by Tony Roberts
“Sure, mister,” the boy said, eyes wide in wonder. The coins would mean a full belly for at least two to three days, something he was not used to. He ran across the street and the figure stepped back into the shadows, watching carefully as the boy rapped on the door, then passed the note to someone who answered it. There came an exchange of words and the boy ran, followed by an angry raised voice.
“Well?” he asked as the boy reached him.
“I did it!” the boy breathed, looking back at the now shut door. “The guy wanted to know who gave the message to me but I didn’t tell him. An’ then he got angry!”
The man grunted. “Here.” He produced an identical coin to that already in the boy’s possession. The boy snatched it greedily and doffed his flat grey cap. “Hey, got another coin there mister?”
“Be grateful for what you have and scram.” The tall stranger loomed over the boy who turned and ran as fast as he could, shouting insults, leaving him alone on the dark street. He took one last look at the door before leaving, walking with even strides, his cloak flapping in the air behind him.
Behind the door where Whitby was to be found, Hartley was staring at the buff paper, folded neatly and affixed at the rear by a red wax seal, the design upon it of a stylized fish. The writing was neat, stylish, and obviously from someone who knew how to write. It was addressed to ‘Mr. Whitby’ in flowing and bold letters. Hartley stood uncertain in the anteroom, torn between opening the letter and leaving it for Whitby to read it upon his recovery. Whitby was currently lying on the same table he’d been operated on, mumbling drunkenly. A smell of whiskey, iodine and antiseptic permeated the air, and Hartley wrinkled his nose in disgust and retreated to the back room where the other man sat, picking his nose.
“What you got there?” the man demanded, eyeing the letter.
“Nuffin’ fer ya, Joe,” Hartley replied. “It’s addressed to Mr. Whitby, an’ you ain’t gonna see it, okay?”
Joe scowled and spat on the floor. “He ain’t comin’ to for some time yet.”
“So?” Hartley glared at Joe, challenging him. “If I sees ya makin’ a grab fer this I’ll shoot ya goddam eyes out.”
Joe muttered a curse aimed at Hartley’s ancestry and lit a half-smoked cigar. Hartley put the letter on the fireplace shelf and sat in the other chair in the small room, getting out a pistol and began cleaning it.
Meanwhile the anonymous figure who had written the mysterious letter had walked the streets of Philadelphia to his abode and entered a neatly kept dwelling. It was built of brick and inside possessed a cheery glow from oil lamps behind constantly cleaned glass. He made his way to the rear of the house where he normally resided, the front belonging to his housekeeper.
He divested himself of his hat, cloak and a woolen scarf and placed them carefully away in a cabinet, which he then locked and sat back in an oak chair and relaxed. Shutting his eyes for a moment his lean, aquiline face reflected an air of peace and tranquility, but he was thinking furiously. His thoughts were interrupted by a timid knock on the door from the hallway and his eyes snapped open. “Come in,” his voice now had echoes of Ireland in it where before in the street it hadn’t, and it was a softer, more friendly tone.
The housekeeper entered, a middle-aged lady of a generous figure and a kindly face. “Ah, Father,” she said by way of greeting, “you’re back.”
“That I am, Mrs. Sawyer,” he smiled. “A good night walk clears the mind, and puts me in the mood for a good cup of tea.”
“I’ll get one for you. Oh, and there’s a Sheriff Drayton in the living room who wishes to speak with you.”
“Oh?” Father Lynch was surprised. “Perhaps I’ll join you in the living room for that cup of tea in that case. I wonder what the sheriff wants?”
Mrs. Sawyer shook her head. “He didn’t tell me. He doesn’t seem, Father,” and she lowered her voice conspiratorially, “to be a particularly well- mannered gentleman.”
“Oh, now Mrs. Sawyer,” Father Lynch admonished her, “let’s not speak ill of someone who I am sure is only doing his duty. I wonder if it’s about the fire?”
“I would think so, Father. I’ll go make the tea.”
Mrs. Sawyer led the priest out of the back room along the corridor, then she turned off left into the kitchen while Father Lynch continued on to the front of the house and entered the living room, which was through the last door on the left. Sitting in one of the stuffed armchairs was a thickset man with a balding head and huge black curls of hair running down his face and ending near his chin. He wore a single star upon his waistcoat and he stood at the entry of the priest.
“Father Lynch?” he queried in a deep, confident voice that spoke of New York.
“I am. Good to meet you, Sheriff. What can I do for you? Please, sit down.”
“Thank you, Father. I’ll come to the point as it’s getting late.” The sheriff made himself comfortable. “I’m looking into the fire at the poor house a few days back that twenty people perished in. I understand your church here ran it, is that correct?”
“Oh, yes. Such a tragic thing to happen.”
The sheriff eyed the priest for a moment, wondering if there was any meaning to the statement, but he seemed to find nothing. “It was no accident, I hope you realize this?”
“So I believe, Sheriff. It’s dreadful that some people can be moved to commit such monstrous crimes.” Father Lynch affected a sorrowful look.
“Hmm. Well, Father, I am led to believe that certain persons were responsible and I would very much like to get my hands on them. I also believe you may know as to one or two of their whereabouts?”
“I really don’t know how I can be involved with such – ah – felons, Sheriff!”
The sheriff shook an impatient hand. “No, no, Father Lynch, you misunderstand. I understand you spoke to one of them on the night of the fire. A certain Case Lonnergan.”
And Father Lynch smiled.
CHAPTER SIX
Lynchburg was a busy town, built on both sides of the James River. The houses were made of brick and wood and were scattered along the banks of the river. The land rose sharply up from the river and some big houses were sited right on top of the rise. The main part of the town rested on the west bank and it was here that the wagon finally stopped, the occupants surveying the buildings along what they took to be the main street.
Case could see a blacksmith’s place and opposite stood a druggist. Further along, up the cobbled street was a long low building which looked a bit like a warehouse but smoke was issuing from two chimneys to he assumed it to be a factory of some sort. To his left stood a grocery store and opposite that, just by the wagon, was a tannery.
People bustled about, some stopping to stare at the wagon which was in a sorry state; it had been raining the last week or so and they had been hauling the wagon out of rutted and muddied roads the past few days. Without Case to add his muscle they would not have made it. Mary looked about and spotted a church off to the left, away from the river. “Ah, there we are, that is where I must visit before we go to the farms out of town.”
O’Driscoll guided the horses slowly down the street, not wanting to cause any panic. To tell the truth, he was too bone weary to make any rapid progress and once more halted the tired beasts outside the church. Case dismounted and helped down Mary. The others piled out of the back, eager to see the town, and began babbling excitedly. O’Driscoll sat in the wagon and yawned, cracking his knuckles.
“Now, children,” Mary scolded them, “hush! I’ve got to deliver this letter to a Father Schofield here.” She paused at the plaque on the wall, which denoted it as a Catholic church and smiled in satisfaction. “Father Lynch said he’d be the priest of our new parish, so he did. God bless him.”
Case couldn’t care less if it was a temple to Baal. His legs needed exercise and he’d spotted a liquor store. However he lacked money, which was a sticking point and wondered how the hell he was going to get some. “Perhaps this Father Schofield mi
ght be a personal friend of Father Lynch?” He had a bad feeling about Schofield.
“Perhaps they are. I’ll ask him once we’re sorted.”
Case shrugged and looked along the street. People seemed to be reasonably affluent here, which made him look shabby in his soiled clothes. The four youngsters gathered around Mary as she knocked on the door. Case slipped behind the horses and took hold of the reins, watching the door like a hawk.
A man dressed in black with the tell-tale white dog’s collar opened it and looked at Mary and the four youngsters. He looked surprised at first but then took the letter offered by Mary and looked at it for a moment before waving them in. Mary turned to Case but he shook his head. “I’ll stay here and wait for you,” he nodded at the horses and wagon.
She followed the man into the church and Case was left to watch the street and the door. He didn’t mind, and he was dubious about entering the domain of what he believed to be a mortal enemy. He had had enough of their ‘hospitality’ in the past, that was for sure. He looked about in curiosity. Horses were ridden down the street fairly frequently, many of the riders being armed with pistols or occasionally carrying a shotgun next to their saddles. He felt naked without a gun, and he had a gut feeling he’d need one fairly soon.
As for Mary, she was led into a room adjacent to the church. The man in black indicated her to sit, and the children sat on a long bench against the whitewashed wall. The man smiled encouragingly at them before opening the letter, breaking the red seal with the stylized fish inset.
Father Schofield’s heart beat fast as he opened the parchment. The fish symbol meant only one thing; it was a missive from the Brotherhood. He scanned the stylish writing, his eyes leaving it once to look briefly at Mary, then he resumed his reading. After a minute or so he put the paper down and folded his hands across it. “Well, it seems my old friend in Philadelphia has repaid me a favor by sending me more to add to my congregation. Those are yourself and those outside, I take it?”
“They are indeed,” Mary said, her expression strictly neutral.
“And the man with you is Mr. Case Lonnergan?”
“Yes, a man who has agreed to be a traveling companion and who has been of great help to us so far. I don’t think without him we could have made this journey. Father Lynch said he’d be useful on our farm”
Schofield leaned back and pursed his lips. He was an averagely built man with a lined face and a thin black beard. “A farm? Yes he would be. There is plenty of land outside town that needs cultivating. There are a fair number of acres used by my flock’s farms that grow food for our community. But we Catholics have to make do with what the Methodists don’t take; they are very numerous here what with the huge number of German immigrants in this neighborhood. I think you will have a nice little parcel of land you can set up in to the west of the town if you’re going to be neighbors of the O’Driscolls.”
Mary smiled. “Aye, it’ll be good if it means we can settle down and have a roof for my children”
“I think you might be able to,” Schofield smiled. “There are other Irish families to the west of town working the land. Do you wish to start afresh or work on an existing farm?”
“What’s the difference?” Mary had no idea what was involved.
“Well, you may have heard that some farms around here use slaves as a workforce. Many immigrants are unhappy about that, and if you are then I’d advise against going to an existing farm.”
“Slaves!” Mary was aghast. “Oh dear Lord, are we still having slaves here? I thought it was ended years ago!”
“You are thinking of Britain’s Act of Parliament ten years ago,” Schofield said. “This is America and not subject to the laws of Britain. We put an end to obeying British laws sixty years ago, Mrs. McGuire. No, we still have slaves here, but it’s becoming something of a heated debate between the north who wishes to end it and the south who rely on slave labor to produce cotton, tobacco and the other crops.”
“Well, I shall oppose the keeping of slaves, that’s for sure.”
“A word of advice if you do; don’t go shouting it in public. Many rich and influential people here in Virginia promote slavery and make a lot of money by it. If you try to fight it you may find yourself in trouble. The Quakers were strong here in Lynchburg once, but they opposed slavery and now are all gone.”
Mary tutted and looked at her four, sitting quietly watching both her and Schofield. “Well, I think we should think about working our own land.”
Schofield smiled and leaned forward. “A wise decision. There was a family out west called Donaghue, and they recently requested help from this church here in Lynchburg but there weren’t sufficient funds to keep their land going, so they left. That land is going to seed, so perhaps that is the one you’re going to settle in. However, without implements or material, I have my doubts, unless the O’Driscolls are going to help.”
“We will have help and the means to buy implements, Father Schofield. Now, can you please show me where I can sell cloth and woven goods?”
“I shall. If you wait here with your lovely children, I’ll go find one of my helpers to show you around town. Father Lynch was right in suggesting Lonnergan came with you, there will be plenty of work to be done.”
“You know Father Lynch well, Father?”
“Oh yes,” Schofield nodded. “Very well.” He stood up and left the room, holding the letter. Once he was in the corridor he quickly re-scanned it and trembled slightly at the words. They were clear and unequivocal. ‘The Beast is with these people; you are to keep him under careful watch until the Elder has been informed and has decided what to do with him. The people he is with are innocent of any association with him but they are a useful tool to keep him in our sight. Do what you must to remain above suspicion. I shall inform the Elder that we have the Beast in sight.’
Schofield called for one of the young assistants who helped keep the church clean and running. The gangly youth, an adolescent, listened carefully to Schofield’s instructions and nodded. He went into the room where the McGuires were and almost swallowed his tongue after catching sight of Ann.
Schofield went out into the street and examined the horses and the wagon. He then looked at the man holding the reins and he felt ice run through his bowels. The scar was there on his face! The muscles bulged under the thin cotton shirt and coarse waist jacket. The ice-blue eyes! Yes, this was the Beast, no doubt about it.
Case examined Schofield. The man was a neat and carefully dressed individual, and the way he looked at him left Case in no doubt this was a Brotherhood member. Just being this close to him wanted to make him close his hands round the thin neck and squeeze. Schofield affected a smile, even though it felt like he had to drag it out of the depths of the earth. “Mr. Lonnergan, I believe?”
“I am. You must be Father Schofield.” And may the fates of life fuck you up forever, he added in his head.
Schofield acknowledged that he was. He couldn’t believe he was standing before the vilest creature in the history of history itself. The teachings of Izram had been mere words to follow up to now, but here was proof that these words were the truth, standing at five foot ten before him. He resisted the urge to spit in his face – most probably inviting a broken face in return – and waved a hand in the direction of the western edges of town. “I believe you will be heading in that direction before long. Enjoy your stay in Virginia.”
Case nodded and mounted up, settling himself on the riding board. Schofield gazed at him once more before turning back towards the church. Case flicked a glance across to old man O’Driscoll who was puffing contentedly on his pipe. Shit, blasted Brotherhood. Trust my damned luck to run into them again. He waited for a short while, then a young man came walking out of the building. He addressed both men. “The others are eating a light lunch. Father Schofield asks if you would care to join us?”
“Sure.” Case was famished, but he was wary about eating as a guest of the Brotherhood. The last time he’d do
ne that Dacort had drugged him. Still, it was unlikely they’d do that, not with the McGuires present. O’Driscoll shook his head; he was reluctant to leave the wagon and horses. Case followed the messenger into the darker recesses of the church building, turned left through a doorway and found himself in a long room dominated by a long wooden table with benches. Sat on the latter were the McGuires, Schofield and a lanky youth who looked at Case with a wary expression.
“O’Driscoll’s staying with the wagon,” Case said to Mary who smiled.
“Come sit down, Mr. Lonnergan, we’re about to eat.”
Case sat down slowly, watching Schofield who reached over to a dresser and put a plate of bread down in the center. Cups stood at each sitting place and a jug of water stood within easy reach for use.
“Only bread, cheese and water I’m afraid,” Schofield said by way of apology, “we’re somewhat frugal here and the main meal isn’t till tonight.”
Case went to take a piece of bread but Mary cleared her throat loudly, made a noise of disapproval and frowned so severely that Case withdrew his hand as though it’d been burned. What the matter was he didn’t know, but then suddenly all stood, Case somewhat belatedly, a confused look on his face. Schofield placed his hands together and shut his eyes. He began to say grace, and Case looked at the others who all obediently were standing with their hands together and had their heads bowed, eyes shut. He followed suit, feeling very awkward and self-conscious. Give him a gun and an outflanking position in the midst of battle and he’d know what to do and when. Grace at a table lost him totally.
