“Could you find out which girl it was?” Sarah asked.
Maeve just frowned, but Gina was still eager to please her. “Sure,” she agreed.
Sarah had arranged to meet Opal Graves at the mission at one o’clock the next afternoon so she would have time to accomplish her other goals that morning. She’d debated asking Malloy to help her with her first errand, but she knew he’d just be angry that she was still involved in Emilia’s death. Since she wasn’t in the mood for a lecture, she found the small Catholic church herself. The building was nestled between the tenements a few blocks from Mulberry Street.
St. John’s was well kept, in spite of the poverty of its parishioners. She passed an elderly Irish woman coming out and held the door for her. The woman looked at her curiously, as if she could tell just by looking that Sarah wasn’t a Catholic. Or maybe that was Sarah’s overactive imagination.
The interior of the church was cold and quiet and dim. Paneled in dark wood, the room was lit by a few candles in a rack at the rear of the church and whatever sunlight seeped through the tiny stained glass windows. Her footsteps echoed on the hardwood floor as she walked down the aisle, looking for someone who could help her. She should have asked the old woman, she realized, then she heard a sound to her right.
The door to what appeared to be a closet opened and another old woman came out. She said, “Thank you, Father,” and carefully closed the door.
Could the priest be in the closet? Sarah started toward the door as the old woman hobbled away, but before she reached it, another door just beside it opened, and a priest emerged. He was young, his light brown hair plastered down so he would look more dignified, but it didn’t help.
“Excuse me, Father,” she called before he could walk away.
He looked up in surprise. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know anyone else was waiting.” He turned and started back into his closet.
“Could I ask you something before you go?” she called to stop him.
He turned back and frowned. “Didn’t you want me to hear your confession?”
For a moment she didn’t know what he was talking about, and then she remembered what little she knew about the Catholic faith. “Oh, no,” she said with an apologetic smile as she finally reached him. “I’m not even Catholic. I’ve come to ask you about one of your parishioners.”
“Which one?”
“Emilia Donato.”
His frown deepened. Sarah sensed his disapproval and hastily defended the girl.
“I know she’d behaved shamefully, but she repented in the end. She was a fine Christian girl when she died, and it would be a great comfort to her family to give her a decent burial,” she added, painfully aware she was lying in church. Sarah and the residents of the mission were the only ones likely to be comforted.
“Maybe you’d better talk to Father O’Brien,” he suggested. “Come.”
Sarah followed him out a side door into what appeared to be the priests’ private area. He took her to an office door and told her to wait while he went inside. In a moment, he returned and directed her into the room. An older priest rose from behind his desk. He was a large man whose face gave evidence of the years he’d spent bearing other people’s burdens.
“How can I help you, Mrs. -?”
“Mrs. Brandt,” Sarah said. “I’m pleased to meet you, Father O’Brien.”
He offered her a seat in one of two comfortable wing chairs by a window. The window overlooked an alley, but at least it let in some natural light. The young priest waited by the door, as if ready to rush to Father O’Brien’s aid if necessary.
“Father Ahearn said you’d come about some Italian girl?” the old priest began when he had seated himself in the other chair.
She didn’t like the way he said “Italian,” but she said, “Emilia Donato. She was murdered last week.”
The priest nodded. “Oh, yes. Her mother was here. She’s the girl who went to the mission,” he explained to Father Ahearn. Their disapproval was obvious.
“The mission can’t afford to bury her,” Sarah quickly explained, “and neither can her parents. Since her family is Catholic, I know they would be very grateful if the church would see that she was buried properly.”
“Mrs. Brandt,” the old priest explained patiently, “you must understand. We don’t even allow the Italians to worship in the sanctuary.”
Sarah could hardly believe what she was hearing. This was even worse than Georgio Donato had said. “Why on earth not?” she demanded.
“They are very different from us, my dear lady. Their customs and even their saints are different from ours. They celebrate different feast days and different holy days. They don’t even speak the same language.”
“But they worship the same God, don’t they?” she challenged, unable to conceal her contempt for such bigotry. She couldn’t believe that the Irish, who had been the victims of prejudice for so long themselves, would practice it on others.
“We allow them their own place to worship,” Father Ahearn said defensively.
“Where, in the basement?” Sarah asked sarcastically.
Sarah could only gape at them, unable to conceive of so-called men of God relegating fellow Christians to the cellar to worship. “Do you at least allow them Christian charity?” Sarah asked, unable to keep the anger from her voice.
“All of our parishioners live in poverty,” Father O’Brien said. “We do what we can for them.”
“Do you bury those who can’t afford it?”
Father O’Brien’s expression was sad, although Sarah couldn’t help doubting his sincerity. “The city buries them, Mrs. Brandt. We try to reserve our resources for the living.”
“Unless they happen to be Italian,” Sarah said before she remembered her manners.
Father O’Brien wasn’t easily offended. “My answer would be the same if the girl was Irish.”
“I’ll have to take your word for that, won’t I?” Sarah snapped and started to rise.
“Are you closely involved with the mission, Mrs. Brandt?” he asked before she could take her leave.
Something about the tone of his question disturbed her. “I just recently began to volunteer there,” she said warily.
“Then you don’t know very much about them,” he guessed.
“I know they have converted some Catholic girls,” Sarah said, “and I’m sure that must make them some sort of competition for you.”
“God’s work isn’t a competition,” he said with a small smile. “Although I can understand you might think we’re jealous or resentful of the way Mrs. Wells is leading young girls away from their faith.”
“I’m sure she would argue that she’s leading them to faith,” Sarah defended her.
“I’m sure she would. I just wonder what she would say about the girls who have simply been led away.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, Mrs. Brandt, that you should ask Mrs. Wells what becomes of the girls who go to her mission and are never seen again.”
He was jealous. That’s the only explanation Sarah could think of to explain the priest’s horrible accusation. No one knew anything about girls disappearing from the mission. Or at least she hadn’t heard anyone say anything about it. She had no doubt that girls did leave. Emilia herself had returned to her old life after her first visit. Surely, others had done so, too. If no one ever heard from them again, it was probably because they had disappeared into a prostitute’s life and early grave. She certainly wasn’t going to give any credence to a rumor started by a priest who wouldn’t even minister to people just because they spoke another language.
At least she knew she couldn’t count on charity from the church to get Emilia decently buried. That meant she would have to figure out something herself. Such an expense would be a small fortune to people as poor as the Donatos, but surely, she could manage the cost of a simple casket and a burial plot herself. If not, she’d borrow money from her parents. Somehow, she would make sure that Emilia didn’t end up in an unmarked grave.
Her next stop was a grim visit to the morgue to let them know she was going to see that Emilia was properly buried. Sarah was gratified to see a new attendant on duty. He was respectful both to Sarah and to Emilia’s
