Church of St Stephen, Fulham, London
Discharging himself from hospital, Nicholas made his way back to St Stephen’s, where Father Michael greeted him and ushered him inside.
‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine, fine,’ Nicholas replied. ‘Just food poisoning. I should watch what I eat.’ He changed the subject. ‘Anything happen here?’
The old priest shook his head. ‘Nothing. I was worried out of my mind when you didn’t come back from that meeting.’
‘It wasn’t Conrad Voygel after all. It was Sidney Elliott. Unbelievable. I collapsed and the bastard left me lying there.’
‘At least he left you alive,’ Father Michael replied. ‘Honor rang again. And Philip Preston—’
‘What did he want?’
‘I don’t know. He didn’t say.’ The priest replied, making them both some tea and putting the mugs on the table. ‘You don’t think it was deliberate, do you?’
‘What?’
‘You being ill. I mean, you don’t think—’
‘Someone poisoned me?’ Nicholas laughed. ‘No, I think I got felled by an under-cooked burger. This is one thing I can’t blame on the Catholic Church.’ He took a sip of his tea. ‘Did anyone come last night?’
‘I heard someone walking around. And the phone rang in the early hours. Same as usual.’ He looked at Nicholas. ‘When are you going to make the Bosch deception public? I’ve told you, I’ll help you in any way I can. Whenever you want to speak out, I’ll be right next to you. I promise I won’t go against my conscience this time.’
Nicholas hesitated for a moment, wondering if he should say the next words, then let them come.
‘Did you know what they were doing to Patrick Gerin?’
The old priest took in a breath, hobbled by regret. ‘I knew about the other boy.’
‘But not Patrick?’
‘No. I heard rumours about David Sullivan. I even mentioned it to Father Luke and Father Dominic, but they told me he was a difficult boy. Needed discipline, they said. He was going to be a good priest; he had to be obedient.’ Father Michael was stumbling on the words. ‘Patrick Gerin was another matter … he was … No, I didn’t know about him.’ The old priest paused again, glancing up at Nicholas. ‘They were just rumours – nothing concrete, just gossip. A year earlier some boy had lied about being mistreated at St Barnabas’s and we thought this was just more of the same. You can’t believe everything you hear.’
‘But you could have looked into it.’
‘Why didn’t you?’ Father Michael countered, catching Nicholas off guard. ‘You exposed the abuse – but if you knew about it all along, why didn’t you do anything earlier? Why wait until Patrick Gerin died?’
Nicholas looked away. ‘I think about that every day. I dream about it. Even in my dreams it’s always too late. I should have acted sooner. I failed—’
‘That time, but not now,’ the old priest replied. ‘You still want to expose the fraud about Bosch, don’t you?’
‘Not until the auction. When the chain goes up for sale there will be a lot of publicity and I want to use that. The press and the internet will report the sale of the chain – and then I’ll come forward with the Bosch papers. The proof of what was done to him. The proof of how the Catholic Church colluded.’ He took another drink of tea, feeling the warmth spread through him. ‘I failed a living boy, but I won’t fail a dead man. This time I won’t fail.’ He glanced at the old priest, his voice firm. ‘Let me do this alone.’
‘No!’
‘Don’t jeopardise your life. It’s not worth it, not worth the recriminations that would follow. You’ll suffer if you support me—’
‘And suffer if I don’t,’ Father Michael retorted. ‘I’m backing you, yes, but you’re the one in real danger. The Church will come after you – you know that.’
‘They haven’t stopped me yet.’
‘Not yet, Nicholas,’ the old priest said quietly. ‘Not yet.’