‘I’d say he would.’
‘So he won’t like it. And he won’t be the only one.’
‘I imagine Monsignor Fitzpatrick would know where Father Byrne is, wouldn’t you? That’s all I want to find out. Hardly a contentious question.’
‘A priest, a woman, an abortion clinic! That’s your starting point?’
Stefan Gillespie shrugged. ‘I didn’t choose where to start.’
Monsignor Robert Fitzpatrick had a large house at the Stephen’s Green end of Earlsfort Terrace, between the Alexandra College for the Higher Education of Ladies and a small, private nursing home. The other side of the road was taken up by the long stone facade and the vaguely classical, pillared entrance to University College Dublin. A crowd of students, noisy even from where Stefan was standing, was flooding down the steps. He watched them from across the road; mostly they were men, but there were several women, much the same age as Susan Field would have been.
Two brass plaques, on either side of the front door of the house, announced the monsignor himself and the Association of Catholic Strength, of which he was the president and prime mover. As Stefan walked up the steps the front door was open. He entered a hallway that was lined with posters. He recognised one of them immediately; it decorated the wall of Inspector Donaldson’s office. A man in a military uniform stood with an upraised sword in his hand. ‘Soldiers Are We!’ Next to it, on another poster, a farmer stood in a ploughed field, deep in thought; on one side of him was a hammer and sickle, on the other a cross. ‘Workers of Ireland: Which Way?’ A staircase stretched up ahead. To the left, another open door looked into a room lined with books and religious pictures; it was a shop. To the right, there were double doors, one of them open. A man was speaking, loudly and passionately. Stefan went in. He saw that it was a meeting room, lined with rows of chairs and, if not packed to overflowing, full enough for a quiet afternoon. A piece of paper was thrust into his hand by a middle-aged woman who smiled enthusiastically and whispered a cheerful welcome. ‘Please, do take a seat.’ He sat down on the chair nearest the door.
The walls were decorated with the posters he’d seen in the hall. At the front of the room a man in his early fifties stood at a table speaking. On either side of him sat men and women who looked as if they had been born to sit on committees and were fulfilling their destiny. He knew the speaker must be Monsignor Fitzpatrick himself, in a clerical collar and a black suit noticeably more well-cut than the usual threadbare priestly uniform. If he had any doubts the look of rapture on the faces of several of the elderly women in the room would have been enough to confirm it. But the audience was by no means all elderly or middle-aged; there were students from across the road as well, all listening intently. And as Stefan took in the words he began to understand the discomfort Wayland-Smith had shown earlier, about exactly what it was that Monsignor Robert Fitzpatrick represented.
‘There is war going on, a war that no one sees. And we are here because we understand, because we do see, because we must take the side of Christ’s Church in this war that puts the very existence of His Church in peril. Has not the veil of the temple already been rent in Russia, where blood and darkness fill the land, where the hounds of atheism are in full cry, supplanting the True Messiah with the false messiahs of communism and capitalism? And who are the leaders of this diabolical army, all-powerful through their control of the world’s finance and industry? You don’t know? Even your Church does not tell you? Yet their plans are in plain sight, for the destruction of all belief in God and dominance over His creation:
‘The armies of Judeo-Masonic communism have invaded every corner of human life, proclaiming a doctrine of illusory freedom and equality that puts atheistic man in revolt against God, as Satan once rebelled. The pity of it all is that once God offered the Jews a glorious role as the harbingers of spiritual grace. They refused that gift and down the centuries they have devised a scheme of destruction that is coming to fruition in our century. Didn’t Jewish financiers and Freemasons start the world war? Wasn’t every leader of the hideous revolution in Russia a Jew? Aren’t Jewish bankers plunging the world into economic chaos? The clock stands at one minute to midnight and still, even in the Vatican, the chimes of midnight are unheard. But in Germany Herr Hitler has heard. God has given Germany a great leader in a time of peril. There is no hope in democracy! It has had its day. Some in the Church see Herr Hitler as our enemy. They are wrong! Shut out that siren song. Lash yourselves to the mast of faith. Steer towards the light!’
The priest sat down, mopping his brow with a gesture that told the audience how much had been drained out of him. Applause erupted and soon the whole room was on its feet. Stefan stood too, dragged up by the movement of those around him. As Monsignor Fitzpatrick rose again there was a reverential silence. Heads were bowed in prayer and as the prayer ended, the audience filed out, some clearly moved to silence, others talking enthusiastically. Stefan waited as people left. At the front of the room the committee members talked to the monsignor for a few moments longer, and then they too filed out. The middle-aged woman who had pointed Stefan to his seat was collecting up the leaflets and papers left behind on the chairs.
‘We’re finished for today.’ She smiled warmly as she approached him. ‘But you will let me know if there’s any information you want.’
‘I was hoping to have a word with the monsignor.’
‘He gets very tired after these meetings. Inspiration takes its toll.’
‘I won’t keep him long.’
She smiled a motherly smile. He liked her. She made him feel as if he was at a cake sale to raise money for new kneelers for church pews. She moved down to the table where the priest was gathering his papers into a black leather briefcase. As she spoke to him he looked round and smiled at Stefan. Then she came back, still clutching her bundle of creased leaflets, and headed for the door. Stefan walked towards Fitzpatrick and stopped.
‘We haven’t seen you before, have we?’ said the priest.
The smile didn’t survive Stefan’s explanation of who he was.
‘And why exactly would you have questions to ask me, Sergeant?’
‘It’s a colleague of yours I wanted to talk to, Father Francis Byrne.’
Monsignor Fitzpatrick’s brow furrowed.
‘I gather he’s not in the country now,’ continued Stefan.
‘I understand that to be the case.’
‘I need to contact him.’
‘For what reason?’
‘It has to do with his teaching at UCD.’
‘I was Father Byrne’s immediate superior there. He has worked with me for a long time. I’m also a member of the university senate. I can’t imagine Father Byrne’s path crossing yours. But if there is anything you have a good reason to know about, I’ll do what I can to help you.’
‘I’d like to know where I can contact him. The university doesn’t have a forwarding address, other than yours. Am I right that he’s in Germany?’
There was no answer; the shutters were up.
‘As for any questions, they’re of a personal nature.’
‘And why would the Gardai have personal questions to ask of a priest who was in my pastoral care until very recently, Sergeant Gillespie?’
‘All I need is an address, Monsignor.’
‘Are you suggesting Father Byrne has done something wrong?’
‘I’m not suggesting anything.’
‘Then I think you need to make yourself plainer.’
‘You do have an address for him.’
‘I can contact him if I feel it’s necessary.’
‘Can I ask when he left Ireland?’
‘It was some time in the summer. August, I think.’
‘When are you expecting him back?’
‘I don’t know that I am expecting him back.’
‘Can I ask why he left?’
‘Why he left is the business of the Church.’
‘He isn’t working for you now?’ Stefan persisted.
