Rough Justice

‘Perhaps,’ Miller told him. ‘I’m not certain.’

‘Belfast was not good during my visit. Bombs at night, some shooting. A godless place these days.’

‘The world we live in,’ Miller said piously.

‘I would warn you of the pub next door to the Priory, the Sailor. I had luncheon there on occasion, but didn’t like it. The people who frequented it were very offensive when they heard my English accent, particularly the landlord, an absolute lout called Kelly.’

‘I’ll remember that.’

‘Take care,’ Frobisher said, ‘and give my regards to Sister Maria Brosnan, the Mother Superior. She comes from Kerry in the Republic, a beautiful county.’

Miller left him and walked up to Wapping High Street. He happened to pass a barber’s shop, and on impulse went in and had his hair cut quite short. It emphasized his gauntness, so that he resembled the man in the passport photo more than ever.

His Savile Row suit was totally out of place, so he searched and found a downmarket men’s outfitters where he bought a single-breasted black suit, three cheap shirts and a black tie. He also invested in a shabby fawn raincoat, much to the surprise of the salesman he dealt with, as he’d gone in wearing a Burberry. Spectacles were not possible, because they would have had to be clear glass, a giveaway in the wrong situation.

He walked on, reaching the Tower of London, adjusting to thoughts of his new persona: someone of no importance, the sort of downtrodden individual who sat in the corner of some musty office, not to be taken seriously at all. Finally, he hailed a taxi and told the driver to take him to Dover Street.

When he arrived, opening the front door, Monica appeared from the kitchen at the end of the hall. ‘Guess who?’

He dropped his bags. ‘Why aren’t you at Cambridge?’

‘I decided, purely on impulse, to spend a weekend with my dear old Dad and my loving brother.’ She kissed him and pushed the bag containing the clothes with her foot. ‘What have you been buying, anything interesting?’

‘No, nothing special.’ He put the bag in the cloakroom and took off his decent trench coat. ‘Regarding the weekend, I’m afraid I’m only good for tonight. I’ll be going north on the train tomorrow.’

‘Oh, dear, where?’

‘Catterick Camp, Paratroop headquarters.’ The lies came smoothly, the deceit. He was surprised how easy it was. ‘A week at least, perhaps more. I report Sunday morning.’

She was disappointed and it showed. ‘I’ll just have to hope that Dad’s not doing anything. Come on into the kitchen. I’ll make you a cup of tea.’

There is an old saying that in Belfast it rains five days out of seven and it certainly was raining on the following Monday morning when Miller went down the gangway of the overnight boat from Glasgow. He carried a canvas holdall which contained his file and the barest of necessities: pyjamas, underwear, a spare shirt and a small folding umbrella. He raised it and proceeded along the quay, in the cheap raincoat and suit, making exactly the impression he had wanted. Having examined the streetmap thoroughly, he knew where he was going and found St Mary’s Priory with no difficulty at all.

It looked out over the harbour as it had done since the late nineteenth century, he knew that from the documents in his file and because that was the period when Catholics were allowed to build churches again. It had a medieval look to it, but that was fake, and rose three stories high, with narrow stained-glass windows, some of them broken and badly repaired. It had the look of some kind of church, which the pub down the street from it didn’t. A sign swung with the breeze, a painting of a sailor from a bygone age on it wearing a faded yellow oilskin and sou’wester. A long window was etched in acid Kelly’s Select Bar. In spite of the early hour, two customers emerged, talking loudly and drunkenly, and one of them turned and urinated against the wall. It was enough, and Miller crossed the road.

The sign read: St Mary’s Priory Little Sisters of Pity. Mother Superior: Sister Maria Brosnan.

Miller pushed open the great oaken door and went in. A young nun was at a reception desk sorting some sort of register. A large notice promised soup and bread in the kitchen at noon. There was also a supper in the canteen at six. There were times for Mass in the chapel noted and also for Confession. These matters were in the hands of a Father Martin Sharkey.

‘Can I help you?’ the young nun asked.

‘My name is Blunt, Mark Blunt. I’m from London. I believe the Mother Superior is expecting me.’

The girl sparkled. ‘You’re from Wapping? I’m Sister Bridget. I did my novitiate there last year. How is the Mother Superior?’

Miller’s hard work reading the files paid off. ‘Oh, you mean Sister Mary Michael? She’s well, I believe, but I’m working out of Monsignor Baxter’s office at the Bishop’s Palace.’

A door to the panelled wall at one side of her, labelled Sacristy, had been standing ajar, and now it opened and a priest in a black cassock stepped out.

‘Do you have to bother the boy with idle chatter, Bridget, my love, when it’s the Mother Superior he’s needing?’

She was slightly confused. ‘I’m sorry, Father.’

He was a small man, fair-haired, with a lively intelligent face alive with good humour. ‘You’ll be the young man with the plans for the improvements we’ve been waiting for, Mr Blunt, isn’t it?’

‘Mark Blunt.’ He held out his hand and the priest took it.

‘Martin Sharkey. You know what women are like, all agog at the thought that the old place is going to be finally put to rights.’ There was only a hint of an Ulster accent in his voice, which was fluent and quite vibrant in a way. ‘I’m in and out of the place at the moment, but if there’s anything I can do, let me know. You’ll find the lady you seek through the end door there which leads to the chapel.’ He turned and went back into the sacristy.

The chapel was everything Miller expected. Incense, candles and the Holy Water, the Virgin and Child floating in semidarkness, the confessional boxes to one side, the altar with the sanctuary lamp. Sister Maria Brosnan was on her knees scrubbing the floor. To perform such a basic task was to remind her to show proper humility. She stopped and glanced up.

‘Mark Blunt, Sister.’

‘Of course.’ She smiled, a small woman with a contented face. ‘You must excuse me. I have a weakness for pride. I need to remind myself on a daily basis.’

She put the brush and a cloth in her bucket, he gave her his hand and pulled her up. ‘I was talking to Mr Frobisher the other day. He asked to be remembered to you.’

‘A good and kind man. He saw what was needed here a year ago and doubted the order could find the money.’ She led the way into the darkness, opened a door to reveal a very ordered office, a desk, but also a bed in the corner. ‘But all that has changed, thanks to Monsignor Baxter in London. It’s wonderful for all of us that the money has been made available.’

‘As always, it oils the wheels.’

She went behind her desk, saying, ‘Take a seat for a moment,’ which he did. ‘As I understand it, you will examine everything referring to Mr Frobisher’s original findings and report back to Monsignor Baxter?’

‘That’s it exactly, but let me stress that I don’t think you have the slightest need to worry. There is a very firm intention to proceed. I just need a few days to check things out. I understand I can stay here?’

‘Absolutely. I’ll show you around now.’

‘I met Father Sharkey on my way in,’ Miller told her.

‘A great man, a Jesuit no less.’

‘Soldier of Christ.’

‘Of course. We are fortunate to have him. Father Murphy, our regular priest was struck down the other week with pneumonia. The diocese managed to find Father Sharkey for us. He was due at the English College at the Vatican, a great scholar, I understand, but he’s helping out until Father Murphy is fit again. Now let’s do the grand tour.’

She showed him everything, starting with the top floor, where there was dormitory space for twenty nuns, the second floor with specialist accommodation for nursing cases of one kind or another, a theatre for medical attention. There were half a dozen patients, nuns in attendance.

‘Do you get people in and out on a regular basis?’

‘Of course – we are, after all, a nursing order. Five of the people on this floor have cancer of one kind or another. I’m a doctor, didn’t you know that?’

All Miller could do was say, ‘Actually, I didn’t. Sorry.’

The doors stood open for easy access, and a couple of the nuns moved serenely in and out offering help as it was needed. Some patients were draped in a festoon of needles and tubes, drips of one kind or another. Sister Maria Brosnan murmured a few words of comfort as she passed. The end room had a man in a wheelchair, and what appeared to be plaster of Paris supporting his head, a strip of bandaging covering his left eye. He was drinking through a straw from a plastic container of orange juice.

‘Now then, Mr Fallon, you’re doing well, but try a little walk. It will strengthen you.’

His reply was garbled and they moved to the next room, where a woman, looking pale as death, lay propped up against a pillow, eyes closed. Sister Maria Brosnan stroked her forehead and the woman’s tired eyes opened.