The man laughed exultantly as he took up his glass. He raised it to Father Conroy in salute. “To hell with poverty, Father. We’ll kill a hen!”

And, watching him down the drink, Father Conroy too laughed. The bullocks, the fields, Dev, C.I.E., this drunken oaf – he loved them; yes, he loved them all. Even old sourpuss, as she led her niece past to find a table farther on – he loved her too, and the niece, poor girl, who had been finished in Bordeaux. Affectionately he waved to them. And laughed when the old lady glared at him and hurried her charge quickly on, so as not to be scandalized by the sight of the drunken priest.

*

He was home by midday. The silence in the house was disapproving. Where have you been, it said, gallivanting again? The clock in the hall looked at him, hangdog, and he screwed up his face at it, mimicking its expression. I’m breaking out, he told all the sullen furniture, clearing off. Too long have I looked after ye, cared for ye, mothered ye! Now, yez can shift for yerselves! “With me bundle on me shoulder,” he sang, “Sure, there’s no one could be bolder...”

Me bundle! Yes, he had a bundle, all right, but he wasn’t going to bring it. He flung open the door of the cupboard, daring it to come out, but it sat there like a badger in the butt of a barrel. Well, he’d bait it! He’d find its match, to drag it out by the scruff of the neck. Who, though, who?

He had to be quick. O’Hara? No, he was too used to handling money; he’d spend years disposing of it conscientiously. Bat Cullen? God love him, the shock would kill him. No, he wanted someone who would attack it like a terrier, half in panic, half-delirious, who would spend it fast, to put it out of mind and memory. Someone like Mahon.

He hesitated a moment. Ah, no, not poor Mahon, Peter the celestial plumber. But that was the very reason. It would have to be Peter Mahon. Nobody else believed so implicitly in the system; it would be no trouble to him to pull the chain and swish it all away. There was no doubt. Peter Mahon was the man.

He began to laugh, thinking of Mahon’s face when the Bishop would read him the letter. Yes, it would have to be done formally – a letter to the Bishop and all – otherwise, Peter would try to sidle out of it. But what to say?