on.

10

The cat would be raging – it was way past his usual breakfast time. Swan shoved his newspaper and packet of rashers under one arm while he struggled with the front-door mortise lock. It took him a moment to realise it was already unlocked, that’s why he couldn’t turn the key. He slipped the Yale into the lock above, clicking the door open easily.

Benny was sitting in the middle of the hall, licking himself, a back paw sticking up over his shoulder like a Nazi salute. He’d obviously had his breakfast and was onto the next task of the day. Beside him was Elizabeth’s small blue case. The smell of coffee beckoned from the kitchen.

‘Vincent?’

His wife didn’t sound worried or annoyed, just calmly checking that it was her husband rather than a key-toting stranger. She was sitting at the kitchen table, the garden a blaze of greens behind her.

‘I stayed at my mother’s,’ he said. ‘She needed the bit of company. When did you get back?’

‘Aunt Bridie was driving up early to the sales. She dropped me off half an hour ago.’

‘You should’ve phoned.’

Elizabeth shrugged. Swan placed the paper in front of her, put the bacon in the fridge and helped himself to coffee from the pot on the table.

‘How’s Aunt Josie?’

‘Oh, you know … up and down.’ Elizabeth was scanning the front of the paper, didn’t look at him as she spoke. ‘How are things with you?’

‘I guess “up and down” would cover it,’ said Swan.

They never talked much about his work – a rule she instituted early in their marriage that he had grown to see the wisdom of. She was wearing a pale-lilac jumper he couldn’t recall having seen before.

Not for the first time, he wondered whether there was a secret part to her life. He had absolutely no reason to doubt her. Elizabeth had always been close to her posse of Enniscorthy aunts. As they entered their fragile years, frequent health crises naturally pulled their only young relation back to them. But it was hard to judge the urgency of their calls, why they needed her to stay so often.

‘It isn’t as though I’ve much to do here,’ Elizabeth had said as she packed. Her voice was apologetic, but somewhere in that statement another intention lurked – something dark and pointed.

‘That film you wanted to see is on at the Carlton,’ she said now, ‘the one with the gangsters.’

‘I have to go into work for a while – but I should be free in the evening.’

She took her eyes from the paper and studied him. ‘They should give you a proper weekend. You look tired.’

‘It’s been busy.’

The light shifted in her eyes. ‘It’s not the baby case, is it? Oh, Vincent …’

This was why it was better not to tell her things. Especially on this case. Now she was upsetting herself. Oh, Vincent … like he’d brought the corpse home in his briefcase.

‘I think we should look at the garden after coffee – talk about that arch-thing you said you wanted.’

Elizabeth produced a patient sigh. ‘If you like.’

Swan was changing into his work clothes when the doorbell rang. Elizabeth went to answer it and he heard a woman’s voice in the hall. By the time he got downstairs, Gina Considine was sitting at his kitchen table and Elizabeth was asking if she wanted tea or coffee.

Considine was only a bit younger than his wife, but they made such a contrasting pair that he felt like he was looking at women from different eras: Elizabeth subtle and airy in her pale clothes, a vase of garden flowers beside her; Considine with angled cuts in her black hair, shiny leather boots, jacket belted tight against all-comers.

They hardly acknowledged his arrival, caught up in beverage choices and niceties. They’d met before, in passing. Considine often picked him up from the house, but Elizabeth had never asked her in before.

‘So where are you living now, Gina?’

The mug that Elizabeth put in front of Considine was sprigged with little pink roses.

‘I’m in a flat in Rathgar. Managed to get on the property ladder at last.’

‘Not Rathmines?’ asked Swan, surprised.

‘That was before,’ said Considine, taking a quick sip of her tea.

‘Are you on your own there?’

‘Elizabeth …’

‘We’re just having a chat. Stop being so uptight.’

Considine’s eyes darted between them. ‘It’s fine. I don’t mind. I … I live with a friend. Probably couldn’t afford it otherwise.’ She fiddled with her watch and stood up. ‘Hey-ho.’

‘Do you have to rush off?’ Elizabeth asked.

‘Why don’t I meet you in the car?’ said Swan.

‘Thanks for the tea – it was lovely.’

Considine hurried away. Elizabeth raised an eyebrow as the front door closed. Swan walked across the kitchen to her, drew her close.

‘Stop it, nosy.’ He kissed her neck.

Swan apologised to Considine as he got into the car. ‘My wife can be overly curious.’

‘I don’t mind at all. Your house is very nice.’

‘Thanks, but we don’t usually do the personal thing, do we?’

‘No, we don’t.’

‘I’m glad to hear about your flat. Is it a new-build?’

‘Shall I tell you about my trip to Clare or not?’

Swan laughed. ‘Carry on.’

‘Buleen’s a cute little town, I suppose. The Garda station’s about the size of your kitchen, and the Garda I met had been posted there for decades, which was really helpful. He brought me to see a doctor who knows the family, and the doctor recalled being asked to their house on Christmas Day in 1972. He says the baby was stillborn.’

‘The doctor saw it?’

‘I think so. He definitely said he examined the mother. She wasn’t a member of the Devane family – that’s their name – she was a girl who cooked and cleaned for them. Joan Dempsey was her name, but I’ve written it all up for you. It’s on your desk.’

‘How did our girl come to find the baby?’

‘He couldn’t tell me anything about that. I