The priest looks up and makes no effort to hide his annoyance. “If you really have to, but please make it quick.”
He reluctantly gets to his feet and steps towards a doorway. “It’s this way.”
Clement leaps up, winks at me, and follows the priest out of the door. I hear the clump of his boots fade away and distant voices. Thirty seconds later, the priest returns to the vestry and slumps behind his desk.
“We may as well make use of the time whilst your fiancé is busy,” he says as he squints at a page in his diary.
Time to deploy my delaying tactics.
“How long have you been priest here, Father?”
It’s a great question, even if I say so myself. Whenever I ask my mother a question about the past, she spends at least five minutes arguing with herself about dates.
“Too long, some might say,” he replies curtly.
Damn.
“Right. Are you married?”
Not such a great question. Can priests even marry? I have no idea.
He scours the desk, looking for a pen presumably. He answers without looking up. “No.”
Double damn.
“Did you go anywhere nice on holiday?”
Really?
He continues to scowl at his diary, flicking from page to page. “I’ve got a slot a week Tuesday, at five o’clock.”
Maybe he had a terrible holiday. Best not pursue that line of questioning.
“Um, yes, that would be good for us.”
He clicks his pen, and finally looks up at me. “Your full names, please.”
Oh dear.
“Erm, Bethany Louise…Smith.”
He scribbles my name in the diary.
“And your fiancé?”
“Clement.”
“His full name.”
“Um, Clement…Jones.”
Clement’s name is added to the diary and the priest checks his watch. “Your fiancé is taking his time.”
“Yes, sorry. We had prawn madras for dinner last night. I don’t think it agreed with him.”
For an improvised answer, I’m quite pleased with it.
Father Norris sits back in his chair and clicks his pen a few times. I think we’re now testing his patience.
I try to think of some more questions, but he gets one in first.
“You live in Kentish Town I assume?”
“Yes, we do.”
“Whereabouts?”
Ohh, Christ.
I search every corner of my mind, trying to recall any of the streets we just walked along. I’m conscious that every passing second makes my answer less credible. Nobody has to think that hard about where they live. I have to say something.
“The High Street.”
“The High Street? In Kentish Town?”
“Yes, number…fourteen.”
He throws the pen on the desk and clambers to his feet.
“Wait here,” he snaps as he moves from behind the desk and makes his way towards the door.
This is not good. By my reckoning, I’ve only kept the priest occupied for a few minutes; certainly not long enough for Clement to have conducted a search of the belfry.
I grab my phone, intent on warning Clement with a text. It quickly dawns on me that he’s the only man in the country without a mobile phone.
“Shit.”
I get to my feet and pace the floor. What should I do?
Seconds pass and my anxiety grows. I consider the implication of the priest discovering Clement snooping around the belfry. My concern is not so much for Clement, but for the priest. What if Clement decides to silence him?
The reality of my relationship with Clement suddenly becomes apparent. I simply don’t know him well enough to guess how he’ll react. I’ve seen what he’s capable of, and it isn’t pretty, but would he really hurt an elderly priest?
I can’t stand by and do nothing.
I dart through the vestry door into a dark corridor. An open door to my right looks the best option.
I tentatively step through the doorway and find myself at the rear of the church, opposite the vestibule doors. All is quiet and there’s no sign of either man. I don’t know if that’s good or bad.
A lone voice suddenly echoes from the far end of the church. Loud, but not clear enough to determine what was said, or who said it.
I stand motionless, paralysed by indecision. Should I just run, and leave Clement to clear up this mess? Nobody would know I was here and there’s nothing to link me to any potential crime being committed.
Can I really do that? It’s not exactly fair to abandon Clement, is it?
As I let shame and fear battle away in my head, a door slams.
My head snaps in the direction of the sound, towards the rear of the church. Clement suddenly appears from behind a stone column. He strides down the aisle, his thumbs tucked into the pockets of his jeans as if he’s out for a stroll.
His casual manner is similar to that he displayed after the fight with Messrs Black & Blue. This does not bode well.
As he gets within twenty feet, I catch a glimpse of tweed behind Clement. I breathe a sigh of relief upon seeing Father Norris waddling down the aisle. The look on his face suggests my relief will be temporary.
Clement strides up to me and mumbles a single word. “Rumbled.”
The priest has far more to say and shouts down the aisle. “One of you had better explain what the hell is going on here, before I call the police.”
I turn to Clement.
“Sorry, doll. He caught me coming back down the belfry stairs. No bleedin’ gold in there either.”
Father Norris pants up to us, his face now a blotchy shade of crimson. “Well?” he bellows.
Clement turns and raises his hands in surrender. “Alright, Father, you got me. I was looking for something. No harm done so we’ll be on our way.”
The priest shakes his head. “God help me, I’m getting sick and tired of you people.”
“What people?” Clement asks, a second before I do.
The priest chuckles to himself. I don’t think it’s a joyous mirth.
“Do you think you’re the first?” he roars. “Fools, the lot of you.”
I swap a puzzled look with Clement.
“Sorry, Father. Not with you.”
“You were looking for that bloody gold bar weren’t you? What is wrong with you, cheating and lying your way into God’s house?”
“Other people have been here looking for it?” Clement says hesitantly.
“Yes, just before they tried to find Father Christmas and the Tooth Fairy. Idiots.”
I’m not sure if it’s possible to look dumb and sheepish at the same time, but I give it a go. It feels like I’ve just read a huge spoiler in a book review. The basis of our quest, exposed for what it is.
“Shit,” Clement groans as he looks to the rafters.
“Did you seriously think you were the first to think it might be here?” the priest repeats.
“Yeah,” Clement mumbles.
From the moment we first met Father Norris, we’ve been lying to him. It’s clear from our body language that neither of us is now lying; our disappointment obvious.
Faced with our confession, the priest’s anger subsides a little. “There is no gold hidden here,” he says flatly. “And to be frank with you, I find the implication there was, a little disrespectful.”
My growing guilt compels me to say something. “I’m really sorry, Father. We’re really sorry,” I declare, as sincerely as I can. “We got a bit carried away with the whole tale. I know it sounds silly, but we didn’t mean any harm, honestly.”
“Apology accepted, but in future, you might want to consider the wider implication of your actions. You’re both old enough to know better.”
“Understood.”
“Now, if you don’t mind, I need to get away.”
He holds his arm out towards the door leading back into the vestry. I keep my head low and take a few steps but Cl
ement stays where he is, and shoots a question at the priest.
“Sorry, Father. One question and then we’ll be out of your hair.”
“Make it quick.” the priest reluctantly agrees.
“You said it was disrespectful that people thought there was gold hidden here. Disrespectful to who?”
“You clearly haven’t researched that well, have you?”
“Eh?”
“Disrespectful to the memory of my uncle.”
“Your uncle?”
“Yes, the man you all incorrectly assume was in possession of stolen gold — Harry Cole.”
23
The fact I’m standing with a confused expression on my face suggests I didn’t see that one coming. And I didn’t.
I’m assuming Clement didn’t either. “What? But your surname is Norris,” he says.
“Yes, it is,” the priest confirms. “Uncle Harry was my mother’s brother.”
Clement looks at me. I look at Clement. We both turn to the priest. “Ohh.”
“And he was a good man,” Father Norris adds. “I can’t believe for one moment he would handle stolen property. People want to believe fairy tales about hidden gold, but after more than four decades of searching, nobody has found it, and that tells you something — my uncle never had any gold. And besides, he would never have hidden it in a church. It would be sacrilegious, and Uncle Harry had too much respect for the church.”
Sermon delivered, and his uncle’s reputation defended, the priest checks his watch.
Taking the cue, Clement holds out his hand towards Father Norris. “Fair enough, Father. I’m sure Harry was a good man.”
The priest shakes Clement’s hand and nods an acknowledgement.
With our plot derailed and the priest’s confirmation there was never any gold here, I just want to get away.
“I think we should be going now, Clement.”
I turn to the priest. “Please accept our apologies, Father. I’m afraid I’ve had a bit of bad luck recently, and when you’re out of options, you’re prepared to believe just about anything. Silly really, in hindsight.”
The priest quietly eyes me for a moment, possibly to determine if I’m genuinely repentant.
“I do understand,” he eventually replies, his expression softening a little. “When we think our prayers are going unanswered, it’s easy to fall into temptation, to stray from the path of righteousness. But if you keep your faith, The Lord will show you the way.”
“Thank you, Father. I’ll try.”
“I’m only sorry I never got to the chance to offer Uncle Harry the same advice,” he wistfully sighs. “It would have stopped all this nonsense right from the outset.”
Clement pushes his luck and asks a question. “Do you mind me asking, Father, why Harry? Obviously we’re not the only idiots to put two and two together, and come up with five. If he had nothing to do with the Baker Street job, how did his name get dragged into it?”
“I don’t know for sure, I was only a teenager at the time.”
“But there must have been some reason. Perhaps if we knew, we could put the word out, make it clear that Harry had nothing to do with it. Might stop anyone else turning up here looking for gold that doesn’t exist.”
The priest appears to ponder Clement’s offer for a few seconds. If I’m honest, I’d like to know why we wasted our time.
“I suppose so,” he mutters. “But purely on the understanding I never see you, or any other treasure hunters, here again. Agreed?”
“Yeah, agreed.”
The priest folds his arms and leans against the nearest pew. The lines on his ruddy face deepen as he appears to dredge his memory.
“From what my mother told me, Harry became a little desperate after he was made redundant. He would have been in his fifties by then, and his job options would have been limited. I think he started hanging around with some rather unsavoury characters who paid him to do small jobs. Nothing serious and he only did it to put food on the table you understand, but one of those characters was eventually sent to prison as an accomplice in the Baker Street hoist. People probably knew Harry did some work for him, and as you say, put two and two together. He was down on his luck, but I’m positive he wouldn’t have taken stolen property as payment. The police never found anything because I’m certain there wasn’t anything to find.”
He takes another exaggerated look at his watch. “Anyway, that’s Harry’s story, and why you’ve had a wasted trip this afternoon. Now, I really do need to get away. I hope you manage to sort whatever problem led you here.”
Clement decides to test the priest’s patience by asking another question.
“Sorry, Father. You said Harry was made redundant. What did he do?”
The priest edges towards the vestry in an attempt to drag us in the same direction.
“He worked on the Underground. Best part of thirty years, I think.”
We follow the priest and Clement fires yet another question. “He drove a tube train?”
“No. He ran the ticket office at Wood Lane until it closed. Then they moved him to Tower Hill.”
“Right. Thanks.”
We’re finally ushered out of the church and Father Norris ensures we’re well beyond the gates before he stops watching us. He’s wasting his time as there’s no reason for us to return, and we walk away at a brisk pace.
It’s now clear we’ve wasted an entire day, and almost fifty quid, chasing a fool’s errand. I feel gutted, not about the wasted day, or even the money, but because the flicker of excitement I felt when we left the shop has been snuffed out. Once again, I’ve allowed myself to believe in something, believe in someone, and once again, I’ve been left disappointed.
I should probably be tearing a strip off Clement by now, but his pensive expression suggests he’s probably as gutted as I am. Maybe he really did believe we were going to strike gold. In hindsight, I should have realised it was just one of his many delusions. On that basis, I should be more angry with myself than Clement. Truth is, I wanted to believe him. Maybe I just wanted to believe in something.
We silently retrace our steps back towards Camden, neither of us seemingly keen to dissect our failure. Even if I felt like talking, what’s there to say?
We get as far as All Saints before I feel compelled to fill the silence.
“Are you okay, Clement?”
“I’m thinking,” he replies.
“About?”
“What the priest said, about Harry’s job.”
“What about it?”
“Still thinking. Give me a minute.”
We reach the park we passed earlier, now deserted. Clement points to the gate and a bench twenty yards beyond.
“Let’s go grab a seat. Got a theory I wanna run by you.”
I don’t argue, and follow him into the park. The grass looks, and smells, like it’s been freshly cut. It’s quiet, and with a gentle breeze ruffling the tree branches above us, it would be easy to forget where we are.
We sit down on the bench, and I wait for Clement to announce that his train of thought has arrived somewhere.
“Tower Hill tube station,” he says, somewhat randomly. “The priest said Harry was made redundant.”
“Okay.”
“I’m guessing he worked there in the sixties. If I remember, there were real staff shortages on the Underground back then. That’s why they started bringing in immigrants.”
“Right. So what?”
“Why would they make Harry redundant if they were already short of staff?”
“I don’t know, but didn’t he say Harry worked in the ticket office? Maybe they started using automated ticket machines?”
“Nah. That wasn’t it.”
“Okay. What about line closures?”
I know what he’s about to do before he does it. A hand comes up and strokes his moustache. A long moment and a dozen strokes pass before he speaks again.
“We need to check something. Where’s the ne
arest library?”
I pull out my phone. “We don’t need a library. What do you want to know?”
“Christ. Is there anything you can’t do with that thing?”
“Print money, unfortunately.”
“Shame.”
“So?”
“Right, yeah. I can’t say for sure, but I think they might have shut Tower Hill station down, and maybe that’s why Harry got the boot.”
“I don’t need to check that. I saw it on the map at King’s Cross, so we can discount that theory.”
“Just check for me, doll.”
“What’s the point? I clearly saw it on the tube map, and I’m sure I’ve been past it on previous trips to London.”
“Doll…”
“Alright,” I huff.
I open a web browser and search ‘Tower Hill tube station’.
As I expected, a location map and an image pop up in the search results. I hold the screen towards Clement.
“See. It’s still very much open.”
“Can you check the history?”
I shake my head and jab at the screen, scrolling through the results. A link to a Wikipedia page rolls into view. I tap the link and the page loads. I scan through the text, unsure what I’m looking for.”
“What does it say?” Clement asks, becoming impatient.
“Nothing much. Just information about the location and…hold on.”
I almost miss it — a single line in the second paragraph. I read it in my head twice before I read it aloud.
“The present Tower Hill station opened in 1967 and replaced a nearby station with the same name.”
“I bloody knew it,” Clement booms triumphantly.
I have no idea why he seems so pleased at this news.
“Sorry, Clement. Am I missing something here?”
“Harry lost his job because the station closed. I don’t know why they didn’t give him a job at the new station, but think about it, doll.”
“Think about what?”
“Harry would have known the original Tower Hill station like the back of his hand. And by the time of the Baker Street job, it had been closed for four years. No staff, no passengers, and no reason for anyone to go down there. Can you think of a better place to hide something?”
“You’re saying he might have hidden the gold in the old Tower Hill station? Is that even possible?”
Who Sent Clement? Page 20