Constable by the Sea by Nicholas Rhea Read Free Book Online Page B

such a good Catholic, he hung around the back of the church at lunch-time rather than enter to kneel and pray. But it was time to go.
    Before I left, Monsignor O’Flaherty showed me some of his books and explained that he collected watercolours by the local artist Scott Hodgson, hence his massive assortment of his, and other artists’, works.
    Within a week, two more offertory boxes had been broken into, each in parish churches in nearby moorland villages, and even I felt that Hedda could not be responsible for those crimes. He didn’t have a car, and I knew he had been at work during the material times. But he continued to hang around the back of St Patrick’s …
    Then came the day I decided to do something positive. It happened because late one Friday afternoon I chanced to be walking past the main door of the church, in full uniform, just as the small, untidy figure of Hedda was vanishing inside. He had not seen me, and so I crossed the street and climbed the wide and steep flight of steps up to the entrance.
    I must admit that my heart was beating; I wondered if I was about to arrest a thief actually in the act of committing his crime and found myself tiptoeing across the threshold and into the interior of the large building with its subdued lighting and hushed atmosphere. I had to find out what he was up to.
    The large, ribbed door was open, as it always was during the daytime hours, and I sneaked inside. I removed my uniform cap and found myself in the shadows of the rearmost part of the church, my soft-soled boots making no sound on the marble floor. And I could see Hedda at the table which bore the offertory box. He stood with his head bowed in the silence of the empty church. The box had not been touched, but he was gazing down upon it, both hands resting on the table.
    I did not know what to do. He had committed no crime, not yet. I waited. He stood there, almost as if in prayer, and thenturned to leave. He moved quickly, almost abruptly, and suddenly found himself face to face with me, my uniform buttons catching the multi-coloured lights of the stained glass windows.
    ‘Oh, Holy Mother of God, you gave me a fright, so you did, standing there like that,’ he said.
    ‘What are you doing, Mr Flynn?’ I asked.
    ‘Doing, officer? Nothing. I came to say a prayer or two, that’s all. Why should that interest the police?’ There was bravado in his voice, but I could hear the tremors as he spoke.
    ‘Mr Flynn. We have been having a lot of cash stolen from offertory boxes in recent weeks. We’re keeping our eyes open for the thief …’
    ‘My God, you don’t think I’m the thief! Oh, Jesus, now that is terrible. Really terrible … No, I’m no thief, sir, never in a million years. I mean, look, the box has not been touched …’
    ‘Then what were you doing?’ I had to press home my questions now. ‘If you were praying, why weren’t you kneeling in one of the pews?’
    He hung his head, and I saw tears in his eyes.
    His small, drawn face had a haunted look, a desperate look which I could see clearly now that I was so close to him. It did not take a clever person to realize that he was sorely troubled in some way. I still wondered if he had intended to break into the offertory box and whether his strong faith, coupled with the atmosphere of the church surroundings, had defeated him.
    ‘I need to talk to someone,’ he said, looking around, but we were alone in the vast emptiness of the church. ‘I wanted to talk to Monsignor but he thinks such a lot of Teresa.’
    ‘Teresa?’ I asked, hoping my voice sounded gentle and encouraging.
    ‘My wife,’ he said, wiping his eyes roughly with his sleeve. ‘She’s a … well, they say she’s a good, holy woman, you see, but …’
    ‘Go on,’ I spoke softly now, cognizant of the atmosphere in which we stood and increasingly aware that he was about to unburden himself of a massive problem of some kind. And nowI was sure he was no thief.
    ‘Well, you’re