I suppose I shall never understand what conflict Mrs Brenane holds in her mind.
Even the best of moods lighten when Fr Whelan visits to take our confessions from us, and then afternoon tea with us. Fr Whelan's snow-white hair and wrinkle-framed smile have always reminded me of my grandfather. Judging from his general popularity, I imagine others feel quite the same. I am told that he is older than Fr Meagher by a number of years, but he still carries on as if half my own age. However, this afternoon was gloomier than usual, not leastwise from the low hanging clouds that threatened to burst all afternoon. Fr Meagher was lively in Fr Whelan's presence, though still noticeably drained. After updating Fr Whelan on the progress of the portico, Fr Meagher retired to his room asking not to be disturbed for the remainder of the afternoon. Fr Sheridan was likewise distant and spent most of teatime by the window reading a book with an indecipherable title in German of which I later made a note: Aufsatze zu metaphysischer Medizin. Occasionally Fr Sheridan would comment on our conversation, but mostly he kept to himself and his attention on the book. He too excused himself to his room shortly after Fr Meagher, and soon Fr Whelan and I were alone. ‘He looks poorly,' noted Fr Whelan after the subject of his comment left the room. I confirmed his suspicion, and although I wanted to tell him the little that I know, I felt I should not elaborate. I hope Fr Sheridan will volunteer the details in his own time. Instead I changed the subject to my hallucination in the church on Saturday night. ‘The clouds passing in front of the moon used to unnerve Fr Stafford too,' he told me. The creases around Fr Whelan's mouth deepened into a reassuring smile. I did not join Fr Whelan to-night on his evening constitutional. Many things weigh upon my mind at present, and I should like some time alone with them.
Monday October 10th, 1881
My kittens are in good health and are not showing any weaknesses of the world that surrounds them. Mrs Maguire teases me by calling them my silly animals. I don’t know why you encourage them/ she tells me. 'We are all God’s creatures’ I told her. ‘Besides, they will some day make good catchers of rats ‘You make a fair point, Father’ she said, ‘the dust has stirred up a good many of them marramounts these past months.’
The kittens are more trusting of me now, and of the world in general. They provide me with a few moments of mental ease each evening when I visit them. When I bring them their food I stop worrying about Fr Meagher’s health and Fr Sheridan's secret troubles. I went outside tonight with food, and they were already padding around the yard near the privet. As always, when they caught sight of me they scurried for safety, all of them except for my Black-mouse. Tonight he stopped short of the bush. I sat down on the ground, placed the cream in front of me and tapped my nail against the saucer. We watched each other for almost half of an hour. I called to him, gently chirping and speaking in soft tones. He slowly approached me. A rush of joy filled me when soon he was dipping his pink tongue into the cream. I feared the pounding of my own excited heart would send him scurrying back to the bush. When he had had his fill, I reached out and touched his shiny black fur. He did not flee, but instead pushed his head into the palm of my hand and emitted a satisfied purr from deep within his throat. At long last I picked up my Blackmouse and placed him in my lap. He continued to purr and never once struggled. One by one, as if called by my brave Blackmouse, the other kittens came out to drink from the saucer.
I feel foolish now, and I admit only here that I must have dozed in my contentedness. By the time I awoke it was quite dark and the kittens had silently crept away. I could see nothing in the darkness, but as I rose I heard the branches of the privet rustle softly. No doubt my kittens settling in for the night. I write these words wrapped in a blanket, with an ache in my neck of my own doing. Though the hour is now late, any sense of weariness seems far distant.
Saturday, October 15th, 1881
The presbytery was in a state of commotion when I returned from visiting my family in Glasnevin this evening.48 Fr Sheridan, with his gaunt face even gaunter, was pacing in front of the drawing room fire and fidgeting with his key ring. Seated in a chair was a man I did not recognise, but who soon introduced himself to me as Detective Montague. His associate, P.C. Nolan, busied himself scribbling in a note pad at the desk in Fr Meagher’s office. They had been awaiting my return. Fr Meagher was nowhere to be seen.
When I entered the room, Mrs Maguire bustled over to me and took my coat.‘Its terrible, Fr Corrigan, just terrible!’ she said. Detective Montague explained that a significant sum of money had been stolen from Fr Meagher’s office earlier this afternoon. Not only was one months collection taken, but also a sizeable donation for the new portico given by Mr Grubb two weeks ago.
There are three keys to the office. In addition to Fr Meagher’s, Fr Sheridan and I each retain copies. Detective Montague asked if I still had mine. I removed the key ring from my belt and let him examine it. He asked me if I ever lent it to anyone. I replied in the negative. Satisfied, he returned the key and informed me that Fr Meagher and Fr Sheridan were also still in possession of theirs.
Detective Montague offered me a seat and then called for P.C. Nolan. Taking the note pad from the constable, he read for my benefit Fr Meagher’s statement:
‘I had been doing some light work in the sacristy all morning,’ said Detective Montague, speaking Fr Meagher’s words. ‘Fr Sheridan was dusting one of the side-altars.’To this Fr Sheridan nodded in affirmation.
‘I cannot say why, but I felt as if someone was watching me. Indeed, when I turned around, Fr Sheridan was standing in the doorway of the sacristy. He was silent and seemed to have been observing me as I worked. “I don’t suppose you could fetch the ledger from my office?” I asked him. He smiled rather sharply, an expression I had never seen on him before, and set off without speaking a word.
‘After a quarter of an hour Fr Sheridan returned empty handed. “Did you not find it?” I asked him. “Find what?” he replied. “Why, the ledger, of course. I asked you to fetch it for me some fifteen minutes ago.”
“My apologies, Father, I did not know you wanted it. I have been occupied cleaning the side-altar this past hour. It occurred to me only now to check in on you.” And Fr Sheridan rushed off again to fetch the ledger.’
As I listened to Detective Montague read from the note pad, my gaze met Fr Sheridan’s. He was standing by the window absently knotting a stem of lavender. He had been watching my reaction to the statement with an air of curiosity, or what might have even been unease.
Detective Montague continued reading, this time from Fr Sheridan’s statement. When Fr Sheridan reached the office, the door was already ajar. In the lock was a key, and when he twisted it, he found that it turned the tumblers perfectly. Instinctively his hand went to his belt for his own key, which he found to be safely in its place. He entered the library, worried, but not yet alarmed. When he discovered that both the ledger and money were missing, he alerted Fr Meagher. Shortly thereafter the police were summoned. Until I arrived, they expected for the key found in the door to be mine, a notion I dispelled when I produced my own copy.
Detective Montague handed me the fourth duplicate key to inspect. It had all the same characteristics as my own. Had mine not been attached to my key ring, I certainly would not have been able to tell them apart. ‘It was likely made from an impression,’ Detective Montague explained. ‘The thief must have somehow stolen a key, had a copy made, and then returned it as secretly as it was taken.’ As to the identity of the robber, not so much as a hint was forthcoming. Not a trace of the intruder could be found.
Mrs Maguire was away at market the entire afternoon. She saw and heard nothing, but received a shock to learn that an intruder might at some point have been lurking about the presbytery while she was still in it.
Fr Sheridan is determined to blame himself. Although he offers no proof, he is certain that his own key served as the original for the perpetrators copy. I fear this will do nothing to cheer Fr Sheridan's gloom-stricken humour.
&nbs
p; Perhaps most affected by the robbery was poor Fr Meagher. After answering Detective Montague's questions, he retired to his room and had already requested privacy by the time I had arrived. I did not wish to disturb him. What comfort could I possibly bring? Like Fr Stafford before him, the church is his very being, and although I did not speak with him to-night, I know the severity of the disaster wracked his fragile constitution.
Monday, October 17th, 1881
Fr Whelan led Mass yesterday morning, and is cheerfiilly content with taking on the extra duties until Fr Stafford's health improves. However, his condition is worse than we feared.
He is too weak to rise from bed and has not spoken to anyone since the robbery. The deep sleep from which he rarely wakes is plagued with restlessness. We take turns sitting at his bedside and watching over him whilst beads of sweat break upon his brow. When he is awake he communicates with frail gestures if he is hungry or thirsty, otherwise he remains lethargic. It is all we can do to feed him thin porridge and change his linens when necessary. It breaks my heart to see him suffer so. He has worked so hard for this parish. If he is soon to be called to his reward, then I pray that he lives long enough to see the completion of the portico.
Tuesday, October 18th, 1881
Fr Sheridan is increasingly solitary and anxious.
The slightest tap or squeak of the floorboards now causes him to recoil with dread. Yesterday morning I found him in the presbytery library searching the shelves for a book. His back was turned to me when I entered. I did not think twice when I placed my hand on his shoulder and began to speak. His reaction startled me as much as my presence frightened him. He stumbled backwards, pulling violently from my touch as if it were not my hand, but that of some unwelcome fiend; with his. other hand he clutched at the sprig of lavender pinned to his breast. His terror only passed when he recognised me. A look of embarrassment and apology crossed his face, but even then with hints of cautiousness. I knew an explanation would not be forthcoming. I have since taken to announcing my presence from a distance with undue clatter so as not to startle him.
Fr Meagher’s room is now filled with the perfume of fresh lavender. This morning Fr Sheridan brought in a vase and placed it on the windowsill. He also hung a bundle bound with a short length of twine from a nail above the bed-room door. Mrs Maguire told me in confidence that she finds the smell overwhelming, but Fr Sheridan's absolute conviction in rural medicines forestalled further comment. I once asked him about his affinity for the plant. His grandmother, a Sligo woman, always put lavender in his room when he was ill he told me. ‘She said it aids in the spirit's respiration.’
Although we are all grateful to Fr Sheridan for his devotion, we spend much of our time persuading him to heed respite lest his own constitution fail irreparably. Until then he is determined to spend his every spare moment keeping watch at Fr Meagher’s bedside.
Wednesday. October 19th, 1881
A most horrible thing has happened. My hand trembles at the very thought. I can barely bring myself to put down in writing my frightful discovery.
This evening I made my daily trip to the rear of the church to visit my Blackmouse. I tapped the saucer as I approached, expecting my kittens to bound forth from their den, and rub their sleek bodies against my legs purring with anticipation. But not a single one of them came. They are older, growing braver by the day. They must be exploring, I thought, hunting their own dinner, or already ridding the church of rats. I tapped the saucer again, more firmly, and again I waited. When still they did not come, I approached the bush, pushing away its branches and peering into the shadows. I could just barely see my kittens there, in a shallow depression near the wall, huddled together in a mass of black and white fur. Were they but sleeping, exhausted from sport? The lump that began then to grow at the back of my throat remains with me even now as I write this. I chirped at them, and still my kittens did not move.
Mrs Maguire answered my call. She brought a light from the kitchen and held back the branches so I might crawl closer to the kittens' secret den. The branches protested my admittance. They scratched at my hands and face, but I continued to crawl towards the heart of the bush, my face acquiring a new skin of spiders’ webs. Soon I was within an arms length of their den. I reached out my hand and placed it on the nearest kitten. He did not stir, and I all too horribly realised that this once living creature, so affectionate and warm, was now lifeless and cold. Its form was rigid and unresponsive to my touch.
How can I write so when I can barely bring myself to think it? My kittens are dead. Their glossy fur now bruised sacks of smashed bone. They did not die at the jaws of some feral beast, for their skin showed no sign of scratches or blood. No, it was something far worse than animal. They were suffocated and crushed by the hands of some heartless beast with a cruelty of the lowest order. When I close my eyes I can see their glassy eyes, claws protracted, and teeth bared in a defiant hiss against their executioner. Mrs Maguire did not dare look as I removed their cold bodies from the depths of the bush. ‘Who is capable of such a deed, Father?’ asked Mrs Maguire. I did not, or rather could not, answer her.
Such are times as these when ones heart is weighed heavy by limidess despair. But the bodies that I removed from the bush were only four in number. There were four, not five! My heart grasped at hope when I realised that my Blackmouse was not among them. Did he escape? Was he watching me from a distance?
I took the bodies of my dead friends to the adjacent field at the rear of the church, and dug a hole not far distant from the Swan River. I prayed that they would rest easy. And all the while I kept an eye on the tall grass for my world-wary Blackmouse. Will he ever trust me again?
My hand and heart are aquiver. I cannot continue to write.
Thursday, October 20th, 1881
A dark shape loomed at the foot of my bed when I awoke this morning. I hardly knew whether it was an apparition left over from my nightmares, or if my room had been invaded by some horrible presence. With my bed-room located at the north of the building, I get precious little daylight, and the overcast sky saw to it that not even a ray of sun passed the curtains of my murky little room. I reached for my eyeglasses on the night-stand, but the shape was bold, even against lucidity, and did not dissipate in the seconds it took for me to recover my senses. I was relieved to find that the dark form belonged to Fr Sheridan, but my relief was replaced with concern when my eyes focused on his countenance, one that I can barely describe with adequacy. His face was pale and his lips were pulled back in a hideously wide smile. Axe you all right?’ I asked him. ‘Is there something wrong?’ He did not reply. I tried again. ‘How is Fr Meagher this morning?’ I asked. He still did not answer, but rather turned himself on the spot until he was facing the door, and after covering an impossible distance with two long strides, he was through it. I listened for the hall floorboards to groan under the weight of each footfall, but they never once uttered in displeasure.
I quickly dressed and went into the hall, expecting to find Fr Sheridan waiting for me, but instead I found it empty. The door to Fr Meagher’s room was open and I paused to look in on him. Fr Meagher was lying in bed with the linens pulled to his chin. He was in a deep sleep.
I watched his chest rise and fall with his usual laboured breathing. The chair beside the bed was empty, though Fr Sheridan's book lay open upon the night-stand. As I stood in the room, I noticed that the scent of lavender was absent for the first day since Fr Meagher took ill. Seeing that nothing was amiss and everything was in its place, I continued down the hall.
The next room I passed was Fr Sheridan's. His door is usually ajar during the daytime, but on this morning it was shut tight. Only a thin sliver of fight passed between the bottom of the door and the floor. Normally I would not attach significant meaning to a closed door, but as I passed this one I was startled by what sounded like a muted yowl emanating from within the room beyond. I paused before the door and held my breath, though I did not realise I had ceased breathing until I
was quietly gasping for air. The yowl tapered into silence, and it was not long before I heard the shuffling of feet. I called out Fr Sheridan's name, but received no reply. Nor did I get a response when I knocked gently on the door. The shuffling stopped instantly as soon as I had made my presence known, and I was left to wait in silence.
‘Good morning, Fr Corrigan,’ said Mrs Maguire when I entered the kitchen. 'I've just come down to make Fr Meagher his porridge. Are you off to help Fr Sheridan? He was up early this morning, you know. Said he had business in the church. Still not looking well, I should say, but I did manage to feed him before he hurried out. You look like you could use a nice breakfast yourself, Father.’ I politely declined as many times as necessary. I had not eaten since yesterday evening. My mind was restless, and as is often the case at times like these, my belly felt full. It was on the tip of my tongue to tell her that Fr Sheridan was not in the church, rather he was upstairs in his room, though after the business last Saturday I did not wish to upset her by implying that someone got by her careful watch without her noticing.
The vase of lavender that had been in Fr Meagher's room was standing in the centre of the kitchen table. ‘I had to remove those’ Mrs Maguire told me as she touched the tip of her nose. ‘Had me wheezing like a consumptive. You will not tell Fr Sheridan, will you? It would only upset him. I promise to put them back in a bit.’
I agreed not tell, and after reassuring her again that I was not hungry, I left the presbytery for the church.
I crossed the courtyard and waved to some workers who were just arriving for the day. There were fewer workers today as construction of the portico is nearing completion. All that remains is some minor finishing, to raise Mary Immaculate to the apex, and then remove the scaffolding. The last of the dust should settle over the next few weeks and we shall spend most of our time removing debris from the church’s comers.
The Bleeding Horse and Other Ghost Stories Page 8