“A long night/ Father da Costa said gently.
“Time to think,” Fallon said in a strange, dead voice. “About a lot of things.”
“Any conclusions?”
“Oh yes.” Fallon stood up and moved out into the rain. “The right place for me, a cemetery.” He turned to face da Costa, a slight smile on his lips. “You see, Father, I’ve finally realised one very important thing.”
“And what’s that?” Father da Costa asked him.
“That I can’t live with myself any more.”
He turned and walked away very quickly and Father da Costa moved out into the rain, one hand extended as if he would pull him back.
“Fallon,” he called hoarsely.
A few rooks lifted out of the tree on the other side of the churchyard, fluttering in the wind like a handful of dirty black rags, calling angrily. As they settled again, Fallon turned the corner of the church and was gone.
When Anna dosed the front door of the presbytery and went down the steps, she was instantly aware of the organ. She stood quite still, looking across the cemetery towards the church, head slightly turned as she listened. The playing, of course, was quite unmistakable. The heart quickened inside her, she hurried along the path as fast as she dared, tip-tapping with her stick.
When she opened the sacristy door, the music seemed to fill the church. He was playing Pavane for a Dead Infanta, infinitely moving, touching the very heart of things, the deep places of life, brilliant technique and emotion combining in a way she would never have thought possible.
He finished on a dying fall and sat, shoulders hunched for a long moment as the last echoes died away. When he swung round on the stool, she was standing at the altar rail.
“I’ve never heard such playing,” she told him.
He went down through the choir stalls and stood on the other side of the rail from her. “Good funeral music.”
His words touched the heart of her like a cold finger. “You mustn’t speak like that.” She forced a smile. “Did you want to see me?”
“Let’s say I hoped you’d come.”
“Here I am, then.”
“I want you to give your uncle a message. Tell him I’m sorry, more sorry than I can say, but I intend to put things right. You’ll have nothing more to worry about, either of you. He has my word on that.”
“But how?” she said. “I don’t understand.”
“My affair,” Fallon told her calmly. “I started it, I’ll finish it. Goodbye, Anna da Costa. You won’t see me again.”
“I never have,” she said sadly, and put a hand on his arm as he went by. “Isn’t that a terrible thing?”
He backed away slowly and delicately, making not the slightest sound. Her face changed. She put out a hand un-certainly. “Mr.. Fallon?” she said softly. “Are you there?”
Fallon moved quickly towards the door. It creaked when he opened it and as he turned to look at her for the last time, she called, “Martin, come back!” and there was a terrible desper-ation in her voice.
Fallon went out, the door dosed with a sigh and Anna da Costa, tears streaming down her face, fell on her knees at the altar rail.
The Little Sisters of Pity were not only teachers. They also had an excellent record in medical missionary work overseas, which was where Father da Costa had first met Sister Marie Gabrielle in Korea in nineteen fifty-one. A fierce little French-woman who was probably the kindest, most loving person he had met in his entire life. Four years in a communist prison camp had ruined her health, but that indomitable spirit, that all-embracing love, had not been touched in the slightest. Some of the nuns, being human, were crying as they sang the offertory; “Domiae Jesu Christ, Rex Glorias, libera aniraas omnium fidelium.. ”
Their voices rose sweetly to the rafters of the tiny convent chapel as Father da Costa prayed for the repose of Sister Marie Gabrielle’s soul, for all sinners everywhere whose actions only cut them off from the infinite blessing of God’s love. For Anna, that she might come to no harm. For Martin Fallon that he might face what must be done and for Dandy Jack Meehan….