The Bells of Scotland Road (42 page)

‘No.’ He paced about, almost falling over a brass coal scuttle. ‘Maureen needs a rest. They would have questioned her again. Aunt Edith and Uncle Richard will keep their eyes
open. Maureen will be safe.’ He smiled sadly at Bridie, then crossed the shop and closed the door to the living quarters. ‘He changed his will. Dad, I mean. After talking to me, he went
to see his lawyer.’

‘The day he died?’

He nodded. ‘He was going to see the solicitor before facing Liam. Everything comes to you. Liam will be livid if and when he finds out.’

Bridie sat down on a frayed piano stool. She fingered a brass Buddha and some old belt buckles. ‘I’ll miss him. It’s almost as if he knew he was going to die. He changed his
will and then . . . Oh, Anthony, I don’t deserve it.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because . . . I didn’t love him. Not like I loved Eugene, not like I love . . . like I should have loved him.’

The dead man’s son pondered for a moment. ‘Amazing how a phone call can change your life. We talked for about forty minutes. A lot of catching up to do, I suppose. And we told each
other everything. We crammed a lifetime into that conversation. He said I must look after you if and when anything happened to him. Perhaps he thought Liam might kill him.’

Bridie lifted her face and looked at him. ‘Everything? You told him . . . ?’

‘I told him that I love you, yes. And he smiled. I could hear the smile in his voice.’

Bridie’s tears spilled again. She wept silently, simply allowing the water to flow down her face and onto her blouse. ‘He seemed so distant, your da,’ she said softly.
‘With his little tins of money and tobacco and receipts. But,’ she brushed a hand across her tear-bathed cheek, ‘I’d catch him looking at me – you know? Just looking.
Or at the girls. He’d be satisfied inside as if he’d found some sort of answer to a question he’d never asked aloud.’

She took a deep breath. ‘Your dad annoyed me with his little habits. Cutting his toenails and rolling those thin cigarettes of his night after night. But he got me a new ring.’ She
held up her hand. ‘And it wasn’t just the money he spent, Anthony. This wedding ring was him saying, “It’s a new start, Bridie.”’ She allowed herself a faint
smile. ‘And when he brought home that dog, well, I could have crowned him with my rolling pin. That dog was his army. That dog was bought to keep me here.’

Anthony thought about offering comfort, but he held back. She had to cry, had to grieve.

‘He would have given me anything. Even on the very day he died, he gave me . . .’ The words faded. Sam hadn’t given Anthony to her, because she could never have Anthony, not as
a husband. ‘Knowing Sam has been a humbling experience. It’s all about books and covers and not judging folk by what you first see.’

‘Dad loved you,’ said Anthony. ‘He told me that day. Said you were the best woman in the world.’

‘I’m not.’

‘He thought so. I think so.’

She fixed her eyes on him, looked at him through a cloud of tears. ‘Not now, Anthony.’ Not ever, she told herself again. ‘I miss him.’

‘I know that, Bridie.’

‘He was a comfort. He was solid, always there, always the same. He was our safety.’

‘Will you stay here?’

She nodded. ‘Oh yes. Someone must care for Muth and look after the shop. Sam would want me to do that. And Charlie will help. All the Costigans will help.’ She paused. ‘Until
the truth comes out. Until they know that your brother tried to kill Maureen.’

Anthony swallowed. ‘There’s something else, Bridie. A piece of evidence, Dad said. He wouldn’t give me any details, said he’d hidden whatever it was. But somewhere,
there’s proof that Liam was Maureen’s attacker.’

A policeman knocked at the door. Anthony drew back the bolt and allowed the officer into the shop.

‘Nothing,’ said the constable. ‘He’s not round here, Mr Bell. And I have to say it wouldn’t be easy trying to pin something on him that happened years ago. A man
hanged for it, too.’

Anthony shook his head. ‘He has disappeared because my father told him a few home truths at last. My brother’s a dangerous man.’

The policeman sighed. ‘He’s gone off to grieve somewhere on his own and—’

‘No.’ Bridie stepped forward. ‘Father Bell killed my husband. He took no weapon to him, but he caused that heart attack. I know you don’t believe us.’ She wanted to
tell him about Maureen, longed to spit out the vile truth, but she couldn’t manage it, couldn’t bear the thought of Maureen being dragged out of her hiding place and into the glare of
publicity.

‘Mrs Bell.’ A heavy layer of patience was applied to the name. ‘You are upset. Everybody’s upset. We can’t carry on looking for a grown man who’s decided to
move on. If he’d turned up at his dad’s funeral, we would have questioned him. But our orders are to let this lie unless there’s any new evidence. There is no actual
evidence.’ These last five words were spoken slowly, the syllables separated so that they would be understood perfectly.

Bridie fixed her eyes on Anthony. There was evidence. Somewhere nearby, Sam had hidden an item of proof. Or if poor Maureen could just remember something, anything . . .

‘I’ll be off, Mrs Bell,’ said the policeman. ‘We’re very sorry about your husband.’

Bridie and Anthony watched helplessly while the constable walked up Scotland Road. ‘He’s a priest, you see,’ said Anthony sadly. ‘Priests don’t commit
crimes.’

‘Then why were the police out in force this morning?’ asked Bridie.

Anthony raised his shoulders. ‘Protestants and Catholics together always attract the law. And, of course, Father Brennan expressed his worries about Liam. So they had to show their
faces.’ He bolted the door. ‘It’ll all die down now,’ he said. ‘Until next time.’

Across the road, Flash Flanagan pushed his cart towards the city. His weathered brow was further creased by worry as he shuffled along in a pair of ‘new’ boots that were on the small
side. The stole was no longer in his keeping, but Flash could not manage to feel relief. Sam was dead. Liam Bell might know something about the attack on Maureen Costigan. Should Flash go to Rose
Hill and bare his soul?

He glanced up in the direction of the police station, paused on the corner for a few moments. ‘All right, Sam,’ he said under his breath, ‘a promise is a promise. I told you
I’d keep my mouth shut, lad.’ Flash Flanagan carried on until he reached the next pub, then he parked his cart and went inside to drown his sorrowful secret.

Cathy looked from Uncle Richard to Aunt Edith. ‘But I don’t want to stay away from Mammy,’ she said. ‘My friends are all there, too. It’s not
fair. Shauna’s going back, so why must I stay?’

Richard squatted on his haunches and touched the little girl’s hair. ‘Noel will be here,’ he told her.

Cathy eyed the dog. Noel had been washed. There had been terrible scenes in the garden, because Noel hadn’t liked coming clean. His fur was soft and silky, and he had tried to remedy this
sad state of affairs by rolling in soil. ‘He looked better before,’ said Cathy.

Noel stuck out his tongue and panted.

‘He doesn’t suit being clean,’ added Cathy.

Edith was forced to agree. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Noel is a professional mongrel. No matter what we do, he’ll always be a mess. But we like him that way, Cathy. We like you
too. We want you to stay here in the fresh air until you get better.’

Richard dragged himself up into a standing position. Little Cathy O’Brien had anaemia. The fainting spell outside a butcher’s shop at Christmas had been an isolated incident, but she
had complained recently of feeling tired and, as she had put it, ‘as if I just turned round and round very fast.’ Fortunately, Richard had taken a look at her, had found her blood to be
low in iron.

‘It’s nice here,’ the child continued. ‘But it’s nice at home, too. And Mammy needs me.’

The doctor shook his head and smiled at her. Despite her condition, she continued to be talkative. He was relieved beyond measure, because he had suspected for years that Sam Bell had needed a
doctor. Sam’s cough had been typical of TB, yet the stubborn man had refused to seek treatment, had feared being isolated from his home and his business. At least Cathy’s illness was
eminently curable.

Cathy stared hard at the man she called Uncle Richard. ‘I hate liver,’ she advised him. ‘And spinach, too.’

‘You have your iron medicine,’ he said.

She grimaced. Iron medicine was the worst thing she had tasted in seven whole years. It was black and nasty, and the taste lingered for hours. ‘I’m not ill,’ insisted Cathy.
‘I’m never ill. Shauna’s the one who needs all doing for her.’

Edith sighed. The frail-looking Shauna was as healthy as a newly minted sixpence. But Cathy, who appeared robust, had succumbed to anaemia. Edith was certain about one thing. This child should
not return to Liverpool until her health improved.

‘I’m not going to that school,’ said Cathy angrily. She chided herself for being rude, but she felt desperate. She didn’t want to disappear forever into the clutches of a
black-clad dwarf with a hairy wart on its chin. ‘I want to go home. Uncle Sam’s dead and Mammy’s on her own. She’ll want me for messages and watching Shauna.’

Cathy hadn’t expected to be so sad about Uncle Sam. After all, she had known him for such a short time, and he hadn’t been like Daddy. But she missed him. She missed him in a part of
her being that had no words, because she was unable to explain to herself why she was so sad. He had been good to her, she supposed. When she thought of him, she felt hungry, but not in her
stomach. It was all terrible and Mammy was going to need her big girl.

Dr Richard Spencer looked at his watch. He pushed it back into his waistcoat and told himself to hurry up. A young woman on Noble Street was nine months pregnant with her thirteenth child. If he
didn’t shape up, there could be a dozen orphans by tonight – a baker’s dozen if the new baby survived. ‘Cathy,’ he said. ‘You either stay here or you go into
hospital for injections and a great deal of spinach. Liver, too,’ he added gravely.

‘But I’m not ill,’ Cathy repeated.

‘Not yet,’ replied the good doctor.

‘Then wait till I am!’ Cathy balled her fists and shouted, ‘I’m going back to Mammy.’

Maureen entered the room with Cathy’s little sister. She picked up Shauna and sat her on a sofa. ‘Don’t shout,’ Maureen advised Cathy.

‘They’re trying to make me stay.’

‘For your own good,’ said Maureen.

Cathy knew that for-your-own-good things were grown-ups’ ideas. If something was for her own good, it would be boring, painful or both. ‘They’ll send me to that warty
nun.’

Richard shook his head. ‘There’ll be no school, Cathy.’

Cathy considered this. ‘No school?’

Richard shook his head. ‘Most children would be delighted by the promise of a few weeks’ or months’ holiday.’

‘But I like school. I like St Aloysius Gonzaga’s, anyway. Our school’s fun. We have nice nuns with no warts.’

‘You can’t live on Scottie for a while,’ said Maureen. ‘Too many germs.’

Edith studied the young woman who had been a child until a few weeks ago. Maureen was beautiful again, but she was mature, far older than her years. What a pity that she had been forced so
cruelly into what was called common sense. ‘Maureen’s right,’ Edith told Cathy. ‘You need the moors. You need the wind and the sun.’

Cathy needed her mother. At the risk of being judged a baby, she allowed her tears to flow. She babbled on about falling behind in her school work, about Mammy being lonely, about being needed
in the shop.

Edith pulled the child into her arms. ‘We shall look after you,’ she said, wiping up tears with a spotless handkerchief. ‘Uncle Richard and I will teach you. You’ll be
able to run about with Noel and your horses. Mr Smythe will be practising for the races, so he’ll need plenty of stable staff. Cathy, it won’t be for ever. Just now, you’re weak
– you’d catch everybody’s colds and coughs.’

The sobs abated. ‘I’ll stay if Noel can sleep in my room. And I’ll need books like at school.’

Richard pretended to glare. ‘Bargaining already?’

Edith smiled at him. ‘We’ll get her well,’ she told her husband.

He gazed at his wife with the child in her arms. In a few moments, he would be setting out to visit a woman with too many children. If only one of Edith’s babies had survived . . . Richard
gathered up his bag and went out to do his job in an unfair world.

As he motored down the moor and towards Bolton, Richard considered all that Anthony had told him a week ago. Anthony believed that Liam was unstable. The young priest’s disappearance
seemed to verify that. Richard had known for a long time that all was not well with Anthony’s twin, though he had never considered a definite diagnosis. ‘Didn’t think of looking
for anything like that,’ he muttered aloud. ‘Paranoid schizophrenia? Sounds as if he’s well on his way to being dangerous, then.’

He drove down Tonge Moor Road and round Turner Brew. Anthony was sure that Liam had attacked women in Liverpool, had been responsible for the death of Valerie Walsh. What about Maureen? the
doctor wondered. Had she been another of Liam’s victims? Anthony had mentioned nothing about the young girl, but it was something to think about, wasn’t it? Nothing could be done, of
course, while Liam was missing. Richard carried on to Noble Street and the job on hand. He had no time for hypothesis, not while a patient waited.

Bridie Bell sank in an exhausted heap. The armchair was comfortable, and she leaned her head back, closed her eyes and allowed her thoughts to take their own course.

Well, whatever that piece of evidence might be, it was not downstairs. The idea of fighting her way through storage areas on the upper floor did not appeal, yet she could not rid herself of the
notion that Sam was trying to guide her. ‘Sam?’ she asked the empty room. ‘Where is it? What is it?’

The only answer came from the mantel clock.

Cathy was ill with anaemia. ‘Eminently curable,’ Richard Spencer had stressed. Bridie hung on to that, clutched at it fiercely. There was no need to worry about Cathy, because Cathy
was in good hands. All the same, she prayed frequently, used her mother’s beads to count the decades.