A Turbulent Priest Read Online Free PDF

well-trained nasal organ.
    But on the morning after the revelation of the corpse’s identity, she compelled nothing but sympathy. Her eyes were red with grief, hollowed into black circles; plainly she had slept little in the night which had passed since she heard the news. She had found a black dress, long out of fashion, in which to clothe her grief. A double row of jet beads sat at her throat; her hand strayed to them in the conversation which followed, almost as if her fingers were counting off the beads of a rosary. She would not sit until they had done so, standing over them for a moment as they subsided into the depths of the ancient tapestries of the long settee. She had a slight stoop, as if years of carrying trays for her master and his visitors had shaped her posture into permanent obeisance.
    Peach said, “We understand you were the housekeeper of Father John Bickerstaffe.”
    She nodded, snatching at her sleeve, relieved when she eventually found the handkerchief she needed. It was a large, practical, man’s handkerchief: this woman had lived for years in an environment where female vanities were discouraged. She blew her nose noisily, then said with a shuddering breath which only just kept a sob at bay, “I suppose there’s no chance…? I mean, you’re sure it really is…?”
    “Yes, we’re sure now, Miss Hargreaves. I’m afraid it really is Father Bickerstaffe. He was formally identified last night.” Lucy wondered if she should offer to make a cup of tea, then understood immediately the outrage which would be caused by any attempt to breach the walls of this woman’s kitchen.
    Martha Hargreaves nodded, dabbing briefly at the red eyes with the big handkerchief. “His brother identified him, I suppose.” She felt relieved that she had been spared that ordeal at least, and yet obscurely deprived. It seemed wrong that the man her priest had seen so seldom should be accorded this final, intimate duty ahead of her.
    Lucy Blake said, “Yes, it was Father Bickerstaffe’s brother who did the identification; it’s usually a close relative who has to do it. It was no more than a formality, really, but the law demands these things. Miss Hargreaves, I’m afraid I have to tell you that we think Father Bickerstaffe’s death was a suspicious one. You understand what that means?”
    “Yes. You mean somebody killed him.” Surprisingly, the idea that he had died in this way did not seem to shock or appal her as they had expected: her grief was all for the man’s death, not for the manner of it. Perhaps she was going to be more help to them than they had anticipated when they arranged this routine meeting. The tears Martha Hargreaves thought she had exhausted during the night ran anew now as she confronted the nature of this death, and she dabbed hastily at her face with the handkerchief.
    Lucy Blake glanced at Peach, then went into the form of words which had become familiar in cases like this. It made her realise what a lonely life the celibate priest’s can be, for this was a routine usually reserved for grieving relatives, not housekeepers. “When we think that someone has been unlawfully killed, we have to try to build up a picture of the life he led, of the people who surrounded him. It’s the only sort of crime where the victim isn’t available for questioning, you see. It makes people like you very important to us, Miss Hargreaves.”
    The housekeeper nodded, drawing herself a little more erect within the wooden arms of the upright armchair she had chosen for herself. “He was a good man, Father was. A kind man. Always available to people when there was trouble. Always very good when there was a death in the family.” Her breath caught at that, as she thought again of her employer’s own death. “Everybody says that about him. A great comfort when there was a death, Father Bickerstaffe was. Thoughtful about people. Understanding. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Don’t let them take