‘Not a very exciting life, was it?’
Jude looked up in surprise to see Miss Hidebourne edging into the room with a tea tray balanced precariously on her arthritic hands. Everything must have been prepared in the kitchen, even the kettle boiled, before her guest arrived.
As Miss Hidebourne teetered towards her, Jude watched with trepidation. The entire contents of the tea tray looked as if they might at any second be tipped into her lap, but she knew better than to cause offence by making an offer of help.
By sheer will-power, Miss Hidebourne managed to secure the tea tray on the small table by her chair. Then she sat down, with a smile that suggested the exercise had been no effort at all.
‘Now you’ve moved the file, you’ll be able to use the small table beside you,’ she said, once again reminding Jude of Carole.
While tea was solemnly dispensed, Jude picked up on Miss Hidebourne’s entering remark. ‘You say your brother’s life wasn’t very exciting.’
‘Would you describe a life spent administering meaningless sacraments to uncomprehending parishioners as one packed with interest, Miss Nichol?’
‘It certainly wouldn’t suit me, but then I don’t have faith.’
‘Nor did Gerard,’ Miss Hidebourne almost snapped. ‘He started with faith. His early letters glow with faith. But the Great War started the rot. He lost so many friends . . . so many friends . . . not to mention two brothers.’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know.’
‘Why should you? Don’t worry, I never met them. I was born after the War. 1919. My parents’ attempt to replace part of what they’d lost, perhaps. Or maybe just a late surprise. Either way, it was a big responsibility for me. Imagine the pressure of going through life with that over your head all the time.’
‘It can’t have been easy.’
‘You have a gift for understatement, Miss Nichol.’
‘So your brother lost his faith. What about you, Miss Hidebourne? You were presumably brought up a Catholic too?’
‘Yes, and I lost mine. In my early twenties, inevitably, when contraception became an issue. I am still sometimes appalled when I stop and think how much harm, how much total destruction, the Catholic Church must have caused in human sexual relationships.’
‘But they say, “once a Catholic . . .” ’
‘And I believe, Miss Nichol, they intend the tag to be finished “ . . . always a Catholic”. Not in my case. For me, being “Once a Catholic” has made me daily more aware of what a pernicious creed it is.’
Miss Hidebourne, Jude had by now pieced together, was not a woman who had problems about speaking her mind.
The old brown eyes focused on her guest. ‘Do you have a religion?’
‘I have . . . beliefs.’
Miss Hidebourne shrugged them quickly away. ‘Not the same thing at all. Beliefs don’t have rules. With beliefs you can change them at will. They don’t have a whole meaningless superstructure of rituals and rewards and punishments.’
Jude did not entirely agree, but she didn’t take issue. ‘So are you saying you think your brother’s life was wasted?’
‘Absolutely. He devoted his life to something for which he had no aptitude, and which for most of his life he didn’t even believe in. He was not a man with the common touch. As a result, for his parishioners he was always a kind of joke. And, because of Gerard’s choices, I am the last of the Hidebournes. When I die – and it won’t be long now – that will be the end of the family.’
‘Was this why you wanted your papers to be kept at the County Records Office?’
‘So that there’s something left, yes. Gerard should have married. He would have been much happier with a wife and children. And the name would have carried on. Don’t get me started on the subject of the celibacy of priests. A totally ridiculous principle, based on no scriptural authority at all, introduced first as an economic measure so that the Catholic Church would not be responsible for the upkeep of all the brats spawned by their staff, and the cause of more misery than . . .’
She caught Jude’s eye and, surprisingly, smiled. ‘As I said, don’t get me started on that . . . No, Miss Nichol, that is not why you are here, is it?’
‘Not really, no.’
‘The subject of the harm done by the Catholic Church must wait for another occasion.’ The old lady rubbed her misshapen hands together. ‘You said on the telephone you were interested in the letters to my brother from Lieutenant Hugo Strider.’
‘Yes. It’s in fact in relation to some research a friend’s doing on Esmond Chadleigh.’
‘Ah, another victim of Catholicism.’ She raised her hand mischievously, as if to curb her tongue. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not about to fulminate again. Hugo Strider, yes. He and Gerard met at Oxford. There weren’t that many Catholics there at the time, so they bonded deeply. Kept up a correspondence until Hugo’s death.’
‘When was that?
‘Early thirties. 1933 . . . 34 . . . I was little more than a child, but I remember hearing that Gerard had been terribly upset. Though, of course, Hugo Strider had never really been the same after the War. He was hideously injured at Passchendaele. Lost the power of speech and . . . I think his death was probably a long-delayed, but merciful, release. He died at Bracketts.’
‘Did he?’
‘Yes. Felix Chadleigh, Esmond’s father, offered him a home, and he went there after the medics had patched him up. Spent the remainder of his life at Bracketts. A miserable time, if his letters to Gerard are to be believed.’
‘Miserable because of his physical sufferings?’
‘He hardly mentioned those. No, it was his conscience that hurt him.’ The old woman smiled sardonically. ‘I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that guilt is another destructive speciality of the Catholic Church.’
‘So I’ve heard. But tell me, Miss Hidebourne, what had Hugo Strider got to be guilty about?’
‘He felt guilty about his involvement in the death of Felix Chadleigh’s son, Graham.’
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Little light spilled down from the chamber above, but Carole Seddon’s torch revealed the dimensions of the tiny secret cell. Pointing it upwards, she could see, through the cobwebs, a fine ceiling decorated with carved Tudor roses. On the floor lay a tattered rug, a candle in a holder, a couple of old books and an empty biscuit packet. Unlike everything else in the space, these were not dusty, and Carole felt certain they were signs of Mervyn Hunter’s recent occupation . . . though how he’d come to know of the hiding place she had no idea. As she had the thought, however, she recalled Jude mentioning Mervyn’s reading about the house’s history in the Bracketts library. Maybe he’d found some reference to the double Priest’s Hole and investigated it for himself.
The conjoined floorboards which had seesawed to allow her entrance stayed in the open position, and she had to make her way around the downward-projecting end to see what lay on the far wall. As she passed, she turned the torch-beam up towards the bar or beam on which the boards pivoted.
A solid iron rod stretched the whole width of the ceiling. It was fixed in place by huge metal fittings whose ornate working, picking up the rose motif carved on the beams, suggested they dated from the time of the house’s construction. A very simple, but neat and effective feat of engineering.
Though not given to flights of the imagination, Carole couldn’t help wondering how many Catholic priests had quaked down here in desperate prayer, listening as the sound of searching footsteps boomed around the house. Her excitement was diluted with uneasiness.
Nor could she quite suppress a shudder of claustrophobia. Locked down here, she thought, you’d be completely at the mercy of someone else. When the floorboards were back in place, the locking mechanism could only be released from above. The cell would be the perfect place in which to immure an unwanted visitor. She wondered if its history had encompassed the slow death of some unfortunate who had offended one of Bracketts’ owners.