Erin Hart - Haunted Ground

“How many entrances to the building?” Devaney asked.

“The main doors, of course, and two side doors, one through the sacristy, and the other through this side.” The priest indicated a door just around the corner from where they were standing. “But that’s locked most times, only used for funerals and the like.”

“Do you ever lock up entirely?”

“I’m afraid we have no choice,” Kinsella said. “I only say Mass here two days a week; I have two other parishes to look after. Unless the cleaners are here, like today, or we have some evening function like a wedding rehearsal, the building is locked up tight. And Saturday evenings, of course, when I hear confessions. I’m almost sure that’s when it’s happening.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, it occurred to me that each of the thefts happened on an evening we had a visit from the ‘phantom penitent.’” Kinsella’s face betrayed slight embarrassment. “Not very respectful, I’m afraid.”

“Why do you call him that?”

“I’m not even sure it’s a him,” Kinsella said. “This person—whoever it is—waits until the last one before him is in the confessional, then comes in at the other side. Never says a word. At first I just waited; I understand it sometimes takes a few moments to order your thoughts. I’ve tried speaking up as well, but there’s never any response. After about five minutes, whoever it is gets up and leaves. I haven’t gone so far as opening the door to try and find out who it is.”

“How many times has this happened?”

“I don’t know. Four or five times, I think.”

“Could I have a look at the confessionals?”

“Surely, right over here,” Kinsella said, leading the way to the opposite side of the church.

“Do you hear confessions every week?”

“I do. Always a rush at Christmas and Easter, but there’s generally not a great demand.” Kinsella gestured for Devaney to open the door to the confessional and look into the central compartment, which he did, noting the red velvet cushion for the priest, and the small sliding wooden doors. The one to his left was open, and he could see where the confessor heard sins through a grille covered with black cloth.

“I wonder if you’d mind stepping inside for a moment,” Devaney said. “Which side does the person come in?”

“Always the right side. My right, that is, when I’m inside. Does that make a difference?” Devaney thought he detected a touch of excitement in Kinsella’s voice, the kind of enthusiasm an ordinary citizen feels when involved in some aspect of a police investigation—the kind of enthusiasm the police were often better off without.

“It might,” Devaney said. He stood just outside the confessional door, looking up and down the length of the church. “Who are your regulars?”

“I don’t know if I ought to say.”

“It’s possible someone might have seen your phantom.”

Kinsella seemed to consider this point. “There’s Mrs. Phelan, who lives just beside us here, in the lane. Tom Dunne, since he’s been retired, has been coming every week, and Margaret Conway. A few others as well.”

As harmless a bunch of wretches as ever there was, Devaney thought to himself. A hell of a lot they’d have to confess. “And where do they queue up?”

“In the pews, just opposite. But as I said, whoever it is always waits until the last one of them is inside the confessional before coming in the other side. I doubt whether any of them have seen who it is.”

Devaney opened the door and went into the confessional on the side the phantom penitent used. The last time he’d been in one of these places, he’d been Padraig’s age, a brainwashed altar boy fairly saturated with impure thoughts. He pulled the door closed, to get the full effect. He half smiled at the idea, remembering with clarity the exact moment when he’d rejected the notion of God. It had been no more complicated than flicking a light switch. He’d been better off since. He knelt at the leather-padded prie-dieu, and did not adopt the prescribed posture of supplication, but examined the interior of the tiny space, hearing in his head the whispered sins of multitudes, a running inventory of gossip repeated, losses of temper, drinks taken, as if God were some miserly bookkeeper, logging every minor offense. But maybe there were a few major offenses as well. What was it Houlihan always said? He could hear his old partner’s nasal East Clare accent digging into the pithy syllables: Debauchery, skulduggery, fornication, and witchcraft. No shortage of them, anywhere you look. Devaney was aware of dampness on his palms, and he could feel his breath becoming shorter, but he remained in the compartment, the only illumination coming from a small barred opening at the top of the door. He felt the air stopping halfway down his windpipe, no matter how he tried to draw it in. He was starting to feel light-headed, and knew he should get out. He reached for the prie-dieu to pull himself to his feet, and, although he was almost overcome with panic, felt a roughness with his thumb below the ledge. With great effort, he stood, and burst out of the confessional, gasping for air. Kinsella was right behind him.

“Are you all right?” The priest’s face showed genuine concern. Devaney sat at the end of the nearest pew and tried to get his breath.

“Touch of a flu coming on,” he said when he was able, wiping his face with the crumpled handkerchief from his back pocket.

“Are you sure? I can phone for the doctor.”

Devaney shook his head vehemently. He wasn’t even supposed to be here. And this wasn’t the sort of thing he’d want his comrades in the Guards to know about. He went back to the open door of the confessional. He didn’t go in this time, but crouched to look under the armrest on the prie-dieu. What he had felt seemed to be letters—initials, perhaps—crudely cut into the wood, probably with a penknife. He had to crawl part-way into the confessional to see. He pulled a small torch from his breast pocket and shone it on the obscure spot. It wasn’t just initials, but a whole string of letters—H E K N O W S W H E R E T H E Y A R E. It took him a few more seconds to make out the separate words: He… knows… where… they… are. Devaney felt his breathing become shallow once again.

“That’s all for now, Father,” he said, rising from his hands and knees, and replacing the torch in his jacket pocket. “But do me a favor, will you? Don’t let anyone in. Get everyone out of the church and keep it locked up until I get back.”

It was nearly two-thirty when Nora pulled up at the Drumcleggan Priory. She could hear flute music, and the noise of a pickaxe hitting damp soil. All the way out here she had argued with herself about whether to tell anyone about the phone call. In the end, she decided to keep mum unless something else happened. She just wasn’t sure what “something else” entailed. Nora grabbed the file containing photographs of the ring, and made her way to where Cormac was working. His back was to her, so she walked closer, admiring the way he swung the heavy pick. She waited until the sharp point was in the ground before speaking.

“I’m back. I brought the things you asked for.” Upon hearing her voice, Cormac dropped the wooden handle and turned, wiping his palms on his dusty trouser legs.

“Oh, hello,” he said. “Thanks.” They stood awkwardly for a moment, looking at one another. The day was overcast but warm, and a mist of sweat covered his face.

“I’m making some progress,” he finally said, gesturing to the second set of test trenches, which he’d already excavated down to a depth of about three feet. He must have been working pretty steadily while she’d been away.