The Bells of Scotland Road

by Ruth Hamilton

  They were all the same, these papists. Down on their knees in the gutter on a Saturday night, down on their knees in their church nine hours later, bowing and scraping to rows of statues. Their women wore green knickers when the Orange Lodge marched, lifted their skirts to show their colours to the enemy. They sinned, then confessed, then sinned all over again. Even this priest was not averse to swilling the odd pint in the company of parishioners. ‘He was probably pickled at the time.’

  Michael stared through the window at the sky. It hung low and grey like an ill-washed blanket, all patches and stains. ‘Anthony Bell is convinced that his twin murdered Valerie Walsh about five years ago. At that time, he tried to tell the police of his suspicions, but they refused to listen.’

  ‘A man hanged for that murder,’ replied the inspector.

  ‘Ah yes. But was he guilty?’

  ‘Of course he was. Look, bring in Flash Flanagan’s so-called evidence and I’ll have it looked into.’

  The priest inhaled deeply. ‘He hasn’t got it.’

  ‘I thought you said—’

  ‘He had it. I said he used to have it.’ This was hopeless. ‘Look, there’s a man on the loose somewhere out there.’ He waved a hand at the door. ‘God alone knows what he’ll do next.’

  The inspector folded his arms and looked with mock pity at the ageing cleric. ‘There are many men out there, Father. There’s enough stuff stolen from the docks every year to feed a small battalion plus half of Liverpool. I know the criminals are there and so do you. Finding out who they are is another matter altogether.’

  Father Brennan nodded. ‘And as long as somebody has hanged for a crime, then that particular book is closed.’

  The moustache twitched.

  ‘Do you and the courts of justice never make a mistake, Inspector Chadwick? Are you different from the rest of us?’

  The inspector offered no reply. He had a meeting in ten minutes, and he had no time to be sitting here philosophizing with a silly old man.

  ‘When his fiancée was murdered five or so years ago, Anthony Bell came into the station and told your officers that he believed she was killed by his brother.’

  ‘They were not my officers. I was in Manchester.’

  ‘Whatever. No-one listened to him.’

  The policeman shrugged. ‘I’ve heard rumours, of course, about how those twins never got on. There can be great hatred among families, because people are forced to live together even if they can’t stand the sight of each other and—’

  ‘And most violent crime is perpetrated within a family situation,’ said the priest. ‘That is a well-known fact. Mr Bell is also sure that his brother committed rape and bodily harm in the city. Many women were beaten and worse, and several said that their attacker had prayed over them. Then, as suddenly as the trouble had started, it stopped. I think you’ll find, if you care to check a few records, that Liam Bell was in the seminary during that lull. Valerie Walsh was murdered after Liam returned to the area. Valerie was engaged to Liam Bell’s twin. The girls in Liverpool were probably mere experiments to prepare for the real thing. Valerie Walsh was the real thing, because she was about to marry Father Bell’s brother.’

  ‘And the rest of the victims were prostitutes?’

  Michael Brennan hung on to his temper. ‘All the victims were women. Whatever their sins, they had the right to live without persecution.’

  Chadwick wasn’t sure about that. Some people got what they deserved, but he kept his mouth shut. ‘Wheel them in,’ he said resignedly.

  Flash Flanagan’s odour preceded him. He came into the room reluctantly and with Anthony acting as pilot. Once inside, the tramp shook himself free of his companion’s arm. ‘I promised a dying man,’ he protested. ‘And these two tricked me, told me they knew about the stole.’

  The inspector toyed with a pencil, drew a square on his pristine blotting pad. ‘You were questioned, Flanagan.’

  ‘That’s right, I was. And I got two measly cups of tea. I was faint for lack of nourishment.’

  ‘And you withheld evidence.’

  ‘I’m a Catholic.’

  The pencil clattered on the desk’s surface. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

  Flash shrugged, causing more malodorous dust to rise from his person. ‘It was a priest’s thing, something what they wear on the altar. I could have got struck dead if I’d snitched on a priest. So I kept the bloody thing.’

  Inspector Chadwick exhaled loudly. ‘Then give it to me.’

  ‘He can’t,’ said Anthony.

  The policeman ran his eyes over Anthony Bell. ‘Why not?’

  ‘I gave it to Sam, that’s why,’ shouted Flash.

  ‘And my father died,’ said Anthony. ‘We’ve questioned his solicitor, because Dad changed his will about an hour before the heart attack. But the man knew only that Dad had altered his will.’

  ‘So has the lawyer got the stole?’ asked Chadwick.

  ‘No,’ replied Anthony.

  The pencil was employed again, this time to tap the desk impatiently. The inspector addressed Anthony. ‘So a drunken tramp found this stole thing next to Maureen Costigan.’

  Anthony nodded.

  ‘And he kept it until the day of your father’s death?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So where is it now?’

  ‘We don’t know,’ the priest replied. ‘Sam must have hidden it.’

  Inspector Chadwick nodded, causing the number of chins to vary according to the position of his head. ‘Have either of you seen this stole?’ He looked from the priest to Anthony, then back again.

  ‘No,’ they answered simultaneously.

  ‘Then those who saw the evidence are this fellow,’ he waved the pencil at Flash, ‘and a dead man. And there’s not much to choose between them, because our gentleman of the road is usually the worse for drink.’ He gazed at Anthony. ‘To be honest with you – and I’m sorry for your loss – I would probably get more sense out of your father than out of Mr Flanagan.’

  Anthony closed the gap between himself and the policeman in one long stride. He was angry, so furious that he deliberately held himself in check. Somewhere, a dangerous man was on the loose. Anthony no longer felt any affection for or kinship with his brother. All he cared about was the safety of others, especially Bridie and her girls. ‘When the killing starts, I shall rub your fat face into every piece of horse muck on Scotland Road,’ he said softly.

  Michael touched his friend’s arm. ‘Anthony—’

  ‘Guardian of the law?’ Anthony went on. ‘Guardian of yourself and your own comfort.’ This obese and ugly man belonged to two lodges – one Masonic and the other of a colour that screamed its garish hatred of Catholicism at every opportunity. ‘When the next woman is raped or killed, I shall come for you, Inspector Chadwick.’

  The inspector bared his teeth. ‘You want me to find a priest? You want me to hang out your dirty Irish linen for all the world to see?’

  Anthony smiled grimly. ‘My brother is sick,’ he said. ‘What’s your excuse? Were you born insufferable, or has it taken practice?’

  ‘Careful, now,’ came the warning from behind the desk.

  ‘Or what?’ Anthony waited for a reply, received none. ‘Get off your fat behind and find my brother. If you don’t, I promise you that this day will be forever in your mind, a reminder of your own crass stupidity.’

  Chadwick blinked two or three times. ‘Where do you suggest I begin the search?’ he asked.

  Father Brennan placed Liam’s letter on the blotter. ‘He says he’s gone to Africa. We think he’s still in England. Find him.’

  The inspector was genuinely perplexed. If the information was correct, then a nationwide search might be warranted. But without hard evidence, no extensive manhunt could begin. ‘I’ll do what I can,’ he said reluctantly. ‘Now, if you will excuse me, I have to be somewhere else in a few minutes.’

  Flash strode out of the room as quickly as possible. When Anthony
and the priest caught up with him, he turned on both of them. ‘See?’ he said. ‘I told you. You’d get more sense out of the bloody Liver Birds.’ He marched outside, collected his cart, then went off in search of liquid sustenance.

  Anthony leaned on the wall. ‘Liam’s hiding,’ he said with certainty. ‘He’ll come out when he’s ready and not before.’

  Priest and teacher walked together to the presbytery. Like Flash, they needed a drink.

  Seventeen

  Martin Waring sat on the edge of his comfortless mattress. Another day had passed, then another and another. He had been at the monastery for weeks. The house, called Tithebarn, was creaking its way towards midnight, floorboards groaning themselves into position, ancient windows cooling and settling their frames against age worn stone.

  He had a candle. If he ever became a frère – and he would achieve that status, surely – he would be unable to burn a flame once he had undressed and prayed. But, as a lay member of the fraternity, he retained the privilege of light whenever he wanted it. Tonight, he needed the light.

  Martin was strong now. He was bearded and brown, muscular and calm. The outside work was monotonous, yet he enjoyed the predictability, the security of knowing exactly what would happen each day. After breakfast, there was mass. After mass came work. He hoed, weeded, fertilized and pruned various fruit-bearing trees until lunchtime. Occasionally, he fed the pigs and hens, though he avoided that particular task whenever possible. He felt no affection for animals, no kinship with creatures from the lower orders.

  Early afternoons were spent helping in the kitchen and collecting slops for the swine. He disliked pigs immensely, but the pigs were part of his penance, part of his preparation. When supper was over, he attended benediction and sang with the choir, often as soloist. Recreation was spent among books, games of chess, painting and even tapestry. He had discovered a flair for carving and was making chess figures for the brothers to sell.

  The whole community was in bed by nine o’clock. Laymen could go out if they chose, but Martin did not need to wander away from Tithebarn. He was safe here. He could plan here. He could finally read the whole of the letter.

  Several items of value were buried beyond the monastery’s perimeter wall. Naturally, these objects had been his to take from the pawnshop, because Sam Bell had been Liam’s father. When the time came, the new Martin Waring would be able to recover those assets and give them to the Catholic Church. Everything should have gone to the Church. Sam Bell had promised that he would leave the bulk to Liam and the Church. But now, there was this letter. The letter had been in Bridie Bell’s sewing basket. Obviously, the widow had missed it. Obviously, God had been on the side of the just, because Liam had knocked over the basket, apparently by accident. Yes, this had been God’s work again, Martin decided.

  A few times, he had scanned the letter’s contents, but the anger had overcome him and God had started to speak to him. Sometimes, Martin was not fit to listen to God, although he was becoming more robust. If God spoke tonight, His servant would hear Him and remain tranquil. He took a deep breath, reached for the letter. Addressed to Mrs Bridie Bell, it currently rested inside a missal.

  Martin picked up the book and removed the loose pages. He continued to breathe deeply and slowly, ordered himself to remain composed. Control was essential. If he became angry, his thoughts could emerge muddled.

  He spread out the two sheets and moved the candlestick to a better position. This time, he intended to read the whole thing. Knowledge was power, he told himself. Knowledge and self-control would see him through.

  ‘My dear Bridie,’ the message began.

  ‘I hope you will not have to read this, but I have a bad feeling. Something may happen to me today. If it does, you must take this letter to Rose Hill, because I think Liam might just turn on me. If I survive, I shall tear up this message and you may never know how much I have come to care for you. The spoken word has not come easily to me.’

  Martin Waring wiped a solitary bead of sweat from his forehead.

  ‘I have been a stupid man and very selfish. But before I tell you all about that, I want to thank you. Since you came from Ireland, I have been a different man. The difference might not show much, but I am so much happier than I have ever been. If Liam kills me today, please know that I shall die thinking about you.’

  The man on the bed shook the page and flattened out the creases. Bridie Bell had done her job so well.

  ‘I have talked to Anthony and am going now to see Bentham, my solicitor. Everything I have is yours. I leave you to decide what will go to Anthony, as I am in a hurry and I trust you to be fair with him. All I ask is that you look after Muth until she dies. The will has been changed half an hour ago, and all I need is my lawyer and a couple of witnesses.

  ‘Until today, Liam was to inherit most of my estate for the church. I have been so unfair to my other son. But sometimes, I did wonder about Liam. I suppose I didn’t want to know the truth. Anthony complained so much about his brother’s behaviour that I lost patience with him, particularly when they both came to blows on the church doorstep. Now, I know the reason for Anthony’s quarrel with Liam, and I realize that I have not been much of a father, because I buried myself in the shop and took no notice of anything.

  ‘Bridie, Liam is a murderer. Those words were very hard to write. He killed Valerie Walsh, who was going to marry Anthony. He tried to kill Anthony when they were children, but that was different, or so Anthony says. Liam used to hurt Anthony so that he could save him, body and soul. Liam thinks he owns Anthony’s body and soul, you see.’

  Martin Waring’s lip curled. What had this dead man known about Father Liam Bell, servant of God? Sam Bell had never heard the voice of the Almighty.

  ‘Anthony thinks that Liam attacked Maureen. I can’t imagine a priest committing rape, but Liam’s ordination stole was picked up next to the injured girl. Flash Flanagan found the stole and panicked. You know what Flash is like – drunk half the time and playing with puppets when he’s nearly sober. Anyway, I have the stole. It is stretched and torn.

  ‘In the downstairs store behind the cabinet for old receipts there is a loose brick. No-one will ever look there, as the cabinet is difficult to move – I almost broke my back shifting it. The stole is in the wall. I put it inside an old cash tin – green metal with a handle on the lid. I’ve hidden it because I’m going to face Liam in a few minutes. If I took the stole with me, he would get it and burn it.

  ‘I pray that you’ll never read this letter. I hope I come home later and burn it before turning my son over to the police. If I don’t make it, please look after yourself, Muth and the girls. Get someone to shift the cabinet, then take the stole to the police station straight away and show the desk sergeant this letter. Tell Muth and Anthony that I’m sorry. All those years I never listened, Bridie. My son was a priest, so I thought he was a good man. Anthony says Liam is sick. He hears voices. Try to get him locked away in an asylum. The doctors might help him.

  ‘Thank you for everything,

  Your husband,

  Sam’

  Martin read the postscript.

  ‘PS My son Anthony loves you. Not as a son, but as a man. If anything happens to me, go to him. I’ve realized that God’s blessing is not something we get just in church. Anthony has had a sad life. He tells me that he is very fond of you.

  ‘If you break the law of the Church and the state, you will do it with my blessing.’

  In spite of firm resolve, Martin found himself screwing up the pages. His hand had closed like a steel trap, and he had to concentrate on loosening the fingers. Carefully, he smoothed out Sam Bell’s piece of writing, stood up, steadying himself by holding the table. He flattened the pages of small, neat handwriting, and lifted down a picture of the Sacred Heart. He removed the glass, then inserted Sam’s letter into the frame before replacing the original icon. Knowledge was power, he told himself.

  So. The stole was behind a loose brick. She would n
ever find it. Even if the cabinet was moved, the Irish whore would fail to notice the missing mortar, because all the walls in the store cupboard were scarred. Dad had been such a fool. He must have used a lot of strength on the day of his death, must have strained his heart in order to protect his sweet colleen.

  He should never have allowed himself to be talked into such a marriage. Anthony was very like Dad. Anthony’s senses deserted him when he saw a pretty face and a neat figure.

  He fell back onto the bed. Anthony loved her. Even Dad had known that, and poor Dad had been the woman’s husband. Martin Waring remembered a day when he had visited Cherry Hinton and Bridie had spoken of her dislike for Liam Bell’s twin. She had been angry with Anthony, probably as a result of some lover’s tiff. Worse than that, she had probably lied.

  Balled fists beat against the mattress. Anthony was in clover now, because Dad had shuffled off the mortal coil. Anthony Bell was sleeping with his own stepmother. No, no, screamed an internal voice. Martin stilled himself. Control was the key. Perhaps, this time, Anthony would not be saved.

  Martin Waring blew out the candle, tried to sleep, failed. The summer sun rose early, thrust its rays through the high window, rested on the Sacred Heart behind Whom the letter was hidden. ‘I’ll be strong,’ he said aloud. ‘It isn’t time for Liam to go back yet. He can stay here until they’ve all forgotten.’

  Somewhere inside Martin Waring, the recently buried Liam Bell wept. Liam’s grave was shallow, but he remained where he had been put. For now, someone else was in charge.

  Maureen rose early, made her bed and prepared to go downstairs. Her duties as housemaid were light, but she put in extra hours in an attempt to demonstrate her gratitude. But for the Spencers, she would have been living in Dryden Street and wondering when the next attack would happen.