Read Online The Silver Swan by Benjamin Black - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Benjamin Black
Tags: Fiction, Literary, General, detective, Suspense, Historical, Mystery & Detective, Mystery, Mystery Fiction, Hard-Boiled, Fiction - Mystery, Mystery & Detective - Hard-Boiled, Mystery & Detective - General, Mystery And Suspense Fiction, Dublin (Ireland), Mystery & Detective - Historical, Pathologists
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phone."
Quirke hesitated. "He's had a loss," he said. He let another momentary silence pass. "The fact is, his wife is dead."
She stared at him, the cigarette lifted halfway to her mouth. "Who?"
"His wife. DeirdreDeirdre Hunt. The one calling herself Laura Swan."
Something flickered in her eyes, a childlike uncertainty, and a flash almost of fear. For some time she did not speak; then she asked: "How? I mean, what happened?"
"They found her body one morning last week, on Dalkey Island, washed up on the rocks. I'm sorrydid you know her well? Was shea friend of yours?" She sat frowning now, staring before her blankly. "I'm sorry," he said again, and she gave herself a rapid shake, or it might have been a shiver.
"I knew her," she said, "but I wouldn't say I knew her well. She stopped to chat sometimes when she was passing by, and I bought cosmetics at the place she has in Anne Street. The Silver Swan, she calls it." She paused. "Drowned. The poor thing." A thought struck her and she looked at him quickly. "Was it suicide?"
"That will be the coroner's verdict," Quirke said carefully. She caught his measured tone. She said: "But you think otherwise?" He did not answer, only lifted one shoulder and let it fall again. She persisted. "Did you deal with the bodydid you do the postmortem?" He nodded. "And what did you find?"
He looked in the direction of the three politicos in the corner, not seeing them. He asked: "What was she like?"
Phoebe considered. "I don't know. She was just . . . ordinary. Pretty, but ordinary. I mean, there was nothing special about her that I could see. Very serious, hardly ever smiled. But always polite, always helpful. I had the impression there was something going on between her and the fellow she runs the place with."
"Who is he?"
"Leslie White. English, I think. Tall, skinny, really palecolorless, evenwith the most extraordinary silvery-white hair. Well named, I suppose you could say: White. Wears a silver cravat, too." She wrinkled her nose.
He was watching her closely as he asked: "How do you know him?"
"He gave me his card one day when I was in the shop." With a finger she sketched a legend on the air. "Leslie WhiteBusiness DirectorThe Silver Swan. He's always in and out. Creepy type. I wouldn't put it past him to push a woman into the sea." She looked hard at Quirke. " Was she pushed?"
He turned his gaze from her again. The fact of her knowing them, knowing Deirdre Hunt and this fellow White, was disturbing. It wasas if something he had thought safely distant had suddenly brushed against him, touching him with its tentacle. The clock on the mantelpiece at the far end of the room began to chime, a whispery, sinister sound, and at its signal the three politicians rose and hurried together out of the room, still in a huddle, like a skulk of villains in a melodrama.
"I don't know," Quirke said. "I don't know what happened to her. But I know she didn't drown."
HE LIED TO THE CORONER'S COURT, AS HE AND INSPECTOR HACKETT had known he would. He did not try to fool himself that he was sparing Billy Hunt's feelings or shielding his wife's reputation. He was, as it were, sealing off the scene, as Hackett would seal off the scene of a crime, for further investigation. That was all.
When the court convened at midmorning the air in the room was already soupy and stale. There was the usual headache-inducing bustle, with clerks ferrying documents here and there and the jury settling down grumpily and the newshounds swapping jokes in their kennel off to one side of the court. Quirke noted that the reporters were mostly juniorsit seemed their news editors did not expect much of a story. If it was a suicide it would not be reported; that was the unofficial rule the newspapers observed. The public gallery had its accustomed sprinkling of gawpers and ghouls. Billy Hunt sat at one side of the front row flanked by two women, one old and
Quirke hesitated. "He's had a loss," he said. He let another momentary silence pass. "The fact is, his wife is dead."
She stared at him, the cigarette lifted halfway to her mouth. "Who?"
"His wife. DeirdreDeirdre Hunt. The one calling herself Laura Swan."
Something flickered in her eyes, a childlike uncertainty, and a flash almost of fear. For some time she did not speak; then she asked: "How? I mean, what happened?"
"They found her body one morning last week, on Dalkey Island, washed up on the rocks. I'm sorrydid you know her well? Was shea friend of yours?" She sat frowning now, staring before her blankly. "I'm sorry," he said again, and she gave herself a rapid shake, or it might have been a shiver.
"I knew her," she said, "but I wouldn't say I knew her well. She stopped to chat sometimes when she was passing by, and I bought cosmetics at the place she has in Anne Street. The Silver Swan, she calls it." She paused. "Drowned. The poor thing." A thought struck her and she looked at him quickly. "Was it suicide?"
"That will be the coroner's verdict," Quirke said carefully. She caught his measured tone. She said: "But you think otherwise?" He did not answer, only lifted one shoulder and let it fall again. She persisted. "Did you deal with the bodydid you do the postmortem?" He nodded. "And what did you find?"
He looked in the direction of the three politicos in the corner, not seeing them. He asked: "What was she like?"
Phoebe considered. "I don't know. She was just . . . ordinary. Pretty, but ordinary. I mean, there was nothing special about her that I could see. Very serious, hardly ever smiled. But always polite, always helpful. I had the impression there was something going on between her and the fellow she runs the place with."
"Who is he?"
"Leslie White. English, I think. Tall, skinny, really palecolorless, evenwith the most extraordinary silvery-white hair. Well named, I suppose you could say: White. Wears a silver cravat, too." She wrinkled her nose.
He was watching her closely as he asked: "How do you know him?"
"He gave me his card one day when I was in the shop." With a finger she sketched a legend on the air. "Leslie WhiteBusiness DirectorThe Silver Swan. He's always in and out. Creepy type. I wouldn't put it past him to push a woman into the sea." She looked hard at Quirke. " Was she pushed?"
He turned his gaze from her again. The fact of her knowing them, knowing Deirdre Hunt and this fellow White, was disturbing. It wasas if something he had thought safely distant had suddenly brushed against him, touching him with its tentacle. The clock on the mantelpiece at the far end of the room began to chime, a whispery, sinister sound, and at its signal the three politicians rose and hurried together out of the room, still in a huddle, like a skulk of villains in a melodrama.
"I don't know," Quirke said. "I don't know what happened to her. But I know she didn't drown."
HE LIED TO THE CORONER'S COURT, AS HE AND INSPECTOR HACKETT had known he would. He did not try to fool himself that he was sparing Billy Hunt's feelings or shielding his wife's reputation. He was, as it were, sealing off the scene, as Hackett would seal off the scene of a crime, for further investigation. That was all.
When the court convened at midmorning the air in the room was already soupy and stale. There was the usual headache-inducing bustle, with clerks ferrying documents here and there and the jury settling down grumpily and the newshounds swapping jokes in their kennel off to one side of the court. Quirke noted that the reporters were mostly juniorsit seemed their news editors did not expect much of a story. If it was a suicide it would not be reported; that was the unofficial rule the newspapers observed. The public gallery had its accustomed sprinkling of gawpers and ghouls. Billy Hunt sat at one side of the front row flanked by two women, one old and
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