The Traitor's Bones

by Evelyn James

  Tommy was silent as he read through the list. Then he glanced at Clara.

  “That’s rather interesting.”

  “Do tell,” Clara said, trying not to be impatient as he paused for effect.

  “Among those listed at the funeral is Madame Devereux, I assume Ramon’s mother, and her full name is Madame Beatrice Devereux.”

  Clara sat back in her chair and took this in. She had wondered if the obscured name was Beatrice, the B and the ‘ice’ would fit, also she was struggling to think of any other names that ended with those three letters. But the woman was mentioned nowhere else, and it would seem that Christian had gone to great efforts to keep her from his writing. Why?

  “Of course, it is easy to think scandalous thoughts,” Tommy vocalised Clara’s own musings. “Madame Devereux was a widow. And Christian seemed to have sympathy for her situation, he certainly made sure Ramon had plenty of work, so his family could be supported.”

  “All of which may have been done out of philanthropic generosity,” Clara pointed out. “Though it does seem slightly odd that Christian did not want his connection with the widow known. Why would he make such effort to scrub her name from a letter, for instance, if the situation was purely innocent? Or did he have a strong sense of reputation like his father and fear that mentioning the woman would harm it?”

  “I have a feeling those are questions that will not be answered by the contents of this box,” Tommy remarked.

  “I think you are right,” Clara nodded.

  She looked at the three piles on the table. They had catalogued most of the letters, but there were still a lot of loose papers and the file compiled by Gerald Priggins to look through. Clara stretched her shoulders out.

  “You know Tommy, I do understand your reluctance to go to Belgium,” she said as casually as she could.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” Tommy said sharply.

  Clara picked up one of the few remaining letters to sort.

  “You don’t have to talk about it. You just have to understand that there is a very good chance I shall have to go to Belgium,” she said. “I would never push you to join me. I just need you to understand.”

  “Really, must we? I know my own damn limitations!” Tommy abruptly pushed back his chair and rose. He stalked to the door of the room.

  Clara called out behind him.

  “You know as well as I do that the only limitations we have are the ones we impose on ourselves. You are your own worst enemy, Tommy. I can’t change that, only you can. What you really have to ask yourself is whether this is a battle you think necessary to fight, or whether you can live with the restrictions you are imposing on yourself.”

  Tommy had stopped in the doorway. He was listening, but Clara could not see his face to know if her words had caused hurt, anger or perhaps realisation. She was not trying to upset her brother, but sometimes he needed a firm nudge in the right direction. The only question that remained was whether he cared that his inner demons were confining him to England.

  She thought he would say something. She thought he might snap back. Instead, Tommy walked out the door and disappeared. Clara rubbed at her eyes, feeling tired and foolish. Had her words been rash? Tommy had suffered deep mental trauma during the war and maybe she had no right to question his decision to never set foot out of England again.

  Then again, maybe each little nudge to shrug off those demons was a step to helping him to have a sounder, more balanced existence? She just wasn’t sure. Probably no one was.

  She sighed and went back to the letters. What demons was Christian Lound hiding beneath the talk of rain and church services? Was it just such a demon that had caused him to disappear?

  Or was it something happier? Had he fallen in love with a woman? It was too early to say for sure, but Clara was going to resolve the mystery. One way or the other.

  Chapter Five

  The following day Clara caught the train to Worthing to pay a call on St John’s Seminary. She was not sure what sort of reception she would receive, being as she was a woman striding into a man’s world. But she hoped they allowed visitors. After all, even priests had mothers and sisters.

  The rain had let up and a fragile sun was hovering in the sky. Clara was travelling alone. Tommy had been sombre the previous evening and had barely talked at dinner. Clara had confessed to Annie what she had said and her guilt over her words. Annie was not concerned. She told Clara to go about her business and leave Tommy to her.

  Worthing seemed a nice town; Clara glimpsed it as she headed out of the train station to one of the cabs standing nearby. She asked the driver to take her to the seminary and she felt slightly more confident when he did not seem surprised. Maybe the priests quite often received female visitors?

  The hooves of the horse clicked a steady rhythm over the cobbles and she settled into her seat, contemplating what she would say when she arrived at the school. It was hard to know the best way to approach the subject. She wasn’t going to mention the rumours about Christian being a traitor, she hoped she could get away with just saying he had disappeared during the war and his sister had asked her to find him, which was perfectly true. Hopefully the priests would be accommodating to her enquiries.

  It took half-an-hour to reach the seminary which was on the outskirts of town; it was set in large gardens and as private as it was possible to be with a town nearby. The cabman took her right up to the door and then charged her a small fortune for the privilege. Clara decided she would be walking on the return trip. The cabman still made no comment about a woman coming to a seminary and abandoned her the second she had paid him. Clara was certain that Brighton cabmen were much better mannered.

  She walked up to the front door, (or at least the door she assumed was considered the front door) and rang the bell. She quickly looked about for any notices that might indicate women were not welcome, but saw no such signs. She was still feeling rather agitated when an older man in a priest’s cassock opened the door.

  “Good morning,” Clara said.

  “Good morning, daughter. Have you come for Father McKelly’s women’s netball team tryouts? If so, you are an hour too early,” the priest said mildly.

  Clara was thrown by this statement. She opened her mouth to explain why she was really there and then hesitated.

  “Women’s netball team?”

  “Ah, you are not here for that,” the priest picked up on her tone. “May I ask, how I may help?”

  “Oh, I am Clara Fitzgerald,” Clara started to hold out her hand for him to shake and then stopped herself. Did priests shake hands? And if they did, did they shake hands with women? “I was hoping to speak to anyone who knew a former student of the seminary.”

  “Has there been an issue?” The priest looked concerned.

  “He is missing,” Clara elaborated. “Actually, he has been missing these past five years and his sister would like to know what became of him. I am trying to find people who knew him and, of course, this seemed a logical place to begin.”

  “Naturally,” the priest looked a touch relieved, as if he had expected a worse problem than a missing man of the cloth. Perhaps he had feared a scandal was brewing. “Why don’t you come in to Father Creek’s office, he is in charge of the seminary and will be best placed to answer your questions.”

  “Thank you,” Clara stepped through the door and followed the priest. “But, I am curious, why is there a women’s netball team at a seminary? Surely this is a male only establishment?”

  The priest gave her an amused smile.

  “The seminary is not as busy as it used to be, not so many young men choosing to become priests. We have time on our hands and have chosen to branch out into community projects. To help those around us is part of our Christian duty. We heard that some of the girls in the villages around here were interested in playing sports, but had no equipment nor a suitable venue. For that matter, they didn’t have any idea of which sport they wished to try or how to play it. Father Mc
Kelly used to be a sports coach and offered his time and experience,” the priest laughed. “I suppose there were some raised eyebrows at first, but once the idea got going a number of girls came along. Now Father McKelly is organising a team to attend the South West Netball Championships.”

  They had come to a door and the priest opened it and motioned for Clara to enter.

  “It is also good for our students to work with the community. A priest does much more than just give mass. He is a fundamental part of the parish, spiritually and socially. We must make sure our priests are prepared for such a role.”

  “That I understand,” Clara nodded.

  “I shall find Father Creek for you,” the priest said. “Can I get you some tea?”

  “Thank you.”

  The priest quietly closed the door and Clara was left alone in the office. She didn’t quite know what to do with herself. She had never been in a priest’s office before. She walked to the window and looked out into the grounds. She could see a couple of men in cassocks walking briskly along a path, deep in discussion. Somewhere deep in the building a bell rang, but Clara had no idea what it meant.

  She wandered about the room. There was a large bookcase filling the entire back wall opposite the office desk and she glanced at the titles on display. As she had expected, they were all of a religious nature, from academic essays on the saints to books of hymns. Clara never knew so much had been written about religion. She found one book which was a directory of priests living in the British isles, both retired and active. She lifted it off the shelf and scanned the index for Christian Lound. She found him and then flipped to his entry. The book had been published in 1915 and all it stated under his name was that he had become an ordained priest in 1913 and was currently working in Belgium. She replaced the book.

  The door opened again and the priest who had guided her into the house appeared with a tray of tea things.

  “Father Creek will be here very shortly,” he promised, placing two cups and saucers on the table along with the teapot and milk jug. “I’m sorry for the delay.”

  “That’s all right,” Clara moved back to the desk. “It is not as if you were expecting me.”

  “May I ask, who is the priest you are enquiring about?”

  Clara saw no harm in answering.

  “Father Christian Lound,” she said. “He left the seminary in 1913 and not long after went to Belgium to bring comfort to the troops.”

  The priest frowned for a moment, then he went back to laying out the tea things, finishing his task by placing a bowl of sugar next to the teapot.

  “I remember Father Lound,” he said. “I was here from 1910. He was a good man, a very dedicated student. An idealist.”

  Clara thought that sounded worrying. Idealists did not always see the world the way others did. They might just happen to do something that they felt was right, but which could seem to the rest of the world to be treachery.

  “I did not realise he was missing,” the priest continued. “Of course, there were priests lost in the war.”

  “What is this? What are we talking about?”

  A man had appeared at the door. He was also dressed in a cassock and Clara guessed this was Father Creek. He was short and very stout. He rather looked like someone had made him out of wax and then sat him on a sunny windowsill and left him to melt a little. His flesh seemed to sag, his whole body melting into rolling layers. He had such a belly on him, that it caused him to walk with his back heavily arched to counterbalance the weight. He reminded Clara of a heavily pregnant woman trying to negotiate about the room.

  “Father Creek, this is Miss Clara Fitzgerald. She has come to make enquiries regarding one of our former students.”

  “He hasn’t run off with a parishioner, has he?” Father Creek scowled.

  “Nothing like that,” Clara hastily said though, in truth, she had no idea what Lound had done and it was entirely possible that his reason for vanishing was of a much more serious nature than just breaking his priestly vows. “He went missing in the war. His sister fears he is dead, but would like to know what became of him.”

  “Well then, how can we help?” Father Creek blustered. “We had nothing to do with sending priests out to the Front. We are a place of learning.”

  Clara was starting to feel uneasy. She was not sure she wanted to reveal her true reasons for coming to this man. He gave the impression of being very narrow-minded and not the sort who would be discreet with the information that one of his former students might have been a traitor. Clara did not want to spread the rumours about Christian any further. That would be awful for Emily and was not the purpose of her enquiries. She had promised to be discreet, and she would abide by that.

  Father Creek was not giving the impression of a man who would keep such a thing secret.

  “I was hoping to get a better idea of Father Lound’s character,” Clara explained.

  “I thought you were working for his sister? Surely she can tell you what he was like?” Father Creek muttered.

  “Family always tends to be biased,” Clara continued patiently. “Equally, they often will only see one side of a person. Friends and acquaintances will have different views which can be useful for creating a clearer picture of the individual.”

  “I think you are barking up the wrong tree with that,” Father Creek flopped down in a chair behind the desk, it gave a considerable groan. “Family knows family best. In any case, I don’t remember this Father Lound. I do have a directory…”

  Father Creek waved a hand at the bookcase.

  “I saw it while I was waiting,” Clara interrupted him, feeling annoyed with the man. “I did glance at Father Lound’s entry. It was not very enlightening.”

  “Well, I can’t see how I can help you,” Father Creek snorted. “I don’t keep track of all the students who come through our doors. Did the family not receive a telegram telling them what happened?”

  “No,” Clara said, not feeling the energy to explain further. She had had enough. “I am sorry to have wasted your time. I shall continue my enquiries elsewhere.”

  Clara could see that she was going to achieve nothing with Father Creek. His attitude was one of disinterest and no amount of talking was going to change that. She rose and left the room, not really caring if Father Creek thought her rude. She had made it to the front door before the friendly priest caught up with her. He had been present for her brief interview with Father Creek and had followed her as she left.

  “Please wait a moment,” he now called to her.

  Clara had stopped by the door, she didn’t want to hang around. She was annoyed that her trip here had been a waste of time, not because of a lack of information, but because Father Creek was so unwilling to help her. She could tell that he was a man only interested in the reputation of his seminary. That was why she could not tell him about the rumours concerning Lound. She feared he would react in a similar way to Christian’s father, accepting the gossip at face value and instantly going to work to cover-up the seminary’s connection. He would be of no use to her. She only paused now because the friendly priest seemed to genuinely want to speak with her, and he had been pleasant.

  “Father Creek can be brusque,” the priest began.

  “Please,” Clara interrupted before he could carry on, “I really do not need an apology, or for you to defend him. I’ve met plenty of individuals like Father Creek, who are so obsessed by their own world and their role in it, that they cannot be bothered to consider the importance of other people’s lives. For him Christian Lound is irrelevant and I don’t need to waste my time attempting to change his mind. I know too well I won’t succeed.”

  Clara opened the front door, ready to leave. The friendly priest placed his hand on the door, preventing her from pulling it open.

  “Would you talk to me?” He said.

  Clara glanced at him.

  “Why?” She asked.

  “Because I knew Christian Lound,” the priest said. “And I
would like to help you find out what became of him. I did not know he had vanished during the war. I have lived in happy ignorance that he was continuing on his life without a problem. To learn otherwise is a shock.”

  Clara removed her hand from the door and took a better look at the priest. He was much younger than Creek and in far better physical shape. He was unremarkable in appearance, though his face was open and gentle, which added a certain attraction. Clara decided she should give him a chance, after all, he probably knew more about Lound than Father Creek did.

  “All right,” she said, “let’s talk. Father…?”

  “Father Dobson,” the priest introduced himself. “Might I suggest we go somewhere private?”

  “Lead the way,” Clara said.

  Father Dobson gave his warm smile, then showed Clara out of the front door.

  Chapter Six

  There was a large summerhouse in the garden. Father Dobson led them there. He explained that it was a place often used for meditation, but was typically empty at this time of the day when the students were attending to their lessons.

  Father Dobson gave Clara a brief guide to his life as he showed her where to go. He was just turned forty and had spent his whole adult life in the priesthood. Coming from an impoverished background, there had not been much time for religion in his early days, in fact, it was deemed an unnecessary luxury in the day-to-day existence of his parents. Survival was the name of the game. If they all got to eat a square meal once a day, then they were happy.

  Dobson had been a sickly child, probably some sort of deficiency, he confided lightly. He struggled to learn to walk and he was never very strong. He was rather useless in his father’s eyes, though the man was kind enough not to make a huge drama of his disappointment. It was just hinted at now and then. Dobson was never going to be able to bring money to the family through manual labour, he knew that early on. The best he could do was find a way not to be a burden upon their meagre resources.