The Price of Silence

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  He waited a few minutes for the creak of the door, but no creak came. Should he, perhaps, go into the church? There was no door into the priest’s side of the confessional from the church, only a blank wall. The priest entered the confessional from the sacristy and newcomers sometimes didn’t realize the priest was there, waiting to hear their confession. Then he heard footsteps and relaxed. They would come in soon.

  They didn’t.

  Instead he heard a voice. It was a man’s voice, quiet but sharp with anger. ‘You’re late.’

  Father Quinet blinked in surprise. Anger was an unusual state of mind in which to approach confession. It was a fault he would have to bring to the unseen’s attention.

  A woman answered. Her voice was also quiet but indignant, made sharper by her shrill London accent. ‘Don’t you take that tone with me. I didn’t know where this place was. It took me ages to find it.’

  Father Quinet found himself nodding in unconscious agreement. St Mark the Evangelist, like all Catholic churches in this foreign land, hid itself away down a side street, away from its Anglican neighbours.

  ‘Don’t be late again.’ The man’s voice was curt and he had an accent Father Quinet found hard to place. Was he an American? Perhaps. ‘There’s a lot at stake. He’s worried by recent events.’

  ‘It wasn’t my fault the Jowett business went wrong.’

  Father Quinet frowned. Jowett? The name rang a very faint bell.

  The man sighed impatiently. ‘That’s all over and done with. I’ve managed to convince him it was just bad luck.’

  ‘Bad luck? It’s thanks to me that it wasn’t more than bad luck. Without me, we’d have been up the creek and no mistake.’

  ‘All right,’ said the man grumpily. ‘You’ve had a reward. What more d’you want?’

  ‘A few manners would be nice,’ said the woman with a sniff.

  ‘Can it, will you? I don’t mind telling you I’m worried. We’ve never handled anything as big as this before. We have to show him we mean business.’

  If Father Quinet had been a younger man, he would have risen indignantly and shooed away this couple who seemed to think the church was nothing more than a handy free space to hold a business meeting. Visions of Christ driving the money changers from the temple rose in his mind. He tried to stand, but his arthritic knee jabbed an agonizing protest and he sank back in his chair, gathering his strength.

  ‘I don’t know why we’ve come here,’ said the woman petulantly. ‘I’ve never had nothing to do with churches.’

  ‘I’ve used this place before. It’s quiet and he wants to be private. Jowett worried him. That’s why he wants to meet you. He wants this kept completely private, you understand? This is between you, me and him. If one word leaks out—’

  ‘I know how to hold my tongue. Where is he, anyway?’ she added aggressively. ‘If anyone’s late, he is.’

  ‘He’s the client. He’s allowed to be late.’

  Father Quinet’s eyebrows rose in disbelief. Was it possible that the church – his church – was being used not merely for business but for a sordid assignation? He gathered his cassock around him and, gripping the arm of the chair, made another move to stand up, when more steps sounded outside.

  He paused, listening keenly, wanting to hear details of the transaction, wanting to assure himself that he was right, that his grasp of English had not misled him.

  There was a creak as the newcomer sat down.

  ‘Bonjour, Monsieur.’ It was the woman. Father Quinet blinked. The woman still spoke in unmistakable cockney, but the language was French.

  There was a satisfied laugh. ‘Tres bien.’

  Why on earth were they speaking French? No matter what language they spoke, this had to be stopped. It was a man’s voice but, Father Quinet was sure, not the first man. This must, he thought with a shudder of fastidious disgust, be the client. Once again he was about to stand up, when the client spoke once more, again in French.

  ‘So you speak the language?’

  ‘We both do,’ said the first man. Astonishingly, he also spoke in French. ‘We lived in Paris for five years. The language isn’t a problem.’

  ‘Do you speak it well enough to look after the child?’

  The child? What child? Curiosity kept Father Quinet in his seat.

  ‘And the journey?’ continued the client. ‘That will not bother you?’

  ‘Not if you arrange things. As he told you, we lived in Paris.’

  ‘Good.’ The client was evidently satisfied. ‘You are competent to deal with children?’

  Again, the woman spoke in French. ‘How difficult can it be?’

  The first man intervened. ‘She’s a quick learner.’

  Father Quinet could hear the doubt in the client’s voice. ‘If we’re recommending her, she must be good.’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ said the woman. ‘I want to be paid in English money, mind. None of your foreign stuff.’

  ‘You will be well rewarded!’ The client’s voice was thin with impatience.

  ‘That’s what you say, but you can’t tell me there isn’t anything dodgy going on. I want to know what I’m letting myself in for and how much I’m getting.’

  ‘You will both receive two hundred when you start and another eight hundred when the job is completed.’

  There were a few moments of dead silence.

  The man whistled appreciatively, but it was the woman who spoke. ‘A thousand quid?’ she said in an awed voice. ‘All for me, you mean? That’s a lot of money.’

  The client gave a short laugh. ‘Enough to ensure you keep quiet and obey orders, yes?’

  ‘Well …’ The woman hesitated. ‘What’s going to happen to the kid? I don’t want it killed.’

  Father Quinet’s eyes widened in horror. This wasn’t business or even a sordid assignation. This was downright wickedness.

  ‘You would care about the child?’ asked the client quickly.

  ‘If I’m involved, yes. It’s too risky, even if the money’s good. People get funny about kids.’

  There was a long pause, then the client said, ‘You will take her to Jane Fleet.’

  ‘Jane Fleet?’ repeated the woman. ‘Who’s she?’

  The first man laughed. ‘Never you mind. I know all about Jane Fleet.’

  Jane Fleet, Father Quinet repeated to himself. That was a name to remember.

  The client spoke again. ‘The child will not be harmed.’

  With a shrinking of his flesh, Father Quinet knew the man was lying.

  ‘However,’ continued the client, ‘although the reward is great, there is only one penalty for failure.’

  There was dead silence.

  ‘Are you threatening us?’ said the man.

  The client’s voice was icy. ‘I am pointing out the obvious. We cannot tolerate another failure such as Jowett.’

  Jowett? thought Father Quinet. He knew that name but from where? He dismissed the elusive memory and concentrated, listening hard.

  ‘The Jowett affair was bad luck,’ said the first man. ‘I did what I could.’

  ‘A very valuable resource was lost. This must not happen again.’

  ‘All right,’ said the first man. He sounded harried.

  ‘If the police had not been stupid, our entire operation would have been compromised. Jowett—’

  ‘Thanks to me, we got away with Jowett,’ interrupted the first man.

  ‘Thank to me, actually,’ put in the woman icily. ‘The police get a bit too nosy for my liking when there’s a sudden death. I don’t like deaths.’

  Death! With a sudden rush of memory, Father Quinet remembered pausing as he read the newspaper. He had joined his hands in prayer. Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine, et lux perpetua luceat eis … Eternal rest give unto them, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them. They were the first lines of the mass for the dead. The Jowetts were dead.

  There was an exasperated sigh from the church. ‘Look, it’s better if we put our ca
rds on the table.’ It was the first man. ‘There’ll be at least one death. It’s better to have this out in the open now. I don’t want you to have anything to complain about.’

  ‘Murder?’ asked the woman.

  Father Quinet could hardly restrain his gasp of horror. There was silence from the church.

  ‘You could call it murder, I suppose,’ said the first man eventually.

  The woman was silent for a while. ‘Any chance I’ll be nabbed for it?’

  ‘None whatsoever.’

  Again, she was silent for a while. ‘All right,’ she said grudgingly. ‘You’ve always played square with me before. Mind you, I could mention a few things if I was nabbed.’

  ‘It would be much, much better for you if you didn’t.’ It was the client and his voice was silky with menace.

  ‘Don’t you threaten me,’ said the woman petulantly. ‘All right, I’m in. I’ll have to learn the ropes, though.’

  The client sighed impatiently. ‘It would be better to find a woman who is already trained.’

  ‘Where from?’ demanded the woman. ‘If you can find someone else who speaks the lingo, can look after kids, and who isn’t squeamish about murder, you’re welcome to them.’

  ‘She’s right,’ said the first man.

  ‘How long will it take?’ demanded the client. ‘Time is short.’

  ‘I’d like a month.’

  ‘A month! This needs to happen within days. I can let you have a fortnight, and even that might be too long.’

  ‘What about the kid?’ asked the woman. ‘What if she talks?’

  She, Father Quinet noted. It was a little girl who was in danger.

  The client made a dismissive noise. ‘It’s up to you to keep her quiet. How you do it is your affair.’

  ‘And the orphanage won’t kick up? They’re nuns, aren’t they? I don’t know nothing about nuns.’

  ‘These nuns will not complain,’ said the client and something in his voice made Father Quinet shudder.

  ‘You’re sure?’ asked the first man. ‘I don’t want it to go wrong because of some snivelling nun.’

  ‘It will not go wrong. We have used this particular child before, you understand? Sister Marie-Eugénie has enjoyed certain privileges because of her co-operation.’

  Marie-Eugénie. Father Quinet hung hungrily onto the name. That was a real fact. Sister Marie-Eugénie and Jane Fleet. He must remember those names.

  ‘Such as what?’ asked the woman suspiciously.

  ‘You ask too many questions,’ said the client curtly. ‘The orphanage has been allowed to continue and Marie-Eugénie has been left unmolested. That is enough.’

  There was a creak from the pew and a shuffle of feet. He’d evidently stood up. ‘We are agreed then?’

  ‘We’re agreed,’ said the first man. ‘I’ll let you know in the usual way when we are ready.’

  ‘Time is short,’ said the client. ‘Remember that.’

  Father Quinet heard the sound of feet on the stone flags as the client left. As quietly as he could, he levered himself to his feet. He needed to be quick. The client had gone but he wanted to see this terrible man and woman who had so calmly plotted murder. Yes, he needed to be quick, but age and stiffness took its toll. By the time he got out of the sacristy and into the church, the church was empty and the street outside, once he had hobbled to the door, was deserted.

  FOUR

  Father Quinet had never felt so handicapped by his position and his nationality. If this was Belgium, he would have consulted his bishop. As it was, he had to consult the parish priest, his superior, Father Croft.

  Father Croft was sceptical. He suggested that the old man had fallen asleep and dreamt it all. That, in Father Croft’s view, would be the most convenient explanation.

  Father Croft liked convenience. He was a brisk, no-nonsense man with a large, poverty-stricken parish that had quite enough problems of its own before it had swelled alarmingly with the flood of Belgian refugees.

  Father Croft, who marshalled his curates like a general deploying his troops, found Father Quinet an inconvenient anomaly. After all, Father Quinet had had his own parish for many years, even if it was in Belgium. He was far too old to be treated as a curate but not old enough to be safely retired. Father Croft assigned him the care of the Belgian refugees and – this was convenient – let him run their affairs as a parish within a parish. Father Croft was dismissive of the idea of going to the police and was annoyed when Father Quinet, with the help of a Belgian parishioner, who had been a lawyer before the war, insisted on going to Scotland Yard.

  Father Quinet’s statement gave the Deputy Commissioner, Douglas Lynton, a problem.

  If it hadn’t been for the mention of the Jowett case, he would have probably filed the statement away and waited on events. The trouble was, although there was certainly something criminal afoot, exactly how it could be prevented was anyone’s guess.

  But then there was this odd connection with the Jowett case.

  The police had apparently been stupid over the Jowett case, but for the life of him, he couldn’t see how. The Jowett case troubled him. Even though he couldn’t fault the way Inspector Tanner had handled the case, he had been uneasy with the obvious conclusion. Now, in light of what Father Quinet had stated, it seemed as if he’d been right to doubt the obvious.

  Not only that, but it sounded as if some further devilry was being planned. Whatever it was, it sounded as if it was going to happen in France or, possibly, Belgium. The reference to a journey, the fact that part of the conversation had been in French and the insistence that the woman spoke the language certainly suggested as much. Should he report it to the War Office? The lack of details made him pause and then he suddenly thought of Sir Charles Talbot.

  Talbot had been a policeman, a colleague, a big, affable, Irishman and one of the shrewdest men Sir Douglas had ever met. He had been knighted upon his retirement from the force and was now supposedly in a sinecure of a post that was vaguely described as something to do with police pensions.

  The truth was, as Sir Douglas and a very few others knew, that Charles Talbot had been picked to set up an intelligence service. Its aim was to counter threats from Fenians, anarchists and revolutionaries who promoted their cause with gunfights and bombs in the London streets. As his own name was far too familiar to the various Fenians, anarchists and revolutionaries, Charles Talbot worked from a small office in Angel Alley off Cockspur Street under the name and description of Mr W. Gabriel Monks, General Agent.

  When war was declared, the tiny service had taken on a new role, gathering information about the enemy.

  Charles Talbot, thought Sir Douglas, wouldn’t take too much notice of that crack about police stupidity. Inspector Tanner was nobody’s fool and, in light of the evidence, there was no other conclusion possible about the Jowett case. Talbot would understand that.

  Talbot did. It was interesting. Very interesting. And what, perhaps, was the most interesting of all was the mention of Sister Marie-Eugénie. Because, he thought, as he walked from Whitehall to the War Office, the mention of Sister Marie-Eugénie could only mean that this was a case for Dr Anthony Brooke.

  Tara Brooke was trying hard to keep her spirits up. After a three-day leave, Anthony was going back to France. They’d been married for seven weeks and he was going back to France.

  If the wind was in the right direction, the sound of the guns could be heard in London.

  Anthony had to go back to the guns. Anthony, who could make her heart turn over, Anthony with his kindly grey eyes and wonderful smile, was going back. Back to a Casualty Clearing Station, back to the bombed-out cellars just behind the front line.

  The lunch – a special lunch, with as many of Anthony’s favourite things as she could manage – tasted like dust. Tears were very near but she wasn’t going to send him off in tears. She was fiercely proud of who he was and what he did and her own small sacrifice to the war was to be as brave in remaining as he was in leav
ing. Tears were for later.

  If only this was a normal day! She knew that later she’d think of so much she should’ve said, but anything ‘normal’ sounded trite and all the things she really wanted to say were awkward, weighty and embarrassing. To say the conversation was stilted was an understatement.

  The doorbell rang. Tara clutched the tablecloth convulsively as Anthony looked up, puzzled.

  ‘We weren’t expecting anyone, were we?’

  ‘Certainly not,’ she said, and was relieved to hear her voice sounded steady. She could hear Ellen, the maid, open the door. ‘No one would interrupt us on your last day.’

  Ellen had been given instructions that they were not at home. It was unendurable that Anthony’s last few hours should be shared with anyone else but her. Unendurable, yes, but – she twisted with guilt – she couldn’t help feeling slightly relieved.

  There were voices in the hall. Was that Charles Talbot? What on earth did he want?

  Tara liked Sir Charles very much but they had seen him yesterday. Resentment flared. After all, he knew this was Anthony’s last day. She expected Ellen to show Sir Charles into the sitting room, to wait until they finished lunch at least, but to her absolute astonishment, the door opened and Sir Charles walked in.

  ‘I’m sorry to interrupt,’ he said, as Anthony stood up. ‘Mrs Brooke,’ he added with a smile, ‘I’m not surprised you’re looking daggers at me, but I really needed to catch Brooke before he left. Please, go on with your meal.’

  ‘Take a seat, Talbot,’ said Anthony. He gave Tara a what-can-I-say look as he sat down. ‘What can I do for you, old man?’