by Paul Charles
* * *
Starrett didn’t know whether or not he’d already formed an opinion of Father Peregrine Dugan due to the fact that he’d recently been told on two separate occasions that the elder priest was: a) very intelligent and b) (reportedly) never left his room. If he had been expecting Old Father Time he didn’t show it in the slightest when Father O’Leary introduced them both to a tidy but book-crammed room. What wall space wasn’t covered by shelves, books, and a very large map of the island of Ireland was stacked chest-high with files. There was neither a computer nor typewriter in sight, just a tidy mahogany desk placed against the window, which afforded him a great view of the causeway leading back to the mainland. Consequently it meant Father Dugan could easily monitor all arrivals and departures from the house.
On his desk was a clean jam-jar packed with pens and pencils. Also on the desk – back and centre – was a Roberts Radio, while a clean stack of fresh loose-leaf paper was on the left-hand side and a larger stack on the right, that one betraying neat and beautiful handwriting. To the right of the radio was a box file about a foot deep with the neat black felt tip legend ‘Death by Google’.
To Dugan’s appearance: the priest wasn’t exactly slim but he did obey one of the two golden rules for older men, and that was to never, ever wear tight trousers (the other one being never dress with your shirt worn outside your trousers). The Methuselah-aged priest was dressed in the pressed trousers of a suit, a black shirt, clerical collar and a grey pocketed and buttoned up cardigan, and (for someone who didn’t go out much) he wore a pair of black leather, well-polished sensible shoes. He enjoyed a full head of healthy shoulder-length grey hair, was clean shaven and his skin was the white of milk, or rather the colour of skin continuously deprived of daylight. He’d watery eyes and had been cursed with a very large nose. When he spoke, he betrayed a lifetime of poor dental care and his words appeared to escape from the darkness of the cave that was his mouth. Starrett felt that most people with bad teeth appeared to mutter quite a bit as a way, no doubt, of hiding their decaying molars. But not so with Father Dugan, no, he spoke with what Starrett could only describe as the voice of God. Mind you, it wasn’t that he was loud, more that his clear baritone delivery filled the entire room.
‘I understand you’re writing the history of Ireland,’ Starrett said, when the introductions were completed.
‘Oh, the history of Ireland has already been written, Inspector,’ he declared, in a voice that threatened to move Starrett’s bowels, ‘we’re just trying to record it for future scholars.’
Right, Starrett thought, that’s me properly told off. He conceded (to himself) that it perhaps wasn’t his best ever start to an interview.
‘I was telling you why Inspector Starrett was here,’ Father O’Leary offered, coming to Starrett’s rescue.
‘Oh yes,’ Father Dugan replied, blinking his eyes furiously to try and remove the excess moisture from them, ‘Father…Father…’
‘Young Father Matthew McKaye,’ O’Leary offered, good humouredly.
‘Yes, Father Matthew – isn’t he one of the bishop’s protégés?’
‘I believe there was talk of Father Matthew eventually going to the bishop’s Cathedral in Galway, yes,’ O’Leary replied.
‘Would Bishop Freeman usually take the young curates from St Ernan’s down to Galway?’ Starrett asked, finding his way back into the interview.
‘I wouldn’t have a clue,’ Dugan replied, while staring watery-eyed at O’Leary.
‘Not normally, no,’ O’Leary said.
‘Had it ever happened before?’ Starrett asked.
‘I don’t think so, but that would be a better question for the bishop. Let’s just say that he would have a certain amount of clout along the well hidden corridors of power,’ O’Leary said, and then something seemed to click with him, as though he realised what was happening and as he made for the door he added, ‘Inspector, I’ve a few things I need to attend to and so I’ll leave you in the very capable hands of Father Dugan.’
Starrett breathed a huge sigh of relief; perhaps now the interview could start proper. He knew that, with the priest reportedly room-bound, it was unlikely he’d get much information out of him regarding Father Matthew. But, equally, Starrett hoped that Father Dugan might know more than most about the behind-the-scenes stories; if he did, and at his age, he probably wouldn’t mind spilling the beans.
‘It’s a shame Father Matthew’s life was so short,’ Starrett said, because that’s what he was thinking and it was as good a place as any to try and manoeuvre the conversation back to the deceased priest.
‘People often say that; that a life was so short, or something similar, but the reality is a life is but a life, it can neither be longer nor shorter than it was meant to be.’
‘Well, relative to other lives, then, he had a short life.’
‘That’s certainly a different perspective on the subject and one I wouldn’t disagree with,’ Dugan replied.
‘So you think–’
‘I think we’re all in a queue, waiting to die,’ Dugan said, cutting off all potential avenues of small talk.
Dugan seemed bemused by Starrett blatantly and defiantly rolling his eyes. ‘So you think we’re worth more?’ he asked, opening up one of the avenues he’d seemed so insistent on closing a few seconds earlier.
‘I’m not sure,’ Starrett admitted, ‘it was more that I was very surprised to hear a man of the cloth make such a statement.’
Dugan sat down at his desk and swivelled round to face Starrett, before inviting the detective to take the one other comfortable seat in the room, a modern, dark leather bucket seat. He took a crumpled up tissue out of his cardigan pocket and rubbed his large nose a few times and replaced the tissue – crumpled to the nth degree now – into the opposite pocket from which he had taken it.
‘Tell me this, Inspector,’ Dugan began, ‘do you believe in…but listen, you’re not here to debate religious philosophy.’
‘No, of course not, but I merely meant that life, or the length of life is long, or short, but only when compared to other lives. For instance, the average male in this neck of the woods will live to be seventy-nine years old, so compared to that, one could say that Father Matthew had a very short life. But, as you say, that’s not what we’re here to discuss. How long have you been a resident at St Ernan’s?’
Father Dugan smiled, conceding something, though Starrett knew not what.
‘I’ve been here for nine years now, Inspector.’
‘And where were you before that?’
‘I was overseas, in the Philippines, from 1973 until 2004. They brought me back here just after my 73rd birthday. The Mission needed the energy of a much younger man to do their work. I’d been working on my History of Ireland project since 1969 and I have to think someone up there – I’m talking about Armagh and not Heaven here, by the way – thought they would let me see out my days here at St Ernan’s so that I could finish my life’s work.’
‘They encourage you then?’
‘Unofficially Inspector, unofficially, and I’ve been lucky enough while here to have been joined by Fathers Casey, Clerkin, and Mulligan in helping me with invaluable research and with, of course, typing it all up onto the computer.’
‘You’ve been working on this for nearly forty years?’ Starrett asked in disbelief, belatedly doing the sums.
‘Yes, but not every day of course and for the first twenty-odd years it was much more of a research project. I must say, it finally started to make some sense about a year after I came here. That’s when I finally started to get a shape to it that I was happy with.’
‘So how long to go until you’re finished, then?’
‘Well Inspector, funny you should ask that particular question because I was hoping to finish it this morning and then Father O’Leary advised me I had to sit with you.’
Starrett was formulating his next question on the back of what had really only been a polite interlude to se
gue the interview back to meatier stuff.
‘Well. Okay. Wait! What?’ Starrett said, eventually catching up with his brain’s information processing plant.
‘No, sorry, sorry, please forgive an old man his infantile sense of humour,’ Dugan’s baritone boomed all over the room and, Starrett feared, over the entire house, ‘I was only codding you on, maybe to see if you were really listening.’
‘You got me well and truly there, Father,’ Starrett admitted.
‘Well not quite,’ Dugan chuckled.
Up to that exact moment Starrett had never imagined what God would sound like, not when he laughed but if in fact he laughed at all, that is, of course, assuming mere mortals were allowed to hear him. For that matter he’d never before considered God having a sense of humour. He’d always, due to his disbelief – lack of faith, if you will – pictured God as a Marvel-type character who would have benefited, just like Superman and Batman, from a Hollywood makeover. If religion and God were presented in such a manner, would it be easier for the next generation to accept Him?
Starrett was still regrouping from the priest’s stab at humour when he eventually managed to get one of his key questions introduced and on to the record, ‘Did you by any chance notice who travelled over the causeway in either direction yesterday afternoon, between say 15:30 and 17:30?’
‘You know, Inspector, when I’m working I’m really in a state, like an elevated state. It’s why I enjoy my work so much – it takes me somewhere. I’ll tell you this, I’ve spent entire days in here happily working away and completely unaware when dawn concludes and dusk begins. The only signal I have is later in the day my frail body starts to betray me and whereas the spirit is always, but always, willing, the body is too weak to do its bidding.’
‘You saw nothing unusual then?’ Starrett asked, clearly disappointed.
‘At this distance all priests would look the same to me,’ Dugan admitted. Then as an afterthought, ‘and yesterday was Mrs Robinson’s day off, I believe, so there’d have been no variety in costume.’
‘Would most people not arrive and depart by car?’
‘Well, Mrs Robinson usually arrives by bicycle, yes, by bicycle, unless it’s raining in which case her sister usually brings her across by motorcar.’
‘But I thought you said your eyes–’
‘Yes of course, good point,’ Father Dugan started, feigning being impressed, Starrett felt. ‘Well, firstly, there are not so many females crossing our causeway on a bicycle and secondly, Mrs Robinson’s sister always uses her husband’s car: it’s red, very small and makes a bigger racket than the walls of Jericho collapsing.’
Starrett had never really thought about the boy racers who plagued many a Donegal village late at night, burning rubber as they attempted to deposit giant black donuts on the tarmac, as being married men, but then he accepted that there was nothing to say that a girl couldn’t also be a petrol head.
‘Do you really never leave your room?’
‘Let’s put it like this, Inspector, just like this; sometimes when you have a reputation for doing something, like never leaving your room, for instance, well, you do find that it gets you out of lots of boring invitations and chores and as I’ve said, I’ve a lot to do with the time I’ve left. I also find that the important thing is not whether or not you leave your room, but that one ensures that one is never seen out, to never be seen out.’
‘But you were here yesterday afternoon?’
‘On that occasion I was definitely here, here in my room,’ the old priest replied.
‘Could you do me a favour, Father?’
‘I’d like to try.’
‘When you get a moment and your head is clear, could you please think back to yesterday afternoon and have a good think about who travelled over the causeway yesterday?’
‘I’ll be happy to give it a try.’
‘I just find that if I focus on something, while at the same time taking pressure off myself, I find I know more, or I’ve picked up more than I thought I did,’ Starrett offered, as his departing shot. He needn’t have bothered: Father Dugan was already mentally back into the pages of his book.
Chapter Thirteen
The first thing that surprised Gibson about Bishop Cormac Freeman was his glaring green, bullfrog eyes. To Gibson and Garvey – and they discussed this point at length after their interview – Freeman looked more Friar Tuck than Roman Catholic Bishop, even right up to the bit of circular red skin at his crown, which shone through his rowdy white thatch like a stop light on a snowy night. He was about five foot ten, quite tall for his girth.
The second thing that surprised Gibson was how nice Freeman appeared and how well-mannered he was with them both, particularly towards her.
‘You’re both very welcome, come on in here and sit down,’ he ordered them both when they showed up at his door. He shook their hands furiously as he led them into his temporary quarters. ‘I’ve been expecting you and so tea and coffee will be with us presently. Our budget might even extend to an auld Danish or two.’
His room, directly across the landing from Father Matthew McKaye’s final dwelling on this earth, was a bit throughother, Gibson noted. There were expensive looking ecclesiastical garments draped over all manner of furniture.
By way of explanation he offered, ‘I’m not used to living in such a small melody of rooms and, to add insult to injury, Commander Starrett has, I believe, issued orders restricting my movements for the foreseeable future.’
‘Inspector Starrett,’ Gibson corrected.
‘Oh, I thought he would have been a lot further up the totem pole by now,’ the bishop said sweetly.
‘We don’t actually have a rank of Commander,’ Sergeant Garvey returned, even sweeter. ‘Inspector Starrett’s preference is for the pure detective work of his current rank rather than the more administrative chores of the senior ranks.’
‘Inspector Starrett is rated as being one of the best detectives in the country,’ Gibson added, proving she, too, was singing from the same hymn sheet as her colleague.
‘Yes, so I’ve come to understand,’ Freeman replied, as a knock came on the door. ‘Enter,’ the bishop ordered, in an altogether different tone.
Father Fergus Mulligan was doing the honours and seemed very happy to escape the room without question or verse.
Bishop Freeman played mammy and once said chores were done, he went to offer the plate of Danish’s around. ‘Ah,’ he said as he picked up one of the pastries and dropped it immediately as though it was a steaming deposit usually reserved for pavement, ‘I didn’t realise that my description of “auld” was going to be taken quite so literally.’
Garvey looked disappointed.
‘Not to worry,’ Freeman declared, ‘let’s see what I’ve got stored away in my private stash.’
He disappeared into his bedroom and returned with a fresh packet of Jacob’s chocolate-coated Kimberley biscuits.
At that point, Gibson thought, Garvey most likely would have let the bishop get away with murder. Time to get on with the interview, she felt, there was just too much love in the room.
‘So Bishop Freeman,’ Gibson began, as Garvey licked his lips, wiped his fingers in the napkin provided and finally armed himself with his pen and notebook, primed to commence taking notes, ‘you split your time between here and Galway we understand?’
Freeman took but a brief moment, a very brief moment, to study the ban garda. He hadn’t himself taken a biscuit as yet but looked very alarmed when both Gibson and Garvey went in for seconds.
‘Yes, don’t you see, I travel a lot for my work, for my flock as it were, and I do feel that to do one’s best work, one does need to find a way of recharging the auld batteries.’
Garvey stared at the delicious Jacob’s biscuits.
‘When did you arrive for this visit?’ Gibson asked.
‘I got here very late on Sunday night,’ Freeman replied. ‘I visited Sligo on the way.’
‘What w
ere you in Sligo for?’
‘Visiting a colleague…’ he replied, looking a little perturbed that she would ask such a question.
‘Church business?’
‘All of my business is my Father’s business,’ the bishop replied.
Gibson was tempted to say that surely the Sabbath was the hallowed day of rest but she resisted, wondering instead what the bishop had done to Starrett to warrant the (seemingly) unprovoked attack the previous day. Could Starrett’s history with the bishop be the reason she and Gibson were conducting such an important interview? She really felt like asking Freeman why Starrett had attacked him.
‘When did you last see Father Matthew?’ she asked instead.
‘I took him into Donegal Town, to The Blueberry, for lunch,’ the bishop replied, appearing to mentally take himself back to that time and place. ‘To be honest with you I’d have preferred to have gone to the Abbey Hotel like I’d been doing for years, but Father Matthew insisted on The Blueberry – it’s a much younger place and he knew the owners, Brian and Ruperta. They’re a very nice couple and Brian summoned Ruperta to come out from the kitchen when we sat down. It’s a nice dining area, marvellous really – don’t get me wrong, but you couldn’t hear yourself think and we were right in the middle of the crowd.’
‘How did he seem?’
‘He was full of the joys of spring. Father Matthew wasn’t a spectator. He liked to get stuck into life. He’d lots of friends around here.’
‘Did he voice any concern or worries to you?’ Gibson asked.
‘Look, you’re going to find this out anyway so maybe I should be the one to tell you,’ the bishop offered, looking to Gibson like he was faking a bit of concern of his own, ‘Father Matthew was at the point where he…where he…how should I put this…where he was wondering if he’d made the correct decision about joining the priesthood.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, ehm…’ the bishop continued and distracted himself by looking out at the still mid-morning water. ‘Father Matthew, well he was young you know…and maybe he was just attracted to the uniform?’