A Turbulent Priest Page 5

  On his left, a sign on the door said, ‘Bishop’s Chaplain’. It was from this room that a young man in a bright green pullover emerged and said, “You must be Detective Inspector Peach. His Grace is expecting you.” He smiled at Lucy Blake, standing behind the Inspector; Peach thought it was a standard assessment of the talent, until he realised that the young man wore a clerical collar beneath his brightly efficient smile.

  The bishop was a man in his fifties, with a domed forehead which gave a hint of asceticism to his tall presence. He wore purple silk, which was revealed in its full glory as he rose and came round his desk to meet them. The uniform even extended to the small purple skull-cap On his distinguished head; Tucker would have approved of his image, thought Peach. He resisted an absurd compulsion to fall on one knee and kiss the Bishop’s ring — the last time he had met a Bishop, he had been an unworthy candidate for confirmation amidst the breathy guilts of puberty.

  He introduced DS Blake. Lucy was ready to shake hands, but the Bishop merely nodded his acknowledgement of her name. She noticed his beautifully manicured nails, longer than her own, and wondered how long it was since Bishop Hogan had last washed the dishes. Percy fought down an impulse towards deference which was wholly foreign to his normal behaviour, and said, “You have things to tell us about the late Father Bickerstaffe, I believe.”

  “I have indeed. Excuse the full regalia: I have an engagement as soon as we have finished here. Do sit down.” Bishop Hogan indicated a choice of comfortable chairs with a wide sweep of his episcopal arm. It was a large room, with a high, stuccoed ceiling from an earlier era and windows on three sides. From the number of seats available, it seemed that it was used for informal meetings of various kinds. Peach and Blake perched gingerly on the edge of wide, deeply upholstered armchairs. Dangerous chairs, in Percy’s opinion: you could settle back in one of these and fall asleep during one of Tommy Bloody Tucker’s interminable briefings.

  There was no danger of that with Bishop Hogan. He was ready to come straight to the point; if they had only known it, he was as anxious to have this conversation over and done with as his visitors were. But first there was a rattle of teacups in the corridor outside. The Bishop’s chaplain took over the wagon from the aproned woman at the door and pushed it rather self-consciously into the room. Good sign that, thought the experienced DI Peach: confidential information, not suitable for tea-ladies’ ears, must surely be on offer very shortly.

  He was right. The Bishop waited until they each had a home-made cake and a cup of tea to balance, then nodded to his chaplain to withdraw. He said, “First let me check my facts. I understand that you are treating Father Bickerstaffe’s death as suspicious.”

  Peach nodded. “And that, as you probably know, is police-speak for saying we think he was murdered. I can tell you that we are now quite certain that Father Bickerstaffe was killed by person or persons unknown, some ten to twelve days before his body was found. As yet, we have no idea who that person or persons might be. We are trying to build up some kind of picture of the sort of man Father Bickerstaffe was and how he lived out the last months of his life.”

  The Bishop nodded sadly. “Which is why I contacted you and asked you to be so kind as to come here.”

  A diplomat, this man, thought Percy; with his ascetic good looks and his polished grasp of procedure, he might have been an ambassador in lay life, or even a politician, if he had chosen to misuse his social skills. Not many people greeted a police visit with the thought that they had been kind enough to come here. He said with a trace of his normal aggression, “Anything you have to say about the dead man at this stage will be useful to us. You shouldn’t hold anything back.”

  The bishop smiled. This squat and aggressive little man seemed a little nervous in his presence; brought up a Catholic, he shouldn’t wonder. Bishop Hogan was an expert by now at recognising the symptoms, which usually involved an uneasy combination of a residual deference from childhood and a determination to be brusque and treat a church dignitary with as much consideration as the local grocer. “I have no intention of holding anything back, Inspector. I shall say what I have to say, then answer any questions you may have as fully as I can. Now, I understand that you have already visited Miss Hargreaves at the Presbytery at St Thomas’s. Indeed, I know you have, for you were there when I spoke to you this morning. What did you learn from Miss Hargreaves?”

  Percy glanced instinctively at DS Blake. These days, he tended not to assume that they were in agreement unless they had already discussed the matter. She gave him no more than the slightest of answering smiles and he said, “Precious little, really. We learned that his housekeeper genuinely liked him, that she thought he was a good parish priest. That he worked hard, was good with the sick and the bereaved. Not much else. Nothing that seems likely to be of much use to us, if you want me to be honest, Your Grace. It’s a sad thing perhaps, but in these circumstances, we have to be more interested in the enemies people had than their friends, more interested in their vices than their virtues. If they have given people reasons to hate them, whether real or imaginary, we need to know about that side of their lives. Every mother thinks her son is a saint, and Martha Hargreaves was a little too much like a mother in that respect to be much use to us. It may be your job to see the good in people, especially when you’re speaking to the relatives of the dead; I’m afraid in this job we spend a lot of our time looking for dead people’s vices.”

  Bishop Hogan smiled. “Of course you do. And we’re not as blinkered to wickedness as you might think. I’ve spent a lot of my life trying to resolve how God can be infinitely just and infinitely merciful at the same time. Fortunately, you don’t have to wrestle with such things. But perhaps we’re not so far apart. We both have to give attention to the way people behave and the reasons why they do things.” He set his empty cup down firmly on the low table between them and watched approvingly as Lucy Blake did the same. She pulled out her notebook and the small gold pen which was her gesture to femininity. “There are things about Father Bickerstaffe which you need to know, which I hope you will treat with as much discretion as possible.”

  Percy bridled a little at that. “We shall treat whatever you tell us as confidential, as long as that remains within our control. If it affects the outcome of our investigation, it may not be possible to keep information confidential. If we are successful, there will no doubt be a court case in due course, and things may have to emerge in evidence. You will realise that we cannot control what use lawyers may make of material which we may see as only background to our enquiries.”

  It was a little too stiff, a little too long. Lucy was amused to see that Percy, who so delighted in discomforting interviewees himself, should suddenly become awkward and circumspect in front of this urbane figure in purple. Perhaps the Bishop felt it too. He nodded a little absently, steepled his long fingers, said quietly, “As John Bickerstaffe’s spiritual director, I have been drawn into the events which dominated the last months of his life. It is a wretched business, though unfortunately by no means a unique one. In this case, it has ended in tragedy, and the nature of this death means that I must tell you everything I know which might be of relevance to your enquiries.” He sighed. “Did Miss Hargreaves mention the youth club at St Hugh’s?”

  Peach nodded, anticipating by now some of what was to come. ‘Never presume too much. Never jump ahead of the evidence, or you’ll jump to the wrong conclusions,’ his first guv ‘nor, a man as different from Tucker as anthracite is from balsa wood, had told him. For a naturally impatient man, it was good advice, and Percy reminded himself of it still whenever he was tempted towards short cuts. But there was nothing wrong with pushing people forward a bit. “Martha Hargreaves mentioned the club all right. She spoke of the little Sacred Heart primary school beside the church as well; she seemed happier with that. She didn’t seem to want to say much about the youth club.”

  Bishop Hogan smiled. “Miss Hargreaves is a loyal supporter of Father Bickerstaffe.
And I’ve no doubt that he was very kind to her. But like all of us, he had his weaknesses, Inspector.”

  “And Bickerstaffe’s was boys?”

  The grey episcopal eyebrows rose a fraction over the deep-set eyes. “Yes. May I ask how you knew that it wasn’t girls?”

  Peach shrugged, trying not to look pleased with himself. “I didn’t. It’s just with celibate priests, boys are statistically much more probable. Of course, when it’s adult sex that interests them, they’re far more likely to run off with a buxom lady parishioner, but—”

  “Quite!” The Bishop hastily interrupted what he feared might become a catalogue of the weaknesses with which he was all too familiar after ten years in the busiest Catholic diocese in England. “Well, I have to tell you that your surmise is correct. Unfortunately, Father Bickerstaffe was tempted towards the boys in his youth club. Even more unfortunately, he failed to resist this temptation.” He looked unhappily towards Lucy Blake as she quietly turned to a new sheet in her notebook, then nodded sadly.

  Peach said softly, “We need the names of all of the children concerned. I think you know that. And also some account of times, and how these things were brought to light. This is the kind of grievance I spoke of just now. A parent defending a child is capable of all sorts of violence.”

  The Bishop said slowly, “Or in this case revenging a child. I’m afraid that there’s no doubt of John Bickerstaffe’s guilt in the area. He confessed it to me in this very room, not much more than a month ago.” He was silent for a moment as he remembered the weeping, hysterical figure whom he had needed to revive with sharp words and brandy. The only image of the dead man he could now remember was the small bald patch he had never before noticed on the bowed forty-year-old head, which had sobbed so violently above the thin shoulders. And now John Bickerstaffe was gone, and this tough little Inspector was sitting in the same chair he had occupied. It seemed ironic that the officer who might so easily have been hounding the unhappy priest into court was now searching for the man who had killed him. Or the woman: bishops, like policemen, saw enough of human vice to make that reservation automatically.

  Peach repeated, “We shall need names. And all the information you can give us about times and places.”

  Bishop Hogan gave them four names. He could not be certain that the list was comprehensive, but he thought so. It was the usual story in such cases. He had known nothing until the first whisper came to him, three months earlier, from the parish priest of St Mary’s, in Brunton. A single mother with four children had complained that the eldest of them had been indecently assaulted by Father Bickerstaffe, when he had stayed behind to tidy up the youth club with the priest one Thursday night. Once she had spoken to Canon O’Leary, once the taboo on this awful, unthinkable priestly vice had been broken, she had obviously whispered to others. And found that once the news was abroad, other cases emerged.

  Children do not know how to cope with the horror of abuse; they blame themselves and keep quiet. Percy Peach and Lucy Blake knew that; Bishop Hogan knew that. But the children, of course, did not know. Once the first victim had broken his silence, four others were unearthed quite quickly by the urgent questionings of newly alarmed parents.

  Lucy Blake noted the names from the Bishop’s file, then said quietly, “How far did the abuse go? Was there full penetration?”

  Bishop Hogan, who had thought himself unshockable by now, was thrown out of his stride by this. He had expected the question, had been thankful indeed that it had been couched in such clinical terms, but he had not expected it to come from a woman, and a young and attractive woman at that. Among even the most sophisticated of Catholic clergy, the images of the Madonna have been installed deep in the psyche during childhood.

  He thrust away another of his preconceptions. “No. Not in any of the cases, as far as we have been able to ascertain. That is what the children said, and what John Bickerstaffe eventually confirmed.” He looked at the expectant faces, knew that he must go on. “He touched the boys’ private parts, made them touch his. As far as I can gather, he encouraged the boys to help him masturbate, but didn’t insist upon it when they seemed really distressed. I don’t know how much detail you—”

  “No more than that, at the moment,” said Peach briskly. “But this is the first we’ve heard of any of this. Weren’t these offences coming to court?”

  The Bishop, though he had expected this, looked embarrassed. “They might have done. That would have depended on the people involved. We had removed the source of evil. We were still discussing the issue with the parents. If they could be assured that the offender would not commit this particular sin again, it might be better that the issue did not end in a court of law. It is an appalling experience for children to have to give evidence, I’m sure you’ll agree.”

  “And appalling publicity for the Church of Rome,” said Peach dryly. The words were out before he knew they were coming.

  Bishop Hogan nodded sadly. “I don’t deny that. But perhaps you would agree that the churches, with all their faults, are still influences for the good in a flawed society. Unless the publicity such cases inevitably carry is necessary to the cause of justice, it may not serve a useful purpose.”

  Something in that, Percy reluctantly agreed. But I bet you’ve offered these wretched parents money to buy them off from legal action, he thought, and money always muddies moral issues. He said, “Well, that’s not our concern, I’m glad to say. Our only business today is to gather information which may help us to find out who killed Father Bickerstaffe, and you’ve certainly given us some of that. One more thing. We know that Father Bickerstaffe had left St Hugh’s some days before he died. But we don’t know where he was actually living at the time of his death.”

  “No. He had been sent to Downton Hall. It’s a house we keep for retired clergy in the Ribble Valley. It’s also used by priests who are recovering from serious illnesses.”

  And by those who have caused such embarrassment to the Church that they have to be removed from office and hidden away, thought Percy. He said dryly, “Presumably this place is fairly remote.”

  “Yes. Father Walsh, my secretary, will show you its position on the map.” The Bishop had anticipated this, obviously. “It isn’t very far from the place where the body of John Bickerstaffe was found.”

  “How many people knew he was there?”

  “I and my secretary, plus Monsignor Eaton, who runs Downton Hall. But I can’t guarantee that other people couldn’t have found out. Probably most clergy in the diocese would surmise that a priest in trouble in his parish would be sent to Downton. They are usually discreet in these matters, but they’re not sworn to secrecy. It might surprise you to know that priests gossip among themselves as much as the rest of society, Inspector. Pieces of scandal pass round fairly quickly. It’s part of being lonely.” The Bishop allowed himself a sad smile.

  Peach looked at the long, reflective face above the purple silk for a moment. “Bishop Hogan, we now know that Father Bickerstaffe had been dead for about ten days before his body was actually discovered. Yet no one had reported his disappearance. Why was that?”

  Bishop Hogan sighed. “I think I must bear the responsibility for that. I was informed that John Bickerstaffe had disappeared twenty-four hours after it happened. We didn’t inform you because we thought he’d gone away to think things out for himself. All cases differ, but that’s not unusual for a priest in trouble. John had been warned that he might have to give up his priesthood, to seek a different kind of life somewhere else. It turns a priest’s life on its head. Like many Catholic clergy, John had relatives in Ireland. It was suggested to me that he might have gone there to contemplate his next step, but we weren’t able to check on that: we had no addresses.”

  Lucy Blake looked up from her notebook. “Did you think he might have gone quietly away to commit suicide?”

  It was a thought which might have been better left unvoiced, but Bishop Hogan did not flinch from it, nor bridle at the p
resumption of this fresh-faced young woman. “And relieved us all of an embarrassment, you mean? Of course we were aware of the possibility that a man in John’s position might take his own life. Suicide is always a temptation for those under great mental stress. But despair is still the ultimate sin for us Catholics, and the pressures against suicide are strongest of all for a Catholic priest. Suicides happen occasionally, but they are very rare.”

  His frankness gave a dignity to his pronouncement. Peach, who had wanted to ask just when the missing priest’s disappearance would eventually have been reported, decided that the question would serve no useful purpose. He stood up abruptly. “Thank you for your help. And thank you for the refreshments. We may need to come back to you for more information after we’ve spoken to some of the parents you’ve named for us.”

  By this time, all three of them were glad to end this meeting. The two CID representatives had driven ten miles and the car was climbing up towards the moors on the other side of Bolton before Lucy Blake said quietly, “I don’t like child abusers. They take advantage of those who can’t fight back.”

  Peach’s hand stole towards hers, covered it for a moment, gave it a small squeeze, which might have been consolation, might have been appreciation. They drove another mile before he said, “Neither do I. But you’ve got to like murderers even less. It’s part of the job.”

  Six

  In twelve years of supervising Scene of Crime teams, Detective Sergeant Joe Jackson had never before visited a presbytery. And in forty years of housekeeping for a succession of priests, Martha Hargreaves had never taken anyone, let alone a policeman, into the private quarters of a minister of the Lord. The two regarded each other with mutual suspicion.