The Body Under the Bridge

by Paul McCuster

  Father Gilbert now paced the grounds around the church, his eyes moving back and forth from the well-tended grass and brick pavements to St Mark’s Church itself – its large, rough, grey stones and arches, the stained-glass windows. He occasionally glanced up at the tower. It was a formidable-looking Norman structure. Strong and beautiful, but not elegant. Local legend asserted that when the tower was added to the original church, its design was based on the Magdalen College tower in Oxford.

  He wondered how many people had used that tower for the purpose of suicide in the church’s thousand-year history.

  He drifted into “The Garden of Peace” – an area enclosed on three sides by tall hedges. It contained a stone statue of St Mark standing in a small bed of flowers, and a couple of benches meant for sitting and reflecting. The garden was meant to suggest seclusion, though how secluded a person might feel when surrounded by the traffic and shops and offices no more than fifty yards away, was a good question.

  St Mark’s was an anomaly, a funny little island in the middle of Stonebridge. The grounds had once spread out on all sides for a full six acres. Then came the inevitable sell-off of land as the church needed money to pay its bills. The bustling High Street of modern shops stretched past the front of the church, on the west side. A shopping centre with its vast car park appeared within a stone’s throw on the north side. A two-storey office building loomed on the east side. The only patch of land held back from commercial use was the graveyard on the south side, enclosed by a tall wrought-iron fence with spear-tipped posts evocative of many classic horror films. Father Gilbert once asked in a homily if the fence was meant to keep people out or keep them in. For that he received a polite chuckle publicly and a few complaints about bad taste privately.

  Father Gilbert sat down on one of the benches, hunched over, and rested his arms on his knees, the medallion still held tightly in his hand. Through the entrance to the Garden of Peace, he could see the flowerbed at the base of the tower. That’s where the man would have fallen. He imagined the body jammed between the rough grey stones of the church wall and Mr Urquhart’s daffodils.

  Father Gilbert lifted the medallion for a better look. The gold was tarnished and flecked with mud. A lozenge-shaped red jewel sat in the centre. On the bottom, near the edge, was the head of a bird – at least, Father Gilbert assumed it was a bird – with branches moving up from the head to encircle the gem. The shoots of the branches sprouted round leaves. There were specks of white within the gold and he wondered if they might be small diamonds.

  He turned the medallion over. The image on the back was upside down from the image on the front. To the left of the jewel was a man hanging on a cross – presumably Jesus – and to the right was an inscription that was too worn to make out. He frowned and turned the medallion around, then back and forth.

  A voice called from the other side of the hedge. “Father?”

  “I’m here,” he said to the voice.

  Father Hugh Benson, the new curate at St Mark’s, rounded the wall of green. The young priest wore an anxious expression on his normally cheerful face. Clearly he had spoken to Mr Urquhart or Mrs Mayhew. Father Gilbert had forgotten that the young priest would also need an explanation.

  Benson stopped in front of Father Gilbert. “Are you all right?”

  “Who did you talk to – Mr Urquhart or Mrs Mayhew?” he asked.

  “Both, actually.” He sat down on the opposite end of the bench. “Mrs Mayhew said you had walked out of your office looking terribly worried. She asked you a question, but you didn’t answer. You went up to the tower, for no apparent reason, and then shouted down at Mr Urquhart. Something about a man killing himself.”

  Father Gilbert shook his head. It certainly sounded absurd.

  “Was it a dream? You fell asleep at your desk?” Benson frowned, his jet-black eyebrows forming a straight line over his grey eyes. “Were you sleepwalking? It’s a bit frightening to think of you in a somnambulistic state on the church tower. You could have fallen.”

  “I’ve never been a sleepwalker,” Father Gilbert said.

  Benson scrutinized him. “Mrs Mayhew is afraid that you haven’t fully recovered,” he said – a reference to Father Gilbert’s recent extended time away in a monastery.

  “I was away on a sabbatical, not rehab.”

  “They said the Bishop sent you away to the monastery because of burn-out.” Benson hesitated. “You were dealing with the death of your mother – and other things.”

  “This has nothing to do with that.”

  Benson fell silent as if to concede that the argument wasn’t his to have. Then he said, “There is one thing, though. Mr Urquhart was wondering how you got through the door. He said the tower door is always locked and you didn’t use your key.”

  “He puts the extra hymnals away in the closet there after every service. There’s every chance he’d left it unlocked.” As he spoke, Father Gilbert also realized that it was then possible for someone – anyone – to access the tower without being noticed. That might explain how the medallion got there.

  Benson nodded towards the gold disc in Father Gilbert’s hand. “Is that it? The one from the roof?”

  Father Gilbert nodded.

  “May I see?” Benson asked.

  Father Gilbert handed it over. Benson studied each side for a moment, then turned it back and forth. “When the front image is right-side up, the back is upside down. Do you think it’s a mistake?”

  “It’s a terrible mistake if it is,” Father Gilbert said. “To put Jesus and the cross upside-down is extremely sacrilegious.”

  “Maybe it was meant to be flipped, like a coin.”

  “A medallion this size?” Father Gilbert countered. “The chain suggests that it’s meant to be worn around the neck.”

  “Or hung somewhere as a decoration.” Benson examined the chain. “Are these bits of cloth?”

  Father Gilbert took back the medallion and put on his glasses to look more closely. Fragments of brown cloth were stuck to the gold chain, easily mistaken for dirt.

  “What do you make of the symbols?” Benson asked.

  Father Gilbert lifted the medallion to catch the daylight better. “Well, the image of Jesus on the cross is ordinary enough – unless it was meant to be upside-down. I can’t make out the inscription.”

  The younger priest pointed. “What’s that thing on the other side? The head of a bird? Are those branches and leaves? Do they mean anything?”

  Father Gilbert held the medallion at one angle and then another, a realization dawning on him. “Those aren’t branches and leaves. They’re tail feathers. We’re looking at a peacock and its plumage.”

  “Symbolizing what?”

  Father Gilbert thought for a moment. “Peacocks have a variety of meanings in English history. Renewal, status, wealth. Early Christians thought they symbolized eternal life. Others considered them bad luck – because the ends of the feathers looked like eyes. Some called them ‘evil eyes’.”

  “So you had some kind of dream or a vision that manifested itself in a solid object.” Benson’s tone wasn’t sarcastic or even sceptical. It was just a statement.

  “The man in the tower said it wasn’t meant to be found,” Father Gilbert said. “He called it a curse. He seemed to think that leaving it with a priest might undo the curse.”

  Benson shook his head. “Whatever you experienced up there was certainly vivid. Are you sure you’re not on medication?” He eyed Father Gilbert with a playful smile.

  Mrs Mayhew stepped through the entrance to the garden. “Father? Bill Drake is on the phone for you,” she said.

  Father Gilbert looked at his watch.

  “No, you’re not late for lunch,” she said, anticipating his thought. “But he says it’s urgent.”

  * * *

  Father Gilbert went into his office and picked up the receiver. “Good morning, Bill.”

  “I’m phoning as a fellow member of the Stonebridge Historical Trust and a
friend of the current Lord Haysham. Your presence is required at the Haysham estate immediately.” Father Gilbert thought that if a voice could sound as if it was winking playfully, Bill Drake’s did. He wondered if Drake was setting him up for a prank.

  “Why?” Father Gilbert asked.

  “They found something,” Drake said.

  “Don’t be so cryptic, Bill. Who are they and what’s the something?”

  “They would be the workers who’ve been crawling all over the estate for the past few weeks – the ones who found the bridge,” he said.

  “Oh. Them.” Lord Haysham had come up with a controversial plan to turn a section of his estate into commercial property. He’d had workers in to drain a marsh as part of his extensive landscaping efforts. In the marsh they had unearthed an old stone bridge, possibly the original bridge after which the town had been named.

  “And they found what?” Father Gilbert asked. “The original village that went with the bridge?”

  “No. They found a body.”

  Father Gilbert tensed. “A body?”

  Benson, who had been lingering outside by Mrs Mayhew’s desk, now stepped to the door.

  “Actually, they found a foot,” Drake said. “They assume the foot is attached to a body. It’s under the peat and they don’t want to touch it until the police arrive. Lord Haysham wants you to come right away. Maybe your presence will calm the hordes. We’ve got the makings of a riot here.”

  “A riot?” Father Gilbert asked, then groaned. “Is David Todd there?”

  “Of course.”

  Father Gilbert sighed.

  “Hurry. You don’t want to miss the fun.” Drake hung up.

  Father Gilbert put the receiver down. He placed the gold medallion on the desk.

  Benson remained in the doorway, watching him.

  Father Gilbert came around his desk. “You drive.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Father Gilbert squeezed his large frame into the passenger seat of Benson’s Mini Cooper. “I don’t know how you can drive something the size of a pencil sharpener.”

  “Then let’s take your car.”

  “It’s in the garage.”

  “It’s always in the garage. In the two weeks I’ve been here I’ve never actually seen your car.”

  They drove out of the church car park and took the one-way system down the High Street of Stonebridge. The town was quintessentially English, with a mix of tea, pastry, and gift shops tucked between the more modern grocery, hardware, and clothes stores. Past and present, vintage and contemporary – England to its very core.

  Father Gilbert gazed out of the passenger window and considered how much Stonebridge had changed in the few years since he’d arrived. The outward spread of London commuters had reached this far south. The train from nearby Polegate made it a fairly easy ninety-minute journey to Victoria station. Those commuters needed homes to live in. And with those homes came the demand for shopping centres, cinemas, and all the other modern amenities. What was the town to do? Some people were all for development, others vehemently against it.

  “Anything I should know before we get there?” Benson asked.

  Father Gilbert adjusted his position in the seat. He looked at the younger priest. A handsome face, wavy black hair – he could have been an actor or a model. The girls in the parish had done nothing but swoon since his arrival. The church youth group had doubled in a fortnight.

  “The town council is in a civil war over the issue of land development. And Lord Haysham is at the centre of the current battle. He’s rather progressive in his views about how to manage his property.”

  “Progressive – how?”

  “Hundreds of acres of land to the south of Stonebridge belong to him,” said Father Gilbert. “Last summer rumours sprang up that he was going to sell off parcels to developers. The environmentalists complained. Haysham was coy, neither confirming nor denying their suspicions. People took sides. To those who want jobs and commerce in the area, Lord Haysham is a visionary. To those who want the land unspoiled, he is a villain.”

  “Which side are you on?”

  Father Gilbert ignored the question. He wasn’t interested in taking sides. “A few weeks ago landscapers and workers showed up at the estate, allegedly to drain a marsh. The environmentalists protested. Then the workers unearthed an old bridge.”

  “An entire bridge was in the marsh – and no one knew?” said Benson.

  Father Gilbert rested a hand on the dashboard. “Time and tide covered it well. And it was a stone bridge and perfectly positioned to be the original stone bridge the town was named after.”

  “That’s an incredible find,” Benson said.

  “The environmentalists went apoplectic,” Father Gilbert continued. “The area had to be preserved for environmental and historical reasons. They demanded the work should stop.”

  “And now they’ve discovered a body,” Benson said.

  “Actually, they found a foot.”

  “Oh.” A pause. “Whose foot? Lord Haysham’s? Had he lost one?”

  “We’ll find out together,” said Father Gilbert.

  A silence. Then Benson said, “Do you think this is connected to your vision?”

  “We’ll find that out together, too.” But Father Gilbert had a nagging feeling the events were linked somehow.

  * * *

  They drove out of Stonebridge proper and took a stretch of straight road that cut south between rolling green hills of farmland and forest. The late-morning sun washed the view in a white haze.

  Father Gilbert pointed. “The driveway for the Manor is just ahead, on the left. But go past that to the Old Stonebridge Road.”

  As they passed the turn-in for Haysham Manor, Father Gilbert could see the driveway stretch a hundred yards or so along an open lawn to the front of a Georgian-style mansion.

  Benson gave a low whistle. “That’s impressive. It must cost a mint to maintain.”

  “I would imagine so.”

  “Does Lord Haysham need to sell his land?” Benson asked.

  Father Gilbert shrugged. “We’ve never discussed his finances.” Old Stonebridge Road came up. He gestured. “There.”

  Benson signalled and turned onto a one-lane country road, lined with hedgerows on one side and a forest on the other. Then it angled to the left and snaked deeper into the forest. The sun all but disappeared behind a thick canopy of trees, the speckled light turning a murky grey with green hues.

  “Where the road ends there’s a clearing where you can park.”

  The clearing was hardly clear. Benson wove the Mini through a dozen cars that weren’t really parked as much as haphazardly abandoned.

  “What’s going on here?” Benson asked. “This can’t be about the body. Not already.”

  He found a spot between an elm tree and a rusted Range Rover covered with environmentalist stickers. Father Gilbert suspected the stickers were holding the car together.

  The two priests got out and walked beyond the clutter of cars to a path.

  A fresh-faced police constable with a wisp of post-adolescent moustache stepped from behind a tree. He was dressed in the standard white shirt with a black compact radio mic on the shoulder, a utility belt, and dark trousers.

  “Hello, Ian,” Father Gilbert said.

  “Hi, Father.”

  “Keeping everything under control?”

  “The natives are more restless than usual.” He glanced at Benson as if he might be one of the restless natives.

  “I’m the new guy,” Benson said.

  “So you are.” He turned his attention back to Father Gilbert and said with significance, “Lord Haysham is here.”

  “Is he?” Father Gilbert hoped to sound reasonably impressed. “Is that unusual?”

  A nod. “He must’ve come because of that body found in the marsh. Not that anyone would tell me.” He grinned. “They just called me in to stand around and look tough.”

  “You’re doing a fine job.” Father
Gilbert moved on.

  They followed the path through the woods. In the distance, Father Gilbert could hear the low growl of an engine – the pumps to drain the marsh, he suspected. The forest opened to a small meadow. A crowd was gathered. A few placards were held up with scrawled slogans like Stop The Destruction and Save Our Heritage. From the clothes and styles of hair, Father Gilbert assumed most of the participants had skipped their university classes to be here. Voices rose in a heated argument.

  Father Gilbert circled around the crowd. Two men stood in the centre, both shouting, neither listening, and the crowd stood watching as if the encounter might come to blows. Yet there was something about it all that seemed well practised.

  Benson seemed to have the same feeling and asked in a low voice, “What are we watching? It reminds me of a pro-wrestling match on the telly.”

  Father Gilbert tipped his head towards the first contender, a stocky round-faced man with carefully styled curly brown hair, in his forties. “That’s David Todd. You may remember him. He was on the church committee that interviewed you for your job.”

  Todd always had the look and energy of a man who had an agenda for his life – and he had fallen behind somehow. Every day was a struggle to catch up. He always walked like a man who had somewhere better he needed to be.

  Father Gilbert nodded towards the other man – tall and slender with strawberry-blond hair and a classically pale English complexion. He was wearing high leather boots over his trousers and a white shirt under a waterproof jacket. “And that’s the current Lord Haysham.”

  David Todd was shouting. “The bridge is of great historical importance. You can’t simply destroy it as if—”

  “I’ve said nothing about destroying the bridge,” Lord Haysham shouted back. “Why do you assume that I—”

  “Your entire record in the area of conservation and preservation is atrocious. It’s immoral and unethical that you—”

  “I haven’t done anything that—”

  “It’s been your family’s legacy to disregard the needs of the people around you—”