Cherringham: A Deadly Confession

by Neil Richards

  And maybe … for now … that was okay.

  Something was up here.

  And even if she didn’t have a clue, Sarah knew that one way or the other, she’d have to find out more about the trio of retreaters whose stories don’t fit together at all.

  “Thanks,” Sarah said simply as she looked around.

  Better to dispel — if she could — any feeling they might have of being threatened.

  “Enjoy the rest of your retreat.”

  “We will,” Tom said, answering for the two of them, and then they continued walking away while Sarah watched.

  And when they turned the corner of the path, heading to the stables — and surely a report to Gustav — Sarah slid out her phone.

  Jack would find this all very interesting.

  *

  She kept walking as she talked to Jack on the phone, making sure no one was nearby, nobody within earshot.

  “What do you think, Jack?”

  “Dunno. I mean, they could just be two odd birds. But from what you describe, they sure seemed to act suspiciously.”

  “And their answers? The American was so quick to answer, but Isabel stumbled on my question about any chats with Byrne.”

  “Yes, and there’s their supposed breakfast all together?”

  “Right,” Sarah said. “Which Gustav has no memory of.”

  “Do you think you can find out anything about them?”

  “Can try. You know Jack — I did have this one other thought. Something I find a little strange.”

  “Yes?”

  “They’re from three different countries. I mean, I suppose such things happen. Germany, France, US. And yet Tom and Isabel — when I first saw them talking — it really seemed like they knew each other.”

  “And yet Gustav said that they all stayed by themselves.”

  “Or so he wants everyone to think.”

  For a moment, Jack said nothing. Sarah had reached her car, and she had to salvage some work time this afternoon.

  This detective stuff was fun, exciting; but doing it for free didn’t pay the bills.

  “Jack, what are you thinking?”

  “Yes. Um, I’m thinking … I’m going to do something.”

  “Which is?”

  He laughed. “Remember the phrase ‘plausible deniability’?”

  And that made her laugh as well. “Yes. If I don’t know something…”

  “Right. You can’t be implicated. So if I should do something a tad … illegal.”

  Funny, Sarah thought.

  Jack was about as much “by the book” as any person she had ever met.

  And yet he would — if it was important — take steps that clearly went over the line.

  “Whatever it is, you’ll tell me what you find out?”

  “You bet. If I’m lucky, expect a call tonight. Might be a bit late.”

  “I’ll keep my phone close.” Then time for Sarah to pause. “Jack?”

  “Yup?”

  “What you saw, in the woods. That means someone had been there, that somehow this might be a murder, not a medical accident?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And if someone wanted Byrne dead, they won’t be happy with what we’re doing?”

  “I imagine not.”

  “So, I’m just saying. You, me — we should be careful, don’t you think?”

  “Always. Safety first. No unnecessary risks.”

  “Like tonight. Whatever it is. You be careful.”

  Another great laugh from Jack. “You know, I do love it when you worry about me.” Then his voice turned serious. “I’ll do my best Sarah, you can count on that. And I hope you find out something about our three seekers of peace and serenity.”

  Who hadn’t seemed serene just moments ago.

  “Okay, will do. Speak later.”

  And with a quick “bye”, Jack was gone, with Sarah left wondering what it was he planned on doing.

  Plausible deniability?

  More like, worrying about Jack for the next few hours…

  She got into her car, and started down the meandering drive away from the property, where it felt like the woods, the buildings, and the people could all be hiding secrets…

  10. A Night Mission

  Jack used the light from his phone to look at the rectory door.

  It was ancient, the lock as well; should give easily, he thought, and he’d broken into many similar back in New York.

  But in this case, he discovered that if he simply pulled, tugged, and rattled the wobbly door knob, the door popped free of its latch.

  That, Jack thought, should definitely be repaired. Anyone can get in here.

  He quickly entered the dark building then pulled the door closed behind him.

  He waited until his eyes had adjusted to the gloom.

  Once he did, there was enough ambient light from outside that he should be able to find his way up the stairs, and to Byrne’s room.

  Breaking and entering.

  Yup. Better that Sarah should be out of this loop.

  One of these days he’d be doing something like this, and good old Alan — the local cop — would roll up in his patrol car.

  It was — after all — illegal.

  A few seconds, and he was ready to go, and he started moving to the stairs.

  *

  At the end of the hallway, near Byrne’s room, its door open, Jack saw that a big window with net curtains let in milky light from the quarter moon.

  He could also see the shadows of tables and armchairs in the wide hallway.

  The rectory was big — far too big just to house the local parish priest. At some point this place must have been filled with priests, passing through on their way to missions around the world, bringing the Holy Roman Church to the four corners of the globe.

  But these days, that globe had changed, the church had changed; business, Jack guessed, was off.

  And somehow, despite his own lack of belief, he regretted that.

  The world seemed more solid and safe back then, when he was a kid. Priests and nuns had all the answers, after the Pope and God of course.

  These days — who had any answers?

  Back to work…

  To his right was a bathroom, the curtainless frosted window letting in the moonlight. He went in, his eyes quickly scanning the space.

  A seventies bathroom suite. One towel. One bar of soap. A bottle of shampoo. Above the hand basin was a small cabinet. He opened it — just a few toiletries.

  No meds. Maybe in the bedroom?

  He slipped out into the hall again, then stepped into Byrne’s room.

  Though Sister Mary had let him check out Byrne’s office, where they found the watch, Jack wondered if a man like Byrne, a gambler, someone who liked the ponies, would have a place to keep secrets?

  The room was so dark he’d have to use the light on his phone.

  He pulled down a shade so that the light wouldn’t be seen by anyone outside, though the rectory was far enough away from the main road that Jack didn’t imagine anyone would come strolling by.

  He looked around the room. Whereas the office downstairs was bare and characterless — up here the real Eamon Byrne was in evidence.

  The walls were covered in framed photographs. Jack worked his way along them, leaning in close, the light from his phone like a spotlight, illuminating the priest’s past…

  Some of the older black-and-white pictures were clearly from Eamon’s days as a young priest: first day at the seminary, playing rugby, with an older couple — his parents maybe — on his ordination.

  In all of them a younger Eamon beamed out at the camera — burly, broad-shouldered, confident, grinning.

  Then pictures from around the world: African schools with smiling kids all around him, India, with other priests and nuns, America, with politicians. Was that a Kennedy shaking his hand?

  Then there were running pictures — marathon shots, publicity pictures. Framed newspaper cut
tings lauding the Flying Father. In some of the photos, Jack recognised Liam, also in running gear.

  The more recent pictures showed Eamon outside what looked like an old people’s home, standing between carers and groups in wheelchairs, or with his arm around an old lady who stared blankly into the lens…

  In some of these, Liam could be seen too — like Eamon, wearing a priest’s dog-collar.

  A sign was just visible in the background. Jack pressed close to the glass to read it: “St. Elrich’s Hospice.”

  He made a note to ask Liam about the place, and then turned to another wall.

  Here the pictures were of horses and jockeys, trainers, maps of courses, aerial photos, and newspaper articles with Grand National headlines, Derby Day, the Arc de Triomphe race in France.

  In one photo, Eamon stood by a fine horse, a jeroboam of champagne clutched in his big hands. Behind him a line of open stable doors was filled with clapping, smiling stable hands.

  On a small bedside cabinet he could see a couple of books, some pens, a stack of racing newspapers.

  Jack picked up the paper on the top of the pile — dated just a week ago it was covered in pen scrawls, notes, odds, figures.

  Right to the end, Eamon was clearly playing the horses.

  The bedside cabinet had a small drawer. Jack opened it, looked inside: hairbrush, cuff-links, a small prayer book. He shut the drawer.

  He scanned the big closet in corner of the room, then walked over and opened one of the doors. First, a shelf with a few pairs of standard-issue black shoes, priest shoes. Then he pushed aside hangers with black suits and shirts.

  A pair of white collars were draped like horseshoes on the bar.

  He checked the suit pockets, one after the other, suit after suit, trousers as well, all turning up empty.

  He opened the other door: and this was filled with more suits and jackets and shirts — but not the kind a priest would normally wear.

  Tweeds, grey casual, cord jackets. Again Jack checked the pockets. Old train tickets, betting slips, hotel receipts … in one jacket an empty quarter-bottle of Irish whiskey. An unwrapped pack of playing cards.

  This was the real Eamon Byrne.

  Not exactly a secret life, thought Jack — but certainly one lived well away from the cold strictures of Mother Church.

  Then Jack turned back to the chest of drawers, opening each drawer and making sure that amid the socks and underwear he hadn’t missed anything. But he hadn’t.

  No meds. No personal papers. Nothing.

  Which is what he expected.

  Then Jack dropped to his knees — still a bit creaky from that morning’s run with Liam.

  Going to be paying for that, he thought.

  He shined the light under the bureau.

  A few dust bunnies lingered against the wall, but otherwise — nothing there.

  And then he turned to shoot the light under Byrne’s bed.

  Which is when he saw something, under the head of the bed, flush against the corner by the wall.

  A tan metal box, about two feet square.

  He knew it.

  A man like Byrne would have to have real secrets, and he’d have to have a place to keep them.

  Jack stretched as far as he could under the bed, his fingertips barely reaching. But then he was able to flap at the box’s side and get it to slide a few inches towards him, then a few inches more, until he could grab the handle on top and pull it out.

  And he suddenly felt he was about to learn more about Father Byrne than the priest ever wanted anyone to know.

  *

  But first, there was a lock. And this lock was real. Built into the box, it kept the top latched tight.

  The latch could probably be pried open … but it might be more useful left intact.

  Right now, Jack didn’t know where this was going to go.

  He slid out his Swiss army knife, so useful, which had — among its myriad of tools — a needlepoint item that probably was designed for something other than breaking into things…

  But Jack didn’t have a clue what that might be.

  He placed his phone on the bed, and sat beside it, the box on his lap.

  “Okay,” he said quietly, “let’s see how much trouble you’re going to be…”

  He started working the knife’s needle tool into the keyhole. At first, he thought that he would have to use it roughly, just pry the damn metal container open.

  But then he felt the tip hit something.

  “There we are.”

  If he could move that locking mechanism, the latch should pop free.

  He tried now to use the tool as a lever, pulling it to the left — but that only made whatever purchase he had against the latch slip away.

  This wasn’t easy.

  Byrne had gotten himself one mighty lockbox.

  Again he worked the point in, until he again felt the lock. Now, he tried a different method … pushing down on the mechanism, then to the side.

  Slow progress, but it was moving.

  Then — with a loud snap that sounded thunderous in the oh-so quiet room, the latch popped free.

  And as if he was opening Ali Baba’s treasure chest, Jack lifted the top of the metal case.

  11. A Surprise Visitor

  At first glance, the case looked like anyone’s collection of bills, bank statements, cancelled cheques.

  Nothing terribly revealing there, though there seemed to be a lot of different accounts.

  But then, Jack thought … if Byrne was having gambling problems, then part of that story might very well be hidden in those statements.

  He picked up one, showing the occasional large deposit. And then almost immediately, large withdrawals. Winnings, losings? Or did Byrne sometimes take a big church donation and slip it into his account?

  Then, on one set of statements for recent months, Jack saw something else peculiar.

  Regular money transfers to someone named Antonio Bell.

  As he rifled through the statements, seeing where they occasionally dipped into the red, each statement had at least one such transfer…

  Except for the most recent.

  The statement for the last month had no transfer to this Bell character.

  Whoever Bell was, he hadn’t received any money from Father Byrne that month.

  Jack pulled everything out of the metal case to see what else was there. He found some letters — which could be looked at later.

  Then, at the bottom, a business envelope addressed to Byrne here, at the Rectory.

  No return address.

  He pried open the envelope and saw a folded sheet of lined, yellow paper, something from a legal pad.

  The way the envelope had been stuck at the bottom made Jack wonder whether this was something Byrne wanted hidden?

  Or something he wanted to forget.

  He pulled the sheet out and unfolded it.

  The letters big, the words and message clear.

  “Pay up or else, Padre!”

  Think I know what the “or else” is, Jack thought.

  Having seen the trap along Byrne’s route, he had to think that maybe the priest fell behind to someone and paid a price for that out on his running track.

  He shut the light off on this phone and called Sarah.

  “Jack?”

  “Hey, Sarah.” He whispered. “Think I found something. Though — not too sure at all what it is.”

  “I guess I shouldn’t ask where you are.”

  He laughed quietly. “I’m in Byrne’s room. I found a locked case, which I managed to … open. There are some things that might tell us what happened. Bank statements. And a name of someone getting money transfers, Antonio Bell. Can you check that out?”

  “I’ll try. Just helping Chloe with some schoolwork, but I should be able to find a minute.”

  “And … can I bring the statements to you? Maybe you can make sense of the money going in and out of the account?”

  “No problem. Comin
g now?”

  “Yup, just as soon as I—”

  He stopped.

  A noise.

  Barely audible, but from downstairs.

  That front door, so easily opened, rattling.

  “Jack — what is it?”

  He lowered his voice.

  “Got company,” he said. “I’d better hide. See you in a bit.”

  “Be careful. I’ll wait up.”

  And rather than say anything else Jack killed the call.

  In seconds, if someone had come into the building, leaving lights off, Jack could guess where they were headed.

  Right for this room.

  He had to move fast.

  12. Suspects and Suspicion

  Jack stuffed the papers back in the metal box, and then closed the lid gently, pressing that latch in slowly enough so he hoped it wouldn’t make a click.

  But click it did, the noise so sharp and clear in the total quiet of the room.

  Now though, with the case shut, he could move.

  He stuck his head out the door.

  No shadowy figure moving down the hallway … yet.

  He saw the outline of an easy chair down by the nearby hallway window. Thankfully the moon had moved on, so that almost no light lit that end.

  The chair might just be big enough, he thought. He hoped…

  He moved quickly behind the easy chair, and did his best to hide.

  Though he knew if someone walked all the way to the window there’d be no way that they wouldn’t see Jack.

  Then — he heard the sound of steps making the floorboards creak.

  He edged his head to the right … just a bit, so one eye could look down the dark hall.

  The dark figure moving slowly, steadily to this end of the hallway.

  Jack kept his hands locked on the metal box.

  That was the prize; he had to hold onto that. The first real clues they had found in this so-far unfathomable murder.

  He pulled his head back; eyes made good reflectors of light.

  In moments, he’d know if the person walking this way was headed to Byrne’s room.

  The steps closer, the creaking sharper, and finally the person was there.

  A click, and a torch went on.

  Small, not more than a penlight making a small pool of light.