The Janus Stone

‘Beautiful,’ says Hennessey gloomily, ‘yes, I suppose so. But it bores the hell out of me. People talk about seeing God’s hand in nature but, in my opinion, when you’ve seen one tree you’ve seen them all. Now, when I see a beautiful building and I think of how God has given man the wits to build it, that’s worth celebrating. Have you seen the Gherkin in London? Pure poetry.’

‘I’m a city boy myself,’ says Nelson cautiously, ‘but buildings don’t make me think about God exactly.’

Hennessey gives him a rather sharp look. His eyes are very light blue in a weather-beaten face. Intelligent eyes, watchful eyes. And, like his handshake, not particularly gentle.

He lowers himself onto the bench and stretches one leg stiffly in front of him. ‘So, Detective Chief Inspector Nelson, you said you wanted to talk to me about SHCH.’

Sacred Heart Children’s Home, Nelson works out silently. He hates acronyms. Whitcliffe, of course, loves them.

‘Yes,’ he says brusquely, ‘as you may know, the site is being developed. The plan is to build a number of luxury apartments.’

‘Dear God.’

‘And in the course of the building work a discovery has been made. A body. Skeleton to be precise, buried under the main doorway. It looks to be that of a child.’

Nelson pauses. Silence, as any policemen knows, is the best way to get information.

But Hennessey, it seems, knows the same trick. He fixes Nelson with his cool, light-blue stare. For a few seconds, neither speaks. An elderly couple walk slowly past them and disappear through a rose-smothered archway.

‘We’re examining the bones now,’ says Nelson, admitting defeat. ‘It’s possible they predate the home, of course.’

‘It’s an ancient site, I understand,’ says Hennessey. ‘I had always heard that there was a church there once. I believe it had the reputation of curing lepers.’

A church. That archaeologist bloke had said a churchyard but, of course, it stands to reason that there would be a church there too. Also that, to Hennessey, the church would be the important factor.

‘Our forensic archaeology team,’ says Nelson, thinking that this is a rather grand way of describing Ruth, Trace and Irish Ted, ‘believe that the grave was dug fairly recently. Maybe when the doorway was put in place.’

‘The house was old in my time,’ says Father Hennessey mildly, ‘but I assume that you suspect the body was placed there within living memory.’

‘I assume nothing,’ says Nelson. ‘Just wondered if, during your years as principal, you ever had a child go missing. Or anything,’ he adds after a pause.

Hennessey gets up. ‘Let’s walk,’ he says. ‘I get stiff if I sit too long.’

They walk through the archway and between the raised flower beds. Hennessey lets his hand drift amongst the velvety blossoms. ‘Stupid things,’ he says. ‘Could never see the point of flowers.’

Nelson does the silent trick again and this time is successful. After a few hundred yards, Hennessey says, ‘Let’s get this straight, Detective Chief Inspector, there was never any abuse at SHCH when I was there. You can ask anyone. I’m still in touch with many of our former residents. They’ve all got good memories of their time with us. I know the fashion is to look for abuse wherever you see a Catholic priest but, in this instance, you will look in vain.’ He stops, frowning at a particularly vivid pink rose which is swarming up a low stone wall. ‘Nevertheless…’

Now we’re getting to it, thinks Nelson, careful to keep his face expressionless.

‘Nevertheless…’ Hennessey sighs. ‘Two children did go missing when I was principal. A boy and a girl. There was a huge search but we never found them. I’ve often wondered…’ His voice drifts off.

‘What were their names?’ Nelson gets out his notebook.

‘Black. Martin and Elizabeth Black.’

‘Ages?’

‘Martin was twelve and Elizabeth was five.’

Five. Nelson thinks of the little skeleton crouched under the wall.

‘When did they go missing?’

‘The early seventies. 1973, I think.’

‘Have you any idea why they ran away?’

Hennessey starts to walk again. They leave the rose garden and walk down the hill towards an ornamental lake. People sit on benches by the water but no one is speaking. Perhaps they are all praying, thinks Nelson. He is beginning to find the place rather spooky.

‘Martin was a bright boy,’ says Hennessey, ‘a very bright boy. Their mother had died and Martin became obsessed with finding their father, who’d gone back to Ireland. I think we all assumed that’s where the children had gone but, when we tracked the father down, he had no idea where they were. He hardly knew what day it was. He was an alcoholic, in a terrible state, but the police didn’t suspect him of any wrongdoing.’

‘And they dropped the case?’

‘Eventually. I paid a private investigator to go on searching but he came up with nothing. And we prayed, of course.’ He smiles, rather sadly.

‘Did you ever suspect that they’d been… abducted?’