Cherringham: A Deadly Confession (7 page)

“What you say does not entirely surprise me. Father Byrne was a troubled soul. It was an open secret that he had a weakness for gambling. That weakness brought with it all kinds of temptation and trouble. But you must understand — he was not a part of this convent.”

“He took mass here.”

“Indeed. But that was his only involvement.”

“You seem very sure about that.”

“You can hardly fail to have noticed that we have fallen on hard times. We can barely support the building. But we are about to benefit from a significant investment — discussions are at a crucial and sensitive stage. We cannot — we
must
not — suffer any adverse publicity. The order — all our good works — could so easily … perish.”

“I’m sorry, Sister,” said Sarah. “Are you suggesting we
don’t
go to the police with what we’ve found?”

“I’m asking you to … please … give us a few days to allow God to do his work.”

“I’m not sure we can do that. We are talking about a possible murder.”

The Mother Superior shook her head.

“Then we are done here. And I must ask you to leave.”

With that, the nun got up from her seat and showed Sarah the door.

Sarah walked out of the convent and took a deep breath, as if the cloistered atmosphere of the building — paired with the stern glances of Sister Mary — had made it difficult to breathe.

And she also now had the distinct feeling that the building and those inside it could keep secrets quite well.

Did they have any secrets? And would she and Jack be able to learn them?

They had faced difficult situations before, people who clearly didn’t want to talk. But with Father Byrne’s death looking more like murder — albeit one she didn’t understand — Sarah felt a drive to get answers somehow.

I’ve become a bit like Jack,
she thought.

Not happy until I know what really happened, how it happened, and who did it.

But real life was beckoning —
tons
of work waiting to be done back at her office. That was a good thing. Though it would be hard to shake off the thoughts of this — what was now — the mystery of Eamon Byrne.

As Sarah turned down the path heading to the small car park and her Rav-4, she saw two people strolling together, engaged in animated conversation.

She had spotted them first, walking side by side, a young woman nodding, a tall man gesturing.

Then, as Sarah kept walking, they finally noticed her.

And as if a brake had been applied, the pair stopped talking.

Sarah recognised them from the fête: the other two retreaters.

Out for a stroll…

And another quick thought: Gustav had said that the three went their own ways. Yet these two seemed tight, chatting furiously.

Then — that suspicious moment, seeing her and they stopped.

With thoughts of the “brick wall” that Mother Superior had become — now when she might face the scandal of a murder — Sarah wanted to talk to these two.

Only steps away, with the two people looking in the other direction, Sarah stopped and said, “Hi.”

A quick glance from the pair, a nod from the man, as they kept on moving.

Sarah turned to face them as they tried to sail past.

“Excuse me — I’m wondering if you could help me?”

And then, getting a palpable feeling of reluctance from them, they finally stopped.

The woman still looked away; the man though, grim-faced, looked right at Sarah.

‘Yes,” he said. “What is it?”

An American.

Interesting. To come all the way here…

“I’ve just been speaking with the Mother Superior. I’ve been looking into the death of Father Byrne.”

The woman gave a quick look to the man at her side.

Struck a nerve there.

“Yes, very sad. The whole community here … all very sad at the news.”

Sarah nodded.

“And you, you’re here for the retreat?”

Now the woman finally made eye contact with Sarah.

“Yes,” she said, in a gentle French accent. “We are.”

“Right. I’m Sarah by the way.” She stuck out a hand.

The man took it for a perfunctory shake. “Tom.”

“Isabel,” the woman said, timidly extending a hand as if at gunpoint.

These two look scared,
Sarah thought.

“I’m wondering if I might ask you some questions. Sister Mary has been so helpful,” she said.

Not quite the truth…

“We don’t know a thing,” Tom said. “Father Byrne was just the priest here, saying mass.”

Sarah kept a half-smile on her face. “I understand. But we’re trying to piece together what happened, that morning. His good friend … is so — well, concerned.”

Sarah waited a moment to let them think on how they might react next. She guessed that Tom — at least — may have figured out that they might be acting prickly, even suspiciously.

And after the pause … Sarah continued.

“Father Byrne ran by the stables each morning, right where you stay.”

No flicker of reaction.

“Did either of you see him on that last morning?”

Tom was quick to answer. “No, we were … having breakfast with Gustav.”

Not what Gustav said.

Someone is lying.

She turned to the woman. “And Isabel, you too heard nothing? You also were having breakfast?”

The French woman nodded, then shook her head. “No. I heard nothing. I was with Tom and Gustav. We were talking…”

Completely unconvincing.

“And did you ever have any conversations with Father Byrne?”

“We d—” Isabel started.

But Tom was again faster. “No. He served mass. As I said,” he looked at Isabel, “he said daily mass for the community here. We went to mass. That is all we know about your Father Byrne…”

Sarah nodded.

Not only had they nearly tripped up in their last answer, but now Tom, in his forceful American way, was trying to shut this conversation down.

And maybe … for now … that was okay.

Something was up here.

And even if she didn’t have a clue, Sarah knew that one way or the other, she’d have to find out more about the trio of retreaters whose stories don’t fit together at all.

“Thanks,” Sarah said simply as she looked around.

Better to dispel — if she could — any feeling they might have of being threatened.

“Enjoy the rest of your retreat.”

“We will,” Tom said, answering for the two of them, and then they continued walking away while Sarah watched.

And when they turned the corner of the path, heading to the stables — and surely a report to Gustav — Sarah slid out her phone.

Jack would find this all very interesting.

*

She kept walking as she talked to Jack on the phone, making sure no one was nearby, nobody within earshot.

“What do you think, Jack?”

“Dunno. I mean, they could just be two odd birds. But from what you describe, they sure seemed to act suspiciously.”

“And their answers? The American was so quick to answer, but Isabel stumbled on my question about any chats with Byrne.”

“Yes, and there’s their supposed breakfast all together?”

“Right,” Sarah said. “Which Gustav has no memory of.”

“Do you think you can find out anything about them?”

“Can try. You know Jack — I did have this one other thought. Something I find a little strange.”

“Yes?”

“They’re from three different countries. I mean, I suppose such things happen. Germany, France, US. And yet Tom and Isabel — when I first saw them talking — it really seemed like they knew each other.”

“And yet Gustav said that they all stayed by themselves.”

“Or so he wants everyone to think.”

For a moment, Jack said nothing. Sarah had reached her car, and she had to salvage some work time this afternoon.

This detective stuff was fun, exciting; but doing it for free didn’t pay the bills.

“Jack, what are you thinking?”

“Yes. Um, I’m thinking … I’m going to do something.”

“Which is?”

He laughed. “Remember the phrase ‘plausible deniability’?”

And that made her laugh as well. “Yes. If I don’t know something…”

“Right. You can’t be implicated. So if I should do something a tad … illegal.”

Funny,
Sarah thought.

Jack was about as much “by the book” as any person she had ever met.

And yet he would — if it was important — take steps that clearly went over the line.

“Whatever it is, you’ll tell me what you find out?”

“You bet. If I’m lucky, expect a call tonight. Might be a bit late.”

“I’ll keep my phone close.” Then time for Sarah to pause. “Jack?”

“Yup?”

“What you saw, in the woods. That means someone had been there, that somehow this might be a murder, not a medical accident?”

“That’s right.”

“And if someone wanted Byrne dead, they won’t be happy with what we’re doing?”

“I imagine not.”

“So, I’m just saying. You, me — we should be careful, don’t you think?”

“Always. Safety first. No unnecessary risks.”

“Like tonight. Whatever it is. You be careful.”

Another great laugh from Jack. “You know, I do love it when you worry about me.” Then his voice turned serious. “I’ll do my best Sarah, you can count on that. And I hope you find out something about our three seekers of peace and serenity.”

Who hadn’t seemed serene just moments ago.

“Okay, will do. Speak later.”

And with a quick “bye”, Jack was gone, with Sarah left wondering what it was he planned on doing.

Plausible deniability?

More like, worrying about Jack for the next few hours…

She got into her car, and started down the meandering drive away from the property, where it felt like the woods, the buildings, and the people could all be hiding secrets…

Jack used the light from his phone to look at the rectory door.

It was ancient, the lock as well; should give easily, he thought, and he’d broken into many similar back in New York.

But in this case, he discovered that if he simply pulled, tugged, and rattled the wobbly door knob, the door popped free of its latch.

That,
Jack thought,
should definitely be repaired. Anyone can get in here.

He quickly entered the dark building then pulled the door closed behind him.

He waited until his eyes had adjusted to the gloom.

Once he did, there was enough ambient light from outside that he should be able to find his way up the stairs, and to Byrne’s room.

Breaking and entering.

Yup. Better that Sarah should be out of this loop.

One of these days he’d be doing something like this, and good old Alan — the local cop — would roll up in his patrol car.

It was — after all — illegal.

A few seconds, and he was ready to go, and he started moving to the stairs.

*

At the end of the hallway, near Byrne’s room, its door open, Jack saw that a big window with net curtains let in milky light from the quarter moon.

He could also see the shadows of tables and armchairs in the wide hallway.

The rectory was big — far too big just to house the local parish priest. At some point this place must have been filled with priests, passing through on their way to missions around the world, bringing the Holy Roman Church to the four corners of the globe.

But these days, that globe had changed, the church had changed; business, Jack guessed, was off.

And somehow, despite his own lack of belief, he regretted that.

The world seemed more solid and safe back then, when he was a kid. Priests and nuns had all the answers, after the Pope and God of course.

These days — who had any answers?

Back to work…

To his right was a bathroom, the curtainless frosted window letting in the moonlight. He went in, his eyes quickly scanning the space.

A seventies bathroom suite. One towel. One bar of soap. A bottle of shampoo. Above the hand basin was a small cabinet. He opened it — just a few toiletries.

No meds. Maybe in the bedroom?

He slipped out into the hall again, then stepped into Byrne’s room.

Though Sister Mary had let him check out Byrne’s office, where they found the watch, Jack wondered if a man like Byrne, a gambler, someone who liked the ponies, would have a place to keep secrets?

The room was so dark he’d have to use the light on his phone.

He pulled down a shade so that the light wouldn’t be seen by anyone outside, though the rectory was far enough away from the main road that Jack didn’t imagine anyone would come strolling by.

He looked around the room. Whereas the office downstairs was bare and characterless — up here the real Eamon Byrne was in evidence.

The walls were covered in framed photographs. Jack worked his way along them, leaning in close, the light from his phone like a spotlight, illuminating the priest’s past…

Some of the older black-and-white pictures were clearly from Eamon’s days as a young priest: first day at the seminary, playing rugby, with an older couple — his parents maybe — on his ordination.

In all of them a younger Eamon beamed out at the camera — burly, broad-shouldered, confident, grinning.

Then pictures from around the world: African schools with smiling kids all around him, India, with other priests and nuns, America, with politicians.
Was that a Kennedy shaking his hand?

Then there were running pictures — marathon shots, publicity pictures. Framed newspaper cuttings lauding the Flying Father. In some of the photos, Jack recognised Liam, also in running gear.

The more recent pictures showed Eamon outside what looked like an old people’s home, standing between carers and groups in wheelchairs, or with his arm around an old lady who stared blankly into the lens…

In some of these, Liam could be seen too — like Eamon, wearing a priest’s dog-collar.

A sign was just visible in the background. Jack pressed close to the glass to read it: “St. Elrich’s Hospice.”