Death on the Holy Mountain (36 page)

The two men had never met before. Father Brady struck the Reverend Cooper Walker as rather coarse, with a crude but effective faith. The Reverend Cooper Walker struck Father O’Donovan
Brady as a Protestant intellectual – both words of extreme condemnation in his book and, taken together, virtually the same as heretical – who would be prepared to argue for tolerance
rather than rigour, for forgiveness rather than punishment, for turning the other cheek rather than inflicting the wrath of a jealous God. The Catholic Church in Ireland, Father Brady felt, would
never have reached the position of authority and power it held today if it had had truck with doubt or uncertainty.

In spite of their differences the meeting went well, the two men of God circling each other like boxers at the start of a fight, each reluctant to enter into what might be dangerous territory.
Sarah Cooper Walker fed them with tea and some of her special scones that always did well at church fêtes and harvest festivals. Surprisingly quickly, they agreed on a plan of campaign to be
put into action the following Sunday. Their methods might be different, but the message would be the same. As Father Brady walked back to his house, past the queue at Mulcahy and Sons, Grocery and
Bar, and the drinkers already assembling outside MacSwiggin’s, he felt he had scored a notable victory. He had brought the Protestants, even if only for one occasion, into the orbit of the
true faith. The Reverend Cooper Walker had too subtle a mind to think in terms of victory or defeat. He thought of the words of the Bible and felt he had little choice.

Mass in the Church of Our Lady of Sorrows in Butler’s Cross began at eleven o’clock. Father O’Donovan Brady had processed up the nave and genuflected. The
Father kissed the altar and the congregation rose.

‘
In nomine patris et filii et spiritus sancti
. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit.’ Father Brady felt oddly nervous as he began his service.

‘Amen’ said his congregation.

‘
Gratia Domini nostri Iesu Christi et caritas Dei, et communicatio Sancti Spiritus sit cum omnibus vobis
. The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ and the love of God and the fellowship
of the Holy Spirit be with you all.’

‘
Et cum spiritu tuo
, and also with you,’ came the response.

There was always a large congregation at Mass at eleven o’clock on Sunday mornings. At the front Pronsias Mulcahy sat in his pew with his wife at his side. She was a formidable woman in
her late forties, Mrs Mulcahy, dressed as ever on Sundays in a dark blue suit that had once been fashionable for a slightly younger clientele. Sylvia Butler and Young James had spotted her once
months before wearing this same suit on her way to the service. Sylvia had nudged James in the ribs and pointed to the grocer’s wife. ‘Would you say that was mutton dressed as lamb,
James?’ Young James carried out a lightning inspection. ‘No, I would not,’ he had replied quickly, ‘I should say that was mutton dressed as mutton.’

Behind the Mulcahys was a platoon of Delaneys, the solicitors, and the Delaney wives, all growing over time to look remarkably like their husbands. For the only time in the week
MacSwiggin’s Hotel and Bar was closed while the owner and his wife heard the word of the Lord. O’Riordan the bookmaker and his wife were there in their Sunday best, bets forbidden on
the Sabbath. The agricultural machinery man Horkan was there in a new suit that was slightly too large for him, and his wife in a spectacular hat. Behind the Catholic aristocracy was a great throng
of servants from Butler’s Court, farmers, blacksmiths, farriers, stable hands, horse dealers and small tenant farmers, most of them working land that belonged to Richard Butler in the Big
House. All the children had been sent to the Church Hall for instruction in Catechism and Commandments.

The Protestant congregation in the Church of St Michael and All Angels were singing a hymn written by one of their very own. The green hill far away was the work of a Mrs
Frances Alexander whose husband went on to become Archbishop of Armagh and Primate of all Ireland. The few, the very few in the church that day gave it their best.

The church had been built in times when the Protestant population of Butler’s Cross was much greater. If Father Brady had been faced with so few worshippers in Our Lady of
Sorrows he would have thought that a catastrophe must have struck, a second famine come to decimate his flock. Richard Butler was there, of course, Sylvia by his side. Several other members of his
family and friends come to visit managed to fill up a couple of pews. Johnpeter Kilross was there, feeling rather hung over, and Alice Bracken in a summer dress. There were some more Protestants
from outlying districts who travelled miles to come and show the flag at Sunday Matins. Behind them stretched row after row of empty pews, dust gathering on the wood, the prayer books unopened, the
hymn books abandoned.

At the back of the Catholic church the young men were trying to attract the attention of the girls who looked so unattainable in their Sunday best. Father Brady moved on.

The Reverend Cooper Walker had resolved to read the first lesson himself. He had changed the reading, which was meant to come from the Book of Isaiah, to one from the Book of
Samuel.

‘Second Book of Samuel, Chapter Eleven,’ he began. The lectern was magnificent with a great gold eagle on the top. ‘“And it came to pass in an eveningtide, that David
arose from his bed and walked upon the roof of the king’s house: and from the roof he saw a woman washing herself; and the woman was very beautiful to look upon.

‘“And David sent and inquired after this woman. And one said, Is not this Bathsheba, the wife of Uriah the Hittite?

‘“And David sent messengers, and took her; and she came in unto him and he lay with her”.’ The Reverend Cooper Walker looked directly at Johnpeter Kilross for a fraction
of a second. The young man’s face had turned bright red. The vicar carried on. ‘“And she returned to her house. And the woman conceived and sent and told David, I am with
child.”’

Maybe it was the colour of Kilross’s face or Alice Bracken hiding her head in her hands, but a current of excitement was running through the tiny congregation now. What was going on? Did
the vicar know something they didn’t? The Reverend Cooper Walker carried on, outlining the device used by David to have Uriah the Hittite killed in battle so Bathsheba might become his wife.
The vicar paused before the final words of the chapter: ‘“But the thing that David had done displeased the Lord.”’

At twenty minutes past eleven Father O’Donovan Brady climbed the steps to his pulpit. He stared at the young people whispering to each other at the back of the church.
He paused until there was complete silence in the Church of Our Lady of Sorrows.

‘The Devil is abroad in Butler’s Cross,’ he thundered to his congregation. ‘On our peaceful streets, in our community of Christian souls, Satan is doing his work. Let me
remind you of the seventh of God’s commandments, handed down to Moses on the mountain for the guidance and instruction of his people.’ Father Brady paused again. ‘Thou shalt not
commit adultery.’ He repeated it in case some of his flock had not heard, this time with a heavy emphasis on ‘not’. ‘Thou shalt not commit adultery. Do not get me wrong, my
friends.’ The priest had noticed some members of his congregation looking decidedly sheepish and wondered if Cathal Rafferty might not have been better employed on his snooping missions
closer to home. Still, there could always be other fishing expeditions later on. Sin was sin wherever it was to be found. ‘These are not members of our congregation here, devout Catholic
souls, who are breaking the laws of God. It is two Protestants who are staining the pure air of Butler’s Cross. Even Protestants claim to believe in the Ten Commandments. They too subscribe
to Thou shalt not commit adultery. But what do we find? We find two of their number doing the Devil’s work in broad daylight.’

At twenty-two minutes past eleven the Reverend Cooper Walker climbed into his pulpit. This was going to be one of the most difficult sermons he had preached in his entire
ministry.

‘In the first lesson this morning,’ he began, ‘we heard the story of David and his lust for Bathsheba. We also heard at the end how God was displeased by what David had done.
For he had broken not one, but two, of God’s commandments. Thou shalt not kill, by his plotting to have Uriah the Hittite, Bathsheba’s husband, killed in battle. And he had broken the
Seventh Commandment, Thou shalt not commit adultery.’ The vicar paused and looked round his little band of worshippers. Most of them looked bemused. But not all of them.

‘I have not come here this morning to name names,’ the vicar went on. ‘I do not think that would be helpful. But I ask each and every one of you here this morning to look into
your hearts and ask yourselves if you have broken the Seventh Commandment. It should not be a difficult question to answer.’

‘Johnpeter Kilross! Alice Bracken! These are the sinners who reside in Butler’s Court and who have broken God’s holy law and commandments!’ Father
O’Donovan Brady was in full flow, thumping the side of his pulpit. ‘These are the people, one a single man, the other a married woman with an absent husband, who have committed adultery
in a cottage on the Butler estate! So great is their contempt for their Saviour, they didn’t even close the curtains properly! These are the wretches who have brought disgrace unto themselves
and despair into their families! I bring you this message this morning. If you work in Butler’s Court, think before you serve them their food. Think before you are asked to wash their
garments, befouled and besmirched no doubt with the sins they have committed. If you are asked to clean their quarters think rather if they would not be better left in the squalor they deserve. If
you are a shopkeeper in the town think before serving them any sustenance that might give them strength to continue their sordid debauchery. Their behaviour might be fitting in the souks of Cairo
or the brothels of Bangkok: it is not fitting here, in St Patrick’s island.’ Father O’Donovan Brady stopped briefly. ‘This is the message of God’s teaching. Abide by
God’s commandments. Keep God’s word. Let not sin intrude into innocent lives. Let us work together to banish Satan from our midst for ever.
In nomine patris et filii et spiritus
sancti
, Amen.’

‘We are few, here in this land, we who belong to the Church of Ireland,’ the vicar went on. ‘I would not say a happy few, not today, nor would I refer to us
this morning as a band of brothers. But the fact that we are few, our numbers small, means that our responsibilities are great. We must be seen to lead virtuous lives. Our Catholic colleagues may
think we are in the wrong Church but they must not think we are not decent Christian souls, intent on leading as good a life as we can in this world in the hope of finding salvation in the next.
When people in our faith commit adultery, they not only demean themselves, they demean all of us. I would ask you to pray for the sinners, pray that they may sin no more and be brought back into
the light of God’s gracious mercy and forgiveness. If you have sinned, I would ask you to repent. Above all I would ask you to be mindful of Christ’s words to the woman taken in
adultery, “go thou and sin no more.”’

It was not long before the full scale of the disaster hit Butler’s Court. The servants, with their normal invisible sources of information, learnt very quickly what had
happened in the Protestant church. The steward, acting as spokesman for the footmen and the parlour maids and the kitchen staff, informed Richard Butler of the sermon of Father O’Donovan
Brady. The steward felt it was only fair. Richard Butler turned pale but merely thanked the man for his news. The soup that lunchtime came in a silver tureen and was ladled into the Spode bowls by
Richard and passed down to the guests. Butler himself carved the meat with a great German carving knife and handed it round. Disaster struck with the vegetables. These were being served from a
large silver salver by a pretty parlour maid of about twenty years who looked very correct in her smart black and white uniform. When she reached Johnpeter Kilross she simply walked straight past
him as if he wasn’t there. The same fate, accompanied by a slight toss of the head, awaited Alice Bracken. Everybody else was served in the normal way. The girl took the empty salver back to
the kitchens. There was complete silence in the dining room. The blank spaces on the walls where the paintings had been stared down at them. Alice Bracken burst into tears and fled the room.
Johnpeter Kilross followed her a moment later. Richard Butler stared helplessly at his wife. The rest of the meal was taken in complete silence. The boycott, or a form of boycott, had come to add
to the woes of Butler’s Court.

Richard Butler and his wife held a crisis meeting in his study after lunch. ‘Did you know this was going on?’ he asked her.

‘Certainly not. Do you know precisely what was going on?’

Richard Butler made a disagreeable face. ‘From what I was told just before lunch, Father O’Donovan Brady named Kilross and the Bracken female as having carried on in broad daylight
in the Head Gardener’s Cottage. He told his flock, if they worked here, that is, to think before they served their food or washed their clothes, that sort of thing.’