More than the hedge had been leveled. On either side of the drive were the stumps of trees which had been felled. Why? he wondered. Surely Conroy couldn’t have wanted to burn them all?

The back door gave easily when he lifted the latch. A pair of Wellington boots stood apart under the scullery window. In the kitchen was a big, old-fashioned range and a single kitchen chair facing it. Out of the range protruded a charred stump of wood. He was just about to move on when he noticed on the floor some broken lengths of mahogany and a chopper beside them. Surely he couldn’t have been burning the furniture?

The kitchen garden, outside, was overgrown with nettles and ragwort. It wasn’t just neglected; it was spoiled with small heaps of cans and bottles among the weeds. My God, what a way to live. Like a tinker!

But tinkers would not have been so deliberate. The man seemed to have delighted in ruining the homeliness of the place. He seemed to have had a talent for destruction. (That was a good phrase; he might use it, if he had to report to the Bishop – and he might well have to report the damage, for the sake of Father O’Leary, Conroy’s successor.) But why, the Bishop would want to know, why should he fell trees, rip up furniture, scatter rubbish? What was the meaning of this – yes, another good phrase that the Bishop would appreciate – this scorched-earth policy?

He went down the hall, past the hall stand, crowded with coats and hats, and into a room with bookcases and a large dining table littered with papers. Several pipes lay about, with the ash spilling out of them.

He found the stipend book on the table and put it aside. He also found baptismal certificates, school forms, letters asking for marriage clearances, a thank-you letter for a job recommendation. Well, he would have to start tidying them up – that was his job. A pity O’Leary hadn’t been stuck with it! By rights, he should have been expected to take the rough with the smooth.

He got a shopping bag from the kitchen, the kind of brown leatherette bag that countrywomen used. It would be embarrassing to be seen carrying it through the streets of Castlemore, but there seemed to be nothing else in which he could take the stuff home with him.

He began to tidy the papers, sorting them into bundles to make them easier to deal with later. Among them was an old letter, cracked along the folds. Intrigued by the address – Casa del Cura, Santa Orosia – he took it up. It was dated the first of February, 1920, the year Conroy and he had been ordained, and it began, “Dear Frank.” Frank! Conroy’s name was Tom. And then he remembered that Frank was Conroy’s brother, the farmer in Rosnagree.