Read Online Bold Sons of Erin by Owen Parry, Ralph Peters - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Owen Parry, Ralph Peters
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As the priest of this parish. It’s a sacrilege, you know.”
Twas the strangest business. He spoke as if reading the lines of a play without much care for their meaning. Twas almost like a schoolboy’s recitation, a matter of necessity, not passion. His accent suited manors, not the mines. He might have been talkinghunters with a squire. We spoke of murder gruesomely done, but the fellow never relinquished the tone of the class that breakfasts late. I would have thought a priest would be more earnest, for that is a quality of the first importance in a religious fellow. We Methodists are splendid in our gravity.
“Forbid me you cannot,” I told him, holding my own voice in check. “And is it not a sacrilege to bury a body in another’s grave, to dissemble identities and even the cause of death? Would it not be more than merely a crime, but a terrible sin for a priest?”
He did not flinch. “Whatever are you talking about, my dear man?”
“I believe you know full well.”
“I fear that I do not.”
“Daniel Boland is not in that grave. He never was.”
“And how on earth might you know such a thing, Major Jones?” He eased back toward his bookcases, as if they exercised a magnetic force upon him. Strange it was. His parish house was little more than a shanty, but filled with handsome books and painted china. He even had a pair of pictures hung, the themes of which did not adhere to religion. Not even of the misfortunate Roman variety.
“I know because I was the one who opened the grave,” I admitted. “There was no robbing. Only the corpse of a lass where a lad was to be. And no least hint of cholera. Only of a second murder, and a wicked one.”
The priest remained as calm as a cold Welsh Sunday. “But you’re speaking fantastically! I buried Daniel Boland myself. There are numerous witnesses.”
“Who were not shy of the cholera?”
“Manly sorts, you know. Elders. The Irish aren’t afraid of death, not really. I rather think it’s life that unnerves them.”
“Father Wilde, I do not see your purpose. Even priests must obey the laws of the land. There have been two murders. And you are playing with me. I am not such a fool that I cannot see it. You seem not the least concerned, but I think you are.”
For the first time, a shade of annoyance colored his voice. “My concerns,” he said, gesturing at the gray sky past the window and the valley below that sky, “lie with those entrusted into my care. With their immortal souls, certainly. But also with the injustice that is done to them. Of course, I am aware of the report that this general of yours was killed nearby. Upon the road to Minersville, I believe. And, yes, I am aware that Boland, perhaps in his cups, claimed he had done the crime. He was an unsettled young man, unhappy, I think. But I cannot believe him a murderer.” He sighed, a schoolmaster despairing of his pupil. “Be that as it may, I will not have the Irish blamed en masse, sir. That would be no law, and certainly no justice. Furthermore, I have a serious concern about the incidence of cholera in this village. Unearthing an infected corpse may have deadly consequences.”
“Consequences there may be, but I do not think they will arise from cholera, Father Wilde. And I do not believe that you believe it, either.”
“That, sir, is rude.”
“A girl is dead. Murdered. Weeks, perhaps months ago. Do you not find that rude?”
“Such a loss would, of course, be unfortunate. Especially if the poor thing died without receiving the sacraments. But I have no intelligence of a murdered girl.”
“But that you do, Father Wilde. From me. She was in that coffin, not Daniel Boland. Who likely is in Canada by now.”
“Daniel Boland is dead of cholera morbus. I know nothing of this girl of whom you speak.” The ghost of a smile crossed his lips. Thin lips they were, in a handsome face whose bones looked made of glass. Waiting for life to shatter them. “But do I see it
Twas the strangest business. He spoke as if reading the lines of a play without much care for their meaning. Twas almost like a schoolboy’s recitation, a matter of necessity, not passion. His accent suited manors, not the mines. He might have been talkinghunters with a squire. We spoke of murder gruesomely done, but the fellow never relinquished the tone of the class that breakfasts late. I would have thought a priest would be more earnest, for that is a quality of the first importance in a religious fellow. We Methodists are splendid in our gravity.
“Forbid me you cannot,” I told him, holding my own voice in check. “And is it not a sacrilege to bury a body in another’s grave, to dissemble identities and even the cause of death? Would it not be more than merely a crime, but a terrible sin for a priest?”
He did not flinch. “Whatever are you talking about, my dear man?”
“I believe you know full well.”
“I fear that I do not.”
“Daniel Boland is not in that grave. He never was.”
“And how on earth might you know such a thing, Major Jones?” He eased back toward his bookcases, as if they exercised a magnetic force upon him. Strange it was. His parish house was little more than a shanty, but filled with handsome books and painted china. He even had a pair of pictures hung, the themes of which did not adhere to religion. Not even of the misfortunate Roman variety.
“I know because I was the one who opened the grave,” I admitted. “There was no robbing. Only the corpse of a lass where a lad was to be. And no least hint of cholera. Only of a second murder, and a wicked one.”
The priest remained as calm as a cold Welsh Sunday. “But you’re speaking fantastically! I buried Daniel Boland myself. There are numerous witnesses.”
“Who were not shy of the cholera?”
“Manly sorts, you know. Elders. The Irish aren’t afraid of death, not really. I rather think it’s life that unnerves them.”
“Father Wilde, I do not see your purpose. Even priests must obey the laws of the land. There have been two murders. And you are playing with me. I am not such a fool that I cannot see it. You seem not the least concerned, but I think you are.”
For the first time, a shade of annoyance colored his voice. “My concerns,” he said, gesturing at the gray sky past the window and the valley below that sky, “lie with those entrusted into my care. With their immortal souls, certainly. But also with the injustice that is done to them. Of course, I am aware of the report that this general of yours was killed nearby. Upon the road to Minersville, I believe. And, yes, I am aware that Boland, perhaps in his cups, claimed he had done the crime. He was an unsettled young man, unhappy, I think. But I cannot believe him a murderer.” He sighed, a schoolmaster despairing of his pupil. “Be that as it may, I will not have the Irish blamed en masse, sir. That would be no law, and certainly no justice. Furthermore, I have a serious concern about the incidence of cholera in this village. Unearthing an infected corpse may have deadly consequences.”
“Consequences there may be, but I do not think they will arise from cholera, Father Wilde. And I do not believe that you believe it, either.”
“That, sir, is rude.”
“A girl is dead. Murdered. Weeks, perhaps months ago. Do you not find that rude?”
“Such a loss would, of course, be unfortunate. Especially if the poor thing died without receiving the sacraments. But I have no intelligence of a murdered girl.”
“But that you do, Father Wilde. From me. She was in that coffin, not Daniel Boland. Who likely is in Canada by now.”
“Daniel Boland is dead of cholera morbus. I know nothing of this girl of whom you speak.” The ghost of a smile crossed his lips. Thin lips they were, in a handsome face whose bones looked made of glass. Waiting for life to shatter them. “But do I see it
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