“No, no—no, that’s very kind of you, but not that kind of help.” Maisie explained her need to view the church records of baptisms.
“Come this way. I can see this is very urgent. How far into the past do you want to go?”
“Let me see—to about 1910, so let’s say a year or two either side.”
Father Bonhomme led Maisie to a wood-lined room that was small, cold, and smelled of dust and foxed papers. He opened a tall cupboard and took down a substantial leather-bound ledger, some three inches thick—Maisie could see him strain to lift it. It must contain a record of births from the parish and beyond extending at least a century into the past, she thought. The priest let it half fall onto the table, leaned forward to locate the red ribbon marker, and opened it to the most recent page. Each birth had been entered in a fine Italic script, naming the child, the date of birth and of baptism, along with names of the parents, grandparents, and godparents. He leafed back through the pages.
“Here we are. Nineteen hundred and eight. You can start there.”
Father Bonhomme stood next to Maisie as she ran her fingers down the list of names, until she reached the surname she was looking for. She held her breath, looked away from the ledger, and closed her eyes.
“You do not want to see what you came to see. Is that it?” asked the priest.
“Yes. I’m afraid it is.” She met his eyes. “Father, I am an investigator. I am searching for someone I believe has taken the lives of others. This is always a troubling moment for me, when I am close to the perpetrator of a terrible crime, yet in possession of the knowledge that something equally dreadful must have happened to that person—and I must know what it is, otherwise I cannot draw my work to a satisfactory conclusion.”
Bonhomme nodded. “And you are seeking your own absolution, for in revealing a man who has taken life, you might also send him to his death.”
“I have to know everything. And though I can see a name here, and I have my finger on it at this very moment—not quite the name I want, but I know what I am looking at—I have much more to do. I have to discover the why. I have to find out what leads a person to do such a thing.” Maisie felt hot tears of frustration rise up, flooding her eyes.
Bonhomme was silent, then spoke in a low voice. “The confessional is a sacred place—”
Maisie shook her head, pulling a handkerchief from her pocket and pressing it against the corners of her eyes. “I don’t believe it—surely you are not going to hide what you know behind the secrecy of the confessional.”
The priest sighed, then looked up towards the ceiling, as if his God were sitting ready to judge. “I have information I was given outside, away from the confessional, though it has been argued that any confession made to a priest is sacrosanct.” He brought his attention back to Maisie. “It would have been over a year ago—perhaps a year and a half. I came out of my church and was met on the steps by a man I had never seen, not one of my parishioners. He did not want to come in, but it seemed to me he wanted to talk—so we passed the time of day, commented on the weather, and he asked about the repairs. The church was shelled in the war, and we had spent many years gathering funds to rebuild—that part of the church was covered with scaffolding on the day the visitor came. His name was Carl Firmin, and he had been baptized in the church, though he said he had lost his faith, that he had seen too much in life.”
“I can understand that,” said Maisie.
“And though I am a man of God, so can I. I knew I could not, at that moment, bring him back into the arms of the Lord, but I also knew that as a man, I had to listen to him.”
The priest had drawn breath to continue when Lawrence entered the room, pulling back the curtain with an energy that Maisie thought might bring down the brass rail holding it up.
“Excuse me, I don’t want to get blasphemous or anything, but you’ve been far longer than the promised five minutes.”
“I beg your pardon. Lawrence, I will be another two minutes. Please leave, and I will be out.” Maisie felt herself biting back her frustration. She was so close.
Lawrence held up his wrist, pointed to his watch, and said, “Two minutes, or God knows how I will get you back to England.” He turned to the priest. “Sorry about taking his name in vain, and all that.”