Haunting in Hartley (Haunting Clarisse Series Book 2)

Chapter One

Father Grimaldi was sent to the basement to fetch an antique cross made of eighteenth-century mahogany. It was an ornate, intricate design that was carved by a skilled artisan of the time. Nobody explained to him why they suddenly needed this cross—it had been locked away for almost a decade, out of sight and out of mind—nor did he question the purpose of it being resurrected. But it did cross his mind. He did not envisage any special religious ceremony upon which it might serve a purpose. Easter had just passed, so now was the quiet season for religious events on the calendar.
A deacon of the Catholic Church for over a decade, Father Grimaldi was never too far away from controversy—sent to the backwaters of the Australian bush for ruffling the feathers of his superiors. They had run out of patience with him in Europe, as his superior intellect regularly got him into conflicts with the conservative bishops. He was not savvy with his diplomacy, and they had had enough of his opinionated points of view. Consequently, he had been assigned to a controversial orphanage for young, deprived souls in the town of Hartley, New South Wales. And it was not any type of orphanage. This building of Georgian architecture also had its imbroglio and decadence—a shady past that had drawn the attention of the Church in Rome.
The poor, young children that this orphanage was empowered to secure their upbringing were the troubled youth of society, all tumbled into one great institution. Misfits, offenders, and those with learning difficulties plagued this unfortunate home for the deprived. But someone had to look after them, and so it was the Catholic Church, through God, underwritten with their care.
Saint Bernard’s Church and the presbytery, built in the 1850s, was the home of the priests responsible for carrying on the word of God in this rural outpost that was one hundred and forty-eight miles north of Sydney. It was not a desired place of preference for a career priest, however.
Although Father Grimaldi was not happy with his posting, he had to endure it for the next year. The bishops thought it would serve as a time of reflection, for his personality and behaviors, and then he could return to Europe, a different man. But he was fortunate to have a sister who had migrated to New South Wales many years ago with his niece and, by a stroke of coincidence, they lived not far from Hartley. Knowing he had family nearby lessened the burden of being posted on the other side of the world.
He admired the architecture of Saint Bernard’s Church and the French influence. He liked the distinctive French-style, reminiscent of his time in Europe, traveling across many French provincial towns before becoming a priest. Strangely, although he was far away from Europe, the style of Saint Bernard’s made him feel at home, providing a respite that he needed.
Although it was 1936 and the church was showing signs of ageing, the solid, colonial, pale sandstone structure had stood the test of time. It had been built with a distinctive presence, like most Catholic Churches; not necessarily for practicality but to stand the test of time for the Glory of God. It had been constructed in God’s name by the local stonemason, Alexander Binning, possibly one of the best stonemasons in the country at the time.
The church was named after Saint Bernard of Clairvaux, a monk and doctor of the Catholic Church. Saint Bernard had been a missionary and had opened new frontiers through his preaching of the faith in remote communities. His saint name aptly was chosen for the town of Hartley, an outpost in a new land—Australia.
Father Grimaldi was different than the long line of Irish priests who had successively occupied the presbytery since the church had officially been built in 1836. The other Irish priests had been sent to assist local Irish convicts and convert them to God’s ways, to do away with their criminal pasts and forge a new living, in a new world, far away from their life of decadence. He was regarded an outsider by the other priests, and there was skepticism whether he would conform to their ways. Too outspoken and intolerant in his way of thinking. What they didn’t want was an overeducated man with a degree in psychology to influence their pitiful and dreary daily existence.
With his brass skeleton key in his right hand and a gas lamp in the other, he stepped into the dark basement then descended the croaky, timber stairs. They squeaked and felt unstable beneath his feet, forcing him to lean on the ornate metal railing. This deluded underground basement had not seen visitors for years.