Stefan took this in. It raised a lot more questions about Jimmy Lynch.
‘So how far would he have gone to protect Hugo Keller?’
‘It wouldn’t be the first time he’s buried someone in the mountains,’ continued the lieutenant. ‘He pulled the trigger in the execution of two RIC men in Cork in 1920. During the Civil War, he shot a Free State soldier outside Portlaoise. Those are the ones for publication. Part of Detective Sergeant Lynch’s proud war record. But there are others. There was a lad outside Mullingar, who was supposed to have told the police about an IRA ambush; that was mistaken identity. And a seventy-year-old farmer in Kildare who had a row with him in a pub. I don’t think he says much about those two now. They just disappeared. The bodies were never found.’
Stefan shrugged. ‘So if something did go wrong in Keller’s clinic?’
Cavendish finished the thought in his head about Susan Field.
‘Well, he wouldn’t do better than DS Lynch to get rid of a body.’
As he walked down the steps to Fitzwilliam Place Stefan was no nearer finding Hugo Keller. And if he did find him, somewhere in Germany, no one was going to send him back to Ireland to answer any questions; certainly not the German police. But if Keller wasn’t in Ireland someone was, someone who had been working for Hugo Keller as a paid informant, and someone who also knew about the letters Vincent Walsh was carrying the night he died. There didn’t seem to be any connection between Keller and Vincent Walsh, but there was a connection between Jimmy Lynch and Keller, and between Jimmy Lynch and Walsh. If the investigation into Susan Field’s death stopped at the door to Hugo Keller’s clinic, the next door along led straight into Garda Special Branch at Dublin Castle. However, it wasn’t much more promising than the first. If no one would let him speak to a priest, what were the chances of investigating a detective in Special Branch for corruption and maybe murder? The Branch was a law unto itself within the Gardaí. It was full of ex-IRA men now, whose methods reflected that, and whose strongest loyalties were to each other. You took your life in your hands taking on men like that. There was plenty of room out there in the Dublin Mountains.
12. Weaver’s Square
The tricycle left the window of Clery’s the day before Christmas Eve. It found its way to Baltinglass on the train, via Kingsbridge and Naas, and Declan Lawlor’s horse and cart brought it up the hill to Kilranelagh. On the morning of Christmas Eve, Stefan and David and Tom cut a pine tree in the woods below the farm. That afternoon the chosen goose was eaten enthusiastically by Stefan, David and Helena and, less enthusiastically than he had expected, by Tom, who had chosen it after all. At least he made sure the bird did not go unmourned. After dinner, keeping Christmas as they always had, to the German calendar, there were the presents, and the tricycle from the newspaper cutting by Tom Gillespie’s bed was finally a real thing. He was still riding it round the farmyard in the dark when David and Helena left for the midnight Eucharist in the Church of Ireland church by the abbey, and it was dragged into the kitchen with him when he finally came inside.
Father and son sat by the range with the fire door open, and Stefan started to read the book David and Helena had given Tom, Mary Poppins, but by the time Mary had arrived with her carpetbag, Tom was asleep. Stefan carried him upstairs. Then he sat staring into the fire for a long time, long after David and Helena were home and asleep. There was a bottle of Powers on the table beside him. When he finally went upstairs to bed himself the bottle was half empty. And it was already Christmas morning. Christmas was still not easy, it shone a light on the empty place at the table. And what had happened with Hannah didn’t make it easier.
*
The presbytery that housed the curate and the parish priest stood where the ground started to rise up behind Baltinglass towards Baltinglass Hill. It was built slightly higher than the church it served and looked down on Weaver’s Square and the eastern end of the town. It was a squat, inelegant building, put together in a way that seemed to say nobody had cared very much what it looked like. There were lace curtains at all the windows, though it was not overlooked. Stefan stood in the bare front room. There was a dining table and a desk. A print of the Sacred Heart sat above a fireplace where there was no fire burning. It was a long time since one had been lit from the look of the dust on the kindling and newspaper ties in the grate. There were half a dozen cards on the mantelpiece but there were no other Christmas decorations. A grandfather clock ticked loudly. It felt like it was the only sound in the house. On the table were newspapers, The Irish Independent, The Wicklow People, The Carlow Nationalist, The Irish Catholic; all dated before Christmas and all unread. Fanned out in a careful display, next to the papers, were several Catholic Truth Society booklets; ‘Stand and Deliver: a Call to Social Action’, ‘The Soviet War against God’, ‘Tolerance: Too Much of a Good Thing?’ Stefan recalled a display of the same pamphlets at Monsignor Fitzpatrick’s house in Earlsfort Terrace. The door opened. Father Carey entered, brusque and businesslike as always. He shut the door. There had been a summons, delivered via Mary Lawlor when she brought Tom home from Mass on Christmas Day. It was Stephen’s Day now and Stefan was here as requested. He had assumed it would be about Tom starting school in January. That was all agreed though; what did the bloody man want now?
‘It didn’t seem right to speak to you yesterday, Sergeant, on Christmas Day. But something has come to my attention, so utterly fantastical that my first instinct was to dismiss the thing entirely. Yet it appears to be true.’
‘I’m not with you at all, Father.’
‘I’m right in thinking Tom was in Dublin with you before Christmas?’
‘Yes. He came up for a day with his grandparents.’
‘And were they party to this? I would hope not.’ The look of sanctimonious shock would have made Stefan laugh under different circumstances, but the aura of satisfaction that hung about the priest told him that there was nothing funny going on. He still made no connection though.
‘Party to what?’
‘You took a Catholic boy into a Jewish place of worship?’
For a moment he was puzzled that Father Carey had this information at all. What was Tom’s Christmas outing and the bit of police work that had intruded into it to do with him? Stefan’s job and the farm at Kilranelagh rarely touched. It was nothing he worked at; it wasn’t a separation he sought. It was just how it was. But the two worlds had touched, for a few moments, that afternoon in Dublin. He’d barely thought about it since, even if he had thought about Hannah Rosen. It was only as the curate brought the worlds into collision that the implications of those minutes in Adelaide Road hit home. Tom would have talked about it, of course he would. Why wouldn’t he? It was something new, something exotic, something he had enjoyed. The rabbi had made him laugh. Stefan finally understood why there was satisfaction behind the look of holy pain on Father Carey’s angular face.
He saw a winter’s day, fourteen years ago. He was fifteen. A crowd of men and women and children, forty or fifty, stood in front of the ruined abbey in Baltinglass, as his grandfather’s coffin was carried into the little Church of Ireland church beside it. Snow had fallen the night before. Thin ice was breaking up on the Slaney below the abbey. Among the crowd were some of his grandfather’s closest friends. Three men came forward to walk into the church behind the other mourners. The rest would bow their heads in the cemetery beside the church, as the coffin was lowered into the ground; some would wipe away tears; but they would not walk through the door of the church that their own Church said was not a real church at all.
‘He lit a candle there, that’s what I’m told!’
‘There were children lighting candles. He lights a candle whenever he goes into the church, to say a prayer for his mother. He wouldn’t know –’
‘Are you telling me he was praying there now?’
‘The priest was telling them a story from the Bible. He was listening.’
‘You told him the man was a priest, did you?’
‘All right, the rabbi. I didn’t tell him anything. We’re talking about minutes, a few minutes. I didn’t think. I’m sorry.’ It was hard not to wonder whether he would have thought if it hadn’t been Hannah he had been meeting. There had been no real reason to be there with Tom. It could have waited.
‘You stood there and let this happen?’
‘It was a candle holder, like the one we put in the window at Christmas, and children lighting candles, like we do at home. That’s all.’
He had to say something, but he realised that nothing he said would satisfy the curate. Every word was a trap Father Carey was waiting to spring.
‘I will have to speak to Tom.’
‘I’ll explain it to him.’
‘That can hardly be enough. He has to know that it was wrong for him to be there, let alone participate in what was going on. Even a child must be made aware when a sin has been committed, even unwittingly, and ask for the forgiveness that always comes. I’m sure the boy understands that.’
Stefan’s hackles were rising at the thought of what Carey would put Tom through to make sure he really did understand that forgiveness. But the traps were all around him now; any protest would spring another one.
‘This is a serious matter, Sergeant. Righting this shocking error of judgement is one thing, but comprehending how you could make it is much harder. Even from a Protestant point of view, your behaviour must appear extraordinary. I have to ask, are you in the habit of associating with Jews?’
‘I’m a guard, Father, I don’t choose who I meet.’ He was evading the issue and he felt ashamed of himself, even as he did so. Hannah was looking at him. He saw the expression on her face. He shouldn’t even have answered the question. By answering it, he had given the priest the right to ask it.
‘You know that a Roman Catholic should not enter any place of worship that isn’t Catholic. But a Jewish synagogue is disturbing in a very particular way. I have to make some allowances for ignorance on your part, and I do.’ There seemed no choice except to allow Carey to make those allowances. ‘The Church is under attack. Christianity itself is under attack. I know we’re not immune from the menace of communism and atheism in our quiet West Wicklow backwater, but I feel as if you have brought the agents of all that among us, because the Jews are its agents, make no mistake. You exposed an innocent child to that, your own child. Don’t you understand?’
Stefan understood very well. These were not the curate’s words. The voice and intonation were almost Robert Fitzpatrick’s. Stefan could have no doubt Father Carey had heard him speak. He spoke the monsignor’s words as if he had been waiting to say them for a long time. He was a prophet now. And there was nothing Stefan could say in reply. Anthony Carey had his burning bow and Stefan was the one who had given him the poisonous arrows. The priest shook his head and stepped down from the mountain.
‘The question is where we go from here, Sergeant Gillespie.’
‘I’m sorry about what happened. But you’re making more of this –’
‘Did you tell him it was a place of people who turned their backs on Christ, who handed Him to the Romans for execution, who rejected God?’
‘I said it was where Jewish people prayed.’
‘The boy told Mrs Lawlor’s son that Jesus was a Jew.’
‘Should I have said he wasn’t?’
‘You’re a man of many talents. Now you’re a theologian too.’
‘It’s hardly theology.’
‘No, it’s not. But on top of everything, I’m afraid it is too much.’
‘Just tell me what you want me to say –’
‘I have had every consideration for your feelings, Sergeant, and for the boy’s. I have been patient. I have put the fact that you are Tom’s father before other concerns. Too much so! He has another Father, a Father you are distancing him from, whether it is your intention or not. I have felt it for a long time. I have nothing against your mother and father personally, but they are not the right people to raise the boy in the faith you committed him to when you married. And even if you were here, you are not the father his dead mother would have wanted for him, I am sure of that now.’
‘How dare you say that! You know nothing at all about his mother.’
This was more than temper; anger was in his heart and it was pounding in his chest. His hands were clenched very tight.
‘I wonder what she thinks as she looks down now,’ said the curate.
‘You have no right to even begin to wonder what Maeve might think. My God, if she was looking down on us here, your ears would be burning.’
‘I have expressed my concerns to Father MacGuire.’
‘Where is Father MacGuire?’
‘He always has his week off after Christmas. He’s not here just now.’
‘I bet he isn’t,’ replied Stefan. The parish priest wouldn’t like this. It was no accident he wasn’t there. But it would make no difference. He was an old man. Even when he disagreed with his curate, he no longer argued.
‘I’ve spoken to the bishop. And to your brother-in-law in Portlaoise.’
‘Dermot? What the hell’s Dermot got to do with anything?’
‘They have three children, Tom’s cousins. They’d happily take him.’
Stefan stared. He hadn’t seen where this was going at all. He thought it was still just another opportunity for Father Carey to throw his weight around. But as soon as the words were said, he knew it had been obvious.
‘No, under no circumstances. I’m not even going to discuss it.’
‘We will discuss it, and I’m sure you’ll agree what’s best for Tom –’
‘I said no.’
‘I can’t leave it there.’
‘Jesus, there’s a fucking Christmas card on the mantelpiece, from Dermot and Kathleen. “Happy Christmas, all the best for the New Year, hope to see you soon!” Not a word, not a fucking word. See you soon!’
‘I think if you reflect on the situation –’
‘I won’t be reflecting on anything.’
‘Then I need to make myself clearer. Mixed marriages are a bane to the Church. They are against God’s law and against natural law. The Church shows her displeasure, even when she gives dispensation, refusing the Holy Sacrifice during the marriage. My own view is that too much leeway is given in approving them at all, even with a commitment to bring children up as Catholics. But the commitment is there, irrespective of your wife’s death.’
‘And I am carrying that out.’
‘Not as far as I’m concerned. Not as far as the bishop is concerned.’
‘What do you want me to do? Give up my job?’
‘It’s not about you being here. The boy’s home is entirely unconducive to the health of a young and impressionable Catholic soul. There is no shortage of evidence to demonstrate your inability to bring him up in the faith he was born into. But the sight of Tom praying in a synagogue is beyond anything the Church can accept. His place is with his cousins, with his mother’s brother. For his sake, and your own, I would advise you not to fight this. The courts are no place for families. And the end result will be the same, I promise you. As for the damage to your career –’
‘Are you threatening me now?’
‘I’m telling you what will happen, Gillespie.’
‘I promised Maeve –’
‘There is no more to say, Sergeant. You need time to calm down. When you have, we’ll talk about this again and put the arrangements in place. It doesn’t mean you won’t see your son. But when you do, he’ll be part of a family, his family. In time you’ll understand that the Church’s interests and your son’s are the same. Those interests should be yours too.’
Stefan stood very still, looking at the satisfaction that Anthony Carey made no real attempt to hide. The curate stood taller than he had, straighter.
‘You’ve always wanted this, haven’t you?’
‘It’s about what’s right.’ The priest shook his head, frowning, almost as if
he really did regret what he was doing. ‘It’s not about what I want.’
‘That’s shite and you know it.’
Carey pursed his lips; he wasn’t finished yet.
‘From my little talk with Tom’s playmate, Harry Lawlor, I gather that your visit to the synagogue was all about seeing a lady, am I right there?’ He smiled a man-of-the-world smile; his sanctimoniousness turning into a sneer as he fixed his eyes on Stefan. ‘All in a day’s work for a policeman, eh? I wonder, what would your Maeve have thought about that?’
As Stefan’s fist hit the curate’s face it was Maeve’s name that propelled it rather than the taunt itself. Carey had taken her name and thrown it into a mire of shabby and spiteful innuendo. He spoke as if he knew her, as if there was some part of her precious memory that belonged to him. He staggered back against the desk, but he didn’t fall. He was hurt, there was no doubt, yet he could still find a smile. He wiped his mouth and looked down at the blood on the back of his hand. It was Stefan Gillespie’s final mistake.
*
Christmas was over. Stefan was back in the detectives’ office at Pearse Street. The letter from Father Francis Byrne in Danzig had arrived on Inspector Donaldson’s desk with a glowing affidavit from Monsignor Fitzpatrick. It seemed completely at odds with the barely controlled anger the monsignor had shown when Stefan had asked him about the priest little more than ten days ago. Donaldson had made the arrangements, clearly in consultation with Robert Fitzpatrick. The questions Stefan wanted asked had been asked in such general terms that the answers, not worth much in a letter anyway, were worth nothing at all; some questions had clearly not even been put to him. Father Byrne was shocked and saddened to hear of Susan Field’s death, naturally. She had been one of his brightest and best students. It was a tragic and irreplaceable loss to her family. He had not known her well outside the confines of the lecture room, but he had certainly liked her and remembered her fondly. He was puzzled where the idea of any close or particular friendship came from. He wasn’t fully able to understand the circumstances of her death, of course, but it was all very shocking, and he prayed she was at peace. By the way he didn’t know Doctor Hugo Keller.
The City of Shadows Page 18
