The Bells of Scotland Road (50 page)

‘Careful, now,’ came the warning from behind the desk.

‘Or what?’ Anthony waited for a reply, received none. ‘Get off your fat behind and find my brother. If you don’t, I promise you that this day will be forever in your
mind, a reminder of your own crass stupidity.’

Chadwick blinked two or three times. ‘Where do you suggest I begin the search?’ he asked.

Father Brennan placed Liam’s letter on the blotter. ‘He says he’s gone to Africa. We think he’s still in England. Find him.’

The inspector was genuinely perplexed. If the information was correct, then a nationwide search might be warranted. But without hard evidence, no extensive manhunt could begin. ‘I’ll
do what I can,’ he said reluctantly. ‘Now, if you will excuse me, I have to be somewhere else in a few minutes.’

Flash strode out of the room as quickly as possible. When Anthony and the priest caught up with him, he turned on both of them. ‘See?’ he said. ‘I told you. You’d get
more sense out of the bloody Liver Birds.’ He marched outside, collected his cart, then went off in search of liquid sustenance.

Anthony leaned on the wall. ‘Liam’s hiding,’ he said with certainty. ‘He’ll come out when he’s ready and not before.’

Priest and teacher walked together to the presbytery. Like Flash, they needed a drink.

Martin Waring sat on the edge of his comfortless mattress. Another day had passed, then another and another. He had been at the monastery for weeks. The house, called
Tithebarn, was creaking its way towards midnight, floorboards groaning themselves into position, ancient windows cooling and settling their frames against age worn stone.

He had a candle. If he ever became a
frère
– and he would achieve that status, surely – he would be unable to burn a flame once he had undressed and prayed. But, as a
lay member of the fraternity, he retained the privilege of light whenever he wanted it. Tonight, he needed the light.

Martin was strong now. He was bearded and brown, muscular and calm. The outside work was monotonous, yet he enjoyed the predictability, the security of knowing exactly what would happen each
day. After breakfast, there was mass. After mass came work. He hoed, weeded, fertilized and pruned various fruit-bearing trees until lunchtime. Occasionally, he fed the pigs and hens, though he
avoided that particular task whenever possible. He felt no affection for animals, no kinship with creatures from the lower orders.

Early afternoons were spent helping in the kitchen and collecting slops for the swine. He disliked pigs immensely, but the pigs were part of his penance, part of his preparation. When supper was
over, he attended benediction and sang with the choir, often as soloist. Recreation was spent among books, games of chess, painting and even tapestry. He had discovered a flair for carving and was
making chess figures for the brothers to sell.

The whole community was in bed by nine o’clock. Laymen could go out if they chose, but Martin did not need to wander away from Tithebarn. He was safe here. He could plan here. He could
finally read the whole of the letter.

Several items of value were buried beyond the monastery’s perimeter wall. Naturally, these objects had been his to take from the pawnshop, because Sam Bell had been Liam’s father.
When the time came, the new Martin Waring would be able to recover those assets and give them to the Catholic Church. Everything should have gone to the Church. Sam Bell had promised that he would
leave the bulk to Liam and the Church. But now, there was this letter. The letter had been in Bridie Bell’s sewing basket. Obviously, the widow had missed it. Obviously, God had been on the
side of the just, because Liam had knocked over the basket, apparently by accident. Yes, this had been God’s work again, Martin decided.

A few times, he had scanned the letter’s contents, but the anger had overcome him and God had started to speak to him. Sometimes, Martin was not fit to listen to God, although he was
becoming more robust. If God spoke tonight, His servant would hear Him and remain tranquil. He took a deep breath, reached for the letter. Addressed to Mrs Bridie Bell, it currently rested inside a
missal.

Martin picked up the book and removed the loose pages. He continued to breathe deeply and slowly, ordered himself to remain composed. Control was essential. If he became angry, his thoughts
could emerge muddled.

He spread out the two sheets and moved the candlestick to a better position. This time, he intended to read the whole thing. Knowledge was power, he told himself. Knowledge and self-control
would see him through.

‘My dear Bridie,’ the message began.

‘I hope you will not have to read this, but I have a bad feeling. Something may happen to me today. If it does, you must take this letter to Rose Hill, because I think Liam might just turn
on me. If I survive, I shall tear up this message and you may never know how much I have come to care for you. The spoken word has not come easily to me.’

Martin Waring wiped a solitary bead of sweat from his forehead.

‘I have been a stupid man and very selfish. But before I tell you all about that, I want to thank you. Since you came from Ireland, I have been a different man. The difference might not
show much, but I am so much happier than I have ever been. If Liam kills me today, please know that I shall die thinking about you.’

The man on the bed shook the page and flattened out the creases. Bridie Bell had done her job so well.

‘I have talked to Anthony and am going now to see Bentham, my solicitor. Everything I have is yours. I leave you to decide what will go to Anthony, as I am in a hurry and I trust you to be
fair with him. All I ask is that you look after Muth until she dies. The will has been changed half an hour ago, and all I need is my lawyer and a couple of witnesses.

‘Until today, Liam was to inherit most of my estate for the church. I have been so unfair to my other son. But sometimes, I did wonder about Liam. I suppose I didn’t want to know the
truth. Anthony complained so much about his brother’s behaviour that I lost patience with him, particularly when they both came to blows on the church doorstep. Now, I know the reason for
Anthony’s quarrel with Liam, and I realize that I have not been much of a father, because I buried myself in the shop and took no notice of anything.

‘Bridie, Liam is a murderer. Those words were very hard to write. He killed Valerie Walsh, who was going to marry Anthony. He tried to kill Anthony when they were children, but that was
different, or so Anthony says. Liam used to hurt Anthony so that he could save him, body and soul. Liam thinks he owns Anthony’s body and soul, you see.’

Martin Waring’s lip curled. What had this dead man known about Father Liam Bell, servant of God? Sam Bell had never heard the voice of the Almighty.

‘Anthony thinks that Liam attacked Maureen. I can’t imagine a priest committing rape, but Liam’s ordination stole was picked up next to the injured girl. Flash Flanagan found
the stole and panicked. You know what Flash is like – drunk half the time and playing with puppets when he’s nearly sober. Anyway, I have the stole. It is stretched and torn.

‘In the downstairs store behind the cabinet for old receipts there is a loose brick. No-one will ever look there, as the cabinet is difficult to move – I almost broke my back
shifting it. The stole is in the wall. I put it inside an old cash tin – green metal with a handle on the lid. I’ve hidden it because I’m going to face Liam in a few minutes. If I
took the stole with me, he would get it and burn it.

‘I pray that you’ll never read this letter. I hope I come home later and burn it before turning my son over to the police. If I don’t make it, please look after yourself, Muth
and the girls. Get someone to shift the cabinet, then take the stole to the police station straight away and show the desk sergeant this letter. Tell Muth and Anthony that I’m sorry. All
those years I never listened, Bridie. My son was a priest, so I thought he was a good man. Anthony says Liam is sick. He hears voices. Try to get him locked away in an asylum. The doctors might
help him.

‘Thank you for everything,

Your husband,

Sam’

Martin read the postscript.

‘PS My son Anthony loves you. Not as a son, but as a man. If anything happens to me, go to him. I’ve realized that God’s blessing is not something we get just in church.
Anthony has had a sad life. He tells me that he is very fond of you.

‘If you break the law of the Church and the state, you will do it with my blessing.’

In spite of firm resolve, Martin found himself screwing up the pages. His hand had closed like a steel trap, and he had to concentrate on loosening the fingers. Carefully, he smoothed out Sam
Bell’s piece of writing, stood up, steadying himself by holding the table. He flattened the pages of small, neat handwriting, and lifted down a picture of the Sacred Heart. He removed the
glass, then inserted Sam’s letter into the frame before replacing the original icon. Knowledge was power, he told himself.

So. The stole was behind a loose brick. She would never find it. Even if the cabinet was moved, the Irish whore would fail to notice the missing mortar, because all the walls in the store
cupboard were scarred. Dad had been such a fool. He must have used a lot of strength on the day of his death, must have strained his heart in order to protect his sweet colleen.

He should never have allowed himself to be talked into such a marriage. Anthony was very like Dad. Anthony’s senses deserted him when he saw a pretty face and a neat figure.

He fell back onto the bed. Anthony loved her. Even Dad had known that, and poor Dad had been the woman’s husband. Martin Waring remembered a day when he had visited Cherry Hinton and
Bridie had spoken of her dislike for Liam Bell’s twin. She had been angry with Anthony, probably as a result of some lover’s tiff. Worse than that, she had probably lied.

Balled fists beat against the mattress. Anthony was in clover now, because Dad had shuffled off the mortal coil. Anthony Bell was sleeping with his own stepmother. No, no, screamed an internal
voice. Martin stilled himself. Control was the key. Perhaps, this time, Anthony would not be saved.

Martin Waring blew out the candle, tried to sleep, failed. The summer sun rose early, thrust its rays through the high window, rested on the Sacred Heart behind Whom the letter was hidden.
‘I’ll be strong,’ he said aloud. ‘It isn’t time for Liam to go back yet. He can stay here until they’ve all forgotten.’

Somewhere inside Martin Waring, the recently buried Liam Bell wept. Liam’s grave was shallow, but he remained where he had been put. For now, someone else was in charge.

Maureen rose early, made her bed and prepared to go downstairs. Her duties as housemaid were light, but she put in extra hours in an attempt to demonstrate her gratitude. But
for the Spencers, she would have been living in Dryden Street and wondering when the next attack would happen.

She had managed to clear her mind at last, and the improvement in her outlook was due in no small part to her surroundings. Astleigh Fold nestled like a small child in the arms of its mother, a
tiny village cradled by the moors. There were so many shades of green on the gentle slopes, too many to count. Maureen remembered Irish relatives who had mused at length about Eire’s lush
foliage, but surely nothing could be greener than this place? She was comfortable here, protected and content.

She stood at her window and watched the sun as it began to bathe the fields and woods. Beautiful. With the window thrown open, she thought she could smell the green, could almost taste the dew
as it evaporated towards the sky. This was heaven. If only Mam and Dad could live here. A picture of Jimmy and Tildy-Anne haring about the lanes filled her mind. If they lived here, they would be
stronger, healthier, browner.

The bedroom door opened. Maureen turned to see Cathy with a finger to her lips. ‘Shush,’ the child said. She was supposed to be in an airy attic with the windows permanently open.
She was supposed to avoid close contact with the rest of the household in case she caught germs before her strength returned. ‘I’m lonely,’ she complained.

Maureen nodded. ‘Sit on the bed for a minute,’ she whispered. ‘I’ve got to do my hair.’

Cathy sat. ‘Are you still going to be a dancer?’

Maureen shrugged. ‘Don’t know. I’m not bothered.’ Much to her surprise, Maureen had found within herself a liking for housework. Putting things in order, maintaining
control over dust and dirt brought an unexpected degree of satisfaction and contentment. Everything that had mattered didn’t seem to count any more. All Maureen wanted was peace and quiet, a
job and to be safe. ‘Dr Spencer says he’ll take me to the classes, but I can’t get myself interested.’ It was like being asleep, she thought. She was in a wonderful dream, a
lovely fairy tale that had followed swiftly on the heels of a nightmare.

Cathy studied Maureen. She had wonderful black hair, blemish-free porcelain skin and eyes like blue jewels. ‘You’re not proud any more,’ the child announced. ‘But you are
very, very beautiful. That scar you had has gone now.’ Maureen had blossomed. She was fuller in the chest and her face had filled out slightly. Maureen no longer bore the marks that come with
city poverty. The pallor had gone from her cheeks, and her eyes shone with health.

Maureen put the last grip in her hair. ‘I’ll do, I suppose,’ she said.

‘Wish I looked like you. Wish I didn’t have anaemia. It’s all vitamins and stuff, stupid drinks and hundreds of oranges. And liver, Maureen. They make me eat liver and spinach
and porridge that’s all thin and sweet. They keep dragging my eyes wide open to see how pink my eyelids are on the inside. There’s nothing wrong with me,’ she insisted.
‘It’s desperate. I’m always being prodded and looked at.’

Maureen smiled. ‘You’ll be well soon, just see. And when you grow up, you’ll be all blonde and gorgeous. Boys like blonde girls.’

Cathy sniffed. ‘Who said anything about boys? I want to look nice for me, not for a great stupid lump of a lad with scabs on his knees.’