by Pat Mullan
“Yes.”
An answer so feeble that Ed had to watch his lips move to confirm it.
“But you know why Terry was afraid that night, don’t you? He had a mobile phone and they wanted the photos he’d taken. Isn’t that right?”
Patrick had stood up, clenching his hands.
“Isn’t that right?”
Patrick nodded.
“And he gave that phone to you, didn’t he?”
Patrick now looked afraid and backed away.
“Patrick, if you have that phone you should turn it over to the Gardai.”
Patrick still said nothing.
“If you won’t do that, then give it to me. If there’s something on that phone that you don’t want to talk about, something you’re afraid of, why don’t you tell me about it? I can help you. You can talk to me. You know you can’t cover this up. Don’t you want to get the person who killed Terry? “
Patrick Clarke continued to back away. Now he turned and started to run, faster and faster.
24
Castle Cormack stood majestically overlooking Lough Corrib, the Mweelrea mountains picture perfect in the distance.
Ed Burke stopped his car at the crest of the hill. He’d driven through the main gates minutes earlier, unaware of what lay ahead. The road down to the castle undulated through a magical green carpet, enriched by trees and shrubs, planted centuries past by experts.
He eased the car into first and coasted at about five miles per hour down towards the castle. Crossing the bridge over the river that flowed into the lough, he found himself in the rear courtyard. He parked there, got out and walked around the side of the castle.
Unprepared for the view that greeted him, his eyes found it impossible to capture the labyrinth of flower beds, lawns, gravelled paths, hedgerows, fountains, and sculpture that covered the expanse between the castle entrance and the boundary wall bordering the crystal clear waters of the lough. The power of the Cormacks emanated from every inch of the place.
Huge lions, carved out of Connemara marble, guarded the entrance. He climbed the steps to the open front door and was immediately greeted upon entry by a young lady who seemed to have materialized from nowhere.
“Mr. Burke?”
“Yes.”
“He’s expecting you. I’ll show you to the study.”
“Thank you.”
She led him through an oak-lined hallway hung with ancestral paintings. Stopping at a closed door, she knocked and, in response to a muffled voice, opened the door, ushered him inside, and closed it behind him.
It was going to take a while for his eyes to adjust to the dim light.
“The eyes, the eyes. I must keep the drapes closed.”
The voice came from a high-backed chair, under a reading lamp, close to the bookshelves that lined one wall of the room.
“Thank you for seeing me.”
“I was intrigued when you called. How could I refuse to see you!” the voice answered with a note of mirth, even an undertone of mischievousness. Maybe I’m reading too much into it, Ed told himself.
Ed’s eyes had now adjusted to the light and he saw the man behind the voice rise from the high-backed chair and stretch out his hand in welcome. A firm and confident grip belied the frailty of the tall eighty-one year old Lord Desmond Cormack, Earl of Dunvegan. Wrapped in a long purple robe, pyjamas peeked out near ankles that disappeared into dark green slippers. A crown of white hair topped a once-handsome face, cheeks now hollow from age. But the eyes sparkled like the crystal clear waters of the lough outside.
Looking at his watch, he continued, “It’s eleven a.m. Coffee time for me. Will you join me?”
“Thank you. I’d love to.”
As though by prearranged signal, the door opened and the same young lady arrived with a pot of tea, two fine china cups enscribed with the Cormack coat of arms, milk and sugar, and an assortment of biscuits, all well distributed on a large silver tray. She left as unobtrusively as she’d entered and Lord Desmond busied himself putting sugar and milk in his tea as he commented, “Flora, my niece. Wonderful girl. Don’t know what I’d do without her.”
“You’re a lucky man, your Lordship. Living in this beautiful home …”
But Lord Desmond, after deciding quickly that Burke wasn’t taking the mickey out of him, interrupted with, “Lucky! Hah! A heavy legacy comes with all of this!” as he waved his arms expansively around him and continued, “That’s what brought you here, isn’t it? At least you intimated that when you called. You didn’t come to walk through the gardens and smell my roses, did you? And call me Desmond. Please! ”
“No, you’re right. I didn’t.”
His Lordship nibbled on the end of a biscuit, sipped his tea and waited for Ed Burke to compose what he wanted to say.
“They call your family the Medicis of Ireland. Your links with the Church, with Rome, with the Crusades. But you never got that Papal Crown. The smoke from the Sistine Chapel never announced a Cormack Pope.”
That fired Lord Desmond, “Yes, we failed. And look what we’ve had. A Pole and a German! Even an Englishman in the past, Nicholas Breakspear, Adrian IV. I’m sure you know that. But never an Irishman. Don’t you think we’re long overdue an Irish Pope?”
“So you haven’t given up the hope?”
“We’ll never give it up.”
“And you’ve had big disappointments, haven’t you?”
“What do you mean?”
“The Monsignor for one. Monsignor Fallon.”
“Agh, the Monsignor, yes. Would have made a fine Pope. Well on his way when he was crucified over those indiscretions!”
“Indiscretions!”
“Yes, indiscretions! The Monsignor had no victims. Only a case of unspoken love. The love that’s been part of our human nature for all time. Would you reject our Easter 1916 leader Patrick Pearse, the man who founded this state? Would you have him vilified because he delighted in the physical beauty of boys or boyish young men?”
“But innocent young boys need to be protected from predator priests!”
“And who in our family is such a person? Not the Monsignor! Never!”
“Then you’re naïve or out of touch. You have a nephew, your youngest brother’s son, in the priesthood. You have high ambitions for him, haven’t you?”
“Father Roland. A fine young man. And what do you mean by bringing him into this conversation? What do you mean ‘I’m out of touch’?”
“I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt and assume you haven’t heard.”
Ed Burke then started back with the two boys being chased through the grounds of St. Curnan’s on that stormy night, ending with the death of one of them, his cousin Terry Joyce. Lord Desmond sat mute as Ed continued to tell of the attempted murder of Father Nugent and Father Nugent’s confession that it had been Father Roland Cormack who was responsible for Terry’s fall from the old round tower on that stormy night.
Lord Desmond said, “This Nugent. One man’s story. Covering up for himself, probably.”
“No. I believe Father Nugent’s telling the truth. So I think that Father Roland should come forward.”
“Well, why come to see me? Haven’t you talked with him? I’m sure he’s denied the whole thing.”
“That’s it. I can’t find him. That’s why I’m here. I assumed that you would know. And I also assumed that it would be in your interest to clear the family name.”
“Clear the family name! What impudence! You’re saying one is guilty until proven innocent! Well, Edmund Burke, I do not know where Father Roland is and, if I did, I wouldn’t be inclined to turn him over to a lynch mob!”
“My cousin’s boy was murdered in St. Curnan’s. And another boy has hung himself in the school grounds. And I believe that Father Roland knows about it. And, yes, as far as I’m concerned, he’s responsible for the death of young Terry. So – let him come forward and prove his innocence. If you believe in him that much, then you must believe it would be in
you family’s interest to clear this up. I’m sure the house of Cormack doesn’t need another scandal.”
Lord Desmond had had enough. What he’d hoped to have been an interesting social visit had turned into something darker, more sinister. He stood, expecting Ed to stand at the same time. Ed followed and rose to his feet.
“Mr. Burke, I’m sorry for the untimely death of your young cousin. Which I’m sure was an accident. My family has many enemies. And some would love any opportunity to smear us. Understand that!”
He ushered Ed to the door, turned and headed back to his chair in the study.
When Ed had departed, he rang for Flora, “Flora, please get Monsignor Fallon on the phone. Right away, thank you.”
25
His foot slipped but he hung on. Suspended twenty feet above the ground, he hung on to a small tree that grew stubbornly out of the rock fissure. Winded, with muscles that hurt from disuse, sheer willpower and revenge drove him on. Finding sounder footing, he rested and looked around.
Everything looked ghostly in the dusk. The lights of the town glimmered in the distance. Looking up, he could see the top of the college walls five or six feet above his head. He started to climb again.
Almost there.
The luminous dial of his watch read 10 pm. Stars decorated the sky above. He sat in a sheltered cove behind the wall. He’d been here for over an hour. When he reached here, there’d been enough light left to show the hundreds of cigarette butts that now carpeted the ground beneath his feet. Students’ secret smoke hole. Well hidden but holding a good view of the college and its grounds, perfect for keeping a look-out for the prefects or even the Dean.
Clothed totally in black, he wore a black ski cap that could easily convert to a balaclava. A rope hung, lariat style, over his left shoulder.
It’s time, he said to himself.
The school grounds were deserted. All the students were now in their dorm rooms, in bed with the lights out. Four or five windows shone like beacons on the second floor of the faculty residence hall. One light shone out of the large French windows overlooking the roof of the main building’s entrance porch. The President’s office.
Rested after his climb, he ran across the sloping front lawn until he reached the shelter of the main building. Out of breath, he stopped for a minute and then moved cautiously, close to the building, until he reached the entrance porch.
Taking the rope from his shoulder, he threw it up and lassoed one of the marble stanchions mounted on top of the porch. He hooked the end to his belt and rappelled himself to the roof of the porch. Light from the French windows suffused out in a circle, leaving the edges of the porch in darkness. He looped the rope around the stanchion and, carrying one end, crawled across the porch to the edge of the French doors. Slightly ajar to let in some fresh air, he could see President McCafferty sitting erect at his desk, reading from a stack of papers. In his late sixties, his bald held alleviated by clumps of white hair at his temples, his ruddy face testimony to the outdoor athletic life he led as a young man, as a star of the local Gaelic football club, he seemed preoccupied and totally unaware that he was about to have a visitor.
Vengeance is mine. Good enough for the Lord, good enough for me.
26
President Sam McCafferty dropped his papers and stood up in shock.
The black clad man had entered his office through the French windows and was now standing holding the end of a rope. He said nothing, just stood there, fully intent on unnerving him. President McCaffrey thought fast. Too late to call anyone to help. Besides they didn’t live in a high risk place so they had never felt the need for their own security force. No, I’m on my own, he thought, I’ll have to talk my way through this.
“Who are you?”
No answer.
“What do you want?”
No answer.
“I have no money or valuables here. If you came to rob me, you’ve wasted your time.”
No answer.
“If you talk to me, maybe I can help you.”
No answer. The man took a couple of steps into the office and looked around, as though searching for something.
“Won’t you tell me what you want? Maybe I can help you.”
No answer. President McCaffrey realized he was getting nowhere and wondered if he could make a run for it. If he could move out from behind his desk and edge his way towards the door, maybe he could do it. So he came out from behind his desk and stood to the side, saying,
“If you’re in some kind of trouble, maybe I can help you. You can talk to me.”
No answer. The man’s eyes seemed angry. The rest of his face was covered in a black balaclava.
“I won’t tell anybody. No need to involve the police. Whatever trouble you’re in, you need to talk to someone.”
No answer. The President decided to take the first step towards the door. But, as he did so, the man took some things out of his pocket and threw them at him. They hit his chest and dropped on the floor at his feet.
“Pick them up!”
The voice, loud and angry, showed no sign of weakness. The President found himself thrown off-balance, his plan of escape unattainable. Nothing to do but obey, play this thing out, and hope for the best.
He bent down and picked up the items from the floor. Students’ caps with the school emblems pinned on the front.
“Look inside. Read the names!”
President McCaffrey read the names and his ruddy face suddenly lost all its colour. Now he knew the visitor’s purpose. His legs started to tremble,
Fuelled by fear, the President made a dash for the door. Too late. The man rushed him, grabbed his soutane so fiercely that it ripped from the neck to the waist. The President had never been a fighter and had lived a life of non-violence, but now he kicked out at his assailant and landed a blow to the man’s thigh. Which only infuriated the man who swung his fist and connected with the President’s jaw, stunning him and knocking him to the ground. Vulnerable now, the President could feel the rope around his neck and hear the man’s voice, a voice vaguely familiar.
“An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth. Isn’t that what the bible says? Well, isn’t it? A life for a life!”
The man tightened the noose around the President’s neck and, with almost superhuman strength, began to drag him across the floor towards the French windows. The President tried to dig his heels in, tried to resist, but the man tightened the noose. Once out through the French windows, the man grabbed the other end of the rope, already looped around the stanchion, and commenced to tug, just like a tug-of-war game. The President, unable to resist, slid inexorably towards the edge of the roof. Finally the man kicked him over the edge and braced himself as the President’s body jerked the rope taut.
Vengeance is mine. Good enough for the Lord, good enough for me.
27
The Carty farm lay in poor land about fifteen miles from St. Curnan’s. Reached by a rutted country road, the land could barely sustain sheep and the few Connemara ponies. Ten miles from the main road, the Carty’s were isolated. Not served by any bus route, they rarely saw another human being. They did have electricity and a phone line.
Ed Burke had called ahead and was surprised that Mrs. Carty had agreed to see him. He had expected to encounter some reluctance and was prepared to use whatever persuasion necessary.
He switched on the windscreen wipers as misty rain closed in. Mrs. Carty had given him good directions and he saw the rusty metal gateposts up ahead. He negotiated the pot-holes and edged his car between the gateposts. With hedges brushing him on either side, he squeezed his way through. A large old farmhouse faced him, half of the roof thatched and the other half slated as though it dated from two different periods. Outhouses and barns with rusty zinc roofs crowded together behind the farmhouse.
A few chickens scattered out of his way as he swung the car around and parked near the front door. The rain had stopped but the sky remained dull and overcast. The smell of burnin
g turf captured his nose and he could see the wisp of smoke trailing languidly from the chimney. The front door opened and Mrs. Carty stood there as he approached.
“Mrs. Carty, I want to say how sorry I am. Thank you for seeing me today.”
A tall woman, she stood with hands sunk in the pockets of her apron. Her bedraggled greying hair framed a big-boned weather-beaten face. Unsmiling, she stood back and ushered him inside.
Fire blazed in the grate of a large stone fireplace. A wicker basket, filled with turf, stood at the ready. Huge iron hooks over the mantelpiece supported a shot-gun, a working gun, a hunter’s essential. A big pine table occupied the centre of the room and a willow-pattern tea-set sat waiting. Red geraniums on the window-sill added the only colour to the room.
Two tall-backed chairs sat on either side of the fire and she guided Ed to one of them. He sat and she turned on the kettle saying, “I’ll make tea.”
“Please don’t go to any bother, Mrs. Carty.”
“No bother. We usually have tea at this time of day. John loves his tea,” she said, talking about her son in the present tense as though he was still alive.
Ed’s eyes wandered as she buried herself preparing the tea. Six or seven framed photos competed for space on the side-board tucked against the wall under the window.
Mrs. Carty carried the teapot to the table and invited Ed to join her. Passing the sideboard he paused at the photos, confirming to himself that they were all of her son. One photo showed him standing in his football outfit on the school pitch while, in another, he was dressed in his surplus and soutane obviously taken before or after he’d served mass.
“Your son was a fine young man.”
She didn’t say anything right away, instead busied herself pouring two cups of tea and offering Ed the biscuit tray.