survived the Famine. The nuns had been very proud of the way Danny had turned out, clever and industrious, especially when he fulfilled that early promise, joined the city police and became Chief Inspector Faro’s sergeant, and much later, my husband.
Now the Little Sisters of the Poor were beneficiaries of my rarely updated wardrobe. I occasionally bought new clothes these days: although I cared not a fig for looking elegant, I realised the importance of first impressions – that a lady investigator should not only sound convincing but should look convincing too. No shabby shoes or frayed cloaks in this profession. Even my wild curls had to be trained into a semblance of good behaviour and confined within a bonnet.
The nuns were very grateful, especially as the discarded garments of a lady under five feet in height were eminently suitable for the older orphaned girls in their care.
It was the bane of my life that I could have passed for a little girl of twelve in a poor light, despite being in my mid thirties. Nevertheless, my professional abilities had given me confidence and I joined that legion of womankind who, never satisfied with what nature has seen fit to bestow on them, are forever bewailing their lot. I had it all first hand from my younger sister Emily, a prime example. Taller than me, she had yearned for my curls as I wrestled with that unruly mop, yearning for her long, black, straight hair and those extra inches, not to mention a shapely bosom.
I had my bundle ready, preparing to go across and call at the convent early next morning, realising they would be up and about from 6 a.m., when a knock at the kitchen door announced Sister Clare.
She was accompanied by a small, thin girl, at first glance little more than a child, wearing the grey uniform dress that indicated she was a novice. This was her probationary period in which she still had the opportunity to change her mind. She would not receive the black dress and veils of the nuns’ habit until she had taken her final vows, closing the door to become the bride of Christ, where only a few of the nuns privileged to run the orphanage were allowed to communicate with the outside world.
I invited them in, and as they sat down at the kitchen table and declined my offer of tea I noticed, after the somewhat wan greeting, that they looked pale and scared.
‘This is Marie Ann,’ said Sister Clare. ‘Please tell Mrs McQuinn what happened.’ As she was using signlanguage I realised that the young girl was also deaf.
The girl spoke in a faint hoarse whisper, many of her words were lost and I had to ask her to repeat herself, much to her distress. As I listened and pieced together the story it seemed that several times, when she was working in the convent vegetable garden, she had observed a man looking very intently at her over the fence.
‘One evening, as it was growing dark…’ Pausing, she sighed deeply, her distress obvious, and Sister Clare said in a shocked voice, ‘He vaulted the fence.’
She stopped and closed her lips firmly, leaving me to consider the enormity of such action.
Marie Ann’s eyes filled with tears and, shaking her head, she darted an imploring look across to Sister Clare who sighed and continued the story.
‘Marie Ann was about to run indoors, quite terrified, but this man chased her – seized her arm, murmured words that she did not hear or understand. She was terrified– he sounded so savage and awful. He then put an arm around her and—’ she darted a shocked look at the young girl and whispered, ‘he attempted to kiss her.’
A dreadful pause followed as Sister Clare’s hands busily poured out this story for Marie Ann’s approval. The girl watched, her vigorous nods confirming the details.
‘She struggled free and rushed indoors. One of us caught her: she seemed about to faint with terror.’ Another significant pause, another shocked whisper. ‘Her dress was torn at the neck.’
A moan from Marie
Now the Little Sisters of the Poor were beneficiaries of my rarely updated wardrobe. I occasionally bought new clothes these days: although I cared not a fig for looking elegant, I realised the importance of first impressions – that a lady investigator should not only sound convincing but should look convincing too. No shabby shoes or frayed cloaks in this profession. Even my wild curls had to be trained into a semblance of good behaviour and confined within a bonnet.
The nuns were very grateful, especially as the discarded garments of a lady under five feet in height were eminently suitable for the older orphaned girls in their care.
It was the bane of my life that I could have passed for a little girl of twelve in a poor light, despite being in my mid thirties. Nevertheless, my professional abilities had given me confidence and I joined that legion of womankind who, never satisfied with what nature has seen fit to bestow on them, are forever bewailing their lot. I had it all first hand from my younger sister Emily, a prime example. Taller than me, she had yearned for my curls as I wrestled with that unruly mop, yearning for her long, black, straight hair and those extra inches, not to mention a shapely bosom.
I had my bundle ready, preparing to go across and call at the convent early next morning, realising they would be up and about from 6 a.m., when a knock at the kitchen door announced Sister Clare.
She was accompanied by a small, thin girl, at first glance little more than a child, wearing the grey uniform dress that indicated she was a novice. This was her probationary period in which she still had the opportunity to change her mind. She would not receive the black dress and veils of the nuns’ habit until she had taken her final vows, closing the door to become the bride of Christ, where only a few of the nuns privileged to run the orphanage were allowed to communicate with the outside world.
I invited them in, and as they sat down at the kitchen table and declined my offer of tea I noticed, after the somewhat wan greeting, that they looked pale and scared.
‘This is Marie Ann,’ said Sister Clare. ‘Please tell Mrs McQuinn what happened.’ As she was using signlanguage I realised that the young girl was also deaf.
The girl spoke in a faint hoarse whisper, many of her words were lost and I had to ask her to repeat herself, much to her distress. As I listened and pieced together the story it seemed that several times, when she was working in the convent vegetable garden, she had observed a man looking very intently at her over the fence.
‘One evening, as it was growing dark…’ Pausing, she sighed deeply, her distress obvious, and Sister Clare said in a shocked voice, ‘He vaulted the fence.’
She stopped and closed her lips firmly, leaving me to consider the enormity of such action.
Marie Ann’s eyes filled with tears and, shaking her head, she darted an imploring look across to Sister Clare who sighed and continued the story.
‘Marie Ann was about to run indoors, quite terrified, but this man chased her – seized her arm, murmured words that she did not hear or understand. She was terrified– he sounded so savage and awful. He then put an arm around her and—’ she darted a shocked look at the young girl and whispered, ‘he attempted to kiss her.’
A dreadful pause followed as Sister Clare’s hands busily poured out this story for Marie Ann’s approval. The girl watched, her vigorous nods confirming the details.
‘She struggled free and rushed indoors. One of us caught her: she seemed about to faint with terror.’ Another significant pause, another shocked whisper. ‘Her dress was torn at the neck.’
A moan from Marie
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