At first he saw nothing unusual, with the track so overgrown. It seemed that this route was rarely used by tourists or local dog-walkers.
Jack had a thought … needle in a hay stack.
‘Cept maybe there’s no needle.
Then — he saw something.
“Hey Liam,” he said. “Take a look.”
When Liam joined him he pointed to the sides of the track.
The bracken and ferns were pressed down, stems and branches broken. In the hardened mud he saw numerous footprints, of different sizes and types.
From trainers to office shoes — but not running shoes.
And in the centre of the track, Jack spotted a fresh gouge in the mud, as if made by someone’s foot sliding. Small stones had been loosened from the trail, leaving little hollows.
“I see. What does it mean?” said Liam.
“Some people — two maybe three — were waiting up here out of sight,” said Jack standing up. “You see how everything is pressed down behind that tree and the shrubs there?”
“God. You think they jumped him?”
Jack looked up and down the track, then had an idea.
He stepped into the undergrowth and walked to an old oak tree about five yards off the trail. He bent down and examined the bark.
Sure enough, there were scuff marks — and some of the bark had been scraped away. He turned back to Liam.
“Take a look here. I think they put a cord round this tree — then when he got close, pulled it tight — and down he went.”
“Bastards.”
“Yep, that would have hurt. But not killed him. Did that trigger a heart attack? Seems unlikely, and Eamon was in trouble before this ‘trap’ could have brought him down.”
“And why move the body?”
“Playing it safe, I guess,” said Jack. “And it worked. People see heart attack and they don’t think any more about it — unless there’s evidence to the contrary.”
“And in this case the evidence was safely a hundred yards away from the body,” said Liam.
“Exactly.”
“Um — do we go to the police now?”
Jack thought about this. “I don’t know. In truth — a lot of what we have is still circumstantial. We got a heart attack, some footprints. But no motive … certainly no suspects either.”
Jack stared at Liam.
“Unless you’re going to tell me the real reason why you think someone wanted Father Byrne dead?”
“I already told you, Jack,” said Liam, his gaze unswerving. “All I know is that Eamon owed money to some bad people — and they wanted it back. All his gambling…”
What Liam was saying made sense. But Jack had an instinct that there might be more. He doubted that he was going to get it now though.
Even with Eamon Byrne dead, it seemed like Liam was still protecting his old friend.
“Come on,” Jack said. “Let’s head back.”
“What are you going to do then?”
“Grab a shower and talk to my partner — see what she’s come up with.”
“Let me know the next move,” said Liam. “If I can help.”
“Oh I will,” said Jack. “And in the meantime, let’s set a date for that bottle of Lagavulin.”
“Tomorrow night?”
“That’s a deal.”
Together they set off to the top of the hill, for the gentle run back to their cars, with Jack wondering why Liam wasn’t telling the whole truth.
And whether a thirty-year-old scotch would loosen his tongue…
8. Ordinary People
Sarah drove down the now-familiar track to the convent and parked by the stable, as she had done the day before.
She turned the engine off and climbed out.
The bunting had all gone, and — the day after the big fête — now there was total silence. Through the trees she could see the main convent building lit by the weak late afternoon sun, but nobody seemed to be moving.
Perhaps everybody was in the church? What did the nuns do all day anyway?
Can’t pray all day…
Whatever, it wasn’t the nuns she’d come to see. It was the retreaters. She’d been thinking overnight how strange they’d looked at the fête — Daniel had maybe been right to draw her attention to them.
Conspiratorial. That was the word that came to mind.
Just who were these people? And could they have seen something last Friday?
She walked over to the stables. The ramshackle place was nearly falling down: she could see tiles missing, and the wood of the doorframe and windows looked rotten, crumbling away.
An ancient painted sign over the door read: Silence — please respect the peace of our guests.
Best not to knock then, thought Sarah.
She opened the door and went in.
The main entrance opened onto a bare kitchen, and against the far wall, another door that led presumably to the bedrooms. She looked around the dismal space: an old gas cooker, kettle, some seventies-looking units and cheap lino on the floor.
On the walls she could see a dusty framed picture of Jesus and a crucifix. The window sill held a statue of the Virgin Mary and a small rack of lit candles, flickering.
Gloomy place…
“Can I help you?” came a heavily accented voice from close behind her.
She turned, to see a tall grey-haired man standing at the now-open internal door. He peered at her through small round glasses.
“I’m sorry,” said Sarah. “I didn’t want to disturb anyone, so I just—”
“Came in?” said the man. “How can I help you?”
Sarah felt she’d lost the initiative somehow: the man’s gaze was intense, disquieting.
Take the lead, she thought…
“Are you on the retreat?” she said.
“I am.”
“My name’s Sarah Edwards.”
She reached out her hand and the man shook it slowly.
“Gustav Stechman. So how can I help you, Miss Edwards?”
Gustav didn’t seem at all pleased with the intrusion.
“I wanted to find out if you — or maybe any of the people on the retreat had any contact with Father Byrne?”
She watched the man carefully but his face was passive, his eyes emotionless behind the bright glasses.
“The local priest, yes?”
Sarah nodded: “The one who died. I imagine you heard…”
“Yes. He consecrated mass on our first morning here.”
“When was that?”
“Thursday.”
“You didn’t see him any other time?”
“He was due to say mass on Good Friday. But … well, you know…”
“So, you didn’t see him going for his run that morning?”
“No. Should I?”
Sarah shrugged: “I’m told that Father Byrne ran behind the stables and could be seen from the rooms.”
“That may be so. I did not see him.”
“What about the others on the retreat?”
“I can only speak for myself. I do not know the others. This is a retreat.”
“You don’t stay together?”
“We are here alone, to pray, to find peace, to communicate with God. Not to socialise.”
“You didn’t talk to Father Byrne at all before…?”
“As I said, there was the one mass. Another priest was brought in for the Easter Sunday services.”
“Are the other … guests … still here? Do you know if they spoke to Father Byrne?”
Sarah watched him shrug. He didn’t answer.
“So where is home — if you don’t mind me asking?”
“I live in Hamburg.”
“And when will you return?”
“You certainly have enough questions.” He shook his head. “The retreat was for just a week. I shall leave tomorrow.”
Sarah felt she wasn’t going to get much more from Gustav Stechman.
“You speak very good E
nglish, Mr. Stechman.”
“Thank you,” he said. “My wife was English. It’s 2014. The whole world speaks English, yes?”
He folded his arms. The interview was clearly over.
“Thank you for your help. I hope the retreat gave you what you were looking for.”
“It did.”
Sarah turned and left the stables.
She didn’t turn around — but knew he was staring through the open door after her, those eyes probably blinking behind the glasses.
It seemed that everywhere she went in this place — and everyone she met — spooked her out. Either she was being unusually sensitive — or there was something wrong here…
Time to speak to the Mother Superior, Sister Mary Bryan…
What was it her kids would say when they came up across the final nemesis in their computer games?
The boss character. Couldn’t be more true…
*
The main door of the convent opened onto a grand hallway, almost as if it were a great manor house, were it not for the tall statue of the Virgin Mary in the centre, in a blue-and-white robe, vases of daffodils at her feet.
Sarah looked left, but that led to a waiting room, overstuffed chairs, a library … and to her right, she saw the bright colour panels of stained glass, the convent’s small chapel perhaps? A dark corridor stretched ahead of her.
“Hello?” she called, her voice echoing.
But there was no response.
So she started walking down the corridor. The walls were lined on either side with faded paintings: biblical scenes, she imagined.
Strange to be here, alone.
It all actually felt spooky.
After a few yards, the corridor turned sharply to the left. As she rounded the corner, she jolted to a halt.
The Mother Superior herself stood in the centre of the corridor, staring at her.
“May I help you?” said the nun.
“Sister Mary,” said Sarah. “I was … looking for you.”
“So I see.”
“I called out — there was nobody here,” said Sarah, feeling like a child at school caught by a teacher.
“The sisters are at prayer,” said Sister Mary. “What do you want?”
“I need to talk to you about Father Byrne.”
“What? Again?”
“I’m afraid we have some bad news.”
Sarah watched the nun consider this. Then she turned, took a few steps down the corridor and opened a door.
“You’d better come in,” she said, disappearing inside.
Sarah followed her and entered what was clearly the Mother Superior’s office.
She scanned the room — it was almost identical to Father Byrne’s. But completely tidy: there was nothing at all within it that reflected the sister’s character rather than her position.
Sister Mary closed the door then turned to her.
Looks like I’m not going to get an invitation to sit, thought Sarah. So I’d better get to the point…
“We now have good reason to believe that Father Byrne’s death may not have been accidental.”
The nun shook her head. “Ridiculous. The poor man had a heart attack. I doubt that could be anything other than an act of God.”
“There’s evidence, Sister Mary. His body was moved. There were signs of a struggle—”
“What are you suggesting?”
“We think Father Byrne may have died as a result of some kind of attack. That his death by heart attack wasn’t innocent.”
Sister Mary was positively glaring now. Sarah could almost feel those eyes boring into her.
“And what precisely is your involvement?” she said. “Who is paying you? A newspaper?”
“We’ve been asked to investigate by a friend of the Father,” said Sarah. “We’re not profiting in any way, Sister.”
Sarah watched the sister carefully as she walked round behind her desk and sat down.
For the first time, she seemed to be struggling for a response. Perhaps she was asking for guidance from up above…
“All right,” she finally said.
Another pause. Then:
“What you say does not entirely surprise me. Father Byrne was a troubled soul. It was an open secret that he had a weakness for gambling. That weakness brought with it all kinds of temptation and trouble. But you must understand — he was not a part of this convent.”
“He took mass here.”
“Indeed. But that was his only involvement.”
“You seem very sure about that.”
“You can hardly fail to have noticed that we have fallen on hard times. We can barely support the building. But we are about to benefit from a significant investment — discussions are at a crucial and sensitive stage. We cannot — we must not — suffer any adverse publicity. The order — all our good works — could so easily … perish.”
“I’m sorry, Sister,” said Sarah. “Are you suggesting we don’t go to the police with what we’ve found?”
“I’m asking you to … please … give us a few days to allow God to do his work.”
“I’m not sure we can do that. We are talking about a possible murder.”
The Mother Superior shook her head.
“Then we are done here. And I must ask you to leave.”
With that, the nun got up from her seat and showed Sarah the door.
9. A Tale of Two Countries
Sarah walked out of the convent and took a deep breath, as if the cloistered atmosphere of the building — paired with the stern glances of Sister Mary — had made it difficult to breathe.
And she also now had the distinct feeling that the building and those inside it could keep secrets quite well.
Did they have any secrets? And would she and Jack be able to learn them?
They had faced difficult situations before, people who clearly didn’t want to talk. But with Father Byrne’s death looking more like murder — albeit one she didn’t understand — Sarah felt a drive to get answers somehow.
I’ve become a bit like Jack, she thought.
Not happy until I know what really happened, how it happened, and who did it.
But real life was beckoning — tons of work waiting to be done back at her office. That was a good thing. Though it would be hard to shake off the thoughts of this — what was now — the mystery of Eamon Byrne.
As Sarah turned down the path heading to the small car park and her Rav-4, she saw two people strolling together, engaged in animated conversation.
She had spotted them first, walking side by side, a young woman nodding, a tall man gesturing.
Then, as Sarah kept walking, they finally noticed her.
And as if a brake had been applied, the pair stopped talking.
Sarah recognised them from the fête: the other two retreaters.
Out for a stroll…
And another quick thought: Gustav had said that the three went their own ways. Yet these two seemed tight, chatting furiously.
Then — that suspicious moment, seeing her and they stopped.
With thoughts of the “brick wall” that Mother Superior had become — now when she might face the scandal of a murder — Sarah wanted to talk to these two.
Only steps away, with the two people looking in the other direction, Sarah stopped and said, “Hi.”
A quick glance from the pair, a nod from the man, as they kept on moving.
Sarah turned to face them as they tried to sail past.
“Excuse me — I’m wondering if you could help me?”
And then, getting a palpable feeling of reluctance from them, they finally stopped.
The woman still looked away; the man though, grim-faced, looked right at Sarah.
‘Yes,” he said. “What is it?”
An American.
Interesting. To come all the way here…
“I’ve just been speaking with the Mother Superior. I’ve been looking into the death of Father Byrne.”
The woman gave a quick look to the man at her side.
Struck a nerve there.
“Yes, very sad. The whole community here … all very sad at the news.”
Sarah nodded.
“And you, you’re here for the retreat?”
Now the woman finally made eye contact with Sarah.
“Yes,” she said, in a gentle French accent. “We are.”
“Right. I’m Sarah by the way.” She stuck out a hand.
The man took it for a perfunctory shake. “Tom.”
“Isabel,” the woman said, timidly extending a hand as if at gunpoint.
These two look scared, Sarah thought.
“I’m wondering if I might ask you some questions. Sister Mary has been so helpful,” she said.
Not quite the truth…
“We don’t know a thing,” Tom said. “Father Byrne was just the priest here, saying mass.”
Sarah kept a half-smile on her face. “I understand. But we’re trying to piece together what happened, that morning. His good friend … is so — well, concerned.”
Sarah waited a moment to let them think on how they might react next. She guessed that Tom — at least — may have figured out that they might be acting prickly, even suspiciously.
And after the pause … Sarah continued.
“Father Byrne ran by the stables each morning, right where you stay.”
No flicker of reaction.
“Did either of you see him on that last morning?”
Tom was quick to answer. “No, we were … having breakfast with Gustav.”
Not what Gustav said.
Someone is lying.
She turned to the woman. “And Isabel, you too heard nothing? You also were having breakfast?”
The French woman nodded, then shook her head. “No. I heard nothing. I was with Tom and Gustav. We were talking…”
Completely unconvincing.
“And did you ever have any conversations with Father Byrne?”
“We d—” Isabel started.
But Tom was again faster. “No. He served mass. As I said,” he looked at Isabel, “he said daily mass for the community here. We went to mass. That is all we know about your Father Byrne…”
Sarah nodded.
Not only had they nearly tripped up in their last answer, but now Tom, in his forceful American way, was trying to shut this conversation down.
Cherringham: A Deadly Confession Page 5
