The Bells of Scotland Road (41 page)

‘He was honest to a fault,’ agreed Alice. ‘But I still wonder why the Rose Hill mob have turned up. And there’s coppers from other stations, too. They’ll be up to
no good, as usual.’ Alice’s antipathy towards the guardians of the peace was a legend in her own lifetime. ‘They say Anthony made peace with Sam just before he died.’

‘Who says?’

Alice shrugged her huge shoulders. ‘People.’

‘Diddy Costigan?’ asked Polly. Alice and Diddy were good mates. Diddy was always a reliable source of information. ‘Was it Diddy that told you?’

‘Yes. But that was all she said. There was a lot she didn’t say.’

Polly scratched her nose. ‘How do you know there was a lot she didn’t say if she didn’t say it?’

‘I just do. Shut up, Polly. Here comes poor Sam, God bless him.’

Complete silence visited the road while Sam was brought out of his shop. Six bearers carried him, with Billy Costigan and Anthony Bell at the front. The other four were dockers who had forgone a
morning’s pay to help Billy with his tragic burden.

Alice Makin sniffed and wiped her face on a corner of her grey shawl. She fixed her eyes on Bridie Bell, a small figure in black. The young woman’s face was hidden by a veil.
‘She’ll have her work cut out,’ breathed Alice. ‘No bigger than a child and with a business to run.’ She could not imagine Bridie emptying a house or giving a hand
with a chest of drawers. ‘Good God,’ Alice exclaimed, ‘it’s old Theresa.’

Bridie steeled herself at the sight of so many people. She clung to her mother-in-law’s arm, wondered who was supporting whom. Theresa had not cried, had shed no tears for her departed
son. The old lady had simply sat for several days with cups of tea and a grim expression. ‘Liam did it,’ she had said from time to time. ‘Liam killed our Sam.’

When the dreadful news had reached Cherry Hinton, Bridie had decided to leave her daughters at the farm. It was no use dragging two little girls through a procession and a Requiem Mass.
Strangely, Bridie had grieved for the man she had married. She had not known him long, but he had done his best for her and the children. Kindness always made Bridie cry. Mammy had been kind. Until
Sam, Mammy had been the only kindness Bridie had known at close quarters.

Of course, Da had turned up. There was a saying about bad pennies, and Thomas Murphy was a full half-crown’s worth. Since his arrival from Ireland, he had worn a smug grin, had stalked
about looking like the cat who had eaten the cream. Was he expecting his daughter to return defeated to live with him?

She shuddered. Da was a bad man. Bridie chased a thought from her mind, forced herself to stop wishing that the coffin contained Thomas Murphy instead of Sam Bell. Fourth commandment, she told
herself sternly. Honour thy father and thy mother, even if thy father is the wicked creature who drove thy lovely mother to an early grave.

‘You all right, love?’ whispered Theresa.

‘Yes. And you?’

‘I’ll be lighter when yon so-called priest is locked up or hanged.’

Muth knew nothing, yet she knew everything. It was probably something to do with being very old, Bridie decided. The police were here, were standing shoulder to shoulder behind the crowds. There
would be no trouble, Sam’s widow thought. People were here just to say goodbye to Sam.

The cortège turned left and entered the small forecourt of St Aloysius Gonzaga. A glass-sided hearse waited to carry Sam’s body to the cemetery. In front of this vehicle, two black
horses stood still, jet plumes on their heads disturbed only by the breeze.

Michael Brennan led the way. Sickened by what had happened recently, he felt as if he were in some kind of dream. But no, this was real. He had blessed Sam’s cooling body with holy oils,
had sent the bad news to the next of kin. And Father Bell had disappeared from the face of the earth.

The priest turned and looked at the packed church. He raised his right hand. ‘
In nomine Patris, et filii, et Spiritus Sancti
,’ he began. ‘
Introibo ad altare Dei
.
. .’

Diddy Costigan knelt and prayed. Her heart pounded. Sam Bell had dropped dead in the priests’ house. According to what the police had gathered, Sam and Liam had been alone. Father Brennan
had returned from hearing confessions to find a body on the floor and no sign of Liam.

Liam had not killed Sam. But had Sam died because of Liam? she wondered. Had guilt about something or other driven the young priest away? With a great effort, Diddy forced herself back into the
present. This was going to be a long mass complete with the
Dies irae
and all the other lengthy prayers that accompanied a proper requiem. She must concentrate. But her eyes slid towards her
Billy and she continued to wonder why Liam Bell had run away so suddenly.

The piles of sandwiches had diminished to a few crusts and crumbs. Diddy continued to run about with a teapot, while Nicky Costigan doled out dishes of trifle. Bridie sat by
the fire, her bones chilled in spite of the flames. Anthony was avoiding her. She was glad about that, grateful for his thoughtfulness. He had cried in church. There was a certain strength about a
man who cried in public, she thought. His father was dead, so he grieved. She thanked God that the rift had been healed, felt heartily sorry for Anthony and Sam. Their peace had been achieved via
Sam’s broken heart, and that injured organ had stopped as a result of shock.

‘Cup of tea, queen?’

Bridie shook her head. Would Diddy remain friendly once the whole truth was aired? Would she be offering cups of tea when she discovered that a Bell had tried to murder Maureen?

‘You’ve had nothing,’ accused Diddy.

‘I’m not hungry.’

‘Just a drink, then.’

‘Later,’ promised Bridie.

Michael Brennan made his way across the kitchen, a glass of stout in his hand. He was seriously worried. Anthony had alerted him weeks ago about Liam’s state of mind, but the young priest
had been visible then. Now, suddenly, Liam Bell had disappeared into the sunset and Anthony was almost beside himself. ‘He’ll not be found,’ Anthony had said earlier.
‘He’s clever and cunning and he’ll hide till the fuss dies down. Then he’ll be back for me, for Bridie and for anyone else he decides to hate.’

Bridie awarded the parish priest a smile. ‘Thank you for the service, Father. And for your kind words about Sam.’

‘He put bread on many a table, Bridie. He seemed cold – distant, you know – but he wasn’t.’

She nodded.

‘There’ll be the will to read, I suppose.’

‘Yes.’

The short man dragged a dining chair across the rug and sat next to the young widow. ‘What’ll you do?’

Bridie blinked. ‘About what, Father Brennan?’

Michael took a sip of beer. ‘’Twas well known that Sam intended to leave his worldly goods to Liam and the Church. I imagine Sam will have made arrangements for his mother, but what
about you and the girls?’

Bridie could find no answer. She glanced across at Edith and Richard. ‘Maureen’s minding the children over at Cherry Hinton today,’ she said. ‘And perhaps that’s
how it’s going to be for a while – one day at a time.’

‘Of course, if Liam cannot be found—’

‘Surely he’ll go to prison eventually?’ Bridie shook her head. ‘I can’t believe that he will remain free, Father. Sam told Anthony that there was evidence of some
kind. But he didn’t live long enough to explain properly.’

Michael Brennan nodded. ‘The police have been told very little. They know about his rages – they took some convincing, of course, but they listened to me. And Anthony told them of
his suspicions about Valerie and those other girls.’ He glanced at Diddy’s back. ‘We decided to say nothing about Maureen. It seemed . . . wrong to bring that up just now. But I
think Anthony and I managed to convince the police that Liam’s a potential danger. That should be enough.’ He shook his head. ‘What’ll you do, Bridie? Will you go to Edith
and Richard? Or will you return to Galway?’

‘I shall stay where I am for now, Father Brennan.’

Thomas Murphy blundered across the room. He had obviously poured several measures of whisky down his gullet. ‘Well, is this you on your way back home?’ he asked his daughter.
‘Because if you do come back, things will be the same as they were. You’ll not let the O’Briens get their Protestant hands on my grandchildren, not while I live and
breathe.’

The parish priest of St Aloysius Gonzaga held his tongue. While people like Thomas Murphy lived, the ecumenical movement would make no progress. Poor Sam Bell had done more in death than this
fellow would ever achieve while still breathing. Methodists and Catholics had watched with Church of England nuns when Sam had been borne through the streets. Thomas Murphy carried the bigotry that
had waged wars for too long in the name of Jesus Christ. This was a wicked man, an unfeeling man.

Bridie looked at her father, stared him full in the face. She was no longer afraid of the bully. ‘Our coming home would not suit you, Da,’ she said sweetly. ‘After all, you may
come to Liverpool more often if your grandchildren are here.’

She paused, turned her head and nodded towards Dolly Hanson. Dolly was resplendent in a dark-grey coat with a dead fox wrapped across its shoulders. According to local gossip, Thomas Murphy and
Dolly had been lovers for a great many years. ‘You’ll see your ladylove regularly if we stay here, Da. After all, your journeys with horses don’t happen too often these days, do
they? You seem to have parted with the best of your stock. Grand horses, Silver and Sorrel. Still, you will come to visit Cathy and Shauna, won’t you? And I believe you’ve kept company
with Mrs Hanson for some time.’

Thomas Murphy glanced at the priest, reddened, staggered back a pace. ‘That is none of your business,’ he snapped.

Bridie inclined her head thoughtfully. ‘It was none of Mammy’s either, I suppose. Yes, I’ve been told. You were keeping company on this side of the Irish Sea long before
Mammy’s death.’

Murphy steadied himself and stood tall. ‘I want those horses back,’ he said.

‘Horses?’ Bridie’s eyebrows rose. ‘And which horses would they be, now?’

‘You know what I mean,’ said the large Irishman. ‘You mentioned them seconds ago.’

The young widow pretended to search her memory. ‘Ah, yes. The horses you gave to Sam.’

‘They’re the ones.’ Thomas Murphy had heard the rumours. Although the Spencer Stables were trying to keep a low profile, there was a buzz going round some racing circles.
Quicksilver and Sorrel were champions in the making, it seemed.

‘You bribed Sam to marry me by giving him those horses.’

The room was suddenly quiet. Diddy placed the teapot on its stand, Billy coughed into the silence, Dolly Hanson picked at her fox fur as if searching for fleas.

‘They’re mine,’ spat Thomas Murphy.

‘Really?’ Bridie rose to her feet. ‘We just buried a man twice your size, Da. Oh, he wasn’t very tall, but at least he was a man. He gave me the horses, Father, dear. He
gave me the papers, too. Any income from race or stud goes to me, Cathy and Shauna. Any foal of Sorrel’s is ours. Any stud fee from Quicksilver goes to me and mine. The horses are ours to
sell or to keep.’ She nodded slowly. ‘Sam looked after us, you see. He was a proper husband. He was the best guardian my daughters could have hoped for. So take your . . .’ She
looked at Dolly Hanson. ‘Take your friend and go, because you are no comfort to me or to any here present. Except for Mrs Hanson, of course.’

Michael Brennan stood beside Bridie and placed a hand on her arm. ‘Go easy, now, Bridie,’ he whispered.

Thomas Murphy shook with rage. He balled a fist and waved it under his daughter’s nose. ‘Flesh and blood is all I am,’ he roared. ‘Your mother was sick and I met
Dolly—’

‘You met her before your wife was sick.’ Diddy Costigan squeezed her substantial frame into the space between father and daughter. ‘You met Dolly years ago, just after her
husband died at sea.’ She nodded at the embarrassed woman. ‘It’s all right, Doll. You were in pain yourself. And by the time you knew he was married, you’d fallen for
him.’ She sniffed. ‘Mind, you should get your eyes tested, like.’

Murphy let forth a roar that sounded like the bellowing of a bull. As he raised his fist, a hand clamped itself onto his collar and dragged him backwards. ‘Don’t touch her,’
said Anthony Bell.

Richard Spencer was not far behind his second cousin by marriage. ‘Don’t touch anybody,’ he said, the cultured tones making the order more firm.

Thomas Murphy measured Anthony with his eyes, decided that youth would win through if a fight started. ‘If I were younger, I’d lay you out,’ he shouted.

Neighbours parted to make a path through the room. Anthony pushed Bridie’s father out of the living room and into the shop. ‘Don’t come back,’ he said to the man’s
neck. ‘If you know what’s good for you, stay away.’

Released at last, Murphy shrugged himself back into his jacket. ‘Dolly?’ he roared.

The short, plump woman entered the shop.

‘We’re away,’ he snapped.

Anthony waited until the two had left, then he shot home the bolt on the shop door. He leaned his forehead against cool glass, wished with all his energy that his mind would still itself. Had he
said enough to the police, had he said too much? Where was Liam, would he come back for Bridie, for Maureen, for his twin brother? Were any of them safe?

‘Come away inside, Anthony,’ said Bridie.

He swung round and stared at her. ‘What are we going to do?’ he asked.

‘We’ll be fine,’ she said with a confidence she did not feel.

‘Will we?’

Bridie nodded. ‘He’s miles away.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I just do.’ She knew no such thing, but she sought to comfort the man. ‘Stop worrying. Your grief is heavy enough, Anthony. It’s no use concentrating on something you
cannot control.’

‘I suppose you’re right. The police haven’t found him. They want to question him about Dad’s death, so they’ve been looking. There’s no more to be
done.’

‘Do you think we should have said about Maureen? About what we believe Liam to have done?’ she asked in a whisper.