Cherringham: A Deadly Confession

by Neil Richards

  “So I see,” said Jack, sizing him up. Tall and well-built, the man looked to be in his early fifties with a trim and confident air and a big affable grin.

  “Liam O’Connor,” he said, squatting down to ruffle Riley’s ears. “And who’s this fella?”

  “That’s Riley. We’re still working on the attack training as you can see.”

  “Well, no need to attack me.”

  “Jury’s still out on that one, Mr. O’Connor. Leastways until you explain why you’re on my boat.”

  “Mea culpa, Jack,” said O’Connor, smiling.

  Jack wasn’t in the mood for friendly chats.

  “You are on my boat, uninvited. I still have half a mind to throw you overboard.”

  “Since I can’t swim, I’d rather you didn’t do that.”

  “So — you’d better have a good reason for trespassing.”

  Jack watched O’Connor put up his hands in mock surrender.

  “I’m here … because I need your help.”

  “Go on.”

  “Might we perhaps talk somewhere a little more private?”

  “This’ll do.”

  O’Connor shrugged: “I’m here because, well, a dear friend of mine died two days ago, on Good Friday.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  O’Connor hesitated. Then: “It happened less than a mile from here.”

  Jack had been keeping to himself. The big old religious holidays could be hard for him … so he just stayed on the Goose.

  “I think — not sure — that he might have been murdered…”

  This … was news. “And — word around the village is that you’re the man to find out who did it.”

  “Murder? That is actually the police’s job,” said Jack, unconvinced. “And I hadn’t heard anything about a murder…”

  “Well, right. You see they say he had a heart attack.”

  “Maybe he did,” said Jack. “Just who are we talking about by the way?”

  “Father Eamon Byrne.”

  “A priest?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do the police say?”“Everyone thinks he died while out running. Overdid it.” O’Connor looked out over the river, out to the meadow as if he could picture the fallen priest. “Eamon never overdid it. At least, not the running, that is…”

  “And so you think somebody killed him?”

  “I do.”

  “Why?”

  “Father Byrne wasn’t … let’s just say, he wasn’t your average priest.”

  “Back where I come from, there’s no such thing as an average priest.”

  “Ah — so, you’ve known a few priests?”

  “In Brooklyn? You might say that…”

  “Are you a Catholic, Mr. Brennan?”

  “I was. Once upon a time.”

  “Like in the fairy tales?”

  “Your words, not mine.”

  Jack waited.

  O’Connor’s grin had faded.

  “I’m here because I’m hoping you can help me. Can you … will you?”

  Jack waited — and wondered if he really wanted to get involved in another case. He looked upriver to the little sheltered spot where his coffee and his fishing rod were waiting.

  “I can pay you,” said O’Connor.

  “I’m not for hire.”

  “I see. I do have a very old Lagavulin I’m looking to share with somebody.”

  Jack smiled at that. “How old?”

  “Thirty year.”

  “The real McCoy?”

  “Never been opened.”

  “Not something most people have lying around.”

  “It was given to me. A thank-you present.”

  “Some thank you.”

  “They needed help. I did what I could.”

  Jack saw in O’Connor’s face the implied suggestion that he should do the same. That — but mostly the tantalising thought of the thirty-year-old single malt — persuaded him.

  “Okay. Can’t turn that down. Come below and I’ll put some coffee on. And you can tell me why somebody should want to murder a priest.”

  3. The Fête

  “Do I get ‘danger’ money?”

  Sarah pulled up outside St. Francis’s church and gave her son Daniel a quick glance in the passenger seat next to her.

  “Danger?”

  “Yes, you know, going to a crime scene?”

  Sarah laughed. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea bringing her son while she met Jack at the convent’s Easter fête.

  “No,” she said. “But you can have a fiver to spend on the stalls.”

  “Hmm. Dunno, Mum. Fiver’s not going to go very far.”

  “Daniel — it’s a church fête not Alton Towers.”

  “I bet you pay Grace more.”

  “Grace is a grown-up. And she doesn’t come out on cases.”

  “So this is a case.”

  “It might be. And it might not. I think it’s mostly a fête — if we can find it of course.”

  She looked at the Victorian chapel — Cherringham’s Catholic church — so unlike the old church of St. James in the heart of the village. A large house stood next to it. Was that the rectory? If so — where was the convent?

  Back when she was a teenager living in Cherringham, the convent didn’t exist. But even then she didn’t remember ever visiting St. Francis’s church down here on the busy road out of the village.

  To one side of the church was a track, the hedges on each side overgrown. Maybe the fête was down there?

  “You think this is it?” she said.

  “Might be,” said Daniel peering down the track. “I think I can see cars down there.”

  Sarah had brought Daniel along at Jack’s suggestion. What better reason for visiting a fête than to give a twelve-year old a fun afternoon out?

  Except this twelve year old would rather be on his PlayStation and had demanded payment for his efforts.

  Least he has some business sense, Sarah thought.

  She steered her Rav-4 slowly down the gravel drive. On either side the shrubs and trees looked overgrown, but as they rounded a bend, bunting and flags hung across the track signalled she was in the right place.

  She came to a gate and saw a nun sitting at a small card table by a sign marked “Spring Fête — Save St. Francis’s Convent!”

  She drew up alongside and lowered her window.

  “One adult, one child please,” she said to the nun who looked hardly older than a child herself.

  “Three pounds,” said the nun smiling. “Have you visited us before?”

  “First time,” said Sarah.

  Sarah handed the money over and the nun dropped it into a little basket.

  “Follow the signs to the retreat house and park by the old stables. You can’t miss it.”

  “Thanks.”

  The young nun gave Daniel a smile.

  “Make sure you have the cream tea. The scones are truly miraculous.”

  Sarah nodded, and drove on.

  “This is cool, Mum. A real case,” continued Daniel. “Have the nuns murdered somebody? Is there a killer on the loose? Are we going to interrogate someone?”

  Daniel was lost to his imagining of detective work, probably thanks to all the American TV he watched.

  “I’d be good at that.”

  “At…?”

  “Interrogating.” Daniel grinned. “I could get the killer to talk!”

  Sarah shook her head. “Daniel — all I know is — there’s something ‘up’ and Jack wants to meet.”

  “Yeah,” said Daniel. “Bet it’ll be murder, all right. Brilliant!”

  “And he wants a low profile — which is why you’re here, remember? Just here to enjoy the fête?”

  “Sure. I’m the cover. Make you guys look innocent.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Child exploitation,” said Daniel.

  “Work experience,” said Sarah, laughing.

  What a kid…

 
; Sarah drove on and the convent came into view.

  “Wow,” said Daniel. “This is amazing. I never knew this was here.”

  “Me neither,” said Sarah.

  As she followed the drive to one side, she leaned forward to see the house as they passed. A dilapidated eighteenth-century white stucco country mansion, picked out in faded blue pastel with an enormous wisteria growing up one wing.

  The place was set in gentle lawns which rolled down to woodland. She could just see a glimpse of the river beyond.

  Beautiful spot. Serene.

  “All these trees keep the convent private,” she said. “No wonder we’ve never seen it before.”

  “Good place to hide a body,” said Daniel.

  She shot him a look. “One more mention of bodies or murder and that five pounds becomes three — okay? Or maybe a ride back home?” said Sarah, parking the car to the side of the house next to a tattered sign which read ‘Retreat Parking’. She was reassured to see Jack’s little green sports car parked under a tree.

  Daniel raised his hands.

  “Mum’s the word … Mum.” Then, as he looked out the window, “What’s a retreat?”

  “A place people come for peace and quiet,” said Sarah. “I wonder if they have any vacancies?”

  “Doesn’t look very comfy.”

  Sarah followed Daniel’s gaze: nestled under the trees was a long single-storey converted stable. There were tiles missing and the paint was peeling. In the windows were threadbare curtains.

  “I don’t think comfort’s part of the deal, love,” said Sarah, getting out of the car and waiting for Daniel to get out before she locked it. “Come on, let’s go spend that five pounds and find Jack.” And she headed towards the Convent of St. Francis.

  *

  Finding Jack didn’t take long.

  Soon after she’d first met him she’d heard him sing in the local choir and there was no mistaking the tenor voice which was booming out from the bottom of the lawn.

  With Daniel at her side, she threaded through a handful of stalls set up at the edge of the house, advertising raffles, treasure hunts, and a tombola.

  There weren’t many people but it was still early afternoon and the fête had only been going a few minutes. As far as Sarah could see, the stalls were all being run by nuns — most of them as young as the one at the gate.

  She headed for the sound of singing.

  Nestled in the trees at the bottom of the lawn she could see a statue of the Virgin Mary surrounded by plastic chairs — and in front of them, incongruously, another nun playing an electric piano loudly.

  Behind her, Sarah saw a large handwritten sign: Pick a Hymn for a Pound!

  Jack was belting out ‘Abide With Me’ alongside two old ladies and a child. As she and Daniel approached he spotted her and gave her a big grin and a thumbs up.

  She waited for the hymn to finish, then clapped enthusiastically. Jack paid his pound and came over.

  “Hey Sarah,” he said. “Daniel — how’s it going?”

  “Ready for action, Jack.”

  “Good man. You mission is to get around the whole place, figure out who’s who, play the stalls and listen up for anything suspicious. Got it?”

  Good grief, he’s actually encouraging him…

  “Check,” said Daniel. Sarah could see he was taking this seriously.

  “You see anything strange, don’t get involved — just come find us.”

  Sarah watched as Jack took a five-pound note from a clip in his pocket and handed it to Daniel: “Reasonable expenses. I don’t need receipts.”

  Now the junior detective had ten pounds!

  “Cool!”

  “Rendezvous in one hour at the cream teas. Okay?”

  “Three-fifteen, at the teas. I’ll be there — sharp!” said Daniel checking his watch, then headed off towards the growing crowd of visitors at the stalls.

  Sarah turned to Jack as the two of them followed her son back towards the house: “What’s with this mysterious meeting then partner?”

  She listened as Jack told her about his visit from Liam O’Connor.

  “Who would want to murder a priest?” she asked.

  “What I said too.”

  “So, what’s the evidence?”

  “Pretty flimsy to be honest — Liam’s just got a gut instinct that something’s wrong,” said Jack. “He and Father Byrne used to run every morning rain or shine. Always in training for the next marathon, you know? Seems our victim had become world famous for his charity runs in the last couple of years. So, anyway, Thursday night Byrne calls Liam, says he’s not feeling so good and cancels.”

  “Maybe he just changed his mind, too late to call and let him know?”

  “Sure. But then apparently not only did he run, but he changed the route at the end. Which Liam says he would never do.”

  “Why?”

  “They run a precise 10K course so they can keep tabs of their times. Very competitive these priests it seems.”

  They’d reached the stalls at the side of the house, so Sarah took a left by another enormous wisteria, towards a run-down conservatory where teas and cakes were being served.

  “And Liam — is he a priest too?” she said.

  “He was — a long time ago. He and Father Byrne went through the seminary together. Had some wild times, so he says. They kept in touch, stayed friends for life — even though Liam left the Church. ‘Lost his faith’ he said — though he didn’t tell me how.”

  “And now — what does he do?”

  “Didn’t say,” said Jack. “I do know he drinks, runs, sails, parties, gambles, and gets into trouble.”

  “Most of which isn’t exactly compatible with being a priest, even an ex-priest,” said Sarah.

  “Don’t you believe it,” said Jack. “I’ve known priests back in NYC that do all of the above — and more.”

  “Of course,” said Sarah. She gestured at the statues and crucifix in the conservatory. “This is your world, isn’t it?”

  “Used to be — growing up in Brooklyn,” he said. “Parochial school with the Dominicans. Altar boy, the works. My dad’s brother was a priest, Jesuit missionary. The Brennans were pillars of the church.”

  “But not this Brennan?”

  “Too much the sceptic. Minute I left home, I was out of there.”

  “No urges to return?” Sarah said.

  “I like the music. And the incense catches me by surprise sometimes. Nostalgia at Christmas, maybe. But go back?” He shook his head. “Not for me.”

  Sarah stopped in front of another tall statue of the Virgin Mary. “But Liam must have another reason for thinking Father Byrne was killed…”

  “He does,” said Jack. “Byrne was a big fan of horse racing, it seems. And Liam says he’d got himself mixed up with some pretty unsavoury characters who were putting the squeeze on him.”

  “Seriously? Round here?”

  “He owed big, according to Liam,” said Jack. “He was getting threats. Liam says he’d never seen Byrne so scared.”

  “Okay,” said Sarah. “Maybe he’s onto something. But I heard in the village that Father Byrne had a heart attack?”

  “True,” said Jack. “But, what if said heart attack takes place while someone’s got your arm twisted round your back and your wallet in their fist — then it’s not quite so innocent.”

  That stopped Sarah.

  She knew Jack well enough by now to trust his instincts.

  “What’s the plan?” she said.

  “There’s only a handful of nuns here in the convent. But they all will have known Father Byrne,” said Jack. “Let’s split up, sniff around a little, ask some questions — and maybe find out exactly what happened on Friday morning.”

  “Not sure the nuns will like that…”

  Jack smiled. “No more than I did when they grilled me on American History. Me — I just might enjoy this…”

  4. Vows of Silence?

  Jack bought a scone —
as recommended — and handed a pound to the young nun looking after the baked goods table.

  She went to get change.

  “No, keep it,” Jack said. “All for a good cause, right?”

  The young nun smiled, her round face framed by her starched habit. He thought of the tough life these nuns live, what they needed to give up.

  He had to wonder … what brings them here, to do this?

  “Thank you, sir,” the nun said.

  Jack nodded. “Say, I heard about what happened to your Father Byrne, Sister…”

  A cloud seemed to pass over the nun’s face.

  “Sister Julienne. And yes, it has been quite a shock to the community.”

  “I imagine. Seemed like he was healthy, as well. A runner…”

  A young boy ran up with coins in his hand.

  Julienne leaned down to him. “Back for more, I see?”

  The boy grinned and nodded.

  “Very well, though at this rate you’ll soon be clearing me out soon!”

  The boy grabbed another scone, planted it in his mouth, and dashed away as if he had stolen it

  “Got to love the young ones,” she said. “So innocent. The world hasn’t made its mark yet…”

  Innocent, Jack thought.

  Interesting choice of word.

  “You knew Father Byrne well?”

  She shook her head. “No, I mean, I attended his masses, and he liked telling his jokes. Such a traveller, with all that running.”

  “Fit,” Jack said, pointing out the obvious.

  “But I suppose…” she hesitated, “not his heart.”

  Jack had to wonder.

  Did Sister Julienne know what Jack and Sarah had been doing in the village, the detecting?

  Or did she just want to talk?

  “I heard about that. Still, a runner like that. Not sure it makes sense, hmm Sister?”

  Sister Julienne became quiet as if she realised she was talking about one of the church’s own with someone who was — in fact — a stranger.

  But before he moved on, Jack had another question.

  “Sister, I assume you have someone here in charge, a—”

  “Mother Superior. Sister Mary Bryan.”

  “Right. We had one back in my New York school as well.” He leaned in. “She used to scare the living daylights out of me.”

  That brought a smile.