Edward Kane, Advocate in A Promise is a Promise: Chapter 11

The solicitor McAdam glowered behind his desk: “We only learned this morning, Mr Kane. You’ll recall that the office was closed yesterday, sir - bad oysters on my part, I’m afraid. And then Rose simply did not arrive for work this morning. Sent word to her lodgings. Cleared out. All of her belongings - gone.”

“And what of her brother, Timmy?”

“No sign. Vanished without a trace. The two of them.”

‘But, Mr McAdam, the hearing is tomorrow...”

Kane now realised that he could hear the sound of sobbing from the next room. McAdam nodded towards the door: “That’s mother. She is inconsolable. She treated that girl like the daughter she never had - and this is how she re-pays us. It all started after the other side lodged all of that Latin mumbo-jumbo...”

Kane frowned: “But the case...the hearing is tomorrow...”

McAdam waved him away: “Speak to the chap on the other side. Tell him that we will not proceed with our case if they do not insist on the expenses. That blasted girl has had enough of our charity for one lifetime...”

Kane ventured that the problem might not be Jim Sim - it might be the truculent old solicitor, Thomas Tack’s employer, Old Man Ferguson.

McAdam looked up: “Tell him that we accept that Old Fergusson has won this round. That might shut him up. The old ninnyhammer...”

*****

“Look at that weather, Mr K. Wouldn’t like to be out on a night like this, I tell you. Good job we got them old windurs sorted eh?”

Kane sat slumped in his chair.

Horse pointed to the kettle on the fire: “A nice cuppa tea, sir, That’s what you need. A nice, strong, cuppa tea...”

The kettle had been placed on the fire. And master and man waited for the kettle to peep. But at that point the silence was broken by a gentle knock on the door. Kane looked up. Horse looked at the mantel clock: eight-fifteen. “Well, if that’s the priest, sir, he’s early.” Horse went to answer the door. Then Kane heard a soft, lilting Irish accent and an umbrella being shaken. In came Horse, followed by a tall young gentleman in a sodden overcoat and wearing a clerical collar: “Mr Kane, this is Father Flanagan...”

Kane rose from the table and extended his hand: “How do you do, Father.”

“Mr Kane, I presume. I should first of all apologise for being early. I was nearby, and given this inclement weather...”

Kane smiled: “No apology required, Father. But I am afraid that the need for your attendance has been somewhat overtaken by recent events...”

The priest looked disappointed as Kane continued: “...you see, the case - the one in which we required the translation - will not be proceeding tomorrow due to circumstances beyond our control.”

Kane noted now that the priest’s disappointed face was, in reality, looking beyond him – through the window and out into the storm outside.

The young priest smiled: “You’ll forgive me, sir, for feeling a bit like Mary and Joseph when they were told: ‘There’s no room at the inn…’”

Kane laughed: “Forgive me, father. Let’s get that wet coat from off you and pour you a nice, strong cup of tea.”

*****

Fifteen minutes later, Kane, Horse and Father Flanagan were sitting around the fire, enjoying hot tea and toast with the priest drying his sodden coat on the fireguard. Kane sipped from his teacup: “Well, I apologise again, Father...”

“Believe me, your home is a welcome refuge on a wild night like this.” The priest finished his tea. “But I wonder, could I have a quick look at that parish register? It would be a nice memory of the auld fella.”

Kane got up, retrieved the court papers and handed them over to the priest. Young Flanagan studied the papers, but looked puzzled: “Well, I regret to say - this is not in my uncle’s handwriting. Far too neat!”

Kane explained that these had been copied from the originals by a professional copyist. The priest read through the papers and smiled: “Ah! It does indeed sound like the old man, now that I read them. It was his practice to record - how shall I say it - the more troublesome entries in the sacred tongue. Keep them away from prying eyes.”

Kane nodded over to Mr Horse: “My man Horse here thought that there might be some flowers in there somewhere.”

The priest nodded: “Very perceptive of you, Mr Horse. Herbs and flowers. The Old Father loved his garden, that’s for sure. So, you are right...and wrong”

The priest continued: “Certainly, at first blush, they may look like flowers and herbs, but some are, in fact, the proper names of the various parishioners. Look: ‘Marigold O’Hara’. - ‘Marigold’ is not a flower here, but a good old Catholic name.”

Kane sat back in his chair and laughed: “Oh, father, our case was full of flowers and herbs – ‘Rosemary’, ‘Daisy’ and, as I recall, ‘Violet’ was our client’s late mother, but I don’t see…”

The priest pointed to the page: “No, sir. ‘Violet’ is here alright. Here. ‘Hyacinthum’ - that’s the Latin name for ‘Violet’. This is the entry for her death here.”

Kane nodded: “Yes - she died in childbirth...with the boy, Timmy”

Young Father Flanagan studied the page and shook his head: “Not according to this, sir. It says here that the cause of death was ‘a viride languorem’ - a ‘Green Sickness’...”

Kane frowned: “What about the birth of Timmy Thomas?”

The priest looked at the papers again. He ran his finger down the page. He smiled and looked up: “Ah! Found it. Birth entry – but no related death of mother. A boy child: ‘Nomine Timothus Thoma’. And the boy was born...the day after the death Violet Thomas.”

Kane shrugged: “But that is not possible...”

There was silence in the room for a moment. It was broken by Horse; “So, if the woman ‘Violet’ is dead before the boy Timmy is born – who is the boy’s mother?”

Father Flanagan ran his finger across the page: “Yes, that would be – hah! The herb and flower: ‘Aposplenos’ and ‘Bellis Perennis...’”

The priest smiled and looked up - to be confronted by two puzzled faces: “Of course those are the Latin names. It would appear that the person who gave birth to the boy Timothy, was a lady with the Christian names... ‘Rosemary…Daisy’...”