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
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
Similar Books
