be assembled when he got back. He turned abruptly into a small café, ordered a cup of coffee and sat down. He felt in the pocket of his cassock. Ah, Mrs Gerahty—he’d asked her to mend the lining. As usual, she hadn’t! His notebook and a loose pencil and the few coins he carried about him, had gone through to the lining. He prised up a coin or two and the pencil, but the notebook was too difficult. The coffee came, and he asked if he could have a piece of paper.
‘This do you?’
It was a torn paper bag. Father Gorman nodded and took it. He began to write—the names—it was important not to forget the names. Names were the sort of thing he did forget …
The café door opened and three young lads in Edwardian dress came in and sat down noisily.
Father Gorman finished his memorandum. He folded up the scrap of paper and was about to shove it into his pocket when he remembered the hole. He did what he had often done before, pressed the folded scrap down into his shoe.
A man came in quietly and sat down in a far corner. Father Gorman took a sip or two of the weak coffee for politeness’ sake, called for his bill, and paid. Then he got up and went out.
The man who had just come in seemed to change his mind. He looked at his watch as though he had mistaken the time, got up, and hurried out.
The fog was coming on fast. Father Gorman quickened his steps. He knew his district very well. He took a short-cut by turning down the small street which ran close by the railway. He may have been conscious of steps behind him but he thought nothing of them. Why should he?
The blow from the cosh caught him completely unaware. He heeled forward and fell …
Dr Corrigan, whistling ‘Father O’Flynn’, walked into the D.D.I.’s room and addressed Divisional Detective Inspector Lejeune in a chatty manner.
‘I’ve done your padre for you,’ he said.
‘And the result?’
‘We’ll save the technical terms for the coroner. Well and truly coshed. First blow probably killed him, but whoever it was made sure. Quite a nasty business.’
‘Yes,’ said Lejeune.
He was a sturdy man, dark haired and grey eyed. He had a misleadingly quiet manner, but his gestures were sometimes surprisingly graphic and betrayed his French Huguenot ancestry.
He said thoughtfully:
‘Nastier than would be necessary for robbery?’
‘Was it robbery?’ asked the doctor.
‘One supposes so. His pockets were turned out and the lining of his cassock ripped.’
‘They couldn’t have hoped for much,’ said Corrigan. ‘Poor as a rat, most of these parish priests.’
‘They battered his head in—to make sure,’ mused Lejeune. ‘One would like to know why.’
‘Two possible answers,’ said Corrigan. ‘One, it was done by a vicious-minded young thug, who likes violence for violence’s sake—there are plenty of them about these days, more’s the pity.’
‘And the other answer?’
The doctor shrugged his shoulders.
‘Somebody had it in for your Father Gorman. Was that likely?’
Lejeune shook his head.
‘Most unlikely. He was a popular man, well loved in the district. No enemies, as far as one can hear. And robbery’s unlikely. Unless—’
‘Unless what?’ asked Corrigan. ‘The police have a clue! Am I right?’
‘He did have something on him that wasn’t taken away. It was in his shoe, as a matter of fact.’
Corrigan whistled.
‘Sounds like a spy story.’
Lejeune smiled.
‘It’s much simpler than that. He had a hole in his pocket. Sergeant Pine talked to his housekeeper. She’s a bit of a slattern, it seems. Didn’t keep his clothes mended in the way she might have done. She admitted that, now and again, Father Gorman would thrust a paper or a letter down the inside of his shoe—to prevent it from going down into the lining of his cassock.’
‘And the killer didn’t know that?’
‘The killer never thought of that! Assuming, that is, that this piece of paper is what he may have been wanting—rather than a miserly amount of small change.’
‘What was on the paper?’
Lejeune reached into a drawer and took out a flimsy piece of creased paper.
‘Just a list of names,’ he said.
Corrigan looked at it curiously.
Ormerod
Sandford
Parkinson
Hesketh-Dubois
Shaw
Harmondsworth
Tuckerton
Corrigan?
Delafontaine?
His eyebrows rose.
‘I see I’m on the list!’
‘Do any of the names mean anything to you?’ asked the inspector.
‘None of them.’
‘And you’ve never met Father Gorman?’
‘Never.’
‘Then you won’t be able to help us much.’
‘Any ideas as to what this list means—if anything?’
Lejeune did not reply directly.
‘A boy called at Father Gorman’s about seven o’clock in the evening. Said a woman was dying and wanted the priest. Father Gorman went with him.’
‘Where to? If you know?’
‘We know. It didn’t take long to check up. Twenty-three Benthall Street. House owned by a woman named Coppins. The sick woman was a Mrs Davis. The priest got there at a quarter past seven and was with her for about half an hour. Mrs Davis died just before the ambulance arrived to take her to hospital.’
‘I see.’
‘The next we hear of Father Gorman is at Tony’s Place, a small down-at-heel café. Quite decent, nothing criminal about it,
