Crime in the Convent Page 2

  Sometimes, Father Thomas’s unmaterialistic nature had made Father Hassett feel ashamed of his own worldlier traits, but the older priest had reassured him. ‘There are different kinds of gifts, but the same Spirit distributes them. There are different kinds of service, but the same Lord.’

  Now, by his impending death, Father Thomas would make it possible for their beloved St Cecilia’s to flourish and take its rightful place in the roll call of distinguished religious communities. Father Hassett’s eyes grew misty as he thought of what could be done. Renovations to the church and shrine. Overhaul of the dilapidated monastery. Advertising campaign (fastidious and discriminating, naturally) to raise the Order’s profile and promote vocations. Construction of a retreat centre as the focal point for spiritual renewal and the formation of aspirants to their ranks. Foundation of missions abroad …

  A tap at the door interrupted this agreeable reverie.

  ‘Ah, Austin. Come in and sit down!’

  Father Hassett jumped up and ushered Father Austin Calvert to the cretonne-covered sagging armchair next to his desk.

  The visitor was a diminutive figure who, despite the heat of the day, was clad in his full habit. Silver-haired and bespectacled with a slight limp, the cassock alone seemed to be holding him up. While Father Charles’s face, all planes and angles, possessed an almost primitive strength, the other’s harebell eyes and mild, irresolute mouth suggested a more diffident personality.

  Whatever the differences in temperament, however, an atmosphere of affectionate complicity prevailed as the two men settled down to chat.

  ‘Sunbathing in your clericals, eh Austin? And here am I in dishabille. I feel a complete scruff next to you.’

  Father Calvert gestured self-deprecatingly at the cassock. ‘Oh, I feel undressed without it. My armour, y’know.’ Gesturing towards the pile of brochures, he smiled. ‘Ironic, isn’t it, that I never got to the mission fields after dreaming of nothing else all those years.’

  ‘If ever a man was faithful to his vow of obedience it was you,’ came the reply with a touch of asperity.

  ‘Well, as Father Thomas always says, there are many ways of being a missionary and maybe our superiors felt I was needed here.’ Father Calvert sounded stoical and not the least resentful, though there was a sad wistfulness about the observation which made his confrère fold his lips tightly as though to bite back an angry retort. He contented himself with observing, ‘And now, of course, there are no mission fields left due to St Cecilia’s being in terminal decline.’

  ‘Hardly that, my dear Charles.’ Father Calvert looked anxiously at his former novice, noting the new grooves that seemed to have sprung up overnight on either side of his mouth and the restless way the long fingers moved up and down the ebony crucifix which stood on his desk, as though he sought comfort from its touch. ‘God and St Cecilia will provide.’

  Father Hassett suppressed a groan. Austin wouldn’t be saying that if he was knee deep in balance sheets, he thought crossly, before admonishing himself for being uncharitable.

  ‘And you’re forgetting,’ the gentle tones continued, ‘Father Thomas will see us right.’ There was a slight flush on Father Calvert’s cheek as he added, ‘Though it seems the height of mercenariness to count on it—’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Austin,’ Father Hassett exploded. ‘You’ve never wanted anything for yourself!’ Observing the startled consternation in the other’s face, he laid a hand on his arm and spoke with subdued earnestness. ‘I mean, honestly, for you to talk about mercenariness...’ He gave a shaky laugh. ‘I’ve got the soul of an accountant all right, but you…’

  ‘I’m your deputy, Charles.’ Father Calvert was troubled, his fingers plucking nervously at the skirts of his cassock. ‘I should have done more to help you shoulder these financial burdens.’ His gaze was searching. ‘Will Father Thomas’s legacy set us straight?’

  Father Hassett sat back in his chair and exhaled deeply.

  ‘It will buy us some breathing space, Austin, though I haven’t liked to raise the subject with that young whippersnapper at Farrer’s.’

  ‘Of course.’ Father Calvert looked embarrassed at the reference to the firm of Bromgrove solicitors which handled the Egerton family trusts. Somewhat flustered, he scanned the correspondence on his friend’s untidy desk with a view to changing the subject.

  ‘Bromgrove CID? Is St Cecilia’s at the epicentre of a crime wave?’

  ‘Hmm.’ Hearing the note of forced jocularity, Father Hassett took his cue and moved off the vexatious topic of finance. ‘Inspector Markham seems to think we should anticipate some trouble.’

  ‘Markham.’ Father Calvert was ruminative, then brightened with the recollection. ‘Ah yes, that impressive young officer who visited us last year after the sacristy break-in.’

  ‘The very same. Word has it he’s headed for great things.’ Father Hassett frowned. ‘Well, it would seem mischief’s brewing down at the university.’

  ‘What sort of mischief?’ Father Calvert sounded bemused.

  ‘Oh, the usual crackpot fringe. Anti-everything, but religious institutions in particular.’ Father Hassett scowled. ‘I gathered from what Markham said that the pro-choice lot are fanning the flames.’

  ‘Pro-choice?’

  ‘The abortion lobby. You know – a woman’s right to choose.’

  ‘But we never got mixed up in that debate, Charles. I mean, to the best of my knowledge we’ve never gone on the stump about it … never judged …’

  ‘Not us maybe, but some of the nuns in the convent are nurses, remember. Mostly retired now, but they ran the St Cecilia Refuge for Unmarried Mothers back in the day and a few of them were prominent in SPUC.’ Seeing that Father Calvert was struggling with the acronym, he translated, ‘The Society for the Protection of Unborn Children.’

  ‘So, the nuns are a target then.’ Father Calvert’s voice was faint.

  The other gave a short bark. ‘I don’t imagine the anti-clerical mob will discriminate. Most likely they’ll lump us all in together as fascist oppressors or some such. That’s what Markham seemed to think, anyway.’

  ‘But this is appalling.’ Father Calvert’s face was as bleached as his clerical collar. ‘The nuns did their very best for those girls. I mean, they weren’t out there ramming religion down teenagers’ throats, were they?’ He was waxing indignant now. ‘Just picking up the pieces when the pour souls had nowhere else to go.’

  ‘Well said, Austin. You and I know that, but no doubt the university’s “urban guerrillas” see these things differently. Police patrols can only go so far, so I’ll have to liaise with Mother Ursula about it.’ He sighed theatrically. ‘And she’ll take her usual line. “We must leave it in the hands of the Lord, Father!”’

  The wickedly accurate impersonation elicited a weak smile.

  ‘That’s better, Austin. Never fear, we’ll just have to defend Mother Ursula in spite of herself!’

  Father Hassett noticed his deputy’s expression cloud over again.

  ‘What is it, Austin?’

  ‘Wasn’t there a piece in the Gazette last year about the convent … a scandal of some sort? It was one of those investigative journalism hatchet jobs …’

  Father Hassett grimaced. ‘Bishop McGettrick leaned on the paper to kill the story, so it fizzled out. But yes, you’re right. A couple of nuns had been attached to St Columba’s—’

  ‘The residential school – the one at the centre of all those abuse allegations.’

  ‘That’s the one. The nuns were cleared of any involvement in what went on there – pretty horrific stuff by all accounts – but there were big pay-outs by the school and, well, mud sticks.’

  ‘I remember now.’ Father Calvert rubbed a thumb against his fingers, the tell-tale tic of a former smoker and sure sign that he was mightily perturbed. ‘The paper suggested they looked the other way while lay staff were terrorizing the kids.’ He took off his spectacles as though by this means he could make the past re
cede into soft focus. ‘So, that might have something to do with all this hostility?’

  ‘Well, the St Columba business goes back some years, but it’s possible.’ Father Hassett continued, ‘Markham’s report didn’t mention it, but I’ve no doubt he’ll check out claims of historic abuse. He’s the thorough type.’

  The small carriage clock on Father Hassett’s desk – the only decent piece of furniture in the room – chimed the hour.

  ‘Five o’clock, Austin. Just time to check on Father Thomas before Vespers.’

  The heat in the room was so thick, Father Hassett felt he could cut it like butter. How Austin managed to look so cool and collected was one of life’s enduring mysteries. Reluctantly, he shuffled into the heavy serge cassock draped over the back of his chair and scrabbled about for his white collar.

  ‘Here you go, Charles,’ said Father Calvert, fishing it out of the wastepaper basket where it had mysteriously come to rest.

  With a sheepish grin, the other hastily attached the collar to the front of his shirt and smoothed down the crumpled habit.

  ‘Right,’ he said, ‘hopefully I won’t scandalize the brethren. Let’s go!’

  The two priests walked down a windowless, dimly lit corridor carpeted in oatmeal whose dreariness was relieved only by two lurid plaster statues of simpering female saints, donated by well-meaning parishioners. Such kitsch offended Father Hassett’s beauty-loving eyes. St Cecilia’s only colour was in the church, he reflected … in the richness of the stained glass, the lavishly embroidered vestments, the softly flickering red votive lamps and glimmering candles. God willing, with Father Thomas’s legacy the monastery could receive some long overdue care and attention. Maybe then St Cecilia’s would be able to show itself in the best possible light and convince young men that they would not be throwing themselves away.

  The infirmary, as might be expected, was a spotlessly clean room with four beds, three of which were currently unoccupied. A white muslin privacy screen was drawn around the fourth bed next to the window. The bareness of whitewashed walls and waxed wooden floor was softened by a cream-painted country dresser boasting a display of souvenirs brought back by the brethren from the great centres of pilgrimage – Lourdes, Fatima, Lisieux. The homely simplicity of these trinkets – snow globes, enamelled pill boxes, medals, fans, keyrings – was oddly touching. A very different kind of treasure from the splendours of church and shrine, thought Father Hassett, but treasure nonetheless. All was still save for the somnolent drone of bees in the flowerbeds just visible through the half-open paned window.

  ‘Good afternoon, Fathers.’

  Brother Christopher Brophy, the infirmarian, appeared from an alcove just off the small room. White-haired, snub-nosed and rosy-cheeked, he had the appearance of a decadent cherub, but this belied his efficiency. Although not medically qualified, he was meticulous and unflappable.

  ‘How’s he doing?’

  The infirmarian led them to the screened bed and gently drew back the divider.

  Father Thomas Egerton’s thin, worn face wore an expression of dreamy abstraction and the grey eyes seemed filmed over. His heavily veined hands moved restlessly across the coverlet as though re-enacting some task or prayer from long ago. Although his lips moved, nothing was audible.

  ‘He’s not in any pain, Father Hassett. We’ll be having a visit from Doctor Johnson in half an hour or so if you want to come back then.’

  Reluctantly, Father Hassett nodded. With a last look at the face on the pillow, the two priests quietly left the room.

  As they remounted the stairs to the first floor, which connected at its far end with the community oratory, there was the far-off rumble of thunder.

  ‘Sounds as though the weather’s going to break,’ observed Father Calvert. ‘Thank goodness for that.’

  ‘We could do with a downpour,’ his companion agreed feelingly. ‘“For now, these hot days, is the mad blood stirring.”’

  There was something disturbing about the heat – something unnatural – the rector thought to himself as the two men made their way along the first-floor corridor towards the community’s private oratory. As though it was a vagrant power with its own laws, disarming the inhabitants of the monastery with its sensuous, blanketing embrace and reducing everything in nature to a state of suspended animation. He felt a sudden overwhelming urge to abandon himself to the shimmering haze and drift away.

  ‘Charles.’ Father Calvert’s voice was sharp with concern. ‘Are you all right?’

  They were at the door of the oratory.

  The rector pulled himself together.

  ‘Absolutely fine, Austin.’ He patted the other’s arm. ‘It’s this blasted heat, knocking us all for six.’

  ‘Are you sure? I can take Vespers if you like.’

  ‘No, I need to show myself at the helm.’ He flashed a grin at his anxious deputy. ‘I’ll just have to postpone my fit of the vapours till later.’

  The Oratory of St Joseph, to give the little chapel its full title, possessed all the grace and charm that the priests’ quarters so singularly lacked.

  Its walls were painted a soft primrose, the herringbone parquet floor gleaming with a patina of beeswax polish. At one end, two abstract olive wood statues of St Joseph and the Madonna – their downcast features and clothing sketched in sweeping, fluid strokes – stood on brass wall-mounted plinths either side of a plain altar table fashioned from the same material as the figures. On the floor in front of the altar table, a blue ceramic gourd held a cluster of jostling sunflowers and golden asters. There were no pews, just a semi-circle of padded conference armchairs with retractable kneelers, brightly upholstered in orange-terracotta. A net-curtained window on the far side of the room overlooked the high altar of the church below, its sanctuary lamp glowing in the shadows. Savouring the welcoming, relaxed atmosphere, Father Hassett felt some of his tension drain away.

  As he fetched stole and missal from the table drawers, other members of the community drifted in.

  First to arrive were newly professed priests Fathers Jim Rafferty and Michael Templeton, or ‘Little and Large’ as they were affectionately nicknamed by the community owing to the disparity in height, pixie-like Father Jim being small in stature (‘but mighty in ministry’, he was wont to say) while his bearded confrère was built like a scrum half. After them came elegant Father Cyril Reynolds, with the Italianate dark looks which Father Hassett was uneasily aware had caused a certain flutter in the convent dovecote down the road – to say nothing of their effect on susceptible female parishioners. The rector reminded himself to have a discreet word with Father Reynolds – put him on his guard, as it were. He had no doubt of his young confrère’s integrity, but the last thing St Cecilia’s needed right now was any whiff of sexual scandal. Father Mathew Parker stumped in behind Father Cyril. Old ‘Ironside’, as the novices called him, looked to be in a stew about something, steel-grey eyes glinting bad-temperedly behind horn-rimmed spectacles and his mouth a thin line. No doubt the rector would hear all about it in due course. Quietly, he let out a sigh as Father Finbarr Murphy shambled in to join them. My God, the man looks like a bag of washing, he thought before penitently recalling that his fellow priest had fought valiantly against the alcoholism which very nearly ended his life. ‘We’re a church of saints and sinners, that’s what we are,’ was the rector’s internal refrain as he smiled encouragingly at the untidy, wispy-haired Irishman. Bringing up the rear were old reliables Fathers Luke Bonner and Aloysius Barnard, corpulent of figure and florid of complexion. Only Brother Christopher Brophy, as infirmarian, was absent, along with Brother Malachy Stewart and wheelchair-bound Father Henry McCabe. The two novices were out in the parish engaged on pastoral work, and would not be back until much later.

  Having taken this inventory, Father Hassett recollected himself and lit the two pillar candles.

  ‘O God, come to our aid.

  O Lord, make haste to help us.’

  Vespers got underway.

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nbsp; After the service was over, the members of the community dispersed swiftly to their various avocations. Their figures moved in Father Hassett’s imagination like chessmen, each with its assigned place in the centuries-old routine that nothing – not even the death of Father Thomas – could disrupt.

  The rector and his deputy sat in companionable silence. It seemed to the former almost as though his pulse echoed the rhythm of the church’s timeless heartbeat in the darkness below.

  Suddenly, there was a tremendous rumble and crack above them.

  The storm had arrived and they could hear rain rattling like grapeshot on the sloping roof above them.

  Coolness crept into the room, touching their faces, bringing freshness and a sense of relief. The primrose walls assumed an aqueous hue, as if the oratory had sunk beneath the upper world and become like a cave in the sea, mysteriously sealed off from earthly noise and uproar.

  Still they lingered, protracting the interlude of dreamlike lassitude.

  ‘Fathers!’

  It was the infirmarian.

  ‘There’s been a change. Doctor Johnson says you should come now.’

  Hastily, they retraced their steps to the infirmary where gangling Doctor Johnson was waiting. With a bone-crushing squeeze of Father Hassett’s hand, the GP ushered the two priests around the screen enclosing Father Thomas’s bed before retreating to the other side of the room.

  Father Thomas’s eyes showed recognition. And relief.

  Dry lips struggled to form words.

  ‘Easy, dear Father, easy,’ soothed the rector.