The Bells of Scotland Road (44 page)

He had read about the monks, was fairly sure that they would not search him or ask for a potted history, but he wanted his account of himself to be convincing. As long as he lived a good, clean
life, the brothers should allow him to stay. Because of a stringent regime, the house was not a popular place, so there should be room for one more sinner. Only the truly down-and-out or the
genuinely convinced Christian could survive in this place. Liam intended to endure at all costs.

He pulled at the collar of his jacket, hoped it looked old enough and poor enough. His new name was Martin Waring. Smith, Jones and Brown had been rejected as too obvious, so Liam had opted for
a more convincing persona. In a moment, he would ring the bell. A large iron pull hung down just behind Jesus. At the other side of the door lay months – perhaps years – of punishing
toil. But he had no fear of hard work. In fact, he was rather looking forward to the change and to the discipline. Father Michael Brennan had been far too easy-going for Liam’s taste.
Discipline and order were essential within the calling of a priest. Each priest was a missionary, whether he toiled in Africa with the heathen or on Scotland Road with the thief.

Of course, Liam was no longer a priest. In fact, he had decided that Martin Waring had discovered the one true faith while reading his way through a prison sentence. Here, he would be baptized
and confirmed anew. God had sent him to this monastery. It was all a part of the Divine plan for Liam. The projected stay with the brothers was a mere stepping stone along the path to
greatness.

He tugged at the bell-pull, waited for admittance. The door was drawn inward and a small, round face peered up into the tall man’s eyes. ‘Do you seek refuge?’

‘I do.’

Liam was guided into a cold hallway. This flagged area was being scrubbed by two brothers. They wore blue-grey habits and sacking aprons. Buckets clanged against stone, while stiff bristles
scratched the flags.

The small man stopped and beckoned. ‘Follow me, friend.’ He led the way into a tiny room that contained a table and two chairs. ‘Sit, please.’ He indicated the less
ornate of the two seats.

Liam sat, placed his belongings on the table.

‘I’m Brother Timothy.’ Tiny blue eyes shone like twin jewels in the weathered face. ‘Do you wish to give a name?’

‘Martin Waring.’

Brother Timothy grinned broadly, causing his plump cheeks to swallow the bright eyes for a split second. ‘Brother Nicholas will be here shortly.’ He disappeared through an inner
door.

Liam waited. He had the uncanny feeling that he was being watched, so he remained still and calm. Thick stone walls seemed unlikely places for peepholes, yet he felt as if a million eyes were on
him.

The inner door creaked open and Brother Nicholas came in. He was a large man, well-muscled and with dark skin. ‘Please remain seated,’ he said before placing himself in the
tall-backed chair. A beam of light crept through the high window and sat on the monk’s deliberately bald pate.

‘Are you the abbot?’ asked Liam.

‘No. We have no titles here, as we are all brothers in the true sense. But I am the senior, because I have been here for many years. We try to be democratic, though we do have a committee.
Its members are drawn from the order and from the lay residents.’ He folded his hands inside the wide sleeves of his habit. ‘Are you a sinner?’

‘Yes.’

‘Have you paid for your crime?’

‘Yes.’

‘So what do you seek? Some of our gentlemen require a bed and food for a few days. Others stay indefinitely.’

‘I wish to stay, Brother.’

The monk nodded thoughtfully. ‘We have little to offer beyond hard work, sustenance and shelter. Feel free to leave whenever you wish.’

‘Thank you.’ Liam fished some notes from his pocket. ‘This is all the money I have.’

‘Then keep it,’ advised Brother Nicholas. ‘In a few days or weeks, you may decide to move on.’

Liam hesitated. He must appear ‘normal’, must act like a man released from jail. ‘I have been reading about you,’ he said carefully. ‘We were given leaflets about
the brothers. I also read about the Catholic church while I was away. That is why I am here.’

‘A convert in the making?’ Brother Nicholas beamed over his spectacles. Like Timothy, he had a happy face, though this was an altogether more personable man. His eyes were quick and
clever, and he seemed to be trying to sum up his latest refugee. ‘We do have several brothers here who joined the order after prison. It takes many years to become a Catholic,
Martin.’

‘I am prepared to wait and work.’

‘And to learn?’

The ordained priest nodded. ‘I learn quickly,’ he said.

‘Then you must have been a successful criminal,’ replied the monk. ‘Even so, you were caught. Being caught is the best thing, you know. Many offenders take the opportunity to
study themselves during confinement. Is that a missal?’ He pointed to the book on the table.

‘Yes, Brother.’

‘You know the order of the mass?’

Liam smiled inwardly. How many masses had he said in his time? ‘Yes, I think I do.’

‘Good. Come to chapel whenever you wish. Except during hours of work, that is. We keep animals and grow much of our own food.’ He paused. ‘What was your job?’

The new recruit remembered his script. ‘I was a clerk in a shipping office.’

Brother Nicholas rose. ‘St Peter was crucified,’ he said, ‘but his biggest cross was not the one on which he died. St Peter’s sin was heavier than any gallows, Martin. He
denied Our Blessed Lord. God loves sinners. The first pope was a sinner. Here, you will find peace and forgiveness.’

Nicholas left, then Timothy bumbled his way through the inner door. ‘Come. Let’s get you settled, Martin.’

In the hallway, the scrubbing was finished. The monks were dusting rows of holy pictures that lined the walls. ‘All right?’ asked the nearest.

Liam froze. The accent was definitely Scouse. ‘Very well, thanks,’ he managed finally. ‘Are you from Liverpool?’

‘Yes.’ The man crossed the floor. ‘Are you?’

‘No.’ Liam cleared his throat. ‘Any more here from your neck of the woods?’

‘Not as far as I know,’ replied the monk. ‘They’re mostly from this side of Lancashire. I served my time all over the place – a lot of us did.’

Liam studied the man’s clothes. ‘Are you a member of the order now?’

‘Yes.’ The monk sounded pleased with himself. ‘Been here fifteen years next October.’ Liam heaved a sigh of relief. This Liverpudlian probably knew nothing at all about
the Bell family. Even so, the utmost care must be taken. Although the brothers’ heads were shaven, one or two had beards. He would grow a beard.

Brother Timothy led the way down a corridor and into a very small room. There was a bed, a table, a chair and a little chest of drawers. ‘This is yours,’ said the brother.
‘There are overalls in there.’ He pointed to the drawers. ‘Today, you must have some rest. Tomorrow, you will be assigned work. When the bell sounds, I shall collect you and take
you to the refectory.’ He made a little bow and left the room.

Father Liam Bell put away his few possessions, then lay on his bed. There was a tiny window, but it was high on the wall, too far up to afford a view. It was like a prison cell, except that the
walls were painted cream and there were faded flowers printed on the bedspread. He had found somewhere safe. With his head propped by an extremely hard pillow, Liam Bell said goodbye to himself and
welcomed Martin Waring into this new world.

‘He was here?’ Anthony stared at her in disbelief.

Bridie nodded. ‘He was poking about all over the place, probably looking for whatever Sam hid – money or jewellery.’ She paused. ‘Or evidence. I just waited until he went
away.’

Anthony took a deep breath to steady himself. Because of his father’s death, he had been given five extra days’ compassionate leave, so he had taken the chance to visit Bridie again.
She should not be alone, should not be expected to face such dangers. ‘You should have telephoned. You should have sent for me. Good God, he could be miles away by now.’ Worse than
that, he could be here . . .

Bridie felt light-headed, as if she were really elsewhere. A great wedge of guilt had positioned itself somewhere between her heart and her throat. Had she looked after Sam well enough? Had she
looked after Cathy well enough?

Anthony pushed a strand of hair from his forehead. ‘He might have killed you.’

‘What?’ Cathy had anaemia. Sam had died and left everything to his wife of just a few months. She didn’t deserve it. She had not been a good wife, was not a good mother.

‘Did you hear me?’ asked Anthony. It was plain that she had not slept for some time. Dark shadows sat beneath her lovely eyes, making her older and sadder.

She pulled herself into the present day. ‘He might have, but he didn’t. Please, please, don’t talk about it.’ She lowered herself into a chair. ‘I got the locks
changed . . . Billy sent a man from the docks. He looks after warehouse security.’ She was bone-weary, exhausted by several wakeful nights. So many emotions had clamoured inside her head and
heart these past few days. ‘I feel like a wet rag,’ she said. ‘My poor, poor Cathy. I never noticed. I never noticed that Sam was ill, either.’

‘Dad’s death was an accident waiting to happen,’ said Anthony. ‘He must have had a weak heart, Bridie. I feel so sorry for him, sorry for myself, too, because we were
going to be closer. But I’m sorriest for you, Bridie. Two husbands dead in such a short time.’

Bridie said nothing, though her brain would not be still. Somewhere in England, a man who had killed and raped was on the loose. Even now, after poor Sam’s death, the police were scarcely
interested. Someone had hanged for Valerie’s murder, so the law was satisfied. Bridie suspected that the guardians of civil order might be embarrassed if and when the truth came to light,
because the hanging of the wrong man would be viewed as quite a substantial accident. She had not reported her burglar, had been too tired and too busy to pester a police force whose disinterest
was so apparent.

‘Bridie?’

‘I’m all right,’ she said almost snappily. The Costigans would arrive shortly. A summit conference was to be held in Bridie’s kitchen. The subject of discussion was to be
the shop’s future. Bridie was going to need help, and the Costigans were happy to offer their services. How would that family feel once the truth came out about Maureen’s attacker?

Anthony sat down and watched the woman he forbade himself to love. Dad had changed his will. On the very last day of his life, Sam Bell had decreed that the shop and all its contents were for
Bridie. Dad had loved this girl. He had been a passionless man, but the young Irishwoman had made his last few months almost happy. ‘My father cared for you. Everyone said how much happier he
was after your arrival.’

Bridie lifted her head. ‘Charlie told me that Flash Flanagan visited Sam on the day he died. Muth said the same. If you recall, it was Flash who found Maureen. Perhaps he found more. And
Sam told you that there was concrete evidence.’

Anthony considered the statement. ‘Evidence? But Flash was questioned repeatedly. He complained all over the place for days about harassment. Surely he would have told the
police?’

Bridie sighed. ‘According to Muth, Flash has no time for the law. He’s been locked up as a vagrant so many times that he just keeps out of the way as often as possible.’ She
hesitated. ‘Also, the nature of what he found might have surprised him.’

The clock chimed. Anthony stared into thin air. ‘Something of Liam’s?’

She nodded. ‘And Sam went round to see Liam—’

‘Not right away. He called in to see his solicitor first.’ The light dawned so suddenly and so intensely that it seemed to hurt Anthony’s eyes. ‘He changed his will there
and then, Bridie. He must have described to Liam whatever had been found. Then he confronted Liam and . . . and the stress of that killed him.’

Bridie’s handkerchief was a knotted wreck. ‘There’s proof in this house, Anthony. I am so sure of that. Liam knows it’s here, he must, and—’

The door burst inward. Diddy, panting as if she had just run a marathon, leaned against the jamb. ‘Donald Bentham’s office got wrecked a few days ago,’ she said breathlessly.
‘I’ve just heard. All ripped to shreds, it was.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘I mean, I can understand folk stealing to eat, but . . .’ She shrugged as if giving up on
an insane world.

Bridie and Anthony exchanged glances. Donald was Sam’s solicitor. Liam must have hunted there, too, for evidence.

‘There’s nothing been took,’ continued Diddy. ‘Donald and his mates and the coppers have been playing jigsaws all week – putting stuff back together. There was
money in a tin – tea and milk money – it wasn’t touched. But the bloody office was wall-to-wall torn paper. What the hell’s the world coming to? There’s wills and
deeds and all kinds damaged. Nobody round here would do that. There’s no sense in it, nothing worth pinching.’

To cover her confusion and distress, Bridie got up and bustled about with kettle and teapot.

‘The locksmith’s round at Donald Bentham’s,’ continued Diddy. ‘Same fellow who changed your locks. Have you been burgled?’ she asked.

‘No,’ replied Bridie rather quickly. ‘But with Sam gone, I need to feel safe at night. There are a few valuable pieces here.’

Diddy agreed. ‘Better safe than sorry,’ she said.

Muth came in. ‘Them bloody stairs is getting steeper,’ she complained. Her expression changed when she saw Anthony. ‘Eeh, lad, it’s time you came home.’ A tear made
its way down a wrinkled cheek. ‘He did for my Sam, you know. Frightened him to death, he did, and that’s why he’s done a bunk.’

Anthony said nothing. He led his grandmother to a chair, wiped her face with his handkerchief. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I’ll visit you as often as possible.’
Should he give in his notice and return? He glanced at Bridie, wondered what she would want. Given the circumstances, she might feel safer with him here. There again, she might feel safer if he
stayed away. What a mess.

Bridie scalded the teapot and heard the words. He was intending to visit on a regular basis. Strangely, she felt little reaction. She was probably too tired to feel anything at all.