The Body Under the Bridge

by Paul McCuster

  And so it went.

  Father Gilbert noticed a man standing off to one side with a small digital voice-recorder to catch the action. Tim Patrick, with the local newspaper. Next to him was a photographer, also with the paper, snapping photos of the encounter.

  Benson leaned to Father Gilbert and asked, “Is this real or for show?”

  Father Gilbert shrugged. “Who knows any more? They probably don’t. Their families have been feuding for at least three centuries.”

  “About this land?”

  “About everything that strikes their fancy.” Father Gilbert tapped Benson’s arm. “There’s Bill Drake.”

  The meadow sloped upwards to a ridge. At the top a man stood half-turned to them. His hands were clasped behind his back. He looked intently towards a small valley that had once been a river but was now a patchwork of fields and marshes. On the opposite ridge of the valley, a couple of hundred yards away, Haysham Manor sat on what would have been the far bank of the river, its back to them. Father Gilbert imagined that, had the river survived, the house would have sported a small dock and a boat or two. Now, the land sloped down to the builders who were busying themselves around the old stone bridge at the far end of the marsh. Earthmoving tractors and other pieces of large equipment sat silent near the mouth of the bridge. A concentration of men in wading boots had formed around the bridge’s base. Presumably that was where the body had been found.

  “Ah! Gilbert!” Bill Drake called out as they drew close.

  A retired solicitor, Drake had become one of Father Gilbert’s best friends in Stonebridge. The sight of him always made Father Gilbert smile. “Hello, Bill.”

  Drake was an egg-shaped man, dressed in traditional English tweed. He had a wild crop of white hair on his head and a white goatee. His round face was free of wrinkles and his eyes had a youthful sparkle to them. He could have been a drawing in a book by Dickens. Someone from Pickwick.

  Drake put out his hand to Benson. “And you must be—”

  “Hugh Benson,” the priest said and shook Drake’s hand.

  “Gilbert’s new chauffeur.” Drake smiled.

  “His car is in the garage.”

  Drake laughed. “His car’s been in the garage for years.”

  “Why did you summon me?” Father Gilbert asked.

  Drake took a pipe from his jacket pocket. “Early this morning the workers found a wooden crate at the base of the stone bridge.”

  “A crate of what?” asked Father Gilbert.

  “Cannonballs.”

  “I thought they found a foot,” Benson said.

  “They did – later,” Drake said. He put the pipe in his mouth, lit it, and gave it a few decisive draws. “You see, there was a chain attached to the crate. The chain disappeared into the peat. So the men dug it out. That’s when they found the foot. The chain was attached to the ankle.”

  “Sounds like a Mafia hit,” Benson said.

  “Two corpses in one morning – eh, Gilbert?” said Drake. “Business as usual for you.”

  Father Gilbert frowned. Drake had heard about the tower, probably from Mrs Mayhew. His eye caught two men in suits among the workers by the bridge. One held a video camera. “Are the police there?”

  Drake pointed with the mouth piece of his pipe. “That would be our own Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson. Though we never know which is which. DS Sanders, and DC Adams is the one with the video camera.”

  “Well, I hope that’s over with,” a voice said from behind them. They turned. Lord Haysham came close, reaching a hand out to Father Gilbert, who shook it politely.

  “Good afternoon, my Lord,” Father Gilbert said.

  “Please,” Lord Haysham protested. “I’ve asked you before. Michael is my name.” He smiled and the lines around his face and mouth seemed deeper and more defined than usual.

  Father Gilbert gestured to Benson. “Michael, this is Hugh Benson, our new curate. Hugh, this is Michael Haysham. Or Viscount Haysham, to put it formally.”

  Lord Haysham shook the young priest’s hand. “Glad to meet a younger priest. Not enough young people in the church these days.”

  “A pleasure, sir,” said Benson, looking unsure about whether he should bow.

  “You’ve had your share of trouble today,” Father Gilbert commented. He peered back at the protesters. They were huddled around David Todd. The reporter and photographer continued to chronicle the event.

  “No worse than usual,” Haysham answered wearily. “Todd is making the most of it. He always does when the press are involved.”

  “It sells papers.” Drake took another drag on his pipe.

  “And you know that will sell papers,” Haysham said, turning his attention to the crew next to the bridge. “A foot attached to a crate of cannonballs. God save us!”

  “Presumably the foot is attached to a body,” Father Gilbert said.

  “I hope so,” said Haysham. “If the thing is in pieces, I’ll never get the marsh done. It was bad enough finding that bridge.”

  “Does anyone know how old the bridge is?” Benson asked.

  “I’ve got researchers trying to find out. Local maps and documents – that sort of thing,” Haysham said. “The foreman on the job thought it might be seventeenth century.”

  From behind them, a protester began a chant of “Save the land!” A few joined in, but it gained no momentum and petered out to an embarrassing mutter.

  A walkie-talkie crackled to life on Haysham’s belt. He fumbled with the catch, then lifted it up. “What is it, Dennis?”

  “The police would like you to come right away,” Dennis said. “The foot is definitely attached to a body.”

  In any context, it was a comedic declaration.

  “Right.” Lord Haysham waved to the three men. “Come along, gentlemen. I’d like you to witness this.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Father Gilbert and Benson trailed Drake and Haysham down to a well-worn path that cut across a higher section of the drainage area. The earth was soft and damp. They circled around to the worksite.

  Haysham barked instructions to the foreman, who arranged waders for everyone.

  As they dressed, the two police detectives walked over. The first was Detective Sergeant Sanders, middle-aged, with short-cropped hair and a narrow face. Detective Constable Adams was younger and boyish-looking. They were the Scenes of Crime Officers, or SOCO, as they were better known.

  DS Sanders said to Haysham, “The coroner should be here any minute.”

  Haysham gave a quick nod and moved off.

  Bill Drake introduced the two priests to the detectives.

  “Father Gilbert,” DS Sanders said. “What’s the word from Scotland Yard these days? Or have they stopped phoning?”

  “They stopped phoning. They don’t like how I dress.”

  Once the waders were put on, Father Gilbert and the rest moved close enough to see the crate of cannonballs, and the chain leading to a shackle clasped firmly around a brown, leathery-looking ankle and foot. The lower part of the leg was visible as well and Father Gilbert could see what looked like the bottom of a pair of breeches. Eighteenth century, he guessed. The leg disappeared into a thick, dark, reddish peat.

  “Why don’t you dig out the rest of it?” Haysham asked impatiently.

  “That’s the coroner’s job,” DS Sanders said. “We don’t want to mess up the crime scene.”

  Lord Haysham leaned in closer. “Well, it’s not a recent crime. That thing has been there for quite a while.”

  Father Gilbert gazed at the exposed leg, then allowed his eyes to trace the shape and position of the rest of the body. He moved close to DS Sanders. “Someone has already been digging here,” he said softly.

  “What do you mean?” DS Sanders asked.

  He pointed. “There, where the head might be. It looks like someone dug up the peat and then pressed it back into place.”

  DS Sanders squinted. “There’ve been men walking all over this place.”

  “
It’s not just trampled.”

  There was a stir of activity further up the hill. A middle-aged woman with dark hair streaked with grey made her way towards them. She wore a blouse of no fixed colouring and corduroy trousers that had faded from too many washings. She had donned the hip-high waders – which made her look twice her size.

  “Who is that?” Benson asked.

  “Carol Grant from the coroner’s office,” DC Adams replied.

  The two detectives walked off to greet the woman.

  “So,” Benson said. “I know how they do it on television, but how does it work in real life? What, exactly, is a coroner? Is she a doctor – forensics expert – or what?”

  “The ‘or what?’ may be more accurate,” Drake said. “You should explain, Gilbert. You have more experience with this than I do.”

  “That was years ago. I don’t know how they’ve changed the process,” Father Gilbert said. But Drake’s attention had already shifted away. Father Gilbert explained to Benson: “The coroner may or may not be a doctor or forensics expert at all. Often, the coroner is merely a legal officer, the equivalent to a judge, whose job is to take responsibility for the body and remove it to the morgue or a laboratory, depending on its condition or apparent cause of death. And, often, the coroner doesn’t come at all, but sends an underling to handle the case.”

  Carol Grant moved past them, with the two detectives following behind her. A messenger-style case was slung over her shoulder. She didn’t greet anyone, but went directly to the shackled leg.

  “She’s a bit mature to be an underling,” Drake said quietly to Gilbert.

  “Good Lord, it’s a bog body!” Grant exclaimed.

  There was muttering from the assembled crowd, as if she’d just used a rude euphemism.

  She pointed and said, “You see how the skin looks like wrinkled leather. That’s what happens to bodies found in peat. The peat mummifies them.”

  More mutterings, though Father Gilbert couldn’t tell if they were impressed or confused.

  “There was a case near Manchester,” DC Adams offered, looking pleased with himself. “Pieces of a body they found in a bog up there. They called it the Ludlow something-or-other.”

  “The Lindow Man,” Grant corrected him.

  Father Gilbert remembered the case. At first the Manchester police thought it was the body of a local woman – murdered and chopped up by her husband. It turned out to be the pieces of a man from the Iron Age.

  “Will you remove it, please?” Haysham asked.

  Grant shook her head. “We can’t simply dig it out. We need an expert to help us.”

  “What – a bog expert?” Haysham asked. “Where are we going to find one of those?” His tone suggested he anticipated further delays.

  “Professor Ben Braddock will know what to do. He’s at the University of Southaven.” She patted the sides of the waders. “May I borrow someone’s mobile phone? Mine’s in the car.”

  DS Sanders gave her his phone and, clenching it between her shoulder and cheek, she used her free hands to pull a square of plastic from the bag on her shoulder. She covered the exposed leg, foot, and ankle. “This is to prevent any further contamination. The exposure to the air could accelerate decomposition.”

  From the protesters on the opposite ridge came a distant chant. From an echo, Father Gilbert could make out that they were shouting, “Haysham, vandal! Haysham, vandal!”

  “Oh, spare me!” Lord Haysham cried out. Tossing up his arms, he walked away towards a group of workmen near the bridge.

  “What happens now?” Benson asked, his eyes still on the corpse.

  Father Gilbert wondered if this was the first time Benson had seen a dead body. “Normally it’d be taken to a laboratory where they’d have to determine the cause of death. If the cause proved to be unnatural, then the case would be handed over to a forensic pathologist, probably sent from the Home Office in London. He or she would conduct a full post-mortem and determine the exact cause of death. A team of Criminal Investigation Detectives would then be assembled to find the guilty party, if possible. Since, however, this really is a ‘bog body’, I assume this professor Braddock will take charge. I’m not sure what his procedure will be.”

  Drake was at Father Gilbert’s elbow. “My theory is that the victim had intended to shoot himself from a cannon and fell off the bridge instead.”

  “You should suggest that to Carol Grant right away,” Father Gilbert said. “I’m sure she’ll appreciate your solving the case so quickly.”

  They waited. Father Gilbert remembered how much he disliked this part of dealing with corpses – the tagging and labelling as if the body was a product being inventoried. This was the inevitable end of all men, he knew, but the indignity still bothered him. This bog body had been a person – someone with a life and family, and hopes and dreams that were now lost to the ages. He wondered how many people would live their lives differently if they thought they’d end up like this: buried in peat with a lot of strangers gawking at them.

  “This will make the news,” said Benson.

  “They’ll probably call it The Haysham Man,” Father Gilbert said.

  DS Sanders’ walkie-talkie gave a burst of static. Then a panicked voice – Father Gilbert assumed it was young Constable Ian – said, “Sorry to bother you, sir, but the protesters are demanding to be allowed to come to the bridge.”

  DS Sanders punched the button on the device. “Tell them no. This is a crime scene. If they try, arrest them. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Father Gilbert looked in the direction of the protesters. They were now beyond the ridge of the other side of the valley and out of sight. A movement caught his eye and he saw a single tree further along the ridge. It stood alone, silhouetted against the sky, billowing up in the shape of a mushroom cloud after an atomic explosion. At the bottom of the plume, a body hung at the end of a rope, jerking and swaying from a low branch.

  Father Gilbert breathed in sharply and took a few steps forward. “Good heavens,” he said.

  “What’s wrong?” Benson asked.

  “That tree,” Father Gilbert said. The body was in silhouette, the legs kicking spasmodically.

  Benson looked. “What about it?”

  “Don’t you see it?”

  Benson looked again. “No.”

  Nausea hit Father Gilbert’s stomach and rose to his throat. He swallowed hard. He wanted to run to the tree. If there was any chance of saving the man…

  “What do you see?” Benson asked.

  Father Gilbert watched the hanging man. A final kick of the legs and then the distant shadow was still and lifeless.

  He turned to Benson, who was staring at him.

  “What’s wrong?” Benson asked carefully.

  Father Gilbert took a deep breath. His heart was banging around in his chest. “I thought I saw something.”

  Benson’s eyes narrowed. “Like you saw the man in the tower?”

  Father Gilbert glanced back at the tree. The hanging man was gone.

  A large crow landed on a nearby fence post and squawked a stern warning. About what, Father Gilbert didn’t know.

  CHAPTER 5

  Professor Braddock arrived half an hour later. He fitted the part, with shoulder-length grey hair and a bushy moustache that looked like a holdover from a seventies sitcom. He completed the look with a corduroy jacket that had leather patches on the elbows, faded jeans, and cowboy boots. He dismissed the offer of waders, choosing instead to go straight to the body through the muck. No doubt the mud would give authenticity to the pre-washed jeans.

  He took a quick look at the shackled limb and then shouted, “Who tampered with this?”

  The crowd shuffled, but no one stepped forward with an answer.

  “What do you mean?” Haysham asked. “No one has touched anything.”

  “You’re wrong,” snapped Braddock, then pointed to the area of peat that Father Gilbert had noticed earlier. “Someone has already
been digging here.”

  DS Sanders shot a look at Father Gilbert.

  “Who discovered the body?” Braddock demanded.

  The foreman standing next to Haysham said, “Erskine.”

  One of the workers raised his hand like a schoolboy. “Actually, I reported it after Colin told me.”

  “Colin who?” Haysham asked.

  “Colin Doyle. He was here first thing. He usually gets here before the rest of us. He told me he’d found the crate and the chain… and the leg, obviously.”

  “Where is Doyle now?” Grant asked.

  “We don’t know,” Erskine said. “He left. On family business, I think he said.”

  “He found a body and then left?” Grant was incredulous.

  “Well, find him,” Haysham said to the foreman.

  The professor turned back to the bog body. “Carol, do you mind if I examine it?” he asked as he put on a pair of spectacles he’d nabbed from one pocket, then produced a pair of surgical gloves from another.

  “Not at all,” Grant said, appreciating the professional courtesy of being asked.

  He carefully crouched down and removed the plastic wrap she had placed around the foot and leg. He bent his face closer, then followed the leg up to where it disappeared into the peat. Reaching into an inner pocket of his jacket, he brought out a small brush. He used the wooden end to push away a small section of peat, revealing more of the cloth. “Eighteenth century,” he said.

  “Do we investigate cases from the eighteenth century?” DC Adams asked DS Sanders.

  “How do you want to remove the body, Professor?” Carol Grant asked.

  Braddock stood up and perused the men and equipment. “We need to isolate this entire section of peat – ten feet around, I’d say – so as not to hack up the body. For all we know, there are others down there. We have to be very careful. And move that crate simultaneously with the body. I don’t want the skin or leg ripped off.”

  The foreman stepped forward. “May we use the digger?”

  “Shovels.”

  Groans from the crew.

  “Where do you want to take it, Carol? I have no room at the University,” Braddock said.