buggy rattled over the brick road. “If it’s any comfort to you, Nell, I think I can say with some measure of confidence that your brother succumbed to smoke inhalation rather than to the fire itself.”
A bit thrown by the abrupt conversational shift, but heartened by this news, Nell said, “How did you conclude that?”
“You may find the details a bit—”
“Would you
please
stop trying to protect me and just tell me?” In a milder tone of voice, she added another, “Please.”
After a moment’s hesitation, he said, “The flesh
is
charred, more so on the trunk and limbs than the head, I assume because his clothing caught fire. But as Chief Bryce mentioned, the entire dorsal aspect is relatively unscathed—skin, hair, clothing... There are even some bits of a wool blanket that must have been tucked around him. It’s clear that he was lying flat on his back, unmoving, when the flames reached him, and that could only have been the case if he’d been dead or unconscious.”
She said, “Thank you, Cyril. It does comfort me to know that.”
“There’s a Y incision on the torso, and several others from the embalming, but the head was untouched. Mustn’t disturb such valuable remains, eh?”
* * *
“I haven’t seen you in church this summer,” said genial Old Father Donnelly as he gestured Nell into an armchair in his book-lined office; Cyril, not wanting to intrude, was giving himself a tour of the modest little stone church.
“Um...”
Lowering his considerable bulk into the chair opposite Nell’s, he said, in his timeworn brogue, “Don’t tell me those Boston Brahmins have gone and turned my pious little Nell Sweeney into a Protestant. Port?” He asked, lifting a decanter from the table next to him.
Relieved that he didn’t seem to expect a response to the “Protestant” comment, she declined the port and said, “Father, did you happen to see yesterday’s extra to the
Barnstable Patriot
?”
The priest shook his head mournfully as he poured his glass of port. “If you’re asking whether I heard about Jamie, the answer is yes. I can’t tell you how it grieved me. I’m that sorry. A terrible thing. Terrible. Terrible.”
“I’m surprised you even remember Jamie,” Nell said. “He hasn’t attended Mass here since he was a child.” As an adolescent, he’d always balked at going to church, even at Christmas and Easter.
“Oh, sure, he used to show up every once in a while when he wasn’t behind bars, ‘specially the past few years. Late Mass, usually. I suppose that would be why you never ran into him during your summers here. You were always partial to the early Mass.”
The realization that she and Jamie had come so close to crossing paths was deeply saddening to Nell. “I’ve come here to arrange for his funeral Mass, Father, and for him to be buried in the churchyard alongside Ma and Tess and the rest of them.”
Father Donnelly lowered his glass to the table slowly, frowning in a troubled way. He started to say something, then looked away, murmuring, “Oh, dear, dear, dear.”
“What’s wrong?” Nell asked. “Is it because he was a criminal? I know he lived a life of sin, but given how he grew up, is it any wonder?”
“Aye, but
you
didn’t turn to sin,” the priest said.
Nell gave him a look that said,
Oh, didn’t I
? Father Donnelly had been her confessor when she was regarded in lowlife circles as the most deft pickpocket on the Cape.
He chuckled, ducking his head as if to concede her point. No matter how grim the circumstances, Father Donnelly never lost his good humor; it was one of the reasons his parishioners found him so engaging and easy to open up to.
Nell said, “You’re always talking about God’s mercy, Father, about how he loves us all, even the sinners. If that’s so, then Jamie is as deserving of a church funeral as any of us.”
Taking a sip of port, the priest said, “Between you and Claire Gilmartin, I’ve been
A bit thrown by the abrupt conversational shift, but heartened by this news, Nell said, “How did you conclude that?”
“You may find the details a bit—”
“Would you
please
stop trying to protect me and just tell me?” In a milder tone of voice, she added another, “Please.”
After a moment’s hesitation, he said, “The flesh
is
charred, more so on the trunk and limbs than the head, I assume because his clothing caught fire. But as Chief Bryce mentioned, the entire dorsal aspect is relatively unscathed—skin, hair, clothing... There are even some bits of a wool blanket that must have been tucked around him. It’s clear that he was lying flat on his back, unmoving, when the flames reached him, and that could only have been the case if he’d been dead or unconscious.”
She said, “Thank you, Cyril. It does comfort me to know that.”
“There’s a Y incision on the torso, and several others from the embalming, but the head was untouched. Mustn’t disturb such valuable remains, eh?”
* * *
“I haven’t seen you in church this summer,” said genial Old Father Donnelly as he gestured Nell into an armchair in his book-lined office; Cyril, not wanting to intrude, was giving himself a tour of the modest little stone church.
“Um...”
Lowering his considerable bulk into the chair opposite Nell’s, he said, in his timeworn brogue, “Don’t tell me those Boston Brahmins have gone and turned my pious little Nell Sweeney into a Protestant. Port?” He asked, lifting a decanter from the table next to him.
Relieved that he didn’t seem to expect a response to the “Protestant” comment, she declined the port and said, “Father, did you happen to see yesterday’s extra to the
Barnstable Patriot
?”
The priest shook his head mournfully as he poured his glass of port. “If you’re asking whether I heard about Jamie, the answer is yes. I can’t tell you how it grieved me. I’m that sorry. A terrible thing. Terrible. Terrible.”
“I’m surprised you even remember Jamie,” Nell said. “He hasn’t attended Mass here since he was a child.” As an adolescent, he’d always balked at going to church, even at Christmas and Easter.
“Oh, sure, he used to show up every once in a while when he wasn’t behind bars, ‘specially the past few years. Late Mass, usually. I suppose that would be why you never ran into him during your summers here. You were always partial to the early Mass.”
The realization that she and Jamie had come so close to crossing paths was deeply saddening to Nell. “I’ve come here to arrange for his funeral Mass, Father, and for him to be buried in the churchyard alongside Ma and Tess and the rest of them.”
Father Donnelly lowered his glass to the table slowly, frowning in a troubled way. He started to say something, then looked away, murmuring, “Oh, dear, dear, dear.”
“What’s wrong?” Nell asked. “Is it because he was a criminal? I know he lived a life of sin, but given how he grew up, is it any wonder?”
“Aye, but
you
didn’t turn to sin,” the priest said.
Nell gave him a look that said,
Oh, didn’t I
? Father Donnelly had been her confessor when she was regarded in lowlife circles as the most deft pickpocket on the Cape.
He chuckled, ducking his head as if to concede her point. No matter how grim the circumstances, Father Donnelly never lost his good humor; it was one of the reasons his parishioners found him so engaging and easy to open up to.
Nell said, “You’re always talking about God’s mercy, Father, about how he loves us all, even the sinners. If that’s so, then Jamie is as deserving of a church funeral as any of us.”
Taking a sip of port, the priest said, “Between you and Claire Gilmartin, I’ve been
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