Laughter at what? The question troubled Father Mahon, who felt that laughter must have some object, some butt. Yet, it hadn’t been that kind of laughter, not the sharp Conroy kind; it had come welling up from some deep, inner spring which had lain hidden all Conroy’s life.

But why? What had Conroy discovered in that last searching moment? What could he have found to laugh about?

The question gave Father Mahon no peace in the days that followed, all the more when he was summoned to the Bishop’s House and told that Conroy had appointed him executor.

“But why, my lord? I mean, we were classmates, yon might say, But I didn’t know him, not that well. In fact, I’m the one he had least to do with.”

“I don’t think there’ll be much else, Father,” the Bishop said. “As for the papers and so forth, I’ll leave all that to your discretion. You needn’t consult me.” There was a delicate pause. “You might check with the different banks in town. I don’t know if he had an account.”

“Yes, but I can’t understand why he wanted me to—”

“You may also find there’s some livestock to be disposed of.” The Bishop smiled. He had a very pleasant way of dealing with questions which should not have been asked. “A couple of bullocks that he grazed on a bit of land belonging to the parish. He also, I’m told, let them out to graze on the long acre, where they were a menace to passing traffic.”

“Yes, my lord. But Father O’Hara, Father Cullen even – They were much more...”

The Bishop’s hands moved firmly to the arms of his chair. “That’s the way it is, Father.” He rose to his feet and watched with a smile as Father Mahon, taken unawares, floundered to kiss the ring. “Good-bye, Father, I know you’ll do the best you can.”

That wasn’t the only arrangement that disturbed Father Mahon. The funeral itself had been most unsatisfactory. Father Conroy’s family hadn’t turned up. His brother Frank (who had the farm), was over in Aintree for the Grand National and couldn’t be contacted in time. No one knew where he was staying. “Not a man of much substance,” remarked Father O’Hara.

The sister, Kate, and her husband, who had a farm up near the mountains, didn’t arrive until everything was over; their car had run out of petrol. “And why wouldn’t it,” said O’Hara, “when they never put anything in the tank? And because they can’t buy petrol, they can’t take the milk to the creamery. And because they can’t sell the milk, they can’t buy the petrol. So there they are, spreading butter on everything.”