Fiona turned and demurely took the hard wooden chair that had been set out for her to the left of Garda Roarke, delighted to see that Father Patrick was being forced into the same chair on the right. It dawned on her what Garda Roarke was doing; he was making her and Father Patrick equals― both of them on trial. The effect wasn’t lost on Father Patrick as he angrily arranged his robes around him, a red flush creeping up his cheeks. Garda Roarke was smart in setting it up this way, and for allowing arguments to be brought against both parties. Fiona hoped that Bridget and John had been able to secure enough evidence against Father Patrick to ensure that the charges against her would be dropped. She straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin, and folded her hands over her knees.
And stared out into the faces that would determine her future.
Chapter Twenty-Four
“We will begin with Father Patrick. Father Patrick― what say you?”
Father Patrick started to rise but with a single glance from Garda Roarke, he sat back in his seat and crossed his arms over his chest.
“I say that Fiona is a witch. I saw her practice witchcraft with my own two eyes. She practiced it upon Sinead Brogan, upon whom I’d been called to perform last rites. One moment the girl is on her deathbed, then after a visit from Fiona― poof, she’s up and walking around with not a care in the world.”
A gasp went up through the crowd at Father Patrick’s declaration and Fiona saw more than a few shocked faces in the crowd. A murmur began to grow as people whispered to each other.
“Fiona, were you at the Brogans’ house on the evening that Father Patrick is describing?”
Fiona met Garda Roarke’s eyes.
“Yes, I was called there to help.”
“And what was wrong with Ms. Brogan?”
That was a tough question to answer. Fiona searched the crowd until she found Mr. and Mrs. Brogan, their faces ashen with nerves.
“I can’t say,” Fiona said finally, refusing to give up Sinead’s private health issues.
“You can’t say? Or you won’t?” Father Patrick shot back.
“I won’t say,” Fiona clarified. There had to be a way to win this without disclosing the Brogans’ private business.
“And why won’t you say it?” Garda Roarke asked her, his eyebrows raised in question.
“Because I’m not a doctor and am not qualified to diagnose medical conditions,” Fiona said. Voices rose in the crowd as people began to argue back and forth, a few even calling out to disclose the Brogans’ business.
“But you knew what was wrong? You were told?” Garda Roarke pressed on.
“Yes, I was told. But I was taught it’s not neighborly to gossip about the private business of others. As far as I’m concerned, one’s health issues are their own private business. That’s all I will say about Sinead’s health that evening,” Fiona said stiffly. She caught a smile on her mother’s face from the corner of her eye. A wave of approval at her words went through the crowd.
“So you’ll lie then? You’ll lie in the face of all of these kind people in order to protect the Brogans?” Father Patrick seethed. He could obviously sense that Fiona’s last statement had endeared her to the crowd. Little did Father Patrick know that the Brogans were held in high esteem in the village.
“I’m not lying. I’m simply not divulging information that is not my own to tell,” Fiona pointed out primly.
“Sinead was all but dead. And in walked Fiona and performed magick. She is a witch, which goes against the holy teachings of this church! I’m surprised God doesn’t strike her down just for being in this holy building!” Father Patrick ranted, waving his arm about vigorously.
Fiona schooled her expression because a part of her wanted to laugh at his dramatics. There was no way people could be buying what he said. But she scanned the crowd and found to her surprise that quite a few people were nodding along with Father Patrick’s words. Fiona wanted to roll her eyes. She should have known better than to question the devout Catholics who blindly followed Father Patrick’s word. He had a small but vocal following in the village, and now she wondered if their voices would overpower hers.
“Father Patrick, did you witness Fiona performing this magick?”
“He did not,” a voice from across the room interrupted just as Father Patrick was about to speak.
“Mr. Brogan, you may speak,” Garda Roarke said, slicing a glance at Father Patrick to shut him up.
“Father Patrick was not in the room with Fiona and Sinead. Everything he has stated is hearsay,” Mr. Brogan said, his eyes fixed firmly on Fiona. She could read the apology there as though he had said it out loud. A gasp went through the crowd at his statement, and voices began to rise in argument.
“Was there any witness to what happened in Sinead’s room that evening?” Garda Roarke asked, cleverly sidestepping the question of what had been wrong with Sinead and focusing on the facts at hand.
Fiona froze. Dr. Collins had been in the room with her. She’d allowed him to be. If he detailed any of the events he had seen, she was doomed. Her eyes scanned the crowd searching for Dr. Collins.
Mr. Brogan began to speak but Father Patrick cut him off.
“Aye, Dr. Collins was in the room with her.”
Fiona stilled as she found Dr. Collins, standing in the far corner of the church, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.
“Dr. Collins, I’ll ask that you step forward and tell us how Fiona healed Ms. Brogan,” Garda Roarke said.
“Aye, that’s easy enough,” Dr. Collins began, a smile on his kind face. Fiona closed her eyes and waited for the judgment to rain down upon her.
“And how did this witch heal Sinead then?” Father Patrick thundered, earning another glare from Garda Roarke.
“Well now, I’m not so certain I’d be throwing out accusations of being a witch at this lovely girl,” Dr. Collins began and Fiona opened her eyes to see him smiling gently at her.
“So how did Sinead go from being dead to being healed? What did Fiona do?” Father Patrick hissed.
“Why, Father Patrick, she prayed for Sinead, of course.”
Fiona bit back a smile as the church erupted into shouts.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“Silence! Silence! Father Patrick, sit down this instant!” Garda Roarke thundered at Father Patrick, who stood bellowing at Dr. Collins.
“Dr. Collins, please, if you will clarify your meaning?”
“Well, as you know, I’m a doctor. I was there seeing to Ms. Brogan’s needs. I was working on her and Fiona simply stepped in to offer prayers and comfort while I provided medical care. They were friends in school, you know, and Sinead obviously responded to having a friend her own age comfort her.”
The lie was so smooth, Fiona wouldn’t have been able to detect it had she not been there herself. It seemed that she had grossly underestimated Dr. Collins’ kindness.
“So, in your estimation, Fiona is not a witch?”
“Certainly not. If anything, I’d say she is an angel with a direct line to God.”
Pandemonium broke out through the church, with one woman clutching her handkerchief to her face as she wept. Fiona could have hugged Dr. Collins for the brilliance of his counterargument. Instead of trying to disprove that she was a witch, he’d instead offered another option as to what she could be. His approach was flawless.
Fiona slid a glance to where Father Patrick stood on the dais, his mouth working like a fish gulping for air. No sound came out.
“Mr. Brogan, would you agree with this statement?”
“Aye, we both would,” Mrs. Brogan said, standing and giving Fiona a small nod. “It was nothing but an honor to have Fiona attend as an assistant for Dr. Collins.”
Fiona smiled at her and nodded back, acknowledging the apology behind her words. She knew the woman felt bad for not standing up for her sooner.
“So, the facts of the situation are that Sinead Brogan was ill, Dr. Collins was called to attend to her, Fiona
offered her prayers, and Father Patrick stood outside the room ready to offer last rites if they should be needed?” Garda Roarke asked patiently.
“Aye.” Dr. Collins and Mr. and Mrs. Brogan all spoke at once.
“But… but… that is not what happened! Sinead was all but dead! Then suddenly she was alive!” Father Patrick shouted, spittle flying.
“Sure and don’t you be believing in miracles yourself then, Father Patrick? Isn’t that what the good book teaches us? To believe in miracles?” Bridget asked from her front row seat. The crowd all murmured their agreement.
“I’m telling you there was witchcraft used!” Father Patrick seethed.
Garda Roarke raised a hand to quiet him.
“Does anyone else in the crowd raise a charge of practicing witchcraft against Fiona?”
The crowd fell silent as villagers craned their necks, looking at their neighbors to see if anyone would speak.
“There must be! What about you, Seamus? Didn’t you tell me she fixed your broken leg?”
An elderly man in the back row blanched as his name was called and all faces turned to observe him. Fiona saw her mother give a subtle shake of her head at Seamus.
“Sure and I can’t be recollecting anything of that nature now, Father Patrick,” Seamus said easily, and Fiona could’ve kissed the old man. She had fixed his leg, and he’d been so grateful he’d been bringing them fish every week for months now.
“And you? Mrs. McGuinness? Surely you mentioned Fiona miraculously healing your baby of pneumonia?”
A pretty woman sat in the front row, holding a baby close to her body as she rocked, automatically soothing her child. She smiled serenely at Father Patrick.
“Twas just a small cold when the weather was damp. Catherine’s right as rain now,” Mrs. McGuinness said easily. Fiona had healed her baby when she’d come to her in the middle of the night, her eyes desperate in fear, her baby’s small body wracked with mucus-filled coughs.
It was all almost too much for Fiona. The villagers were saying thank you to her in the only way they could― by saving her life. It was humbling and empowering at the same time, to feel the love and support pouring from the people who sat before her. A jury of her peers― and ones who weren’t about to let Fiona be persecuted for doing nothing but helping others.
“This is nonsense! You are all lying! It is a sin to lie in church,” Father Patrick screeched, dancing back and forth from foot to foot, waving his arms in the air.
“May we vote? I have another issue I’d like to introduce before the town,” John said, raising his hand and causing Father Patrick to whip around and glare at him.
“I say when this trial is over! Not you! You have no power to call an end to the trial!” Father Patrick seethed, his eyes wide in anger.
“Actually, I have the power to call an end to the trial. Is there anyone else who can introduce any evidence to support Father Patrick’s allegations?” Garda Roarke took his time scanning the room, giving a fair amount of time for anyone to come forward. When nobody said anything, he nodded once and turned to Father Patrick.
“With no evidence to support your allegations, they are just that― allegations. As such, I declare Fiona to be free and clear of the charge of witchcraft. She is not guilty and is free to go.”
A cheer went up through the crowd and Fiona blinked back tears as she clenched her hands together and smiled at everyone. They had saved her. Right then and there, she vowed to spend her life helping the villagers of Grace’s Cove.
“John O’Brien, you may have the floor,” Garda Patrick said, his hand sweeping out to silence Father Patrick where he ranted on the dais.
“Yes, I’d like to bring a charge against Father Patrick for theft.” John’s declaration was like a phonograph needle skittering across a record, scratching the music silent. The entire village froze and, as one, turned to look at Father Patrick.
Things were about to get interesting.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Fiona kept her mouth shut as the room rioted around her. Calling a priest’s behavior into question was sacrilegious and something even the more lenient villagers found appalling, to judge from the expressions on their faces. A giddy sense of inevitability washed through her and she sat back to watch the show.
“That’s blasphemy! He can’t accuse me of such a thing!” Father Patrick shouted. “The devil is at work here today.”
A few members of the church crossed themselves and looked nervously around. The air was thick with tension as everyone waited to see what would happen.
“John, that’s a serious allegation. Can you present evidence to support that?” Garda Roarke said easily, his expression calm as he studied John. Fiona bit her lip as she wondered just how John planned to prove the theft.
“Yes. I’d like to introduce a few witnesses. First, I’ll bring in Sean Connor from the next town over. If you recall, there was a big fundraiser for Sean earlier this year because his house had burnt to the ground. Except not only has Sean never heard of this fundraiser, he also never received any money from it.” A gasp went through the crowd as a man who had been leaning against the back wall stepped forward.
“Are you Sean Connor?”
“Aye, I am.”
“Did your house burn down?”
“Unfortunately, it did. The chimney for our peat fireplace went up and the thatch caught quickly after that,” Sean said, running a hand nervously through his red hair.
Murmurs laced the crowd. Everyone knew all too well the fears of living with a thatched roof on your cottage. Fire was always the biggest concern.
“Mr. Connor, were you aware that the parish had hosted a fundraiser for your home?”
“Ah, no, I wasn’t.” Sean looked around nervously and raised a hand in apology. “I’m sorry, I am, for I would’ve come over to thank ye all for the donations. It was quite kind of ye to think of us during our hard time.”
Fiona glanced at Father Patrick to see how he was taking it all. His face had turned an odd shade of red and he was puffing out little breaths through his nose.
“Father Patrick, as I recall, the parish had raised a sizeable donation― enough for at least a new roof. Isn’t that right?” Garda Roarke looked around at the crowd and several people nodded in affirmation.
“I sent the money along to him. He’s clearly lying,” Father Patrick said, pointing at Sean. “Shame on you for lying in this holy house.”
Fear raced across Sean’s face and he turned to the left and the right to look at the villagers.
“I’m not lying, I swear it to you. I’m a good Catholic and me mum’s raised me to not tell falsehoods.”
“I’ve more evidence,” John spoke up to interrupt Father Patrick’s tirade. “The outreach program Father Patrick takes donations for? The one for orphan children in Dublin? Well, it seems that the nuns have never received any monies from Father Patrick,” he continued, his eyes hard in his face as he glared at Father Patrick. If Fiona hadn’t already fallen in love with John, seeing him as he was today― resolute and fearless as he faced Father Patrick― she would have done so in this moment.
“Now, that’s just beyond wrong. To think that you would accuse me of not sending Our Sisters of Perpetual Faith their donation money― why, I just, I’m astounded that you’re allowing these lies to be told here!” Father Patrick blustered. Fiona could feel the pull of his charismatic nature as people looked around, confused as to whom they should support.
“It’s no lie.” A woman’s voice from the back of the room carried clear and strong across the air, cutting through the chatter to reach the front of the church. The entire crowd swiveled to see where it came from.
A nun in full habit stepped forward, her face set in stern lines, her blue eyes bright and assessing as she stepped forward.
“I’m Sister Mary Hope of Perpetual Faith, and we’ve never received any donations from Father Patrick. Had I known he was taking donations for our orphans and not bringing them to
us, I would have reported him immediately.”
A silence went through the church, as though the entire village held their breath at once.
“She’s an imposter!” Father Patrick screeched, clearly grasping at straws. Even Garda Roarke had a small chuckle at that.
“I find it hard to believe Sister Hope would come all this way to lie on behalf of John O’Brien,” Garda Roarke pointed out.
“I most certainly would not lie,” Sister Hope said sternly, jutting her chin up as she stared down her nose to where Father Patrick was having a conniption fit on the dais.
“I’d like to know where the money is, Father Patrick,” Sister Hope continued. “There’s a great need for it.”
“Yes, I would like to know where the money is too,” John said, crossing his arms as he eyed Father Patrick.
“I’ve seen him locking stuff away in a drawer in his office.” A young man, one of the choir boys, cleared his throat from the second row.
“Father Patrick, we’ll need to see the inside of your drawer before we render judgment,” Garda Roarke said carefully, as he nodded to two men at the back of the church. Fiona recognized the men as the muscle who had helped restrain her when Father Patrick had come for her at the cove. They walked down the aisle and to the left, past Father Patrick and into a small hallway which, Fiona assumed, led to Father Patrick’s private office.
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