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  The bishop had promised to visit days ago. But something both mysterious and urgent had occurred daily to prevent him. Sister Evangelista had carried the entire burden alone and now she felt exhausted.

  She had almost broken down earlier in the morning when speaking to her friend, Miss Devlin, a teacher at the school.

  ‘Our own Father James, found murdered in the graveyard, and the bishop still hasn’t arrived to help deal with the police or bring some authority to the church, and now, here I am, about to pack up all his personal possessions in the Priory with only simple Daisy to help.’

  Into one of her hands Miss Devlin had quietly placed a hankie, and into the other a cup of tea with a couple of Anadin on the saucer.

  Tea and Anadin, hailed as a miracle cure by all of Liverpool’s women. A headache? Take a cuppa tea and two Anadin. A toothache? A cuppa tea and two Anadin. A priest found murdered in the graveyard? A cuppa tea and two Anadin. Anadin sat on the wooden shelf next to the Woodbines in the local tobacconist’s and they sold almost as many of one as the other. Acknowledged as an effective alternative to gin to help with the pains of afterbirth, mastitis, monthlies and the constant headaches brought on by looking after a dozen unruly children.

  Miss Devlin had spoken in her customary gentle tone. ‘It has been very hard indeed on yourself. Drink the tea and take the Anadin now, Sister, and it will all be easier to face. The bishop will be here soon.’

  Sister Evangelista’s distress on the telephone had been apparent. Sensing that she was losing patience, the bishop had tried to pacify her as an adult would a three-year-old child.

  ‘I will be there this afternoon, so keep calm now. Everyone must remain very calm. We cannot bury the father until the police release his body, but we know how the police can behave. Remember how pushy they were about coming into the school and upsetting the children. You must say nothing to them about anything. They will be looking for someone to blame and we mustn’t let that be us, Sister. Of course when I say us, I mean the Church. This is all a dreadful mess but be sure, Sister, we have a responsibility to protect our work.’

  Sister Evangelista was speechless. She had no idea what the bishop was talking about. The police didn’t have anyone in their sights? He was right. In fact, they had taken themselves down a few embarrassing blind alleys, but none of them had led towards the school or the convent.

  She replaced the receiver with a prayer that the bishop would make haste. As God was her judge, if she had to deal with much more on her own, likely she would go mad.

  Now at the sight of Daisy’s relieved face, she was glad she had come.

  ‘Hello, Sister.’

  Daisy grinned from ear to ear in that inane way she had. Her dark hair with its thick fringe was kept short and tidy with the help of a pudding basin and the kitchen scissors. Her nose dribbled slightly, as though she had a cold, but she seemed not to notice and her eyes always appeared bright, as though full of tears.

  Sister Evangelista sighed. Her heart suddenly felt very heavy. Daisy would be of little help.

  ‘The bishop is arriving this afternoon to remove Father James’s belongings, Daisy. We need to pack up the father’s room and all of his personal possessions. I hope to God he sends another priest to us soon to take charge. Everyone is in such a state.’

  Daisy’s heart sank into her boots. Whenever the bishop visited, he slept over at the Priory and often popped into Daisy’s room before retiring for the night. Father James had accompanied him the first time, but ever after he had visited her alone.

  Daisy’s expression never altered, and she didn’t speak.

  ‘Have you any sacks, or the father’s suitcase, Daisy?’

  Sister Evangelista’s mind was already focused on the task ahead. Daisy nodded. ‘We have hessian flour sacks folded up in the scullery and there’s a suitcase on top of Father James’s wardrobe in his room,’ she said.

  ‘Good girl, bring them to the study, we will start in there. And, Daisy, you had better bring a tray of tea for us both, we could be a while.’

  Daisy disappeared into the kitchen, as Sister Evangelista walked across the highly polished parquet floor of the square hallway and, in a businesslike manner, threw open the study door.

  The gust of a breeze created by her sudden entry sent a cloud of dust particles flying upwards where, trapped, they swirled and glittered in columns of weak sunlight. It took her eyes a moment to adjust. She caught her breath and dragged the courage from somewhere deep within her to take the next step.

  The courage to walk over to his desk. To begin the process of parcelling up the life of the man she had known well and worked with for over twenty years. This was daunting, even for someone as efficient and strong as she was. The father, whom she had loved and who had had such a passion to help the poorest children in the community. She silently vowed he would never be forgotten and that a mass would be said for him every day at St Mary’s, for as long as she was alive.

  As Sister Evangelista approached the murdered priest’s dark-oak desk, she crossed herself.

  As she surveyed the surface, she noticed his diary was open on the day he had died. Pushing her thin wire-framed spectacles to the top of her nose with one hand, she placed the other on the open page and let it travel across the words, as though they were written in braille.

  The police had not yet gained entry to the Priory. They required permission from the bishop, which was one of the reasons he was arriving today. Everything was just as it had been on the day the priest had died.

  It now crossed her mind that maybe Father James’s belongings held a clue as to who had murdered him and that maybe packing away his personal effects might not be the right thing to do after all.

  But the bishop had been most insistent. ‘We must protect the Church,’ he had said. What had that meant exactly?

  Father James would have done nothing other than protect the Church, surely?

  ‘Oh, Daisy, you and that tea are a welcome sight. Bring the tray here, dear,’ she said, as she looked up to see Daisy standing in the doorway, the sacks rolled up and tucked under her arm. Daisy laid the tray on the table.

  ‘Who was Austin Tattershall, Daisy?’ Sister Evangelista enquired. The name glared up at her from the diary page. Four o’clock, Austin Tattershall. The diary entry had jumped out as the name wasn’t Irish and was certainly one Sister Evangelista had never heard before.

  ‘I don’t know, Sister,’ Daisy said. ‘He came here sometimes to see the father.’

  Daisy was whispering, almost into her chest, as she poured the tea.

  Sister Evangelista looked squarely at Daisy, who avoided her gaze as she handed over the cup and saucer, keeping her eyes fixed firmly on the desk as she did so.

  ‘Did the father keep his appointment with him at four o’clock?’ she asked.

  Daisy still kept her head down as she replied, ‘He didn’t, Sister.’

  A silence fell between them.

  Sister Evangelista had spent her life being lied to.

  The reasons given for why children came to school with no food in their bellies, shoes falling off their feet and lice dancing on their heads had to be heard to be believed. Sister Evangelista could smell a rat a mile away and she smelt an enormous one right here in this room, right now. Either Daisy was lying, or there was something she wasn’t telling her.

  She flicked over the diary pages, feeling worse than a thief. Father James was dead and these earthly possessions were of no use to him now, but, even so, she felt extremely uncomfortable. She had always been an intensely private woman herself, raised to have impeccable manners.

  Now she saw that there was a diary entry on the same day each week with names she didn’t recognize. Arthur, Stanley, Cyril, Brian. Who were these men?

  ‘Manners won’t get his belongings to his family, I suppose.’ She suddenly spoke her thoughts out loud as she snapped the diary shut, making Daisy jump.

  ‘No, Sister,’ said Daisy, unfolding one of the small
sacks.

  Sister Evangelista placed the diary carefully in the hessian sack.

  On top she laid his silver letter opener and a leather-bound volume containing his precious stamp collection, which he often brought children into his office to view.

  ‘The stamp collection is so beautiful. The children would never have seen anything like it before,’ she had often said to Miss Devlin.

  Sister Evangelista had always thought Father James the most patient of men. She had repeatedly said so to Miss Devlin.

  ‘He is so busy, with barely a moment to spare, and yet he always finds the time to share his knowledge of the world with the children through his wonderful collection of stamps. He never minds them visiting him in his study. I just don’t know where he finds the patience.’

  Sister Evangelista surveyed the contents of the bookcase on the opposite side of the room and realized she couldn’t place the precious stamp collection in a sack along with the books.

  ‘Daisy, I think we are going to need some newspaper. Are there any old rag sheets we can rip up to wrap things in? I would like to protect his stamp collection, at the very least.’

  As Daisy left the room in search of dust sheets, Sister Evangelista slowly lowered herself into the father’s chair behind the desk. Tears that had never been far from the surface since the murder now threatened once again to pour down her cheeks.

  She felt a hum. A sizzling static in the air.

  Daisy’s receding footsteps had taken her downstairs into the kitchen and could no longer be heard. Sister Evangelista felt as though the father were standing in the room, objecting to the use of his chair. It was a real presence.

  The air smelt of the last time it was occupied. An odour trapped by locked windows and doors.

  Musty. Ink. Hair grease and man.

  He was there.

  There was another smell too. Faintly familiar, of lavender floor wax and polish. Daisy may have been simple, but Sister Evangelista acknowledged that the Priory was spotless.

  He was there.

  ‘Don’t cry,’ she whispered to herself, clasping her hands together in front as though in prayer. She was a nun, unafraid of ghosts. She was protected by God’s light. ‘Just get through this as quickly as possible,’ she whispered, defiant, challenging the empty space. Father James might have been a saint in her eyes, but he was no Lazarus.

  Distracting herself, she glanced down at the desk drawers. Each one was locked. A small bunch of keys lay on top of the desk next to the open inkwell.

  There was still no sign of Daisy. Should she wait for Daisy to return before opening the drawers?

  Picking up the keys, she tried first the top right-hand drawer. The key turned easily. Feeling bold and moving quickly before she could think about what she was doing and hesitate, not waiting for encouragement from Daisy nor permission from the bishop, she swiftly opened the drawer and pulled it out as far as it would extend. It was stuffed full of bundles of white envelopes stacked in three neat rows and tied with string.

  She lifted the first bundle and flicked her fingers down the side, revealing the addresses printed on the front. All of the envelopes, she noticed, were addressed to people she did not know and had been sent to a PO Box number. Some coincided with the names in the diary entries. The first one was addressed to Austin Tattershall.

  Sister Evangelista took out the envelope and lifted the flap, revealing a wad of black-and-white photographs.

  What she saw made her feel as though she had been punched in the heart.

  Winded and breathless, in a state of acute shock and creeping numbness, she examined the photographs, one by one.

  When she considered the events in her mind later that evening, she wondered to herself how in God’s name she hadn’t fainted. How had she managed to behave as though she was looking at photographs of a beautiful rural landscape, instead of the most vile and depraved images of young girls and boys she had ever seen?

  Some of the photographs had been taken abroad, that much was obvious by the name stamped on the back. Most were of men with children, girls mostly and the occasional boy. Some were obviously taken in a hospital setting. Others were of very young girls. With horror, she realized that one picture had been taken in the father’s study and it was of a child she recognized from the school.

  She furtively glanced at the door to see if Daisy had returned and hurriedly slipped the pictures back into the envelope, scooping the remaining envelopes in the drawer onto her lap.

  Daisy walked into the room with what had once been a large sheet now torn into squares for dusting cloths.

  ‘Thank you, Daisy. I think maybe there are some things I had better take to the convent for the bishop to deal with. Could you begin lifting the books down from the bookcase?’

  Sister Evangelista felt as though her head were spinning but she knew she had to remain calm.

  Daisy noticed that the Reverend Mother was breathing faster, that perspiration stood out on her top lip, and that her forehead and her cheeks were burning red. Daisy was not quite as simple as people thought.

  All the sister could think about was how much she and the entire community had loved Father James and yet all the time this filth was sitting in his drawer. She was out of her depth and had no idea what to do. She had to speak to the bishop as soon as she could, ask him to finish the remainder of the packing up himself. She felt as though the ground were shaking beneath her. She must ask the bishop, should they show this to the police?

  ‘We have to protect the Church,’ he had said.

  She placed the diary and the envelopes on a square of white linen and tied up the four corners.

  ‘Daisy, I don’t want to do this just now, I have to speak to the bishop. We will finish all of this later.’

  Daisy had never seen the sister so agitated. This upset her. She didn’t like to stay at the Priory. She wanted to be at the convent and had hoped to talk to Sister Evangelista about maybe leaving with her when she had finished the packing. Daisy had only ever lived with nuns or in the Priory with the priest, and she knew she preferred to live with the nuns. There were no men in the convent.

  ‘Who came here to visit the father, Daisy?’ Sister Evangelista spoke rapidly. There was an impatience and roughness to her voice that hadn’t been there before. ‘Who visited him here that I wouldn’t know of?’

  Daisy remembered what she had been told by the father. Her lips were sealed. She looked silently down at the floor. Daisy always did as she was told.

  ‘Daisy, tell me, who did the father see that I do know? He used to visit lots of people on the streets, didn’t he, Daisy? Sure, I know he was mad busy, always calling in on the sick and the poor. Was there anyone he saw more often than others?’

  Sister Evangelista was running on instinct. She recognized the child in the picture as a little girl from Waterloo Street who had been in Miss Devlin’s class last year. She was no more than six years old. Her mother had been seriously ill and when she was bedbound, Sister Evangelista knew the father had visited daily to take mass at home at her bedside.

  ‘Well, I cannot say who came here, Sister, but where the father went is a different question altogether. He liked to visit the Doherty house a great deal, Sister. He visited lots of folk but he was regular to the Doherty house.’

  The Doherty house.

  The image of Kitty Doherty, one of Sister Evangelista’s star pupils, crossed her mind.

  Ten minutes later, Sister Evangelista ran down the street towards the convent, hugging a large parcel to her chest with Daisy at her side. On the way she almost bumped into Nellie Deane with her arm round Kitty, leaving the school gates.

  ‘Nellie, where are you off to?’ she said, alarmed.

  ‘I have to take Kitty home, Sister. Miss Devlin sent for me. She doesn’t feel too good.’

  Then, without any warning whatsoever, Kitty threw up all over the pavement.

  Sister Evangelista stared at the child who had turned a ghastly shade of grey.
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  Kitty had been sick in the playground yesterday morning. As she grappled with the realization of what may be happening, she felt as though the vomit-strewn pavement was opening up beneath her.

  She needed to help Kitty, but she was frozen to the spot.

  She could hear Kitty’s voice somewhere in the background, as she said, ‘Sorry, Sister, I’m so sorry,’ but she couldn’t reply. The world as she knew it and all that was familiar to her was collapsing around her and she along with it.

  Daisy, a forced keeper of secrets, was staring at her. Her expression was unfathomable.

  Sister Evangelista focused her attention on what Nellie was saying.

  Kitty’s innocence with her wet eyes and pale skin brought her to her senses. Only yesterday Miss Devlin had said how sickly Kitty had been in the mornings.

  ‘If the child wasn’t so young and an angel herself, I would swear she was pregnant.’

  Oh Holy Mother, this cannot be true, she thought, and then suddenly, pulling herself up, she addressed Kitty.

  ‘It is all right, child, you go home for the rest of the day. I will send the janitor out to clean the pavement. Are you sure you are all right, Nellie?’

  Nellie put her arm round Kitty once more and smiled weakly at Sister Evangelista, who realized she could no longer wait for the bishop. This was beyond either of them. She knew what she had to do.

  Howard sat at his desk, drumming his fingers and staring at the array of police notebooks before him. It was only ten o’clock and he was already lighting up his fifth cigarette of the day. Not one of the notebooks held a single clue.

  They had no witness or a shred of motive but they did have the superintendent breathing down their necks, urging them to find the priest’s killer as soon as possible.

  Simon walked into the office with two mugs of tea and a message that made Howard feel weak.

  ‘The super wants a meeting at twelve and an update on the priest’s case.’

  ‘Have you any bright ideas?’ Howard threw across the table to Simon as he picked up his mug.

  ‘Apart from the fact that we both have a gut feeling Jerry Deane knows something, we have absolutely fuck all to go on. Not a single frigging lead. The whole lot of ’em are either ignorant or stupid. No one knows owt,’ said Simon unhelpfully.