Page 33 of Cruel Hearts

I continued along the darkened hallway and down the back stairs to the basement. It was selfish to think of myself at a time like this, but I couldn’t help but wonder if Mother had so easily rejected me because I was a product of rape.

I pushed the kitchen door open and inhaled a cloud of warm, chocolate-scented air. Mr. Burgh sat at the table clad in a tartan dressing gown and striped pajamas, cradling a huge mug.

He gave me a sad smile. “Can’t sleep?”

I shook my head. “Part of me wonders if we’re opening up a can of worms.”

“We are.” He stood and walked over to the stove. “I remember once giving Thomas Neapolitan detention for stealing from another child’s satchel. That would have been in his school record, but when I checked there wasn’t a single reprimand.”

“You think someone’s covering up for him?” I lowered myself onto the wooden seat next to his.

Mr. Burgh picked up a saucepan from the stove and poured its contents into a mug. “It’s too early to come to conclusions, but something isn’t right.”

“Is there a record of who deleted his files?” I asked.

He shook his head. “We weren’t computerized until two years after I took up the reigns of headmaster.”

“Maybe he wasn’t bluffing when he wrote about having friends in high places,” I muttered.

Mr. Burgh walked back to the table and placed a mug of hot chocolate in front of me.

“Thanks,” I curled my fingers around the warm mug and inhaled the scent of chocolate and rum. “Isn’t it a bit early for alcohol?”

The corner of his lip curled into a smile. “I’m going to need a drink to stop myself from wringing that bastard’s neck.”

Later, Mr. Burgh made a breakfast of a square sausage that looked like corned beef, streaky bacon, fried tomatoes, mushrooms, baked beans, blood sausage and tattie scones, which were a fried potato pancake.

We ate in silence. Since our conversation in Mother’s bedroom, Mr. Burgh had seemed more pensive. Sometimes, I would catch him looking at me, as though trying to work out the identity of my father.

At the end of breakfast, I raised my gaze and met his startling, blue eyes. “Are you going to speak to Father Neapolitan today?”

He placed his fork on the side of his plate. “The only other person who knew what happened all those years ago is your mother, and she won’t communicate with either of us.”

“True.” I sipped from a mug of tea.

“Stay away from the service today,” he said, his voice soft.

My throat spasmed. We had talked about it already and I knew enough about Father Neapolitan to know he would find my presence distracting. Either I looked too much like Mother, or he dwelled too far up the Liddell’s asses to see me as anything other than Elizabeth’s enemy. With me around, Father Neapolitan wouldn’t give any straight answers.

“Alright, I won’t go inside.”

“Thank you.” He gave me a pat on the wrist and stood.

I watched him walk out of the kitchen, then turned to the empty plates.

* * *

Hours later, I stood at the side of the chapel in my new winter coat, wiping the frost off the window to get a better glimpse of Father Neapolitan. Mr. Burgh hadn’t asked me not to stand outside. Neither had he mentioned not confronting Father Neapolitan after the service.

The priest paced in front of a packed congregation for the last sermon of term in a cassock that looked more like a tailored coat. It was fitted around his torso and flared at the waist to swish around dramatically and expose a pair of shiny, calf-length boots.

Elizabeth sat on the front left pew with her mother and a new pair of male sycophants I didn’t recognize. Mr. Burgh sat on the right with Mrs. Campbell, Mr. McGarr and a few other members of staff.

Tiny snowflakes swirled in the wind and landed on the side of my cheek. I clenched my teeth, wishing I’d made the hood of my coat more like a balaclava.

“Causing trouble?” asked a snide voice from behind.

I turned around to meet Kendrick’s glower. “Pining for Elizabeth already?”