“His service revolver, I suppose? How I wish the army had been more responsible in collecting all the weapons they issued. May I see the room?”
“Is that necessary?”
“I would like to remove all doubt from my mind that this was suicide.”
“You have a doubt?”
His eyes flicked upwards. “I have a duty, my dear.”
She showed him into Patrick’s den, a small room with a desk surrounded by bookshelves. Her father shuffled in after them.
The body had been removed, but otherwise the room was just as the police had seen it, with the revolver lying on the desk.
“Please don’t touch anything,” Mrs Flanagan said.
The priest made a performance of linking his thumbs behind his back. He leaned over and peered at the gun. “Service issue, as I expected,” he said. “Did the police examine the chambers for bullets?”
“Empty. He only needed the one.”
“Where did he keep the gun?”
“In the bottom drawer — but don’t open it.”
Father Montgomery had little option but to look about him at the bookshelves. There were plays by Oscar Wilde and George Bernard Shaw. “Did he act in any of these?”
“No. He collected them for personal reading. He was a well-read man.”
“Well-read,” said old Mr Russell. “Oh, essay, essay, essay.”
“Father adores his word-play,” Mrs Flanagan. “Not one of your very best, Daddy.”
The books continued to interest the priest. There was a shelf of detective stories above the drama section featuring works by Conan Doyle, E.W.Hornung and G.K.Chesterton. Three by the author who called himself “Sapper” were lying horizontally above the others. One was Bulldog Drummond, the novel of the play the dead man had appeared in. On another high shelf were some volumes the priest wished he hadn’t noticed, among them Married Love, by Marie Stopes. But his eyes were drawn inexorably to Family Limitation, by Margaret Sanger — not for its provocative title but for the round hole he noticed in the binding.
“Might I ask for a dispensation to handle one of the books?”
“Why?” asked Mrs Flanagan.
“Because I think I see a bullet hole through the spine.”
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph!” said Mrs Flanagan, forgetting herself. “Where?”
The priest unclasped his hands and pointed. “Do you mind?” He reached for the book and removed it. Sure enough, there was a scorched round hole penetrating this book and its neighbour, The Psychology of Sex, by Havelock Ellis. “Didn’t the police remark on this?”
“They didn’t notice it. What can it mean?”
“Presumably, that two shots were fired and this one missed. If you look, the bullet penetrated the wood behind the books. Do you recall hearing two shots?”
“I couldn’t say for sure. I was asleep. I thought it was one shot that disturbed me, but I suppose there could have been two.”
“And this was when?”
“About midnight according to the clock in my room. Daddy, can you recall two shots?”
“Aldershot and Bagshot,” said the waggish Mr Russell.
“It’s a puzzle,” said the priest, rotating his head, his eyes taking in all of the books. He replaced the damaged volume and turned his attention to the floor. “There should be two spent cartridges unless someone removed them.”
“Do you think you’re a better detective than the police?” Mrs Flanagan said, becoming irritated.
“No, but I work for a Higher Authority.” He pushed his foot under the edge of the carpet and rolled the corner back towards the chair. He couldn’t be accused of touching anything; his feet had to go somewhere. “Hey ho, what’s this?”
Under the carpet was a magazine.
“Leave it,” said Mrs Flanagan.
“We’re allowed to look,” said Father Montgomery, bending low. The magazine was the current issue of John Bull, that patriotic weekly edited by Horatio Bottomley. The number seven was scribbled on the cover in pencil.
“Well, I’ll be jiggered!” said old Mr Russell.
“Is that your magazine, Daddy?” Mrs Flanagan asked him. “You said it was missing.”
“No, mine’s upstairs.”
“We have it delivered every Thursday. Father does the competition,” Mrs Flanagan explained. “What’s the competition called, Daddy?”
“Bullets.”
“Right.” She gave her half-smile. “Ironic. He sometimes wins a prize. They give a list of phrases and the readers are invited to add an original comment in no more than four words. Give us an example, Daddy.”
“‘Boarding House Philosophy: Let Bygones Be Rissoles’.”
“Nice one. What about one for the church? What’s that famous one?”
“‘Wedding March: Aisle Altar Hymn’.”
“That won five hundred pounds for someone before the war. Daddy’s best effort won him twenty-five, but he keeps trying. You’re sure this isn’t your copy, Daddy?”
“Mine’s upstairs, I said.”
“All right, don’t get touchy. We’d best keep this under the carpet in case it’s important, but I can’t think why.” Mrs Flanagan nudged the carpet back in place with a pointed patent leather toecap, wanting to hasten the priest’s departure. “Is there anything else we can do for you, Father Montgomery?”
“Not for the present, except...”
“Except what?”
“If I may, I’d like to borrow your father’s John Bull.”
“I’ll fetch it now,” said the old man.
And he did.
Father Montgomery returned to Richmond and went backstage at the theatre. It was still early in the afternoon and there was no matinee, but some of the actors were on stage rehearsing next week’s production.
He spotted the person who had first informed him of Patrick Flanagan’s sudden death. Brendan was painting scenery, a fine, realistic bay window with a sea view behind.
“My dear boy,” the priest said, “I’m so pleased to catch you here.”
“What can I do for you, Father?”
“I’ve come from the house of poor Patrick Flanagan, rest his soul.”
“We’re heartbroken, Father. He was a lovely man.”
“Indeed. Would you happen to know if he had a lady friend at all?”
“You mean Daisy Truelove, Father?”
“I suppose I do, if you say so. Where would I find her?”
“She’s in the ladies’ dressing room.”
“And how would I coax her out of there?”
“You could try knocking on the door and saying ‘A gentleman for Miss Daisy’.”
He tried, and it worked. She flung open the door, a flurry of fair, curly hair and cheap scent, her eyes shining in anticipation. “Hello, darling — oh, my hat.” She’d spotted the clerical collar.
“Miss Truelove?”
She nodded.
“The friend of Patrick Flanagan?”
The pretty face creased at the name. “Poor Patrick, yes.”
“Would you mind telling me if you saw him yesterday evening?”
“Why, yes, Father. He was in the play, and so am I. I’m Lola, the gangster’s moll.”
“After it was over?”
“I saw him then, too. Some of us went for a drink at the Star and Garter. Patrick ordered oysters and champagne. He said he’d recently come into some money.”
“Oysters and champagne until when?”
“About half past eleven.”
“And then?”
She hesitated. “Do you really need to know?”
“Think of me as a vessel.”
“A ship, Father?”
He blinked. “Not exactly. More like a receptacle for anything you can tell me in confidence.”
“You want to hear my confession?”
“Not unless you have something to confess.”