by Paul Charles
‘Which leaves…?’ Starrett asked when he stopped chuckling.
‘Let me see now,’ Eimear said, appearing happy for the distraction of trying to recall who she’d left out, ‘Fathers Mulligan, McKenzie, and our temporary resident Bishop Cormac Freeman, whom we’ve already discussed. Apart from what Father Matthew told me, I don’t really know much about The Bishop, excepting the fact that I’m not allowed to go into his room.’
‘And the other two Fathers — Mulligan and McKenzie?’
‘Well, Father Matthew joked that Father Fergus Mulligan’s nose was the four master writers’ link with the outside world.’
‘You’re talking about Fathers Dugan, Casey, and Clerkin, and Father Fergus himself?’
‘Yes, you’ve got it. When I went to work there first, I thought I’d never be able to get a handle on all the fathers and their names. I eventually managed to do it, once I’d put them in their rooms, with their looks.’
‘And Father McKenzie.’
‘Ah the Ginger Beatle,’ Eimear said, ‘Father Matthew thought that Father Edward McKenzie was a hard worker, but that maybe he was being taken advantage of by Father McIntyre, or Tubsey, as he’s called behind his back.’
‘Did this cause any resentment from Father McKenzie?’
‘I don’t believe so. I believe he was happy to work in the garden – he’ll tell anyone who’ll listen that he’s always worked on the land. You’ll always find him in the outhouse closest to the garden, pottering away to his heart’s content.’
* * *
As Starrett walked through the rough terrain of what would become the garden of the new build, he thought he might have learnt something, but not a lot, from his chat with Eimear. He would discover that his assessment wasn’t as accurate as he first guessed and what she hadn’t said was as important as what she had.
Chapter Seventeen
Sergeant Packie Garvey and Romany Browne – were in constant phone contact with Garda Francis Casey in Ramelton as they tried to pick apart the untold history of Father Gene McCafferty.
Eventually they discovered that he had not been based at St John the Baptist in Cork because, as Casey pointed out, no such cathedral existed. Father McCafferty had, in fact, been serving at St Anne’s in Cork.
Before that, Father McCafferty had been serving not at The Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary in Ennis because, again, no such cathedral existed. No, Father McCafferty had served at St Peter’s in Ennis, which was in the Diocese of Killaloe.
So far so good.
Garda Casey’s next move was to contact St Anne’s Cathedral. The first priest he spoke to seemed interested but he insisted on phoning him back to make sure it was a legit garda call. Casey was growing impatient waiting for the return call and on the verge of believing all priests are corrupt and covering for each other.
When the Cork priest did finally return the call, his first question was, ‘Is it true Father Matthew McKaye is dead?’
‘Yes,’ Casey replied.
He could hear the priest put his hand over the mouth piece on the other end and then he heard some mumbling. There was a bit of electronic noise down the line as the handset sounded like it was changing hands.
‘Hello, this is Bishop Madden, how can I help you?’ came a clear and English sounding voice.
‘Oh, hello Bishop. I’m inquiring about a Father Gene McCafferty; I believe he served with you down at St Anne’s before he moved to St Ernan’s.’
‘Yes, but he was retired to St Ernan’s,’ Bishop Madden said, sounding as though he was at great pains to clarify the situation.
Casey was about to ask his next question when Bishop Madden spoke again. ‘Do you know yet what happened to Father McKaye?’
‘At this stage we’re looking into it but we’re treating it as a suspicious death.’
‘And how is Father McCafferty involved?’
‘We don’t know he is, this is just a routine call,’ Casey felt the need to say. ‘When one of my colleagues took a statement from Father McCafferty he told us he’d last served at John the Baptist in Cork.’
‘I see,’ Bishop Madden said, ‘and you’re sure this wasn’t a genuine mistake because…?’
‘He also gave us an incorrect cathedral for his Diocese before he served in Cork.’
‘Ennis?’
‘Correct,’ Casey confirmed, ‘but he said he was at the Blessed Virgin Mary in Ennis and again, the same situation as with you in Cork, no such cathedral exists.’
‘No, of course not, Father McCafferty served at St Peter’s.’
‘Yes, so we’ve discovered,’ Casey replied. ‘Bishop Madden, can you tell me why Father McCafferty left your Diocese?’
‘He retired – that’s why he went to St Ernan’s?’
‘Why did he retire?’ Casey asked, hoping that if only he asked the correct question the bishop wouldn’t fib to him.
‘His file is closed, Garda.’
Casey realised this might be the truth so he tried another approach.
‘Do you personally know why he had to leave St Anne’s?’
The reply took longer this time. Casey heard the phone being put down on the desk, he heard footsteps moving away from the phone and across a wooden floor, a door closing, footsteps back towards the phone and across a wooden floor, the phone being lifted again and then, ‘Garda, what is your name again please?’
‘I’m Garda Francis Casey.’
‘And who is your senior?’
‘Inspector Starrett, and he reports to Major Newtown Cunningham,’ Casey replied, feeling certain this information was being written down.
‘Okay, please sit by your phone and I’ll ring you back in exactly ten minutes. If you’re not there or your phone is engaged, I will not ring back again.’
Casey felt, hoped really, that he had been correct; Bishop Madden wouldn’t volunteer the important information but when asked a direct question, he would not lie.
Twelve minutes later Casey was beginning to think he’d just been taken for a fool and Bishop Madden was busy making calls, helping to hide whatever it was Father McCafferty had been trying to hide with his own misinformation.
Just as Casey was about to ring Garvey’s mobile number to get a message to Starrett, the phone on the desk in front of him sprang to life. He grabbed it after the second ring – just in case.
‘Garda Casey?’
‘Yes,’ he confirmed.
‘Okay, good. Well, here you have it: we believe that Father McCafferty was in the process of befriending some of the older, single members of our diocese.’
‘But wouldn’t that be normal?’ Casey asked, and immediately realised he’d asked a ‘wrong’ question.
‘Yes, indeed it would,’ Bishop Madden replied, actually sounding a little relieved.
‘But his befriending had nothing to do with the duties of a priest?’
‘Correct,’ the bishop replied, this time sounding disappointed.
‘He was trying to befriend them so that he could…’ Casey said.
He realised at once he sounded just like a man stepping though a conversation as though he was crossing a strange river, never sure of his footing or the stone upon which he might take his next step and even if he did manage to take a successful step, whether or not it would get him into trouble. He couldn’t afford to be too hesitant because one wrong footing and he was in the river and the bishop would be free to sail away scot-free through the troubled waters.
‘He was trying to befriend the older members of your congregation so they would will their wealth to him?’ Casey offered, and crossed his fingers.
‘Correct.’
‘And not to the Church.’
‘Correct,’ the bishop replied.
‘How did you discover what Father McCafferty was up to?’
‘Well, it was very simple. The lady in question rang up to say she was just about to sign the paperwork Father Gene had left her but she wondered, shouldn't the beneficiary be St Anne’s a
nd not Father Gene McCafferty himself.’
‘Were there other cases?’
‘There are none in the file,’ the bishop replied, as Casey realised he’d stepped on another sinking stone.
‘Were any charges brought against him?’ he then asked, hoping he was covering a multitude of sins.
‘No.’
‘No?’ he repeated in disbelief.
‘He hadn’t actually broken the law.’
‘Only because he’d been stopped,’ Casey complained.
‘Nonetheless, no law had been broken,’ the bishop offered, ‘besides, it is the Church’s way.’
‘But who’s to say there weren’t other times when he’d gotten away with it?’
‘That’s the difference between the Guards and the Church: you need to catch, punish, and, occasionally, try to prevent; we need to save souls and offer all who seek saving redemption.’
‘Perhaps we could both have saved Father Matthew McKaye and no redemption would have been necessary,’ Casey offered, and realised he’d most likely inadvertently slipped into the river. He waited for the fireworks.
But Bishop Madden offered only, ‘Perhaps,’ before hanging up his phone.
Chapter Eighteen
The Ennis clergy were just as cautious as Bishop Madden, at St Anne’s in Cork, but once they’d verified with Father Robert O’Leary that Sergeant Packie Garvey was who he said he was, they were more willing to offer up their full story on the comings and goings of a certain Father Gene McCafferty. In fact, Father O’Leary had received calls requesting background information on two separate members of Ramelton Garda, within minutes of each other.
In simple language, delivered with a French accent, Father Lepage (he didn’t offer his Christian name, and neither did Packie push for it) delivered the following story.
Father Gene McCafferty had been assigned his first post at St Peter’s in Ennis. He’d been there for nearly twenty years. It was thought the first years were scandal-free, in that his file for those years contained only praise. Father Lepage felt that McCafferty’s fall from grace occurred shortly after he was passed over for a promotion and posting to Rome; McCafferty had been so critical of the successful candidate, he’d blotted his own proverbial copybook for eternity. When that particular penny had dropped, in that he’d realised that he would never rise above his station – in neither God nor his superior’s eyes – Father McCafferty had started to plan an alternate pension plan, as it were.
As far as Father Lepage and his colleagues were aware, there were three instances on record of Father McCafferty ‘feathering his own nest’ at the expense of older, single parishioners.
1. Mrs Susan Harris
2. Mr Max Hall
3. Mr Ralf Clifford
Father Lepage believed, albeit privately, that Father McCafferty had succeeded at going undetected in one, or more, additional swindles. However, his only proof was that McCafferty was clearly living way beyond his (and his Church’s) means. Father Lepage had tried to persuade his superiors at St Peter’s to seek legal redress against Father McCafferty and freeze - and obtain first call on - any and all of his bank accounts. The Church, obviously feeling the pressure from all the bad press they were getting at the time, denied the request, preferring instead to organise a sideways ‘promotion’ for the problematic father. Cork was as far away from Ennis as they could get him.
At least for their part, the Diocese of Cork managed to take Father McCafferty out of circulation by putting him out to pasture at St Ernan’s, probably, Garvey thought, reasoning that without a congregation, he’d be deprived of the fodder for his trademark swindles.
But had Father McCafferty been up to his old tricks again? And had Father Matthew not only discovered but maybe also caught him in the act?
Chapter Nineteen
Starrett was feeling a bit peckish, so he and Gibson headed into Donegal Town, to the Blueberry Tea Room, to compare notes on the interview with Eimear Robinson. The popular tea room was Starrett’s kind of place; it was packed and there was a great buzz about the place. The inspector had meant to go for the soup he’d spotted on another diner’s table, but instead opted for a generous slice of carrot cake and a cup of coffee. Gibson had a coffee, but held off on the cake. They were just considering a second coffee and perhaps another wee bit of cake for Starrett when Gibson took a call on her mobile from Sergeant Packie Garvey, advising her of, ‘an interesting development on the case’.
Twenty minutes later they were driving over the causeway, back on to St Ernan’s. The minute they walked through the back door, Starrett clocked Bishop Cormac Freeman, his bullfrog eyes glaring at Packie Garvey, screaming at the top of his voice that he demanded to be allowed to leave St Ernan’s to carry out ‘important business for the Church’.
This was not the interesting development that Starrett had been expecting, much less hoping, for.
The ever reasonable and quietly spoken Father Robert O’Leary was finding that his usual sky-writing was having no effect, no effect whatsoever, on the bishop’s demeanour. And when the bishop spotted Starrett at the back door, it was like a red rag to a bull and the hissy fit grew all the more preposterous. Starrett couldn’t help but laugh at the bishop, the way you would a misbehaving child. This only served to further enrage the clergyman.
‘Now you listen here, Starrett,’ the bishop screamed, moving right up to the detective, so close he could smell his rancid breath. ‘On whose authority are you detaining me?’
Starrett looked the bishop up and down, his disdain all too clear to those in attendance, namely Father O’Leary, Father Pat O’Connell – who had been assisting Father O’Leary in trying to restrain their very own bishop in a china shop – Sergeant Packie Garvey, Garda Romany Browne and Ban Garda Nuala Gibson.
The detective silenced the room, the same kitchen-cum-dining-cum-sitting room in which Father Matthew McKaye had been found dead nearly twenty-four hours earlier.
‘I demand to know on whose authority you hold me, Starrett,’ Freeman said again, attempting a more measured tone but failing miserably.
‘You can call me by my first name if you like,’ Starrett said in a calm voice, as though he was the bishop’s best friend in the world, and the assembled couldn’t hide their shock. All except one, they were oblivious to the fact that the detective even had a first name, let alone what it might be.
‘Oh!’ Freeman replied, equally surprised and losing his thread for a second, ‘and what, pray tell, would your first name be?’
‘Inspector,’ Starrett replied, immediately and clearly, ‘you can call me Inspector.’
The bishop looked to Father O’Leary as if to say ‘Now do you see what I mean?’
‘Garda Browne, could you please advise Father O’Leary of the instructions I gave you before I left St Ernan’s last night?’
‘Yes Sir,’ Browne quickly answered. ‘You told me to stand guard outside the bishop’s room all night, and to get Sergeant Garvey to relieve me when necessary.’
‘Thank you, Garda Browne,’ Starrett continued, in his composed voice. ‘And did I say why I wanted you to carry out this duty?’
‘For the bishop’s own safety, Sir.’
‘One final question, Guard; did I at any point instruct you to detain Bishop Freeman?’
‘No Sir,’ Browne piped up immediately, like he was on the parade ground at the Garda Training School, back in Tipperary.
‘But you just told me I couldn’t leave my room?’ Bishop Freeman said and then pleaded, ‘Isn’t that correct Father O’Leary?’
‘In fairness, Bishop, the garda did say that he’d been instructed to remain outside your door. At no point did he say you had to stay inside.’
The bishop looked from O’Leary to Starrett to Browne to O’Leary and back to Starrett again.
‘Oh right, well in that case, I’ll be in my rooms,’ he declared.
‘That will be an excellent arrangement, Bishop,’ Starrett started, ‘now that your important b
usiness for the Church seems to have disappeared, I’d like you to make yourself available to me for questioning this afternoon.’
The bishop went to answer back, possibly even to go ballistic, but something – heavenly, even – seemed to restrain him and instead, he walked past the grand fireplace - the very same ancient fireplace that had been salvaged from the nearby Lough Eske Castle after the castle had been destroyed by the fire of 1938 – and disappeared up the old stair case.
The rest of them gave a great impersonation of a bunch of onlookers, casting aspersions from the beach as a captain launched the boat. All that was missing were their ice cream cones and handkerchief bonnets.
Speaking of important business, it was time to get back to the job in hand. Starrett thanked Fathers O’Leary and O’Connell, made excuses on behalf of the Gardaí team and soon they too passed the historic fireplace and climbed the grand staircase to their rooms above.
Chapter Twenty
From somewhere in the bowels of St Ernan’s the ever enterprising Packie Garvey had located a school blackboard, easel, and, believe it or not, a few virgin sticks of chalk. Not just that, but he’d already set it up in the boys’ room. Garvey and Browne had rearranged the furniture in the already sparsely furnished main room to set the stage for the upcoming meetings-cum-briefings. Now, the pine dining table sat surrounded by four hard chairs, plus (in mixed styles and colours) two easy chairs and a seriously deflated mini-sofa (probably a Father Pat cast-off). On a separate small coffee table, Garvey had assembled a tea and coffee preparation area, complete with fresh milk and a generous supply of biscuits.