The Bells of Scotland Road

by Ruth Hamilton

  Nicholas left, then Timothy bumbled his way through the inner door. ‘Come. Let’s get you settled, Martin.’

  In the hallway, the scrubbing was finished. The monks were dusting rows of holy pictures that lined the walls. ‘All right?’ asked the nearest.

  Liam froze. The accent was definitely Scouse. ‘Very well, thanks,’ he managed finally. ‘Are you from Liverpool?’

  ‘Yes.’ The man crossed the floor. ‘Are you?’

  ‘No.’ Liam cleared his throat. ‘Any more here from your neck of the woods?’

  ‘Not as far as I know,’ replied the monk. ‘They’re mostly from this side of Lancashire. I served my time all over the place – a lot of us did.’

  Liam studied the man’s clothes. ‘Are you a member of the order now?’

  ‘Yes.’ The monk sounded pleased with himself. ‘Been here fifteen years next October.’ Liam heaved a sigh of relief. This Liverpudlian probably knew nothing at all about the Bell family. Even so, the utmost care must be taken. Although the brothers’ heads were shaven, one or two had beards. He would grow a beard.

  Brother Timothy led the way down a corridor and into a very small room. There was a bed, a table, a chair and a little chest of drawers. ‘This is yours,’ said the brother. ‘There are overalls in there.’ He pointed to the drawers. ‘Today, you must have some rest. Tomorrow, you will be assigned work. When the bell sounds, I shall collect you and take you to the refectory.’ He made a little bow and left the room.

  Father Liam Bell put away his few possessions, then lay on his bed. There was a tiny window, but it was high on the wall, too far up to afford a view. It was like a prison cell, except that the walls were painted cream and there were faded flowers printed on the bedspread. He had found somewhere safe. With his head propped by an extremely hard pillow, Liam Bell said goodbye to himself and welcomed Martin Waring into this new world.

  ‘He was here?’ Anthony stared at her in disbelief.

  Bridie nodded. ‘He was poking about all over the place, probably looking for whatever Sam hid – money or jewellery.’ She paused. ‘Or evidence. I just waited until he went away.’

  Anthony took a deep breath to steady himself. Because of his father’s death, he had been given five extra days’ compassionate leave, so he had taken the chance to visit Bridie again. She should not be alone, should not be expected to face such dangers. ‘You should have telephoned. You should have sent for me. Good God, he could be miles away by now.’ Worse than that, he could be here . . .

  Bridie felt light-headed, as if she were really elsewhere. A great wedge of guilt had positioned itself somewhere between her heart and her throat. Had she looked after Sam well enough? Had she looked after Cathy well enough?

  Anthony pushed a strand of hair from his forehead. ‘He might have killed you.’

  ‘What?’ Cathy had anaemia. Sam had died and left everything to his wife of just a few months. She didn’t deserve it. She had not been a good wife, was not a good mother.

  ‘Did you hear me?’ asked Anthony. It was plain that she had not slept for some time. Dark shadows sat beneath her lovely eyes, making her older and sadder.

  She pulled herself into the present day. ‘He might have, but he didn’t. Please, please, don’t talk about it.’ She lowered herself into a chair. ‘I got the locks changed . . . Billy sent a man from the docks. He looks after warehouse security.’ She was bone-weary, exhausted by several wakeful nights. So many emotions had clamoured inside her head and heart these past few days. ‘I feel like a wet rag,’ she said. ‘My poor, poor Cathy. I never noticed. I never noticed that Sam was ill, either.’

  ‘Dad’s death was an accident waiting to happen,’ said Anthony. ‘He must have had a weak heart, Bridie. I feel so sorry for him, sorry for myself, too, because we were going to be closer. But I’m sorriest for you, Bridie. Two husbands dead in such a short time.’

  Bridie said nothing, though her brain would not be still. Somewhere in England, a man who had killed and raped was on the loose. Even now, after poor Sam’s death, the police were scarcely interested. Someone had hanged for Valerie’s murder, so the law was satisfied. Bridie suspected that the guardians of civil order might be embarrassed if and when the truth came to light, because the hanging of the wrong man would be viewed as quite a substantial accident. She had not reported her burglar, had been too tired and too busy to pester a police force whose disinterest was so apparent.

  ‘Bridie?’

  ‘I’m all right,’ she said almost snappily. The Costigans would arrive shortly. A summit conference was to be held in Bridie’s kitchen. The subject of discussion was to be the shop’s future. Bridie was going to need help, and the Costigans were happy to offer their services. How would that family feel once the truth came out about Maureen’s attacker?

  Anthony sat down and watched the woman he forbade himself to love. Dad had changed his will. On the very last day of his life, Sam Bell had decreed that the shop and all its contents were for Bridie. Dad had loved this girl. He had been a passionless man, but the young Irishwoman had made his last few months almost happy. ‘My father cared for you. Everyone said how much happier he was after your arrival.’

  Bridie lifted her head. ‘Charlie told me that Flash Flanagan visited Sam on the day he died. Muth said the same. If you recall, it was Flash who found Maureen. Perhaps he found more. And Sam told you that there was concrete evidence.’

  Anthony considered the statement. ‘Evidence? But Flash was questioned repeatedly. He complained all over the place for days about harassment. Surely he would have told the police?’

  Bridie sighed. ‘According to Muth, Flash has no time for the law. He’s been locked up as a vagrant so many times that he just keeps out of the way as often as possible.’ She hesitated. ‘Also, the nature of what he found might have surprised him.’

  The clock chimed. Anthony stared into thin air. ‘Something of Liam’s?’

  She nodded. ‘And Sam went round to see Liam—’

  ‘Not right away. He called in to see his solicitor first.’ The light dawned so suddenly and so intensely that it seemed to hurt Anthony’s eyes. ‘He changed his will there and then, Bridie. He must have described to Liam whatever had been found. Then he confronted Liam and . . . and the stress of that killed him.’

  Bridie’s handkerchief was a knotted wreck. ‘There’s proof in this house, Anthony. I am so sure of that. Liam knows it’s here, he must, and—’

  The door burst inward. Diddy, panting as if she had just run a marathon, leaned against the jamb. ‘Donald Bentham’s office got wrecked a few days ago,’ she said breathlessly. ‘I’ve just heard. All ripped to shreds, it was.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘I mean, I can understand folk stealing to eat, but . . .’ She shrugged as if giving up on an insane world.

  Bridie and Anthony exchanged glances. Donald was Sam’s solicitor. Liam must have hunted there, too, for evidence.

  ‘There’s nothing been took,’ continued Diddy. ‘Donald and his mates and the coppers have been playing jigsaws all week – putting stuff back together. There was money in a tin – tea and milk money – it wasn’t touched. But the bloody office was wall-to-wall torn paper. What the hell’s the world coming to? There’s wills and deeds and all kinds damaged. Nobody round here would do that. There’s no sense in it, nothing worth pinching.’

  To cover her confusion and distress, Bridie got up and bustled about with kettle and teapot.

  ‘The locksmith’s round at Donald Bentham’s,’ continued Diddy. ‘Same fellow who changed your locks. Have you been burgled?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ replied Bridie rather quickly. ‘But with Sam gone, I need to feel safe at night. There are a few valuable pieces here.’

  Diddy agreed. ‘Better safe than sorry,’ she said.

  Muth came in. ‘Them bloody stairs is getting steeper,’ she complained. Her expression changed when she saw Anthony. ‘Eeh, lad, it’s time you came home.’ A tear made its way down a wrinkled cheek. ‘He did f
or my Sam, you know. Frightened him to death, he did, and that’s why he’s done a bunk.’

  Anthony said nothing. He led his grandmother to a chair, wiped her face with his handkerchief. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I’ll visit you as often as possible.’ Should he give in his notice and return? He glanced at Bridie, wondered what she would want. Given the circumstances, she might feel safer with him here. There again, she might feel safer if he stayed away. What a mess.

  Bridie scalded the teapot and heard the words. He was intending to visit on a regular basis. Strangely, she felt little reaction. She was probably too tired to feel anything at all.

  Anthony walked into the shop, stood behind the counter in the very spot where Sam had reigned for years. What would happen when everyone’s grief had run its course? he asked himself. Could he keep his distance from Bridie for ever?

  ‘Why did he bugger off like that, Anthony?’

  He jumped, turned and looked at Diddy, saw a picture of Maureen’s face in his mind. ‘I don’t know,’ he said.

  ‘Something must have happened,’ said Diddy.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘But only two people know exactly what. And one of them is dead.’

  Diddy stood and watched while the young man returned to the kitchen. She understood that Anthony and Sam had reached some kind of truce, and she was glad about that. The window blinds were closed, making Bell’s Pledges dark and lifeless. Diddy shook her head and looked up to heaven. ‘It’s all right, Sam,’ she told him. ‘We’ll be open in the morning. Business has to go on, old lad. Hasn’t it?’

  The meeting had been declared open. Charlie was in charge at the start, because his experience of Sam Bell’s methods was the longest. ‘I can manage,’ he said. ‘Selling and doing tickets and finding pledges. But I can’t clear houses and all that. Mr Bell used to get help with the big stuff. I’m no use at lifting.’ At the end of this unusually long speech, Charlie sat down.

  Bridie smiled encouragingly at Charlie, her mainstay in the business, then she addressed his father. ‘Billy, would you give up the docks? We’ll be needing a fine, strong fellow like yourself. What do you think?’ she asked.

  The large man pushed a hand against his breast. ‘Me? I’ve been a docker all my life. It’s the only job I’ve ever done. I’ve never thought of any other kind of work. I’ve always worked the docks.’

  ‘She knows that,’ said Diddy tartly. ‘You’ve told her about three hundred times.’ Billy was famous for his dockside stories.

  Nicky cleared her throat. ‘What about the stall? Mr Bell and a few others paid for the patch, so are we keeping it on? Only we’ve regulars, see. The Johnny Laskies always come to me, because they know they’ll get good stuff. Will I be carrying on working on Paddy’s?’ She loved the market, could not imagine life without it. She got her dinner every day in Scouse Alley, bacon ribs with as much cabbage as she wanted, then a wet nellie dripping with warm syrup. ‘Can I keep it open?’ she begged. Bell’s was Nicky’s biggest supplier. Other businesses sold stuff through Nicky, but she could not imagine surviving without Bell’s.

  Bridie nodded and smiled at the homely young woman. Nicky lived and breathed Paddy’s Market. Her ambitions in life were to rent a few more yards of selling space and to marry Graham Pile. Graham, once out of his apprenticeship, would perhaps make cakes to sell from another stall. ‘Oh yes. That will continue just as before.’ Bridie gave her attention to Diddy. ‘It might be an idea for you and Nicky to run the stall between you. I’ve always thought it was a bit much for a young girl. Anyway, your children are grown, so a little job would be just the thing.’ She returned her scrutiny to Billy. ‘I’d like you and Charlie to run the shop. Proper wages, of course. Billy, you would be in charge of moving large furniture and clearing houses. The McKinnells will continue to hire out the cart and horse, I’m sure.’

  Billy studied his calloused hands. The biggest section of hard skin sat across the palm of his right hand, a diagonal line at the base of his thumb. This had been produced by a docker’s hook, a murderous piece of curved metal attached to a piece of wood. ‘Shifted some stuff,’ he mumbled. ‘All weathers, too.’ He lifted his head. ‘I always get picked, you know. Sometimes, I look at them who never get much work, and I could kill the bloody bosses.’ He sighed, swallowed. ‘Right, queen. I’ll work for you. Same difference, I suppose. I’ll still be heaving stuff between hither, thither and Tuesday dinner.’

  Bridie closed her eyes and tried not to worry about Cathy. For twenty-four hours a day, she was thinking or dreaming about her older daughter. A mother should be with her daughter—

  ‘Where’s Shauna?’ asked Muth. Muth was huddled over a newspaper next to the fire. She was going through the deaths column in search of redundant household goods. This had been Sam’s job. After a death announcement, he would present a card to the family in case they wanted to sell any of the deceased’s belongings. It was a morbid task. ‘Where’s Shauna?’ she repeated.

  ‘Edith took her out,’ replied Bridie. Edith and Anthony had brought Shauna home this morning. Cathy had stayed with Mrs Cornwell and Maureen at Cherry Hinton. Bridie hoped with all her fast diminishing energy that Shauna would be good while out with Edith. Edith didn’t care for Bridie’s younger daughter. Shauna had a habit of acquiring things, anything and everything that took her fancy. Shauna had been the weakling, yet Cathy was the one with the blood disorder—

  ‘Bridie?’

  ‘Sorry,’ she replied. ‘I was elsewhere.’

  Billy smiled sadly. ‘We’ve all been in the wars lately, haven’t we? Never mind, God’s good.’

  ‘So you’ll come into the business, then?’ Bridie asked the Costigans. ‘I’d feel happier if you would, because I trust you, all of you.’

  Nicky sniffed meaningfully. ‘If you trust our Jimmy, you want your head testing. Mind, he’ll settle down, I suppose.’

  Muth poked her head out of the newspaper. ‘I want you all to keep your eyes open. That bugger’s out there somewhere. He knows he killed his dad. I don’t know owt about what went on in that presbytery, but that so-called priest finished Sam off. That’s why he’s disappeared, bloody rotten coward, he is. Fancy leaving Sam like that. He might have been saved if the doctor had come.’

  Anthony glanced at Bridie. The strain was showing on her face. He jumped to his feet and made for the door. ‘I’ve got to go out,’ he told the small gathering. ‘A little bit of business to attend to.’

  Bridie closed her eyes again and leaned back in the chair. Muth didn’t know the half of it. And now, Anthony had probably gone to search for Flash Flanagan.

  ‘It’ll be all right, queen,’ said Billy Costigan. ‘We’ll not let you down.’

  Bridie buried her face in her hands and wept. She cried for the dead man who had cared for her, for Maureen’s damaged life, for Cathy, for Eugene. Most of all, she grieved for the poor man who had just left the house, because he had shared a womb and a home with Liam.

  Diddy patted Bridie’s shoulder. ‘You thought a lot of him, girl.’ There was surprise in her tone.

  Bridie looked up. ‘You said he wasn’t good and he wasn’t bad. You said he was just there, like a lamp-post is there. You said he was something we all just took for granted. Well, he isn’t there. Not any longer. The lampposts are all right, still standing. But Sam fell down, Diddy. I wish I’d done more . . .’ Her voice cracked.

  Diddy bit her lip. ‘You did a lot for Sam, girl,’ she finally managed. ‘He was happy – wasn’t he, Mrs Bell?’

  Theresa Bell stared into the fire. ‘Happier than I’d ever seen him,’ she declared. ‘Don’t cry, Bridie. We’ve to carry on, you see. That’s what it’s all about, carrying on.’

  Bridie heard the words and knew the sentiment behind them to be valid. But she still cried.

  Anthony walked down Dryden Street, looked along Great Homer, strode the length of Rachel Street and headed back to Scotland Road again. How many times in his life had he seen Flash Flanagan squatting on som
e street corner with his puppets and his banjo? Of course, the man was nowhere to be seen today.

  He continued his circular journey, hands thrust deep into pockets, eyes scouring the road. A tram rattled past in the direction of the city, then another clanged its heavy way towards the Rotunda. Where the hell had Flash disappeared to? Was it possible that Liam had . . . ? Oh no, please, no. The fact that Flash had found Maureen after the attack was well known. Had Liam put two and two together? Had he killed the tramp?

  ‘Hello, Anthony.’

  The young man swung round. ‘Father Brennan. Michael.’ He grabbed the priest’s arm. ‘Have you seen Flash today?’

  ‘Have I seen him?’ Michael Brennan’s eyebrows shot skyward. ‘Oh, I’ve seen the miserable wretch, indeed I have. He made a big show of sweeping up the church paths for me. Broke the broom – probably through leaning on it – then demanded his money. Yes, I’ve seen the old reprobate. And I’ll tell you this – he’ll say nothing about Maureen’s attacker. I’ve questioned him several times, so if you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking, forget it. He’s sealed up his mouth with cement.’

  ‘I’ll get it out of him,’ swore Anthony. ‘If he knows anything, I’ll make him talk.’ He let out a sigh of relief. ‘Thank God the old dog’s alive, at least.’

  The two men lingered outside Razor Sharpe’s barber shop. ‘I don’t know what to worry about first,’ said Anthony. ‘There’s my brother on the loose with heaven knows how many names on his list. With so many in danger, I can’t work out where to start.’

  ‘Mine’s probably one of those names,’ said the priest. ‘He’d no time for me, considered me to be a greedy pig because I enjoy my food. Sins of the flesh. He always had a lot to say about the sins of the flesh.’ He glanced down at his protruding belly.

  ‘Where did he go?’ asked Anthony.

  ‘Liam?’

  ‘No, Flash.’

  Michael removed the biretta and scratched his head. ‘There’s no answer to that, because Mr Flanagan moves in mysterious ways. There are some people who feed him, of course. He has a sort of timetable, tries not to hit the same target two days in a row. But there are several soft-hearted ladies who dish up a plate of scouse for Flash. He’ll turn up. Doesn’t a bad penny always make the rounds? Wait till the pubs open.’