‘I’m his niece, Mary,’ she said. ‘Uncle Michael’s not due home just yet. He was on a night shift.’
‘A night shift?’ Devlin asked.
‘Yes, on the cabs. Ten till ten. Twelve hours.’
‘I see.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Another hour and a half then.’
She was slightly uncertain, unwilling to ask him in, he sensed that. Instead she said, ‘I don’t think I’ve seen you before.’
‘Not surprising and me only just over from Ireland.’
‘You know Uncle Michael then?’
‘Oh, yes, old friends from way back. Conlon’s my name. Father Harry Conlon,’ he added, opening the top of his dark raincoat so that she could see the dog collar.
She relaxed at once. ‘Would you like to come in and wait, Father?’
‘I don’t think so. I’ll take a little walk and come back later. Could I leave my suitcase?’
‘Of course.’
She unlocked the kitchen door. He followed her in and put the case down. ‘Would you know St Mary’s Priory, by any chance?’
‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘You go along Wapping High Street to Wapping Wall. It’s near St James’s Stairs on the river. About a mile.’
He stepped back outside. ‘The grand view you have here. There’s a book by Dickens that starts with a girl and her father in a boat on the Thames searching for the bodies of the drowned and what was in their pockets.’
‘Our Mutual Friend,’ she told him. ‘The girl’s name was Lizzie.’
‘By God, girl, and aren’t you the well-read one?’
She warmed to him for that. ‘Books are everything.’
‘And isn’t that the fact?’ He touched his hat. ‘I’ll be back.’
He walked away along the terrace, his footsteps echoing on the boards and she closed the door.
From Wapping High Street the damage done to the London Docks in the Blitz was plain to see and yet the amazing thing was how busy they were, ships everywhere.
‘I wonder what old Adolf would make of this?’ Devlin said softly. ‘Give him a nasty surprise, I shouldn’t wonder.’
He found St Mary’s Priory with no trouble. It stood on the other side of the main road from the river, high walls in grey stone, darkened even more by the filth of the city over the years, the roof of the chapel clear to see on the other side, a bell tower rising above it. Interestingly enough the great oak door that was the entrance stood open.
The notice board beside it said: ‘St Mary’s Priory, Little Sisters of Pity: Mother Superior, Sister Maria Palmer.’ Devlin leaned against the wall and lit a cigarette and watched. After a while a porter in a blue uniform appeared. He stood on the top step looking up and down the road then went back in.
Below there was a narrow band of shingle and mud between the river and the retaining wall. Some little distance away were steps down from the wall. Devlin descended casually and strolled along the strip of shingle, remembering the architect’s drawings and the old drainage tunnel. The shingle ran out, water lapped in against the wall and then he saw it, an arched entrance almost completely flooded, a couple of feet of headroom only.
He went back up to the road and on the next corner from the Priory found a public house called The Bargee. He went into the saloon bar. There was a young woman in headscarf and slacks mopping the floor. She looked up, surprise on her face. ‘Yes, what do you want? We don’t open till eleven.’ Devlin had unbuttoned his raincoat and she saw the dog collar. Tm sorry to bother you. Conlon _ Father Conlon.’
There was a chain round her neck and he saw the crucifix. Her attitude changed at once. ‘What can I do for you, Father?’
‘I knew I was going to be in the neighbourhood and a colleague asked me to look up a friend of his. Father confessor at St Mary’s Priory. Stupid of me, but I’ve forgotten his name.’
That would be Father Frank.’ She smiled. ‘Well, | that’s what we call him. Father Frank Martin. He’s t priest in charge at St Patrick’s down the road and he ‘ handles the Priory as well. God alone knows how he manages at his age. Has no help at all, but then I there’s a war on I suppose.’