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

‘That’s mine,’ Ali said.

Sister Bernadette turned hot eyes on her.

‘You’re a trivial, stupid girl, do you know that?’

She tugged the material in agitation, and the body of the child rolled in response, the cloth falling away to reveal a great purple bloom covering its back and neck.

An acid gush filled Ali’s throat even as Bernadette moved to cover the little body again, now so obviously lifeless and broken. A crackle of static travelled through the air, a radio rasp. Ali turned to look at the gate, where the silver buttons on several Garda uniforms flashed in the bright sunlight beyond the garden.

3

A line of nuns occupied the six plastic chairs in the reception area of Rathmines Garda station. Vincent Swan could feel their eyes on his back as he walked up to the front desk and introduced himself.

‘Detective Inspector Swan … from HQ.’ Some old instinct kept his voice low.

The Garda at the desk nodded and disappeared. Swan tried a casual glance behind, but the nuns were still staring, except for an ancient one on the end, who had bent to her beads.

He had dropped Elizabeth at the station that morning, and the late start led to him working through lunch. When the call came, he was the only one in the office.

Swan would have preferred to go straight to the school, have a look at the scene and check that the tech guys were doing their thing, but the Rathmines chief, Munnelly, was anxious to get his station clear of nuns before the papers got a sniff of it. Swan could have pointed out it was Munnelly’s fault for bringing them to the station in the first place, but there was no use getting retrospective. You just had to work from where you stood.

The desk Garda came back and pointed Swan to a side corridor where Superintendent Munnelly was waiting. There was often a bit of jockeying when the murder squad was called in to assist the local Gardaí, but Munnelly didn’t look put out. A little distracted and nervous, if anything. He led Swan to a back office for a briefing with the Gardaí who’d been first on the scene and a couple of women officers who’d been taking statements.

They ran through the facts of the incident quickly: where the child had been found and the apparent cause of death. The two schoolgirls who found the baby, and a nun they brought to the scene, were now at the station and had given initial statements. Yes, they’d been held separately; and yes, their stories tallied – mostly. But the nuns in reception were refusing to leave until their sister nun was free to go.

‘How do you mean: their stories tally mostly?’

‘There was some disturbance of the scene, sir.’ This was from the youngest-looking Guard, a lanky fellow with crinkly hair.

‘You were there?’

‘Yes, sir. The nun moved the infant for the purposes of baptism, sir.’

‘Why? The child was dead, I thought.’

The Garda shrugged. ‘In case it hadn’t been before?’

‘So she moved it—’

‘And poured water on it.’

‘And rearranged the shed,’ Munnelly added with a sigh. ‘We answer to different authorities, eh?’

Swan held his tongue. He said he would start with the first girl who found the child.

‘Carmen Fitzgerald.’

‘Yes.’

*

The interview with the Fitzgerald girl didn’t take long. She was a nervous little thing and too upset to be fully coherent. She kept going on about matches and cigarettes. He’d expected her to be wearing some kind of uniform, but she was in jeans and a blouse, with smeared scarlet lipstick on her mouth, and mascara under her eyes. Not like the schoolgirls of his day.

‘What year are you in?’

‘I’m not in any year. We left in June.’

‘I don’t understand. Why were you in school?’

‘They had us back for a reception. The ones who were going to college. Can I go home soon?’

Home would be a nice house in Rathgar, or some other leafy address. No wonder she was upset. She was the kind of girl that bad things shouldn’t happen to. After the good school, she would probably take an arts degree at college, maybe spend a year in Florence or Paris and return to tennis clubs, marriage, children with cod-Irish names.

‘Off you go. We might have to talk again.’ Swan turned to the Guard by the door. ‘Can we give Miss Fitzgerald a lift to … where is it, pet?’

‘Eh … Donnybrook.’

Close enough.

As the girl left, Munnelly came in. ‘Do you think you could see the nun now?’

Swan pretended to consult his notes before agreeing.

He hadn’t been close up with a nun since he was ten and at national school. They hadn’t been especially cruel to him, though they were quick enough to snap a ruler across small knuckles. Back then he had a dread of them just because they were so alien-looking – towering pillars of blackness. When they patrolled the aisles of desks, the folds of their habits would brush against your bare arm or leg, soft and cold.

This nun was younger than he expected, pale and tall, with a touch of Deborah Kerr about her. He read her statement aloud and she listened solemnly, absolutely still.

‘I have a few questions,’ Swan said, putting the page down on the table.

‘And I have one for you.’

‘You go first,’ said Swan.

‘The baby. Where is she now?’

‘I haven’t been to the school yet, but I expect the body is still there while our officers piece things together. Then it’ll be brought to our mortuary.’

Sister Bernadette raised her hands to the table, watching her fingers slowly interlace as if they had a life of their own.

‘And then?’ She addressed her hands.

‘Hopefully, we find her people and there can be a burial.’

‘If there is anything our order can do …’

‘Sister, my doctrine is a little rusty – what was the point in baptising a dead child? Surely its soul had already departed.’

The look she gave him had only a hint of pity in it.

‘There is always a point in doing what