by Neil Boyd
‘Anything to oblige,’ Archie said cheerfully. ‘One quid. Thanks. Next, please.’
That’s his exhibit in court, I told myself. But, no, the policeman walked away, greedily clutching his bundle. God, I groaned, is Archie the only honest bloke in town!
In the next quiet period, Archie came across to me, carrying the black case for safety. ‘At this rate, Father, we’re a-going to get rid of the ’ole bloomin’ lot in one day.’
I said I wouldn’t be sorry. With luck, I’d be taking home two thousand pounds.
Archie held up a brightly coloured scarf. ‘Found this tucked in among the stockings, Father.’
I looked at it. ‘Nice,’ I said, wondering where Mrs. Murray had pinched that.
‘Can I have it?’
‘Of course, you can, Archie.’ I took a half a crown out of my pocket. ‘Put that in the till to pay for it.’ I looked up at the clouds bulging with rain. ‘You’ve earned it.’
Archie tied the scarf round his neck like a choker. ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘Perry’s ’ere again. Back to work.’
I returned at five. The day’s trading was nearing its end. Peregrine’s wheelbarrow was abandoned, empty. Archie, with a sack round his shoulders and a beret on to keep the chilling rain off his gingerbread, as he put it, was selling off the last of his wares by the light of a hurricane lamp.
I was about to go up and congratulate him on his sterling efforts when a smartly-dressed gentleman approached the stall with two policemen.
‘That’s the thief, officers,’ the stranger said, indicating Archie.
Archie, all smiles, said, ‘There’s some mistake, Mister, I ain’t pinched nothin’.’
‘I think you’d better come along with us,’ the senior policeman said.
Archie caught sight of me, shrugged his shoulders, winked in the direction of the money and walked off under escort.
I took charge of the case and waited five minutes until Peregrine returned from a café. On hearing what had happened, he said:
‘Poor old Archie, you know he had no idea those stockings were stolen. So innocent.’
I returned home thoroughly miserable. From force of habit, I set my black bag containing the notes by the umbrella stand in the hall and carried the canvas bag with the change up to my room.
What was I to do? I could hardly inform on Mrs. Murray, equally I couldn’t let Archie suffer for a crime in which he had no part.
My problem resolved itself. During supper, there was a call from the police station. Mrs. Pring announced:
‘Father Neil, there’s a Sergeant O’Hara wants you on the phone immediately.’
The Sergeant requested my presence at the station because a suspect said I could provide them with important information.
As I was about to leave, Fr. Duddleswell touched my arm. ‘Can I be of help?’
‘It’s nothing, Father,’ I lied. ‘I’ll be back in no time.’
At the station, Sergeant O’Hara of the enormous nose greeted me respectfully. ‘Sorry to involve you in this jamboree, Father, but there’s a chap here who’s mentioned your name in connection with some cock-and-bull story.’
I swallowed hard. ‘Is that so, Sergeant?’
‘Porbably somebody who’s touched you for a few bob in the past. Archie Lee’s his name.’
‘I have met him,’ I admitted.
‘He’s not been charged yet. Only helping us with our enquiries at this stage, Father.’
‘What’ve you picked him up for?’ I said, as if I didn’t know.
‘Theft.’
‘Of ladies’ stockings?’ I bit my tongue for stupidly revealing my knowledge of the crime.
Sergeant O’Hara gave me an odd look. ‘No, Father. What made you think of ladies’ stockings?’
‘The first thing that came into my head, Sergeant.’
‘Oh,’ he said.
I was relieved that Mrs. Murray’s reputation was still untarnished and, to be honest, that I was off the hook. I was only sorry that Archie, the sinner who I thought had repented, had returned to a life of crime. What if he had even pocketed part of the day’s takings?
‘Did he have a lot of money in his possession, Sergeant, when you picked him up?’
‘Five bob,’ he replied, and I felt ashamed for having misjudged Archie, my faithful friend. ‘Follow me, Father.’
In an interrogation room, Archie and the plush-looking gentleman in a Crombie overcoat faced each other silently across a table. A constable stood with, folded arms, keeping watch.
I smiled at Archie and he jumped up to shake my hand. ‘I knew you wouldn’t let old Archie down, Father, oh no.’
When we were all seated, I asked, ‘What is Mr. Lee supposed to have done?’
‘This gentleman,’ the Sergeant said, indicating the stranger, ‘is Mr. Travers. He’s sales manager at Brittains.’
I nodded to Mr. Travers. Brittains is the biggest store in the borough, one of the biggest in town. Their sales-line runs, ‘If you can’t buy it in Brittains, you can’t buy it in Britain.’
‘To put it in a nutshell, Father,’ Sergeant O’Hara said, ‘Mr. Travers is accusing Mr. Lee of stealing a very expensive silk scarf.’
I let out a gasp.
‘Brittains made a special purchase of six Persian silk scarves. Two were sold and yet only three are left. One has been stolen and Mr. Travers is convinced that the suspect is wearing it now.’
‘Tell him, Father,’ Archie pleaded.
‘Be quiet, Lee,’ Sergeant O’Hara said kindly but firmly. ‘I am not wanting you to put words into the Father’s mouth.’ He turned to me. ‘Now, Father, have you any idea how the suspect came to possess a silk scarf valued at £30?’
‘Yes,’ I gulped. ‘I gave it to him.’
Archie’s face lit up while Mr. Travers’ correspondingly darkened.
‘I can assure you, Sergeant,’ I said, choosing my words carefully, ‘I did not steal it from Brittains store.’
Mr. Travers said, ‘Believe me, sir, it would never have occurred to me …’ and trailed off.
‘I paid for it,’ I said, availing myself of a mental reservation of which Fr. Duddleswell would have approved. After all, I was under an obligation to defend Mrs. Murray and Archie Lee. Not to mention myself.
Archie seemed more hurt than angry when he said, ‘They know I’ve got a record, Father. But once a crook …’
‘Look,’ Mr. Travers put in with old world courtesy, ‘I cannot tell you how deeply embarrassed I am at this whole affair.’ He looked repentantly at Archie. ‘Mr. Lee, I have shamed you and I have smirched the good name of the venerable firm I work for. If you would do me the honour of coming to my office first thing on Monday morning, I promise you, you may choose anything in the store you wish. Compliments of Brittains.’
Archie and I went to a café for a quiet cup of tea. He stretched across the table and gripped my arm. ‘I knew there was one man ’oo believed in me, Father,’ he said gratefully, ‘but what a ripe, shabby business, eh?’
‘Archie,’ I said, ‘I’m up to my ears tomorrow with Sunday Masses and evening Benediction but I’ll call round on Monday evening to settle up with you and Peregrine.’
As I cyled off, he saluted me like a saviour.
‘Father Neil, d’you want to tell me about it?’
Fr. Duddleswell put the question before I could even remove my cycle clips.
‘No trouble, Father. Sergeant O’Hara just wanted me to vouch for the honesty of a suspect.’
‘I was referring, Father Neil,’ he said, ‘to the money.’
I got on my high horse. ‘Have you been opening my case while I was out?’ I said. ‘You’ve no right to.…’
‘Father Neil,’ he interrupted me, ‘’tig the first Saturday of the month when I anoint Mrs. Hately. I grabbed your case by mistake and instead of giving her extreme unction I nearly buried her in pound notes.’
There was nothing for it. I followed him into his study to begin my long explanation.
‘That money came from the sale of stockings.’
‘It never did!’ So he didn’t know. ‘Not Meg Murray’s collection?’ Damn it, so he did know.
‘Yes,’ I sighed.
‘But why did you make her give them up, Father Neil, her house is big enough?’
I couldn’t understand his lax attitude. ‘Theft is theft, Father. You say you know about it and you didn’t discourage it.’
‘Look, Father Neil. Every shopkeeper in the district knows about it.’
‘How?’
‘I told them.’
I wiped my brow, astonished. ‘They know she’s a thief and they let her steal as and when she likes?’
‘Not exactly, Father Neil. When I first discovered Meg’s little peculiarity I went round to every store that sells stockings and told them that whenever she buys so much as a reel of cotton they are to add to the bill the price of two pairs of stockings.’
‘Does she know she’s being charged for them?’
‘Probably.’ He looked at me grimly. ‘Over the years, I have asked three consultant physicians about her. They all agree that stealing stockings is her hobby and, if she can afford it, she should be allowed to continue.’
‘But she’s as rich as Croesus,’ I said, ‘why does she have to steal?’
‘According to the experts, ’tis her way of combining the pleasure of the thieving poor with the stability of the stinking rich.’
‘Oh yes,’ I said.
‘She is compensating, poor soul, for the lack of insecurity in her life.’
‘Lack of insecurity!’ I gasped. ‘And I suppose I’ve just rid her of life’s only little pleasure.’
‘No matter, I will award you an apple, lad, for your good intentions. But tell me, now, why are you so blessèd secretive?’
‘You mean if I had asked, you would have told me about her?’
‘Certainly not, Father Neil. A priest’s ear can never let his tongue in on a confidence. But by your asking, you would have put me in the picture and I could have set things to rights.’
Many things became suddenly clear. How, for example, the inept Mrs. Murray had managed to be such a successful thief and why Fr. Duddleswell had been able to give her absolution week after week without demanding of her a purpose of amendment. Another thing: the whole clandestine operation of selling the stockings had been legal after all.
‘Has she been at it long?’ I asked.
‘Twenty years, Father Neil. It began in me last parish when her husband died. Riddled with cancer was he, with cancer of the spine as a secondary. A big, upstanding man was he in his prime, but by this time you could have emptied out a can of beans and put him in it, instead. I anointed him and they were saying the rosary quietly together. On the third joyful mystery, his head dropped like a bird with a broken neck. The doctor told me after that his spinal column just snapped.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I murmured.
‘What with her husband’s death and her undergoing the change of life, she took to pilfering stockings. I warned the shopkeepers at me last parish. When I was transferred to St. Jude’s she followed me and I warned the shopkeepers hereabouts.’
I told him the thefts had definitely stopped. I had arranged the stockings at her house in such a way that, had she added to the piles in the last few days, I would have known it.
‘But what concerns me, Father Neil, is that if she has stopped stealing, she is probably terribly miserable now.’
I said she seemed not to be and told him about the cup and saucer as a memorial of her collection. He congratulated me on my inventiveness.
‘It might just work, Father Neil.’ He squeezed my hand. ‘Anyway, grateful to you for your efforts, even though you did mess everything up.’
My hackles rose at that. ‘I’ll take her money back to her tomorrow, Father,’ I said.
For the first time he looked agitated. ‘You will do no such thing, Father Neil, d’you hear me? ’Twould break the dear soul’s heart to realize we knew she was not stealing all those years.’
I conceded the point. ‘I’ll take charge of the money, then.’
‘After twenty years of slaving and worry,’ he barked at me, ‘I think I am entitled to dispose of the proceeds meself.’
The visit to the police station must have frayed my nerves because I rushed out of the room crying, ‘No, you can’t have that money. I’m looking after it.’
I picked up my case from the hall and was halfway up the stairs when it hit me that the case was empty.
As I turned to descend, he explained, ‘A thief might have stolen it, you follow?’
‘A thief has.’ I yelled.
‘Father Neil, you need not pique yourself on that,’ he yelled back. ‘The dough is in the sacristy safe.’
‘I want it to go to charity.’
‘Father Neil, what a great half-the-house lad y’are, to be sure. May I remind you who is the bloody parish priest of this place? I intend giving it to the Crusade of Rescue for Catholic orphans, and that is me final bloody word.’
I lifted the case to hurl at him. At which point we burst out laughing together. Both of us knew that at least I had got him to break his intolerable New Year’s resolution.
The only sobering thought was, If his resolution cracked so easily, what about Mrs. Murray’s?
‘Come up and see it, Father,’ Archie said, his face glowing. ‘Perry’s gone to Cheltenham for the day’s racing.’
I was at Archie’s place as promised, to pay him and Peregrine five pounds apiece for their work.
The two beds had been swept against the wall and in the centre of the room was a baby grand piano. Archie had rested his plate of kippers on the shiny black surface. Worse, next to the kippers was Mrs. Murray’s alabaster clock.
‘Ain’t it lovely?’ Archie said, admiring the gleaming black instrument that monopolized the room.
‘Certainly is, Archie. Do you, um, play at all?’
‘A bit, Father. Well, chopsticks with two fingers and this’—he played God Save The King with one. ‘But I’ll get better, Father.’
‘From Mr. Travers?’
Archie clicked his lips in admiration. ‘Ain’t it funny, Father. All those years when I was crooked, I never ’ad a thing. Now I’ve gone straight, I’ve got me a grand piano and, y’know, I didn’t even ’ave to tell a lie.’
I broke it to Archie that Perry had perhaps unwittingly taken Mrs. Murray’s clock. He shook his head despairingly.
‘Perry said that nice old girl gave it ’im. ’E’s real classical, ain’t ’e, Father?’
Without another word, Archie placed the clock in my hand.
‘By the way, Archie, would you mind telling Peregrine that, whatever he thought, those stockings were not stolen.’
‘Did ’e think they was?’ Archie exhaled deeply. ‘Funny ’ow ’is mind works, ain’t it?’
I wrapped up the clock and took it to Mrs. Murray’s. When she answered the door, she did not immediately invite me in. In fact, she seemed very upset at seeing me at all. Was that guilt on her face or was my New Year’s resolution, ‘Wise up’, making me far too suspicious?
I showed her the clock. ‘Someone took it by mistake on Saturday, Mrs. Murray.’
She brightened up. ‘No, I gave that clock to the nice gentleman who wheeled my stockings to the market. What I have lost is a lovely silk scarf I paid thirty pounds for in Brittains.’
In the hall, Mrs. Murray said, ‘If that man doesn’t want the clock, would you mind taking it upstairs, Father?’
‘Of course.’
It seemed strange that instead of accompanying me she beat a hasty retreat into the parlour. As I ascended, I was wondering what surprise was awaiting me in the bedroom this time. Another heap of stockings perhaps?
The bedroom was empty. I put Peregrine’s clock on the shelf and, in my new spirit of inquisitiveness, I walked on tiptoe and peeped into the second bedroom. Empty. The lady’s conversion was complete and she wanted me to know
it.
As I walked downstairs, I could hear sounds of scuffling in the parlour. Probably only Tinker bounding about. Just because Mrs. Murray had stolen stockings before it didn’t mean she would go on doing it for ever. There was such a thing as the grace of God. I remembered Archie’s plaintive words, ‘Once a crook.’
On the table in the centre of the parlour was the prize cup and saucer resting on a hand crocheted doily. I smiled. ‘It looks splendid, Mrs. Murray.’
‘Care for a cup of tea, Father?’
My suspicions had made me dry. ‘Thank you very much, I would.’
When she withdrew, I couldn’t stop myself. I went across to the sideboard and opened it. Deo gratias No stockings there. I looked behind the books on the shelf, even in the polished brass coal scuttle. Again, nothing.
I sat down on the sofa with relief and stroked Tinker’s coat. Until it occurred to me to turn round, kneel on the sofa and look behind it.
And there they were. Stacked in neat piles were eighty or ninety cups and saucers.
Three
THE BIRDS AND THE BEES
‘See here, Lucifer—’ Fr. Duddleswell had made a complete recovery from his New Year’s resolution.
‘Father Duddleswell,’ I said, responding with a thin-lipped formality that seemed to me to suit the situation, ‘I will not do it.’
That was the fifth time I had made it plain I wouldn’t do it and it wasn’t the last. But he was very persuasive. As Mrs. Pring said, ‘He could sell mothballs to moths, that one, and two pairs of hiking boots to an archangel.’
Miss Bumple, Headmistress of the Junior School, had informed Fr. Duddleswell of a request from the Ministry of Education that in selected schools pioneer experiments be carried out in sex-education.
‘The idea, Father Neil,’ Fr. Duddleswell had relayed to me, ‘is that you start teaching the kiddies about sex at the age of nine or ten.’
‘Very interesting,’ I mused, not yet appreciating the war clouds on the horizon.
‘Y’think so? Anyway, the point is, I believe, you teach them all about the birds and the bees before they have the slightest notion what you are talking about.’
‘Like the catechism, Father?’ I suggested with a grin.
