The Bells of Scotland Road

by Ruth Hamilton

  ‘Never!’ roared Liam. ‘There’s nothing wrong with me. Look at my exam results; look at all I’ve achieved. No mentally sick person could do what I’ve done.’

  Sam dropped his head. ‘Your cleverness is part of your illness,’ he said sadly. ‘And that’s the unfortunate thing. You were born with a magnificent brain and you have used your natural superiority to do damage. I’m sorry, son. I’m so sorry for you.’

  Liam leapt across the room. Soon, he would work out what must be done. As God’s chosen messenger, he must carry on with his work. ‘Will you hang me?’ he asked. ‘Or will you have your own son locked away for life with insane people? Where is the stole?’

  Sam saw the devil in his son’s eyes and backed away.

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘No.’ Sam pulled at his collar, which was suddenly tight. He had to get out, had to get away from the madman. The world had fallen apart since Flash Flanagan’s visit. Until a couple of hours ago, Sam had been the father of a priest. Now, he was the father of a maniac.

  ‘Tell me!’ commanded Liam.

  A red-hot pain shot through Sam’s chest. It travelled swiftly down his arms and into his wrists. There was no air in the room. Knowing that he was dying, he thought briefly about his pretty young wife, his poor old mother and the son who had gone to work in Bolton, the son he had neglected.

  Liam stood by helplessly while his father dropped like a stone. He bent down and shook Sam’s arm, recognized immediately that the man was dead. Like an animal, the priest lifted his head and roared at the ceiling. His father was gone. More importantly, the stole had been found and he, Father Liam Bell, was in danger.

  Fourteen

  The pavements were packed with people, yet a strange quiet overhung much of Scotland Road. Old enemies rubbed shoulders, all differences forgotten in the wake of recent events. United by tragedy, friend and foe stood together to mourn the passing of a man whose shop, like all the others, was closed for the first time in years.

  Outside Dolly Hanson’s, a Daily Herald poster had been knocked to the ground, ‘PRIEST STILL MISSING’ screamed the headline. Sam Bell had died of a heart attack in the presbytery of St Aloysius Gonzaga, and his son had disappeared without trace on the same evening.

  ‘I suppose he might be upset, like. In shock or sent crazy with grief,’ said Alice Makin, doubtfully. Alice, money-lender and seller of second-hand clothes, had woken this morning in her own bed rather than in the bridewell. Out of respect for the deceased, she had stuck to brown ale for several days. She had also taken the unprecedented step of leaving her market stall unopened. The gigantic woman, surrounded by other ‘Paddy’s’ traders, waited with everyone else for Sam’s coffin to be borne out of Bell’s Pledges. ‘For all we know, Father Bell couldn’t take no more, so he ran off when his dad dropped dead.’

  The pot stall woman grunted. ‘He never cared about nobody, that Father Bell. He once gave me a dozen decades for swearing. Twelve bloody decades. My old man got no tea that night because I kept forgetting how many times I’d been round the beads. Horrible, that priest was. I can’t see him dashing off just because his old feller keeled over. More to it than that, Alice.’

  Alice Makin sighed. ‘I’ve met nobody what liked Father Liam, the po-faced bugger. But Sam Bell thought the world of him, loved his bones. Never had no time for their Anthony. Sam was the only one what loved Liam. So now, Liam hasn’t got a friend on this earth. I wonder where he’s buggered off to?’

  ‘He doesn’t want friends,’ snapped the pot-seller. ‘He likes people not liking him. Cut above us all, that one. No, he’s not gone off grieving, Alice.’

  The trams had stopped running, were spilling their human cargo onto the road. Drivers got down and removed their hats. A postman lingered with his sack, waited with everyone else for Sam Bell to make his final journey to church.

  At the back of the crowd, a thin blue line was forming.

  ‘Police,’ breathed Alice.

  ‘Never mind – you’re sober,’ replied Alice’s colleague.

  ‘I bet they’re looking for him,’ decided Alice Makin.

  ‘For Father Bell?’

  ‘Yes. Told you, Polly. There’s more going on than what meets the eye. I’ve got a funny feeling about this lot,’ she whispered. ‘I keep hoping he’s just run away because he’s sad, but my flesh carries on crawling. There’s something wrong.’

  But the woman who was usually called Potty Polly wasn’t convinced that the boys in blue were looking for Father Bell. The police were here because the Protestants were here. She cast an eye over familiar faces, noticed Jews among Christians, Methodists in line with Catholics, nuns side by side with uniformed members of the Sally Army. ‘He never had a lot to say for himself, Sam Bell,’ she decided aloud. ‘But he was fair. Did you ever see the likes of this, Alice? There’s that kosher butcher, the one what always pays to have his fire lit by a Christian lad on Saturdays. And look – that lot over there marches with the Orange every year. They’ve all come out for Sam Bell. If I hadn’t seen this with my own eyes, I’d never have believed it, not in a month of Easter Sundays.’

  Alice nodded and folded ham-like arms across her ample chest. ‘There’ll be no fighting,’ she advised her companion. ‘Not at a funeral. Police aren’t here because of the crowd. No, there’s got to be something else.’

  Potty Polly smiled sadly. It was nice to see everybody together like this. For years, there had been trouble on ‘walking days’, when Catholics paraded through the streets with brass bands playing behind statues carried by strong men. On walking days, the Protestants had to keep their distance from Scotland Road.

  The little old woman who had sold pots on Paddy’s Market for almost half a century thought about the Orange marches, too, when Catholic children threw fruit and abuse in the direction of King Billy’s horse as it ambled through the streets with a child on its back. The poor lad who pretended to be Billy inevitably ended up spattered and filthy. Yet today, because a quiet and rather cool-mannered pawnbroker had died, the people stood united in an almost silent wall of tribute. ‘He was respected,’ said Polly.

  ‘He was honest to a fault,’ agreed Alice. ‘But I still wonder why the Rose Hill mob have turned up. And there’s coppers from other stations, too. They’ll be up to no good, as usual.’ Alice’s antipathy towards the guardians of the peace was a legend in her own lifetime. ‘They say Anthony made peace with Sam just before he died.’

  ‘Who says?’

  Alice shrugged her huge shoulders. ‘People.’

  ‘Diddy Costigan?’ asked Polly. Alice and Diddy were good mates. Diddy was always a reliable source of information. ‘Was it Diddy that told you?’

  ‘Yes. But that was all she said. There was a lot she didn’t say.’

  Polly scratched her nose. ‘How do you know there was a lot she didn’t say if she didn’t say it?’

  ‘I just do. Shut up, Polly. Here comes poor Sam, God bless him.’

  Complete silence visited the road while Sam was brought out of his shop. Six bearers carried him, with Billy Costigan and Anthony Bell at the front. The other four were dockers who had forgone a morning’s pay to help Billy with his tragic burden.

  Alice Makin sniffed and wiped her face on a corner of her grey shawl. She fixed her eyes on Bridie Bell, a small figure in black. The young woman’s face was hidden by a veil. ‘She’ll have her work cut out,’ breathed Alice. ‘No bigger than a child and with a business to run.’ She could not imagine Bridie emptying a house or giving a hand with a chest of drawers. ‘Good God,’ Alice exclaimed, ‘it’s old Theresa.’

  Bridie steeled herself at the sight of so many people. She clung to her mother-in-law’s arm, wondered who was supporting whom. Theresa had not cried, had shed no tears for her departed son. The old lady had simply sat for several days with cups of tea and a grim expression. ‘Liam did it,’ she had said from time to time. ‘Liam killed our Sam.’

  When the dreadful news had reached Cherry Hinton
, Bridie had decided to leave her daughters at the farm. It was no use dragging two little girls through a procession and a Requiem Mass. Strangely, Bridie had grieved for the man she had married. She had not known him long, but he had done his best for her and the children. Kindness always made Bridie cry. Mammy had been kind. Until Sam, Mammy had been the only kindness Bridie had known at close quarters.

  Of course, Da had turned up. There was a saying about bad pennies, and Thomas Murphy was a full half-crown’s worth. Since his arrival from Ireland, he had worn a smug grin, had stalked about looking like the cat who had eaten the cream. Was he expecting his daughter to return defeated to live with him?

  She shuddered. Da was a bad man. Bridie chased a thought from her mind, forced herself to stop wishing that the coffin contained Thomas Murphy instead of Sam Bell. Fourth commandment, she told herself sternly. Honour thy father and thy mother, even if thy father is the wicked creature who drove thy lovely mother to an early grave.

  ‘You all right, love?’ whispered Theresa.

  ‘Yes. And you?’

  ‘I’ll be lighter when yon so-called priest is locked up or hanged.’

  Muth knew nothing, yet she knew everything. It was probably something to do with being very old, Bridie decided. The police were here, were standing shoulder to shoulder behind the crowds. There would be no trouble, Sam’s widow thought. People were here just to say goodbye to Sam.

  The cortège turned left and entered the small forecourt of St Aloysius Gonzaga. A glass-sided hearse waited to carry Sam’s body to the cemetery. In front of this vehicle, two black horses stood still, jet plumes on their heads disturbed only by the breeze.

  Michael Brennan led the way. Sickened by what had happened recently, he felt as if he were in some kind of dream. But no, this was real. He had blessed Sam’s cooling body with holy oils, had sent the bad news to the next of kin. And Father Bell had disappeared from the face of the earth.

  The priest turned and looked at the packed church. He raised his right hand. ‘In nomine Patris, et filii, et Spiritus Sancti,’ he began. ‘Introibo ad altare Dei . . .’

  Diddy Costigan knelt and prayed. Her heart pounded. Sam Bell had dropped dead in the priests’ house. According to what the police had gathered, Sam and Liam had been alone. Father Brennan had returned from hearing confessions to find a body on the floor and no sign of Liam.

  Liam had not killed Sam. But had Sam died because of Liam? she wondered. Had guilt about something or other driven the young priest away? With a great effort, Diddy forced herself back into the present. This was going to be a long mass complete with the Dies irae and all the other lengthy prayers that accompanied a proper requiem. She must concentrate. But her eyes slid towards her Billy and she continued to wonder why Liam Bell had run away so suddenly.

  The piles of sandwiches had diminished to a few crusts and crumbs. Diddy continued to run about with a teapot, while Nicky Costigan doled out dishes of trifle. Bridie sat by the fire, her bones chilled in spite of the flames. Anthony was avoiding her. She was glad about that, grateful for his thoughtfulness. He had cried in church. There was a certain strength about a man who cried in public, she thought. His father was dead, so he grieved. She thanked God that the rift had been healed, felt heartily sorry for Anthony and Sam. Their peace had been achieved via Sam’s broken heart, and that injured organ had stopped as a result of shock.

  ‘Cup of tea, queen?’

  Bridie shook her head. Would Diddy remain friendly once the whole truth was aired? Would she be offering cups of tea when she discovered that a Bell had tried to murder Maureen?

  ‘You’ve had nothing,’ accused Diddy.

  ‘I’m not hungry.’

  ‘Just a drink, then.’

  ‘Later,’ promised Bridie.

  Michael Brennan made his way across the kitchen, a glass of stout in his hand. He was seriously worried. Anthony had alerted him weeks ago about Liam’s state of mind, but the young priest had been visible then. Now, suddenly, Liam Bell had disappeared into the sunset and Anthony was almost beside himself. ‘He’ll not be found,’ Anthony had said earlier. ‘He’s clever and cunning and he’ll hide till the fuss dies down. Then he’ll be back for me, for Bridie and for anyone else he decides to hate.’

  Bridie awarded the parish priest a smile. ‘Thank you for the service, Father. And for your kind words about Sam.’

  ‘He put bread on many a table, Bridie. He seemed cold – distant, you know – but he wasn’t.’

  She nodded.

  ‘There’ll be the will to read, I suppose.’

  ‘Yes.’

  The short man dragged a dining chair across the rug and sat next to the young widow. ‘What’ll you do?’

  Bridie blinked. ‘About what, Father Brennan?’

  Michael took a sip of beer. ‘’Twas well known that Sam intended to leave his worldly goods to Liam and the Church. I imagine Sam will have made arrangements for his mother, but what about you and the girls?’

  Bridie could find no answer. She glanced across at Edith and Richard. ‘Maureen’s minding the children over at Cherry Hinton today,’ she said. ‘And perhaps that’s how it’s going to be for a while – one day at a time.’

  ‘Of course, if Liam cannot be found—’

  ‘Surely he’ll go to prison eventually?’ Bridie shook her head. ‘I can’t believe that he will remain free, Father. Sam told Anthony that there was evidence of some kind. But he didn’t live long enough to explain properly.’

  Michael Brennan nodded. ‘The police have been told very little. They know about his rages – they took some convincing, of course, but they listened to me. And Anthony told them of his suspicions about Valerie and those other girls.’ He glanced at Diddy’s back. ‘We decided to say nothing about Maureen. It seemed . . . wrong to bring that up just now. But I think Anthony and I managed to convince the police that Liam’s a potential danger. That should be enough.’ He shook his head. ‘What’ll you do, Bridie? Will you go to Edith and Richard? Or will you return to Galway?’

  ‘I shall stay where I am for now, Father Brennan.’

  Thomas Murphy blundered across the room. He had obviously poured several measures of whisky down his gullet. ‘Well, is this you on your way back home?’ he asked his daughter. ‘Because if you do come back, things will be the same as they were. You’ll not let the O’Briens get their Protestant hands on my grandchildren, not while I live and breathe.’

  The parish priest of St Aloysius Gonzaga held his tongue. While people like Thomas Murphy lived, the ecumenical movement would make no progress. Poor Sam Bell had done more in death than this fellow would ever achieve while still breathing. Methodists and Catholics had watched with Church of England nuns when Sam had been borne through the streets. Thomas Murphy carried the bigotry that had waged wars for too long in the name of Jesus Christ. This was a wicked man, an unfeeling man.

  Bridie looked at her father, stared him full in the face. She was no longer afraid of the bully. ‘Our coming home would not suit you, Da,’ she said sweetly. ‘After all, you may come to Liverpool more often if your grandchildren are here.’

  She paused, turned her head and nodded towards Dolly Hanson. Dolly was resplendent in a dark-grey coat with a dead fox wrapped across its shoulders. According to local gossip, Thomas Murphy and Dolly had been lovers for a great many years. ‘You’ll see your ladylove regularly if we stay here, Da. After all, your journeys with horses don’t happen too often these days, do they? You seem to have parted with the best of your stock. Grand horses, Silver and Sorrel. Still, you will come to visit Cathy and Shauna, won’t you? And I believe you’ve kept company with Mrs Hanson for some time.’

  Thomas Murphy glanced at the priest, reddened, staggered back a pace. ‘That is none of your business,’ he snapped.

  Bridie inclined her head thoughtfully. ‘It was none of Mammy’s either, I suppose. Yes, I’ve been told. You were keeping company on this side of the Irish Sea long before Mammy’s death.’

&
nbsp; Murphy steadied himself and stood tall. ‘I want those horses back,’ he said.

  ‘Horses?’ Bridie’s eyebrows rose. ‘And which horses would they be, now?’

  ‘You know what I mean,’ said the large Irishman. ‘You mentioned them seconds ago.’

  The young widow pretended to search her memory. ‘Ah, yes. The horses you gave to Sam.’

  ‘They’re the ones.’ Thomas Murphy had heard the rumours. Although the Spencer Stables were trying to keep a low profile, there was a buzz going round some racing circles. Quicksilver and Sorrel were champions in the making, it seemed.

  ‘You bribed Sam to marry me by giving him those horses.’

  The room was suddenly quiet. Diddy placed the teapot on its stand, Billy coughed into the silence, Dolly Hanson picked at her fox fur as if searching for fleas.

  ‘They’re mine,’ spat Thomas Murphy.

  ‘Really?’ Bridie rose to her feet. ‘We just buried a man twice your size, Da. Oh, he wasn’t very tall, but at least he was a man. He gave me the horses, Father, dear. He gave me the papers, too. Any income from race or stud goes to me, Cathy and Shauna. Any foal of Sorrel’s is ours. Any stud fee from Quicksilver goes to me and mine. The horses are ours to sell or to keep.’ She nodded slowly. ‘Sam looked after us, you see. He was a proper husband. He was the best guardian my daughters could have hoped for. So take your . . .’ She looked at Dolly Hanson. ‘Take your friend and go, because you are no comfort to me or to any here present. Except for Mrs Hanson, of course.’

  Michael Brennan stood beside Bridie and placed a hand on her arm. ‘Go easy, now, Bridie,’ he whispered.

  Thomas Murphy shook with rage. He balled a fist and waved it under his daughter’s nose. ‘Flesh and blood is all I am,’ he roared. ‘Your mother was sick and I met Dolly—’

  ‘You met her before your wife was sick.’ Diddy Costigan squeezed her substantial frame into the space between father and daughter. ‘You met Dolly years ago, just after her husband died at sea.’ She nodded at the embarrassed woman. ‘It’s all right, Doll. You were in pain yourself. And by the time you knew he was married, you’d fallen for him.’ She sniffed. ‘Mind, you should get your eyes tested, like.’