by Paul Charles
‘Yes, Eoin Keane – he’d have been a good deal older than Niall and I’d have played rugby with him when we were both at Queens,’ O’Leary recited, as if reading from a book. He spoke very precisely and in a slightly higher register than Starrett had expected. The priest pressed his thumb and forefinger together, pulling his other three fingers into his fist. He lifted the resultant hand to his mouth level and moved it through the air together as if imitating the nib of a pen he was using to fluently write his spoken words. Starrett imagined the priest would have beautiful flowing handwriting.
‘Yes, Maggie has mentioned Eoin quite a bit to me,’ Starrett offered, ‘they’re very good friends but we’ve never actually met as of yet.’
‘You knew her before she married Niall, didn’t you?’
‘Yes,’ Starrett replied and for a brief moment it looked as if he was going to give the full explanation of his history with Maggie, but then he thought better of it and let the word hang solo in the air between them.
O’Leary’s darting inquisitive eyes looked like they’d read the situation accurately and so he seemed content, as opposed to happy, to let that particular subject drop, at least for now.
Starrett imagined that O’Leary would also get around to raising the subject of his rather animated reaction to the bishop when he felt the time was right.
‘So, this is all very sad with Father Matthew, isn’t it?’ the priest said, signalling that he too was ready to broach the topic they were both together to discuss.
‘Very,’ Starrett replied, taking out his leather-bound notebook and pen if only to acknowledge, from his side, that the interview had officially started. ‘Tell me,’ Starrett continued, picking his words carefully, ‘when was the last time you’d seen Father Matthew alive?’
‘Oh, that would have been today, earlier in the afternoon. I was in Donegal Town on business. I got back here around three o’clock and I nipped into the kitchen area on the way up to my room to pick up some choc bars and a cup of tea. Father Matthew was getting ready to start preparing for dinner.’
‘Did you know Father Matthew very well?’
‘Yes I did, as a matter of a fact,’ O’Leary said, signing off another short sentence in the air.
‘How so?’ Starrett inquired, on a reply he’d originally thought to let go.
‘Well, in point of fact, Father Matthew had lost his way and he’d come to me seeking instruction and we’d hit it off. He was a thoughtful and well-meaning, kind young man.’
‘And you’d managed to gather him back into the flock as it were…’ Starrett started, but struggled to find a conclusion which would not sound patronising.
‘No,’ Father O’Leary claimed, ‘if anything I’d tried to convince him that he might be right; right, that is, to question the teachings of the Roman Catholic Church.’
‘Really?’
‘Why are you surprised at that, Inspector? I’m to believe that you yourself turned your back on the Church.’
‘Maybe I’d incorrectly picked up the impression that Father Matthew was a happy priest,’ Starrett replied, addressing only one half of the issues the priest raised.
‘Well Starrett, as I always told my seniors when I first encountered my own personal doubts with the Church, no one wants to leave a blind shepherd attending the flock.’
‘Yes,’ Starrett offered, breaking into a grin. ‘Why is it you are at St Ernan’s?’
‘Oh I’m too old to attend the flock nowadays,’ O’Leary replied, using only his voice and not the sky-writing this time.
‘But at the time you came here you would have been…’
‘Fit for the lambs as well as the sheep?’ the priest offered in assistance to Starrett’s politeness.
‘Well yes.’
‘I’ll be candid with you, Inspector, in the hope that it might make your investigation easier,’ the priest said, through another warm smile. ‘I felt embarrassed standing up behind the pulpit in front of a congregation. I was extremely annoyed by what some members of the clergy had managed to get away with. I was even more upset about what the Church was guilty of, in trying to cover up the trails of some of its members in order to keep them out of jail. Made me very concerned about how high up all this might go. I was disgusted, as in totally disgusted, at the amount of money they – the Church – was using to cover up this particular situation. I came to realise, as I stood in front of my congregation watching the collection plates being passed through the pews, that it was these people, my congregation, with their hard earned money who were paying once again for the crimes of our Church.’
Starrett was shocked by the priest’s honesty.
‘At the same time I’m still a believer, a committed Christian,’ the priest said and started his sky-writing again during the word, ‘believer’. ‘I have my faith – I love my faith – and I could never just walk away from that. So my bishop allowed me to come here to see out my years, but only on the understanding I would help rid our beloved Church of this malignant cancer that threatens to destroy it as only a cancer can.’
‘So you help those who have suffered at the hands–’
‘No, I’m afraid that is not a quality I have and I continuously ask our Father for forgiveness for this personal fault of mine,’ Father O’Leary admitted. ‘No, what I can do, and what I seem to have been given the aptitude for, is to investigate those molesters accused of committing these atrocious…these crimes against mankind.’
‘You’d call them molesters and not paedophiles?’
‘Paedophiles suggests they molested only the very young, this we now know not to be true,’ O’Leary replied clearly. ‘But I’d like to return to my earlier point because I think it’s very important and, as I mentioned, it is the single reason that I didn’t leave my Church. It’s not that just priests are molesters; it’s more that some men who are priests – in the same way that some men who are lawyers, politicians, pop stars, actors, teachers or whomever – are molesters.’
‘I’d agree with you.’
‘But don’t you see that may not be the popular belief?’ the priest said, as he wrote his way through the air beside his mouth with an imaginary pen. ‘I met a man recently, in point of fact, only today; he said at one point he was thinking, did men become priests so that they could abuse others, or did men become abusers because they are priests.’
‘But, as you’ve just said, lawyers, politicians, pop stars, celebrities, teachers are also–’
‘Yes, yes of course,’ Father O’Leary interrupted, ‘but we also have to consider the fact that all the celibacy we impose on young priests must result in frustration and man is already a weak being, as you and I know well.’
‘Would you allow priests to marry?’
‘I think part of the problem here is too many people express opinions when in point of fact they don’t really have a full and proper understanding. I think there are now enough good people rising to a position of authority in the Church. I’m happy to wait until they reach their conclusions and announce their decisions and then hopefully we’ll be compatible with the times we live in.’
‘So,’ Starrett said, drawing out the word, ‘you said earlier that Father Matthew had lost his way…’
‘Or words to that effect,’ the priest said, through a forgiving smile.
‘Or words to that effect,’ Starrett conceded. ‘Had anything happened to him? Or was he suffering doubts in his faith?’
‘Father Matthew was young, good looking, he liked to look his best, but was he vain? No, I wouldn’t have thought so. He was presentable and there is certainly nothing wrong in this day and age with our priests looking presentable rather than like an old fogey like myself.’
‘Are you saying to me that he was attracting the attention of someone?’
‘I think the best thing would be for you and me to have another chat about this when you’ve gathered some more information.’
‘You’re bound by the–’ Starrett started, thinking he was r
ealising what was happening.
‘I’m not a practising priest, Starrett, but I still think it would be better if you and I chat when you’ve gathered some more information.’
‘Okay, that seems fair,’ Starrett said, thinking that he knew what the priest was getting at, i.e. Fr O'Leary wasn’t going to break the confidence he’d had with a dead man. But if Starrett managed to gather enough relevant information, then the priest would be willing to discuss it.
‘In the meantime, can we discuss your other work?’
‘Are you 100 per cent sure a crime has been committed here, Inspector Starrett? Do you know how he died yet?’
‘Fair play to you and good question, Father. In instances like this, where the deceased is young and apparently in very good health, we allow ourselves to, perhaps, err on the side of suspicion.’
‘Just so you can get started while the trail is still hot?’ the priest offered helpfully.
‘Well yes,’ Starrett replied, thankful for the understanding, ‘obviously at this stage it’s really a fact-finding mission.’
‘Yes I understand fully, sometimes I have to start off one of my investigations in the same way.’
‘I wanted to talk to you about your work,’ Starrett started, picking his words very carefully. ‘Could there be any chance that perhaps the subject of one of your investigations might be seeking vengeance?’
‘No Inspector, not at all,’ Father O’Leary replied to Starrett’s confused look. ‘In point of fact, all of my work is done in secret – the subjects of our investigations are not even aware we exist. There are several of us who conduct these investigations and then, when we conclude our inquiries, we pass our findings on to our superiors and they are the ones who would confront the subject, either directly or with the guards. It’s really just a method we’ve come up with to protect those we are investigating – those who may be guilty of nothing more than being the victim of an angry, jealous heart.’
‘Okay, I suppose that rules that out,’ Starrett replied, wondering if in fact it did. Could Father Matthew McKaye really have lost his life just because the subject of one of Father O’Leary’s investigations wanted to warn him off? Or could Father Matthew have been involved in one of Father O’Leary’s cases more directly?
‘Hopefully,’ O’Leary replied, hands stationary.
‘Yes,” Starrett said, not in agreement but more as a stop-gap while he phrased his next question. “What were you doing this afternoon Father?’
The detective figured that keeping it general meant that, hopefully, no offense would be taken.
‘I’d a working lunch in my room,” the priest replied, clearly air-writing the word “room”. ‘I was reviewing and writing up all my case files until I was disturbed by the racket down stairs. That would have been sometime after five-thirty.’
‘Any visitors?'
‘No I always lock my door when I’m working on my cases.’
‘Can I talk to you about your fellow residents?’ Starrett asked.
‘I wish you wouldn’t.’
‘Sorry?’
‘I wish you wouldn’t,’ O’Leary repeated. ‘I mean, I find talking about my fellow priests behind their backs to be in extremely bad taste. However, I do not feel that you will end up lacking in information on any of us. You will surely find those among us with willing words aplenty to spill at you from their tongues.’
Starrett would have liked to have continued talking with Father Robert O’Leary but he felt it would work to his benefit to play this particular hand to the priest’s lead.
Chapter Seven
Talking about words spilling from a tongue, Gibson and Garvey were currently enjoying such a conversation with a very willing participant.
As Starrett was being escorted to examine Father Matthew’s room by the accommodating Father O’Leary, the longest serving resident of the house, Gibson and Garvey were settling into the extremely comfortable rooms of Father Gene McCafferty, the newest resident.
Father McCafferty was heavy-set, with a shaved head, a white, unblemished full face, and sunken eyes behind Buddy Holly black-framed glasses and…yes, his elbows did stick out from his pockets like elephant’s ears. He looked like he couldn’t be much over fifty, which, apart from the deceased curate, seemed a wee bit young for the residents of St Ernan’s. He walked around, elbows flapping like an off-duty vicar. He offered neither food nor beverage and seemed very keen to get straight down to proceedings. Gibson figured he was most likely working on the principle of the sooner they started, the sooner he’d finish.
‘When was the last time you saw Father Matthew?’ Gibson asked.
‘At dinner-time yesterday.’
‘How did he seem?’
‘Same as usual.’
‘Which was?’ Gibson pushed.
‘A bit like the cat that got the cream?'
‘Pardon?’ Gibson shook her head in shock. Even Packie looked up from his notebook.
‘He was very pleased with himself,’ Father McCafferty replied, still offering little.
‘I mean, was there anything going on in the house that we should be aware of?’ Gibson asked.
‘No. Father Matthew, ehm, how should I put this,’ McCafferty started, looking like he was going to be more generous with his words this time.
'Let’s just say he loved to pass a mirror. He had the whitest, most perfect teeth ever witnessed outside a toothpaste advert. He worked out a lot, he kept himself fit. He was very tidy and clean and that worked to our advantage. The kitchen was always spotlessly clean.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Ehm, how should I put this,’ McCafferty started, appearing to search for the words, ‘let’s just say I don’t believe you’ll find any sticky photographs in Father Matthew’s room.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Garvey offered, appearing embarrassed on Gibson’s behalf.
‘You heard me, Guard, and I’m certainly not going to draw you any pictures.’
‘Sorry – I’m not following you?’ Gibson said, still in disbelief.
McCafferty’s only response was to laugh. He had a strange laugh which didn’t really end, rather it just faded away.
Gibson decided it was best to move on. Ask something personal?
‘We’re told you’re the most recent resident,’ she started, as she formed a thought into a question. ‘Where were you tending before here?’
‘I was at St John the Baptist, in the Diocese of Cork and Ross,’ he replied.
‘And how long were you there?’ Gibson asked.
‘Two years.’
‘And before that?’
‘Ennis, at the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary, in the Diocese of Killaloe.’
‘And how long were you there?’
‘Three years.’
‘And were both moves due to promotion?’
‘Promotion!? Promotion!?’ the man of the cloth snapped. ‘Please remember it’s not a career we’re talking about here, it’s a vocation.’
‘So were both changes in your vocational path as a result of an elevated degree of responsibility?’ Gibson asked, this time more politely.
McCafferty looked like he was considering whether this was a compliment or an insult before forming a reply. ‘Both moves were due entirely to jealousy,’ he offered candidly. He punctuated his reply with his signature fade-out laugh, before concluding with, ‘the jealousy of others, I hasten to add.’
‘Surely that’s a bit uncharitable?’ Gibson offered gently.
McCafferty looked down his nose at the ban garda for quite a few seconds before he continued, ‘Look, we’re all the same – men, women, clergy, and lay people. We do what we have to do to survive. We do what we need to do to get through to the next day,’ McCafferty stopped talking and just glared at her.
‘Sorry, I’m still not really following you?’ she replied, wondering if she’d done something to upset the priest.
‘Look, let’s just say that even Jesus of Nazareth felt the
need, and this need was one of his first, most public acts, of overturning the tables and setting free the animals of the high priests who were money changers and moneylenders, who were charging extortionate rates to exchange money or to loan money to poor farmers so they could pay their taxes. As well as the moneylenders, there were the high priests trading goats, sheep, and doves to sacrifice for the Passover. Yes, he cracked his whip at all of them and shouted, ‘Get out of here, how dare you turn my Father’s house into a market!’
‘So if I’m getting this right, you’re suggesting all priests are…are what in fact?’ Gibson stopped her question because she couldn’t believe she was getting it correct.
‘Look, we give our lives to the Church,’ McCafferty said, through a large sigh, starting to sweat a little around his brow and on his top lip.
'We give up everything to serve God and then when the Church is done with us, they prefer we are the responsibility of our families. Yes, their priority is to cast us aside. But priests like me no longer have families, we can’t go out and learn a different trade, we can’t become mini-cab drivers overnight to pay our bills.’
‘And so you?’ Gibson asked, feeling she was on the verge of some kind of confession or other, but as to what the father was about to confess she still didn’t have a clue.
‘Look, I’m fifty-three years old, okay? I have a heart condition, okay? I was diagnosed with hypertension, you know, high blood pressure. So I had a procedure. I had open heart surgery where they took, in my case, five veins from my legs and chest and grafted them to the top of my heart and around to the bottom. What they did was to bypass the existing arteries that had failed.’
Gibson felt sorry for the priest and said as much.
‘So while I’m recuperating I was in intensive care for three days and in the ward room for seven. After leaving hospital it took three months for my sternum, my chest bone, to knit back together and an additional year for my body to fully recover from the trauma of the operation. At the beginning of the procedure you have absolutely no concept of what you are about to go through, which in fact turns out to be your saving grace. You are overtaken by the whole event. Prayer brings you no comfort. You receive comfort only from your medication. You are on painkillers for the residual pain from the scar tissue alone. You’re on six tablets for cholesterol, blood thinning to stop clotting, beta-blockers to slow your heart beat, gastro tablets to stop your stomach being irritated by the amount of drugs you are taking, and on and on it goes. I’d given my life to the Church; I did not give my life to Christ. I gave it to the Catholic Church. The Catholic Church does not pay for us to go on Bupa insurance so it was made clear to me that I’d be thrown to the mercy of my family if I didn’t make a full enough recovery to continue to work for the Church. I told them I didn’t have a family. They laughed at me and said, ‘Of course you’ll have some surviving family, somewhere in the world.’
