The City of Shadows (16 page)

‘A priest, a woman, an abortion clinic! That's your starting point?'

Stefan Gillespie shrugged. ‘I didn't choose where to start.'

*

Monsignor Robert Fitzpatrick had a large house at the Stephen's Green end of Earlsfort Terrace, between the Alexandra College for the Higher Education of Ladies and a small, private nursing home. The other side of the road was taken up by the long stone facade and the vaguely classical, pillared entrance to University College Dublin. A crowd of students, noisy even from where Stefan was standing, was flooding down the steps. He watched them from across the road; mostly they were men, but there were several women, much the same age as Susan Field would have been.

Two brass plaques, on either side of the front door of the house, announced the monsignor himself and the Association of Catholic Strength, of which he was the president and prime mover. As Stefan walked up the steps the front door was open. He entered a hallway that was lined with posters. He recognised one of them immediately; it decorated the wall of Inspector Donaldson's office. A man in a military uniform stood with an upraised sword in his hand. ‘Soldiers Are We!' Next to it, on another poster, a farmer stood in a ploughed field, deep in thought; on one side of him was a hammer and sickle, on the other a cross. ‘Workers of Ireland: Which Way?' A staircase stretched up ahead. To the left, another open door looked into a room lined with books and religious pictures; it was a shop. To the right, there were double doors, one of them open. A man was speaking, loudly and passionately. Stefan went in. He saw that it was a meeting room, lined with rows of chairs and, if not packed to overflowing, full enough for a quiet afternoon. A piece of paper was thrust into his hand by a middle-aged woman who smiled enthusiastically and whispered a cheerful welcome. ‘Please, do take a seat.' He sat down on the chair nearest the door.

The walls were decorated with the posters he'd seen in the hall. At the front of the room a man in his early fifties stood at a table speaking. On either side of him sat men and women who looked as if they had been born to sit on committees and were fulfilling their destiny. He knew the speaker must be Monsignor Fitzpatrick himself, in a clerical collar and a black suit noticeably more well-cut than the usual threadbare priestly uniform. If he had any doubts the look of rapture on the faces of several of the elderly women in the room would have been enough to confirm it. But the audience was by no means all elderly or middle-aged; there were students from across the road as well, all listening intently. And as Stefan took in the words he began to understand the discomfort Wayland-Smith had shown earlier, about exactly what it was that Monsignor Robert Fitzpatrick represented.

‘There is war going on, a war that no one sees. And we are here because we understand, because we do see, because we must take the side of Christ's Church in this war that puts the very existence of His Church in peril. Has not the veil of the temple already been rent in Russia, where blood and darkness fill the land, where the hounds of atheism are in full cry, supplanting the True Messiah with the false messiahs of communism and capitalism? And who are the leaders of this diabolical army, all-powerful through their control of the world's finance and industry? You don't know? Even your Church does not tell you? Yet their plans are in plain sight, for the destruction of all belief in God and dominance over His creation:
The Protocols of the Elders of Zion
!' He held up a book, brandishing it before his audience. He crossed himself and many of his listeners did the same.

‘The armies of Judeo-Masonic communism have invaded every corner of human life, proclaiming a doctrine of illusory freedom and equality that puts atheistic man in revolt against God, as Satan once rebelled. The pity of it all is that once God offered the Jews a glorious role as the harbingers of spiritual grace. They refused that gift and down the centuries they have devised a scheme of destruction that is coming to fruition in our century. Didn't Jewish financiers and Freemasons start the world war? Wasn't every leader of the hideous revolution in Russia a Jew? Aren't Jewish bankers plunging the world into economic chaos? The clock stands at one minute to midnight and still, even in the Vatican, the chimes of midnight are unheard. But in Germany Herr Hitler has heard. God has given Germany a great leader in a time of peril. There is no hope in democracy! It has had its day. Some in the Church see Herr Hitler as our enemy. They are wrong! Shut out that siren song. Lash yourselves to the mast of faith. Steer towards the light!'

The priest sat down, mopping his brow with a gesture that told the audience how much had been drained out of him. Applause erupted and soon the whole room was on its feet. Stefan stood too, dragged up by the movement of those around him. As Monsignor Fitzpatrick rose again there was a reverential silence. Heads were bowed in prayer and as the prayer ended, the audience filed out, some clearly moved to silence, others talking enthusiastically. Stefan waited as people left. At the front of the room the committee members talked to the monsignor for a few moments longer, and then they too filed out. The middle-aged woman who had pointed Stefan to his seat was collecting up the leaflets and papers left behind on the chairs.

‘We're finished for today.' She smiled warmly as she approached him. ‘But you will let me know if there's any information you want.'

‘I was hoping to have a word with the monsignor.'

‘He gets very tired after these meetings. Inspiration takes its toll.'

‘I won't keep him long.'

She smiled a motherly smile. He liked her. She made him feel as if he was at a cake sale to raise money for new kneelers for church pews. She moved down to the table where the priest was gathering his papers into a black leather briefcase. As she spoke to him he looked round and smiled at Stefan. Then she came back, still clutching her bundle of creased leaflets, and headed for the door. Stefan walked towards Fitzpatrick and stopped.

‘We haven't seen you before, have we?' said the priest.

The smile didn't survive Stefan's explanation of who he was.

‘And why exactly would you have questions to ask me, Sergeant?'

‘It's a colleague of yours I wanted to talk to, Father Francis Byrne.'

Monsignor Fitzpatrick's brow furrowed.

‘I gather he's not in the country now,' continued Stefan.

‘I understand that to be the case.'

‘I need to contact him.'

‘For what reason?'

‘It has to do with his teaching at UCD.'

‘I was Father Byrne's immediate superior there. He has worked with me for a long time. I'm also a member of the university senate. I can't imagine Father Byrne's path crossing yours. But if there is anything you have a good reason to know about, I'll do what I can to help you.'

‘I'd like to know where I can contact him. The university doesn't have a forwarding address, other than yours. Am I right that he's in Germany?'

There was no answer; the shutters were up.

‘As for any questions, they're of a personal nature.'

‘And why would the Gardaí have personal questions to ask of a priest who was in my pastoral care until very recently, Sergeant Gillespie?'

‘All I need is an address, Monsignor.'

‘Are you suggesting Father Byrne has done something wrong?'

‘I'm not suggesting anything.'

‘Then I think you need to make yourself plainer.'

‘You do have an address for him.'

‘I can contact him if I feel it's necessary.'

‘Can I ask when he left Ireland?'

‘It was some time in the summer. August, I think.'

‘When are you expecting him back?'

‘I don't know that I am expecting him back.'

‘Can I ask why he left?'

‘Why he left is the business of the Church.'

‘He isn't working for you now?' Stefan persisted.

‘No.'

‘He was living here when he left Ireland though?'

‘This is none of your business, but since you are determined to be intrusive, I will tell you that before Father Byrne left for Germany, he and I had not been on the best of terms for some time. He lived here and he worked for me. It was my influence that got him the post as a lecturer that he seemed – eventually – to find more important than his duties as a priest. As his obligations to me became a burden to him, it was inappropriate that he should remain here. I suggested he went back to the seminary at Maynooth. However, Father Byrne took the unusual course of taking a flat somewhere.'

Stefan had to hold back a smile at how much venom the man in black had squeezed into the word ‘flat'; it was the Fall of Man and Sodom and Gomorrah in a single, apocalyptic syllable.

‘Did his students ever come here, Monsignor?'

‘A lot of people come here. You've seen that yourself.'

‘I suppose I mean friends, rather than just students.' He was treading on dangerous ground, but the resentment Fitzpatrick clearly felt towards Francis Byrne made it worth pushing. The monsignor had a high opinion of himself and his importance; it was something else Stefan could use.

‘I find myself in a very difficult position, Monsignor Fitzpatrick. I have an investigation to pursue, a very serious one, and a very sensitive one. A woman is missing. She was a student at UCD and Father Byrne was one of her lecturers. He had a friendship with this woman, a close friendship. I have good reason to believe he was one of the last people to see her before she disappeared. I'm sure you would want him to help us if he could.'

‘I don't like the words close friendship in this context, Sergeant.'

‘They're words that need go no further, Monsignor.' Stefan left the sentence hanging in the air. He didn't need to say anything about the possibility of scandal for Fitzpatrick to see that he had to give something.

‘Father Byrne was sometimes less careful in his relationships than he should have been.' The priest spoke slowly and carefully. ‘I don't suggest that there was ever anything unpriestly about his behaviour, but he did perhaps regard himself too much as part of the university rather than as a man apart, which is the path of the priest. There were things Francis and I shared that we share no longer. I understand your problem, Sergeant Gillespie, but it has nothing to do with me. I'm sure if there is anything Father Byrne can do to assist you in your search for this woman he will. If you write to him, he will, of course, reply. My sister will have his address.'

He picked up his briefcase. It was clear he would say no more. He stood for a moment by the table, suddenly looking slightly lost. Then he turned and walked out without another word. Stefan thought that behind the irritation and indignation tears were beginning to well in the priest's eyes.

As Stefan came out of the meeting room, the woman was still there, standing in the doorway of the shop. The footsteps of the monsignor could be heard, climbing the stairs. The woman was looking up after him. She turned to Stefan, an expression of concern changing quickly to a smile.

‘My brother says you need Father Byrne's address, in Danzig.'

‘He's not in Germany then?'

‘Isn't it Germany anyway? Or don't they want it to be? I can't remember. It's something like that. But it's very simple, you can address letters to him at the cathedral in Oliva. He's working for the bishop there.'

The monsignor could have told him that easily enough. There was more going on between Robert Fitzpatrick and Francis Byrne than not seeing eye-to-eye. There was real hostility, at least on the monsignor's part. Stefan thanked the woman and turned to go. She pushed a leaflet into his hand.

‘Your wife should read it too.'

He came out into Earlsfort Terrace. It was cold and almost dark, but he was pleased to breathe fresh air. As he walked back towards Stephen's Green he screwed the leaflet into a tight ball and dropped it into the gutter.

At Pearse Street Garda station there was a note on Stefan's desk. Wayland-Smith wanted to talk to him at the morgue. As he turned back to the door Inspector Donaldson was there, eyeing him, with the strained expression that meant he knew he wouldn't relish the answers to the questions he had to ask.

‘What's happening with this body at Kilmashogue?'

‘I'm just going to find out if Doctor Wayland-Smith's got anything.'

‘Was he killed?'

‘I don't suppose he buried himself.'

Donaldson pursed his lips impatiently.

‘Is it going to be an active investigation or not?'

‘If there's anything to act on.'

A shrug was not what the inspector wanted either.

‘You know what I mean, Sergeant. How long was the body up there?'

‘He's not sure. It could be two or three years, or it could go back to the twenties. We'll find out. It doesn't smell like some old IRA job to me.'

James Donaldson would go a long way to avoid a conversation about the Civil War or the IRA, but a death you couldn't investigate because of ‘all that' was in many ways preferable to a murder you had no choice but to investigate. Whenever he couldn't get a straight answer out of Stefan Gillespie it usually meant trouble. He could smell it now. The kind of trouble his detective sergeant brought into the station like old dog shit on his shoes.

The black mottled bones had been laid out like an archaeological exhibit in a museum, on the white marble slab at the centre of the big room in the mortuary. The scent of carbolic didn't altogether hide the reek of putrefaction that was not just in the air but in walls and floor and ceiling. It got you as you walked through the doors, a strange sweetness that caught at the back of your throat. The State Pathologist stood over the skeleton they had brought back from the mountainside, with an expression of almost tender concern. He spoke, as always, in the businesslike, dismissive tone that seemed to imply this was a job and nothing more, but his eyes showed something else. Two things in fact; that the dead mattered and that he would enjoy telling Detective Sergeant Gillespie everything he had found out.