Page 32 of Cruel Hearts

I pulled open the drawer and reached for the stack of letters. Mr. Burgh lowered himself onto the edge of the bed, looking around as though he hadn’t been inside the room since Mother had run away. Maybe his wife had been the one to open Father Neapolitan’s final message and place it with the others. From the look on Mr. Burgh’s face, he had no idea what I was saying.

After rifling through the pile for the incriminating letter, I thrust it into his hands.

Mr. Burgh’s eyes roved the paper. He flipped it over to read the back and raised his head. “Abigail never confided in me.”

“Why not? You could have expelled him.”

He shook his head. “This is the sort of thing she would have told her mother.” His face tightened with anguish. “They probably didn’t want to create a scandal that would prevent me from becoming the headmaster.”

My mouth dropped open. “What?”

“I took the position at the beginning of the spring term of that year when Lord Liddell ascended to the Archbishop of Glasgow.”

“But what about after Mother ran away? Didn’t you come here to investigate?”

His shoulders drooped. “I couldn’t stand to go into this room. Your grandmother wept in here for hours after Abigail left.” He swallowed. “All I know about that time was that Abigail had gotten pregnant and stole a Liddell family ring to pawn for an abortion.”

“Oh.” Now I felt like a shit for dredging up past hurts. Mother had only recently rejected the poor man in the police station. He probably blamed himself when the only person at fault was creepy Father Neapolitan.

“What makes you think Billy Hancock is your father?” he asked in a tight voice.

“It doesn’t matter.” I placed the pile of letters back in the drawer. Father Neapolitan just slithered to the top of my shit list.

Mr. Burgh reached out and grabbed my hand. “This is important. To both of us. Now, please, show me what you found.”

I examined his face. His deep worry lines and red-rimmed eyes told me his heart had shattered all over again, but the encouraging smile said he wanted to uncover the mystery as much as me. Maybe he also needed closure.

“Here.” I picked up the relevant letter, handed it to him, and looked through the photo album for the one of Mother and her friend flanking a young Billy Hancock.

Mr. Burgh scanned the contents of the letter, then he tapped the date. “How do you know this London thug was—”

“Take a look at this.” I placed the photo of Billy Hancock on top of the letter.

“Are you sure this is your stepfather?”

“I saw that face every day for the first thirteen years of my life.”

Mr. Burgh shook his head. “Of all the boys I suspected was your father, none of them included someone she had met at a Glasgow weekend. If Abigail hadn’t gone on to marry Hancock, I might not have believed this.”

“Yeah.” I pursed my lips. Right now, I didn’t know which was worse, having Billy Hancock as a birth father, or the Reverend Rapist. “We need to do something about Father Neapolitan.”

“I will go through the school files. Regardless of whether I find a record of an investigation, I’ll speak to the archbishop and see what he remembers.”

“We should confront Father Neapolitan on Sunday.”

“Don’t.” He placed a firm hand on my shoulder. “If what your mother has accused him of is true, we won’t give him time to work up a defense. Leave him to me, alright?”

I stared into Mr. Burgh’s hard eyes and nodded, not feeling an ounce of confidence that I’d be able to stay away from the chapel on Sunday, let alone keep my mouth shut.

* * *

Over the next five days, I poured over Miss Martin’s notes and taught myself some of the couture techniques she had documented during her time at Dior. With the help of my Fashion teacher, Maeve, and Alice, the girl who came in to clean Mr. Burgh’s quarters, I created both a new winter coat and a tuxedo dress to replace the one Elizabeth stole.

On Sunday morning, thoughts of Father Neapolitan woke me from a fitful sleep. I sat up in my four-poster bed, staring out into the balcony. Mr. Burgh hadn’t found any notes in Thomas Neapolitan’s files about accusations of sexual assault, and he also hadn’t been able to get hold of the archbishop.

I swung my legs out of bed, grimacing at the chill in the air, and shouldered on a thick dressing gown. Everything smacked of a cover-up.

After slipping on a pair of flip-flops, I padded out of the room, into the hallway, and down the stairs. No matter how much I tried to blot things out with work and studies, recent revelations had burrowed under my skin and festered.