CHAPTER 31

M ater Misericordiae Hospital was located in north Dublin, not far from Mountjoy Prison. Mater misericordiae meant "Mother of Mercy" in Latin, so it made sense that the hospital treated all, no matter the patients' means. It had been founded by the Sisters of Mercy some seventy years ago and had grown considerably since. The hospital had treated the injured and dying from the 1916 Easter Rising as well as the hunger strikers released from Mountjoy Prison in April. It had also administered to injured soldiers transported from the front lines during the war and deployed its own doctors and nurses to work in the field hospitals and dressing stations.

Sister Mary Aloysius had the look of a woman who might have been dispatched in such a capacity. Stoic and severe, but with an underlying gentleness that I could imagine her employing to good effect in either a hospital near the Western Front or a young woman's sick room in south Dublin. Though she was younger than I'd expected—perhaps thirty-five—with a pair of brilliant blue eyes, made all the more arresting because of her coif and veil.

"Now, what is it ye hope I can tell ye?" she said after she'd finished pouring me a cup of tea. We were seated in a parlor with rose-covered wallpaper that I suspected was most often used to comfort the bereaved. When I'd briefly explained the reason for my visit, she'd not reacted with affront or rushed into denials, but calmly brought me to this room, which I viewed as an encouraging sign. It was also evident she knew something of my reputation. At least she'd not questioned my interest.

"You were engaged to care for Miss Kavanagh after her assault," I began carefully after taking a sip of tea. "But I've heard conflicting reports as to her state of being. Can you tell me what she was like? Obviously, she was distraught," I prompted, hoping she would take the cue.

"She was a modest girl. Kind. Obedient, from what I could gather. But she also knew her own mind. That much was clear." Sister Mary Aloysius paused, appearing to give the matter thoughtful consideration. "She had the normal symptoms of those who've experienced some shock or trauma. Agitation, fretfulness, the tendency to retreat within herself. Nightmares, too, of course."

Which would explain the need for a sleeping draught.

"Reliving the attack?" I guessed.

"Aye. But otherwise, I would have said she was recovering well. As best as she could anyway, under the circumstances."

"What do you mean?"

She frowned, turning slightly to the side as if she was uncertain whether she'd spoken out of turn. Perhaps it was a matter of patient privilege. In the end, I don't know what decided her in my favor.

"Mrs. Kavanagh struggled mightily with what happened to her daughter, and consequently, her behavior was somewhat erratic. She was the one who believed her daughter needed a nurse to see to her care, though her wounds were more mental than physical. But then she suggested Miss Kavanagh sequester herself in her room for her own good, not even allowing her to come downstairs for meals or to play the piano, as she often desired. She hired a hairdresser to come to the house to fix Miss Kavanagh's hair as best she could, but then ordered all of the mirrors removed from her daughter's room and certain parts of the house because she believed the sight of herself might distress her. Yet I know that Miss Kavanagh used a hand mirror she'd hidden from her daily for her ablutions."

I nodded, beginning to see what the sister meant. Mrs. Kavanagh took steps to see to her daughter's care and healing, but then sabotaged any good they might have done. "So it was Mrs. Kavanagh who confined Miss Kavanagh to her bedchamber?"

"At first." Her brow furrowed. "But once her mother relented, Miss Kavanagh began to refuse to leave it."

"Did this occur after she was forced to see Lieutenant Delagrange?" I asked on a hunch.

I could see in Sister Mary Aloysius's eyes that she'd made the same connection. "Aye. Her mother gave her no notice of his visit. Simply sent orders up one day that she was to come down to tea in her lavender gown. When Miss Kavanagh returned upstairs—" The nurse broke off, a troubled look crossing her features. "I had never seen her so distraught until that moment. I had to give her a sedative to calm her."

Because of Delagrange. Because he'd been her chief assailant and yet her parents expected her to receive him as if nothing had happened.

I couldn't imagine what she must have felt upon finding him in her drawing room, but the fact she'd required a sedative afterward said much.

"Did she confide in you?" I asked, wondering how much Miss Kavanagh might have told her. Whether she'd actually stated outright that Delagrange had been the one to assault and cut her hair.

"Not in words, no. But the fact that she asked me to bar entrance to everyone but her maid and her parents—who she couldn't refuse—said much."

"What about Miss Fairbanks?"

"Oh, aye. I'd forgotten about her." Her brow puckered briefly and I was about to ask why when she asked a question of her own. "Am I to understand that Lieutenant Delagrange is dead?"

"Yes," I answered quietly. Knifed in a street known to be frequented by prostitutes. That was what Sidney had learned when he'd spoken to Bennett the previous evening, though the official report had been worded a bit differently.

The sister nodded, crossing herself and murmuring something.

I'd considered abandoning this interview, wondering if there was really any need considering Delagrange had already been punished and was beyond our reach. But there were still questions I didn't have the answers to, and the nagging sensation that I was missing something. Perhaps it was only Ardmore's sudden appearance that made me think so, but I wouldn't be satisfied until I had explored every avenue.

I took another drink of tea before broaching the topic that was certain to be the most delicate. "Can you tell me about the day Miss Kavanagh died? What do you remember aboutit?"

Sister Mary Aloysius frowned, clasping her hands before her. "At the time, it seemed like any other day." She audibly inhaled and exhaled, perhaps restraining her own sorrow at losing a patient in such a way. "Though now I seem to remember the silence. But perhaps that's because of all the yellin' that occurred the evenin' before."

I sat forward in interest. "Who was yelling?"

"Mrs. Kavanagh. I didn't hear the exact words beyond a few aspersions she cast on her daughter's gratitude, but I gathered she was tryin' to convince Miss Kavanagh to leave her room."

"But Miss Kavanagh held firm?"

"Aye, to the best of my knowledge."

"Did she have any visitors?" I asked, leading her toward Miss Fairbanks's claim.

"In the afternoon. Her friend. Miss Fairbanks." She frowned. "She'd been there the day before as well. Heard part of the row between Miss Kavanagh and her mother."

"Did she have any other visitors?"

"Nay."

"Did Mr. and Mrs. Kavanagh?"

"Nay."

"You're certain?" I'd presumed that even if the nurse hadn't seen Delagrange enter Miss Kavanagh's room that she would have at least been cognizant that he was in the house.

"Aye." She stared back at me in confusion. "Why?"

I hesitated, considering whether I should share the source of my information, and then decided there was no way around it. In any case, Sister Mary Aloysius was unlikely to tell anyone else.

"Miss Fairbanks confessed to me that she'd helped Lieutenant Delagrange sneak into Miss Kavanagh's room to see her. That he persuaded her to do so with some sort of romantic drivel about her friend."

"I see," she replied, though the tone of her voice made it clear that whatever it was she saw, it wasn't to do with the romantic drivel.

" Is it possible Delagrange snuck into her room?"

"Nay. The Kavanaghs positioned a chair directly outside her door for me, so that if she had a guest or wished for privacy, I could still be close by in case she needed me. I never left that spot while Miss Fairbanks was there and after."

An unsettling feeling settled over me. "So Miss Fairbanks never drew you away from Miss Kavanagh's door? She never spoke to you?"

"Nay," she stated firmly, but then reconsidered. "Except when she left. She told me Miss Kavanagh had asked for privacy."

I scrutinized Sister Mary Aloysius's troubled countenance, my uneasiness growing. For it was clear that one of them was lying. The question was, who?

"And I can tell ye one thing," she suddenly declared, sitting even straighter. "Had Lieutenant Delagrange been in the house, I would never have left her door. I knew how much his presence disturbed her. I'd not have chanced leavin' her alone. And neither would've her maid."

I realized then that it didn't make sense for the sister to lie. She had already been charged with carelessness and blamed for Miss Kavanagh's being able to commit suicide. Why wouldn't she leap at the chance to cast fault on Delagrange, who was already dead and therefore unable to either defend himself or face further punishment?

I leaned toward her, looking her squarely in the eye. "Did you leave out a bottle of sleeping medicine where Miss Kavanagh could get her hands on it?"

She leaned forward as well. "Nay."

"How can you be sure?"

"Because I kept it on me at all times. I wouldn't have trusted leavin' it anywhere else. And my bottle was still in my pocket."

"But they did find a bottle?"

"Aye, on the floor next to her wardrobe."

I puzzled over this, having assumed it had been found on or near her bed. "Then how did she take it?"

She nodded toward the table where the teapot and my cup still sat. "I believe 'twas poured in her tea. That's often how she took it."

"Did she take tea that afternoon?"

"Aye." Her brow furrowed again. "With Miss Fairbanks."

"Who brought it to them?"

"Mary."

"And did Miss Fairbanks drink any of it?"

"The second cup was used, so I assume so."

Then it was unlikely the entire pot had been poisoned. Not without it affecting Miss Fairbanks. Which meant the sleeping draught was added to Miss Kavanagh's cup. And the only person in the room with her at the time had been her friend.

I struggled with this realization, trying to imagine the sweet, mournful young lady I'd spoken with inside the Pepper Cannister church being capable of such a thing. But then I was perfectly aware of the darkness that could hide within the human heart, no matter the package it was wrapped in.

Sister Mary Aloysius sat quietly as I reconciled myself to this possibility. But there was still one alternative, and the simplest explanation was often the correct one. The nurse would know better than I.

"Do you think, in her extreme distress, seeing no way out, that Miss Kavanagh took her own life?"

She shook her head sorrowfully. "Nay, I don't."

"You're certain?" I asked doubtfully.

"Aye."

"How?"

"Because there was a way out." With this remark, she reached into her pocket and withdrew a folded piece of paper.

"What's this?" I asked, taking it from her.

"A letter. Miss Kavanagh gave it to me the evenin' before she died and asked me to post it."

I looked at her in startlement. "Yet, you didn't."

"Nay. Because I asked her to be certain. She'd just argued with her mother and I didn't want her to do anythin' hasty. I told her if she felt the same way in two days' time, I would send it."

This seemed to be wise counsel, allowing Miss Kavanagh time to reconsider and her mother time to reconcile with her. That is, unless it might have prevented her murder. It was clear this prospect troubled Sister Mary Aloysius.

"But why didn't you give this to the police?" I asked.

"Because they weren't called."

My shock must have been evident because she raised her eyebrows.

"They sent for Lieutenant Delagrange instead, and he said he would take care of the matter."

No wonder Miss Fairbanks had pointed me in his direction. Delagrange had his fingers all over the incident from beginning to end.

Except for Miss Kavanagh's death. He couldn't have done that.

I unfolded the paper, discovering it was addressed to Mrs. Keogh—Miss Kavanagh's aunt, I presumed. The mother of Daniel, her cousin who had died.

Mother won't see reason. She's insisting I marry him! I can't. I just can't! Please. You have to do something!

What Miss Kavanagh had expected her aunt to do, I didn't know, but Sister Mary Aloysius was right. Miss Kavanagh hadn't given up hope. Suicide didn't make sense.

I looked up into the sister's compassionate gaze, for she had realized the same thing I had. There was only one solution, and it was not easy to reconcile with, nor would it be easy to prove. In fact, it might be nigh impossible, unless she admitted to it herself.

The prospect seemed impossible, but I realized I had to try. For Miss Kavanagh. And also for Lieutenant Delagrange.

For I'd accused him of murdering her. I'd essentially declared it as truth. And it may have contributed to his being killed. Yes, he'd done some terrible things and had likely murdered Daniel Keogh. But he hadn't killed Miss Kavanagh. That sin could not be laid at his door.