The New Policeman Read Online Free PDF Page B

front of the fledgling flames, J.J. drew the curtains and Helen rummaged in the cupboard against the wall beside the piano. She returned with a large, tatty brown envelope, and while J.J. poured the tea, she examined its contents. When he handed her a cup, she gave him a dog-eared black-and-white photograph, then pulled her chair around beside his so that they could look at it together.
    The frame of the picture was filled by the front of the house, the Liddy house where they were sitting now. In those days it would have been fairly new and, in comparison to the average Irish farmhouse, fairly grand. The Liddys then, if not now, were influential people. In front of the house, seven people were standing: three men, a woman, and three children—a girl and two boys. All of them held musical instruments. All of them wore serious, even stern expressions. From what J.J. had seen of old photographs, that was not unusual.
    “It was taken in 1935,” said Helen. “The woman with the fiddle was my grandmother, yourgreat-grandmother. This fellow here, beside her, is Gilbert Clancy.”
    “Gilbert Clancy? Let’s see.” J.J. had heard about Gilbert Clancy before. He had known the legendary blind piper, Garrett Barry, and had passed on a large part of his repertoire to his better-known son, Willie Clancy.
    “Gilbert was a great friend of the Liddys,” said Helen. “He was often in this house.”
    “Was Willie ever here?”
    “Plenty of times,” said Helen. She pointed to another of the men in the photograph. “That’s your great-grandfather. He made that flute himself, out of the spoke of a cart wheel.”
    “Are you serious?”
    “God’s truth,” said Helen.
    J.J. held the photograph closer to the light and examined the instrument. The focus was sharp, but the figures were too far from the lens for the details to be clear. He could see, though, that the flute was very plain, with no decoration of any kind. If it had joints, they were invisible.
    “He wasn’t known as an instrument maker,” Helen went on, “but he made a few flutes and whistles in his time. Micho Russell told me once that he had played a whistle my grandfather made and he had liked itenough to try to buy it. But of all the instruments he made, that flute there was the best. He loved it. Could hardly stop playing it. Wherever he went, that flute went with him. They say that he was so afraid of losing it that he engraved his name on it, up at the top.”
    “What happened to it?” asked J.J. “Where is it now?”
    “That’s the story I want to tell you, J.J. It’s a sad story, but when you hear it you might understand why music has always been so important to me. The music and the Liddy name.”
    Helen topped up their mugs and leaned back in her chair. “There were always dances in this house, going way back. As long as there was music, the Liddys have been musicians. You’d think it was simple, wouldn’t you, looking at it now? A harmless pastime? Better than harmless, even. Healthy. But in those days dance music had its enemies.”
    “What kind of enemies?” asked J.J.
    “Powerful ones,” said Helen. “The clergy.”
    “What—the priests?”
    “The priests, yes. And above them the bishops, and above them the cardinals.”
    “But why?”
    “It’s not an easy question. There’s an obvious answer, which is that young people gathered together from allover the parish—beyond it, even. The dances were great social occasions. Men and women mixed together and got to know each other. Pretty much like the clubs and discos now, I suppose. Everyone would have a few drinks and let their hair down a bit. The clergy maintained that the dances led to immoral behavior.”
    “People still say that,” said J.J., “about discos and clubs.” He spotted a window of opportunity opening. Would now be a good moment to tell her?
    “They do,” said Helen. “And I suppose they’re right, according to their own frames of reference. Things go on in those