“That looks like…” Peter started, but Jack immediately stood up to see what his twin was looking at. “That looks like Lorenz sitting on the bench out there. And look. Fr Culpa is walking towards him.”
The boys were correct. Under that famous lone apple tree sat Lorenz, staring out into the forest. The forest that had once looked so full of wonder to him—sparkling with damp leaves that glistened in the beauty of the moonlight now took on a different appearance. A place that, for the last few years, had provided a feeling of shelter and solitude now looked like a dark, uninviting wasteland. The sun had just finished setting and the splayed colours of sunset were quickly fading into a dark, moonless night. The forest looked frightening to him now, a dark bastion that had become devoid of all meaning. The dry dead leaves clung mercilessly to their branches as the cold wind blew its accidental course through the grotesque, inconsequential trees. As he stared, he started to hear footsteps behind him coming closer and closer. Lorenz turned slowly, half expecting to see Cole approaching him.
“Father?” he squinted confusedly. “Why are you here?”
“Well, Lorenz, I could see you from my rectory window and thought that you might need someone to talk to. How are you doing? Why are you out here?”
“Well…I don’t know Father. I guess maybe I’m just feeling a bit lost.”
“Well, I happen to think we’re all a bit lost sometimes,” the priest smiled. “It’s whether we become found again that’s most important.”
Peter and Jack couldn’t possibly hear what they were saying from such a great distance, but they could make them out as having a conversation together on that bench underneath the apple tree.
“What do you think they’re saying?” asked Jack. “Do you think…no, it couldn’t be.”
“Do I think what?”
Jack thought for a moment how to approach the complicated subject. “Well, Fr Culpa must have so many things to do right now, and yet he’s taking the time to sit out there with Lorenz and have a long conversation. How does he have time for that? It must be pretty important.”
“Go on…?” enquired Peter.
“Well, all I’m saying is, don’t you think it’s strange that Fr Culpa played a part in all the secrets that we heard? He covered up for Bowen when she killed that old lady. He saw that girl Wallis in his room the night she disappeared. He took a particular interest in Tom, even going so far as getting him a place in the school. He acts like such a nice guy but we know his dark history. Do you think he and Lorenz had something to do with Tom’s death?”
“Jack, are you suggesting that Fr Culpa might have killed Tom or got Lorenz to do it?”
“Well, I mean, it’s not as far-fetched as it sounds. He’s nice…too nice. And I doubt whether he’s even a priest at all. We both know he’s married to the headmistress. Her name’s Mrs. Culpa, it’s like they didn’t even try to keep it a secret.”
“But why would he murder Tom?”
“Perhaps he knew too much, perhaps he and the reverend were a little too close, if you know what I mean. Perhaps he’s a psychopath who gets off on murdering people? What if we’re next?”
Peter and Jack both thought on this. It did seem strange that the priest had appeared to be involved in so many incidences, and that out of all the things he could be doing to improve the situation, he was now sitting alone with Lorenz speaking in hushed whispers. What secrets were they exchanging, the twins wondered?
“I think we need to confront Fr Culpa once he finishes with Lorenz.” Peter decided.
So the twins waited, completely unaware of the content of the conversation that went on below them. The young man and the boy conversed for about an hour before the older one stood up, patted Lorenz on the back, and walked back through the glistening blades of grass towards the rectory. The twins had decided that they needed to know the truth. They were going to talk to Fr Culpa and then to Lorenz, cross-reference the story, and then go talk to Cole, all in an effort to try and solve the riddle of Tom’s death.
Death is a fascinating phenomenon. A great author once described the feeling of losing a loved one as that of walking up a familiar set of stairs but thinking that there was one more step than there really was. It can bring out the best in people—where would David have ended up without Uriah? What would have become of Scrooge if Marley had not died? What would the world be like had Christ not been crucified? But alas, here we are not talking about a martyr, or a literary figure, or God incarnate. No, here we must discuss the death of a thirteen-year-old boy with hair as innocently blond as a chick, and with intentions as pure as the moonlight itself. A true tragedy. He never came to know his parents—the truth being that they had never wanted a child and that they were never coming back to find him like they do in all of those happy “histoires d’orphelins.” I truly hate to say it, but if you were expecting an “Oliver” or “Annie” ending, then you might be disappointed. Just like in life, not all stories end happily, and the vast multitude of deaths in the real world are not kind or symbolic or life-changing. But that is the way of the world. Death is an inevitable part of life.
The moon didn’t rise that night. It must have been with the sun, inhabiting the day time on the other face of the earth. It was particularly dark as Peter and Jack made their way across the damp, cold grass towards the rectory. Once they arrived, they knocked on the door three times and waited to confront their priest to get the story straight. All the while, the birds that always seemed to circle the college had landed for the night, nesting on the rusted gutters and creaky roof tiles of St. Benedict’s. For once they were not squawking, but rather watching in silent omniscience as the priest opened the door and welcomed the twins into a warm and hospitable reception room.
CHAPTER XI
“You are not what others think you are.
You are what God knows you are.”
—Shannon Alder
“Ah, Peter, Jack! I wasn’t expect…”
“We know, Father.” Peter interjected.
“Well, have a seat, lads. What brings you here? I expect you’re both extremely upset?”
“We’re devastated,” Jack said coldly, trying not to give anything away.
“As am I, boys, as am I. Such a tragedy. He was far too young.”
“Are you really, Father?” Peter said cynically.
“What do you mean? Of course, I’m devastated by this. Why would you think I’m not?”
Peter decided to take the lead in explaining themselves. “We saw you talking to Lorenz just now. Strange person to be having a long conversation with given what’s just happened. And we’ve heard a lot of things about you which we find very questionable.”
“Oh…I see. Well, what sort of things have you heard about me that would make you question my character?” The priest asked defensively.
“I don’t even know where to start. You seem very married considering you claim to be a Catholic priest. I assume you just got this farce-of-a-job from your wife who runs the whole show. And we know that when you were fourteen you witnessed an elderly lady being murdered and helped to cover up for the person who…coincidentally…is now the English teacher at this school and a close friend of yours? Does the name Wallis Plinge ring a bell? And then…we know you’re experienced at sneaking around behind the scenes. Somehow you managed to convince Thomas’ parents out of a fortune so that he could come here. So I guess the game’s up. Who are you really? Tom’s father? Ms Bowen’s young lover? Or just a murderer?”
As Peter finished, he was surprised at what had just come out of his mouth. There was no going back from there. Even Jack was a little irked. Were they really accusing the effervescent red-haired man in front of them of all of this?
“Well, I’m afraid to say you’ve got it all wrong, Peter.” The priest said after a thoughtful pause. “But I understand that you’re upset and I’m not angry at you for bringing all of this up. I am a little disappointed in you though, I never would have expected you to come to tho
se conclusions.”
“Okay, then. If you can explain it then we’ll listen,” Peter had realised how manic his accusations had sounded and was looking for a chance to back out of the hole he had dug himself into.
“Well, where do I start? Do you want to write it down like you have the other secrets you’ve been keeping? Though none of it’s a secret, all you had to do was ask and I would have told you. Please, sit down,” he ushered to the boys to sit on the seat opposite him. They only just realised that they had been standing the whole time, so wound up in their accusations and exasperated emotional state.
“The headmistress, Mia Culpa, is my sister, not my wife. I was once engaged to be married, but it was not to be. In fact, my life was quite different only a few years ago from what it is now and I probably have to tell you a lot about it so that you can understand. When I was fourteen, I did indeed become an assistant shopkeeper to Ms Bowen. And one night I did witness an old lady die because of the greed and avarice of my employer. I was told never to tell anyone and I never did. But I don’t think you heard the end of that story. The morning after that fateful night, I went back to the shop and spoke with Ms Bowen. I told her that the right thing to do would be for her to turn herself in. Deep down, she knew that, and I think she knew that if she didn’t confess, then the investigation would find it out anyway, whether through me or just through circumstantial evidence. So she turned herself in and was only charged with manslaughter, as she hadn’t meant to kill the old lady. She went to jail for many years. The scandal was splashed all over the newspapers and she and Mr. Manea lost their reputations as trustworthy antique dealers and appraisers.
In the meantime, I kept up with my schooling, and in my senior year was Head Boy and dux of the school. So, of course, I chose my path based on what was expected of me. I decided to study a double of geology and engineering at the most prestigious university in the country. And I did well. I moved on to masters, fell in love with a girl in my class, and graduated with first class honours. I got a high paying job as a geotechnical engineer, bought a house, and became engaged to the woman of my dreams. But a couple of months into our engagement, she got a letter from the Paris Dance Conservatoire, offering her a place in one of the most envied courses in the world. Dancing had always been her passion, so she sat down with me and told me that she couldn’t pass up the opportunity, and that it meant our relationship wouldn’t work. She gave me the ring back and I never heard from her or saw her again.
Well, I was upset of course, and started feeling bitter from being rejected and unloved. I felt that I could forge my destiny by living for myself, that I could prove to her and to everyone that she had made the wrong decision. That I could be a successful and happy person if I made a good wage, bought a grandiose house and impress an even more beautiful wife into my life. That was alright for a while. I buried myself in work, and I did make a lot of money, but I started wondering what the goal was—where did this all end? What was I going to do with my money? I started finding little ways to try and make more: gambling online, going to the casino, overcharging clients slightly, working weekends. Anything to make an extra dime. But in this cold and heartless pursuit I found myself wanting more, and more, and more still. Becoming sadder with every dollar in my account, greedier with every paycheque.
Then one day everything changed. I went to do a consultation with a client at their home in High Wycombe, only about half an hour from my townhouse in Oxford. There had been a fault found in the way the foundation of the house had been poured, so I was contracted to survey the block of land and the foundations. I went, but it would probably be about a three month job so I decided it would be good to get to know the family a bit. Their names were Bill and Nancy, and they had a dog called Bullseye, and a five-year-old blond boy named Thomas. Over the months, I came to find out that he wasn’t their biological son, that he was a foster kid, and that Bill and Nancy’s marriage was rocky because Nancy had found and fell in love with a man twenty years her junior. The project ended up getting cancelled because of the messy divorce and the eventual demolition of the house. The last I heard from them was that Thomas would have to move to another foster home. Nancy met me alone at a café one afternoon, not wanting Bill or Thomas to be there. She asked me if I might be willing to foster Tom, as otherwise he would have to go to some unknown new couple and he was already in a fragile state from problems he had encountered earlier in his childhood. She said that Tom had grown attached to me, and upon watching me do my job, had said that he wanted to become an engineer. That over the last few months, I had become a role model and almost a father-figure to him. Well, it was sad but I really thought nothing of it: just business as usual. Of course it was a no from me. Not my problem.
That summer, I started going to church again on an invitation from a friend that I had met while studying for my masters. I had stopped going during my university years. You know, too busy for Sunday mornings. And there, in the lofty yet cosy chapel of Oxford’s Trinity College, where I had studied, God found me. During those sermons about love and compassion, I started thinking about Tom again and how I could have changed his life. As Napoleon said, “The world suffers a lot not because of the violence of bad people, but because of the silence of good people.” I started to wonder where he might have turned up and whether he was alright. I tried to investigate what had happened to him, but the department couldn’t help me much due to privacy concerns, so there was really nothing I could do. I left no stone unturned in my quest to find out what had become of him, but it yielded only dead ends.
I had a week of leave accrued from work and Mia had just become the headmistress of St. Scholastica’s, so I decided I would go visit her and spend the week with her. Well, it is a beautiful school, but when I got here I could hardly believe the differences between St. Scholastica’s and St. Benedict’s. I saw my own reflection in how she ran the school: obsessed with money, trying to cut corners to put more coins in the coffers, completely neglecting St. Benedict’s so that St. Scholastica’s could flourish. I saw that what she was doing was wrong and unjust, and that what I had been doing in my business ventures were the same. It was on the train ride home from seeing Mia that I decided I wasn’t happy with how I was living my life. So I changed it. It was like falling in love all over again: it happened little by little, and then suddenly all at once. I quit my job, joined the seminary, and became a priest. I then convinced Mia that the boys at St. Benedict’s needed a chaplain, and that I would do it without pay so long as my living needs could be met. She reluctantly agreed and so I started working here.
A few years later, well, you wouldn’t believe it. Who walks into my chapel but little Thomas Steerforth? A bit older and a bit bigger but definitely the same boy I that had attached himself to me all those years ago. He didn’t remember me from my days as an engineer, but I couldn’t forget that face. I had morning tea with him, and he told me all about his life. About how he wasn’t happy and that he felt unwanted in his current foster home. So with the money that I had saved up during my working days, I made an offer to his parents. I would pay for his entire education, they didn’t have to lift a finger. Mia thought this was foolish. ‘Why pay for one orphan underling if you can’t pay for them all. It’s pointless,’ she would say. But I tried, and continue to try, to change her way of thinking. Tom never knew that I was paying for him, but that was part of the joy of it—to be a light in the world without casting a shadow. To not let your right hand know what your left is doing.
About a year after I began teaching here, Ms. Bowen’s time in prison finished and she was left released with her old life in ruins, she needed a fresh start. The college was looking for a literature teacher and I encouraged her to apply, a job she was more than aptly qualified for. She had changed, the greed and avarice that had clouded her vision during that time at the shop had gone and she was content living out the rest of her life as a literature teacher here.
As for Wallis Plinge…well, she was a trouble
d young lady. She would come and talk to me most nights about her issues. It was decided that she should leave the school, as we found out she had an unhealthy obsession with me. If I were you, I wouldn’t take much notice of Mr Latan’s stories—they’re just designed to scare you.
As for speaking to Lorenz just now…well, that’s my job. Although he may not show it, he’s a very insecure young man. He doesn’t fit in and has never really had a role model. His father sent him here when he was very young, he hardly knew a word of English. He used to sit with me right on that chair that you’re sitting on and we would go through his homework word by word. I spent many hours in this room with him explaining grammar, language, even life in general. And now look at his English—almost native-level apart from his infamous jumbling of idioms.” The priest let out a little sigh of laughter. “I think most of all he was glad to meet someone who could speak French with him as well as I could. He always has, and still does, struggle with relating to people, so he acts up and takes it out on others. He’s not a bad kid, he’s just lost and confused.”
Peter squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. How could they have been so wrong? How could their judge of character of this man have been so far off the truth? Death can make even the most logical of us act unexplainably illogical. But what of Lorenz?
“So,” Peter began, “what were you talking to Lorenz about earlier this evening?”
“Peter, I can’t tell you that. What students tell me in confidence I cannot repeat to other students. If I were you, I would stay out of the whole affair. Nothing good will come of it.”
Walking Among Birds Page 9