The Body Under the Bridge

by Paul McCuster

  “No, thank you.”

  Father Gilbert invited her into his office. He stepped aside as she entered. He glanced at Mrs Mayhew and caught a disapproving look. Making sure to leave the door open – priestly protocol, he told himself – he gestured to a chair. Mary sat down.

  She carried a black portfolio case. Placing it on her knees, she pushed a gold button and the clasp popped free. She pulled out a thick stack of papers and files. Several photos slipped out and fell to the floor. Father Gilbert moved quickly to retrieve them for her, noticing that they were copies of the same photos he’d seen at the coroner’s – the bog body and the medallion. He wondered if Braddock or Macaulay or Wilton had shared them with her.

  “Have you had a chance to examine the medallion?” he asked.

  “Before I came here,” she said.

  “And?”

  She held up a photo of the medallion. “It’s called the Woodrich medallion and was part of a set that included a ring and a sword.” She glanced at Father Gilbert. “The suicide victim didn’t say anything about those, did he?”

  “He didn’t mention it in his note.”

  Her eyes fixed on him. “I wasn’t talking about his note. I meant your conversation with him on the tower.”

  Father Gilbert restrained an impulse to swear.

  She gave him a wry smile. “It was in the police report.”

  “Professor Braddock believes a sword may have been used to kill the bog person,” he said.

  Mary checked the portfolio and produced a drawing of a sword. “This is the Woodrich sword.”

  The drawing showed a wide sword with an engraving of flowers on the flat of the blade. The hilt had a grip carved in a swirling design and the cross guard had a curved extension to the bottom of the hilt that looked custom-made for the user’s knuckles. Father Gilbert’s eye went to the two edges of the blade itself. A quarter of the way down from the pointed tip, the smooth edges suddenly became serrated for several inches, and then went smooth again all the way to the hilt.

  “Is that normal?” Father Gilbert asked, pointing to the serrated edges.

  “It shows up on a few swords of the time,” she said. “The sawtooth style guaranteed more damage when thrust in and pulled back out of the opponent.”

  Father Gilbert studied the artwork. He tried to remember if this was the same sword he’d seen used on the bridge. Finally, he said: “The victim was struck in the head rather than run through. An odd choice, if death was intended.”

  “Maybe the murderer wasn’t a very good swordsman,” Mary suggested.

  Father Gilbert handed the drawing back to her.

  “I’ve asked the police to check the area around where the body was found,” she said. “But I’m not hopeful the sword’ll be there.”

  “Is the Woodrich Set significant?”

  “Historically, yes.” Her brown eyes were suddenly alight. “The pieces go back to the time of Henry VIII. Thomas Cromwell, the King’s hatchet-man, gave the medallion, sword, and ring to Jeremy Woodrich of London.”

  “Should I know that name?” Father Gilbert said.

  She shook her head. “Woodrich was a staunch Catholic but did what Thomas More refused to do – he supported the King in the argument over the divorces and Papal authority, which is why he was well liked by Thomas Cromwell. Cromwell gave him the Set by way of thanks.”

  Father Gilbert pointed to a photo of the medallion. “A man of Cromwell’s religious sensibilities would have known better than to render Christ and the cross upside-down.”

  “I’m surprised that, as an ardent Protestant, he commissioned a crucifix at all.” She examined the photos again. “Maybe it’s not the cross that’s upside down, but it’s the back of the medallion that was designed the wrong way around. The inscription is positioned so it works either way.”

  “If Woodrich lived in London, how did the Set wind up in this area?” Father Gilbert asked.

  “It moved with the Woodrich family as they suffered various changes in fortunes. One generation of Woodriches reclaimed their Roman Catholicism during the reign of Queen Elizabeth and suffered greatly for it. Another generation supported the Pilgrims and went to America. For a hundred years, the Woodrich family was divided between America and Britain and it was anyone’s guess where the Set was – here or there. Then, somehow, one of the Woodrich daughters wound up with it. She married a vicar who eventually became the Bishop of Lewes here in Sussex.”

  “You wouldn’t have a flow chart of all this, would you?”

  She smiled – a captivating smile. “The entire Set disappeared in the late 1700s.”

  “Lost or stolen?” Father Gilbert asked.

  She gave a slight shrug and Father Gilbert was again aware of the way her body moved. She said, “At the time there was a rumour that Joshua Todd had it.”

  “Joshua Todd?”

  “Yes.” Mary seemed pleased that he was surprised. “A direct ancestor of David Todd.”

  Her look of pleasure distracted him. He wished she wasn’t so beguiling. He didn’t usually have this much trouble concentrating even with a pretty woman nearby, but something exceptional was happening here. “Why would Joshua Todd have the Set?”

  “The Todds were tradesmen then. Joshua Todd claimed that the Bishop of Lewes had promised the Set to him in payment for extensive work the Todds had done on the Bishop’s home. Then the Bishop’s family claimed after his death that Joshua Todd had stolen the Set. There was no paperwork to prove either side.”

  “But Joshua Todd had the Set?”

  “No. I’ve found no evidence that he ever did. He argued that he should have been given the Set, not that he actually had it.”

  So the Todds’ propensity to argue goes back several generations, Father Gilbert thought.

  “The truth is complicated by the fact that the Bishop of Lewes was a scoundrel who often made promises he never kept. And Joshua Todd was a belligerent man who despised the wealthy and the powerful.”

  And that hasn’t changed either, Father Gilbert thought. “The Bishop of Lewes wasn’t a member of the Haysham family, was he?”

  Mary nodded. “He was. How did you guess?”

  “It seemed inevitable somehow.” He thought again about the Todds and the Hayshams locked in a battle that would replay itself generation after generation.

  “Joshua Todd disappeared sometime in 1792,” Mary said, referring to her notes. “The assumption was that he’d taken the Set with him. But here we are, over two centuries later, and the medallion shows up on an unidentified body. Professor Braddock is now taking bets that our corpse is Joshua Todd.”

  “That seems likely.”

  “I’m intrigued that the medallion wound up here at St Mark’s,” she said, her eyes on him again. “It’s as if it came home.”

  Father Gilbert frowned. “You make it sound like something from The Lord of the Rings, as if the medallion had a will to return. And how is St Mark’s its home?”

  She placed her hands on the portfolio. Her fingernails were painted in a light blue, perfectly manicured. “I have a copy of a letter from Joshua Todd’s grandson Francis. Francis was the minister of this church from 1874 to 1890.” She pulled out a photocopy of the letter and gave it to Father Gilbert.

  “Did you get this from David Todd?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said coolly. “I met with him last evening.”

  “You don’t waste any time.”

  Another shrug, another shift in her blouse. “I was in Brighton for a conference. It’s not far.”

  The letter was written in broad cursive and dated 17th of August, 1889. The salutation was to D. Father Gilbert scanned it, looking for the reference to the Woodrich Set. He found it near the end. The Woodrich blade and jewel are not to be a source of anxiety for you, the letter stated. The church is a perfectly safe place in which to keep them. Yrs, Francis.

  “How did David Todd get possession of a letter written to someone else?” Father Gilbert asked.


  “He doesn’t know. It was in his family records. He has an entire attic filled with boxes of letters and documents.”

  Father Gilbert wondered if David Todd had said so, or had she been to his house – in the attic or somewhere else upstairs? He repented of the thought. “Does Todd know who D was?”

  “No. But the fact that Francis Todd was a vicar here and the sword and jewel were being kept safe somewhere on the church premises made me think of you.”

  “I’m not as familiar with St Mark’s history as I should be,” said Father Gilbert. “But one of our parishioners, Margaret Clarke, is. She’s made a hobby of it.”

  “Is she credible?” asked Mary.

  “She’s well into her eighties and has attended here her entire life. That seems credible to me.”

  She gathered up her papers. “Would it be all right if I spoke to her?”

  Father Gilbert thought about the last time he’d been to visit Margaret. She was on the eccentric, even reclusive, side. “She may not be comfortable with a stranger. I should go with you.”

  “Thank you.” Her hand touched his arm lightly, quickly, then retreated. “Would now be too soon?”

  “She’s not the sort of woman who likes to be surprised by visitors,” he said. “I’ll have Mrs Mayhew arrange an appropriate time.”

  A few minutes later Mrs Mayhew confirmed that Mrs Clarke would expect them for tea at 4:00.

  “Tea at four. How old-fashioned,” Mary said, smiling.

  “It’s how things used to be done,” Mrs Mayhew said sharply as she walked out.

  With the business finished, Mary gathered her things and moved for the door. She lingered, as if she had something she wanted to ask or say but, after a moment, she announced that she was overdue to meet with Professor Braddock. She stood and handed her business card to Father Gilbert. “That’s my mobile phone. Just in case you need to reach me.”

  He had his fingers on the card, but she didn’t release it.

  “For anything,” she added and her eyes were on his.

  He turned away as if something had caught his attention on the desk. Good heavens, he thought, she knows exactly the effect she has on men.

  “Thank you, Father.”

  “Happy hunting,” he said and felt foolish. He glanced in her direction again, and then moved to the other side of his desk. He feared he would watch her exit too closely.

  Mrs Mayhew would have blocked his view anyway, as she stepped into the doorway. “I don’t trust her,” she stated. Then she asked pleasantly, “Tea?”

  Father Gilbert nodded. “Yes, please.”

  “I assume you know that Margaret Clarke is a great-aunt to Detective Inspector Wilton,” Mrs Mayhew said. “He’s investigating this case, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, he is. Thank you, I didn’t realize.”

  She left and he closed the door.

  He couldn’t imagine what was wrong with him. Attractive women didn’t usually affect him so strongly. He recognized the way Mary Aston used her charms, but he didn’t like the way he was succumbing to them.

  He turned to the nearest bookcase and looked over the spines of the books. He had a collection of prayers by Thomas Aquinas. There was a prayer about fighting temptation he hoped to find, quickly.

  CHAPTER 13

  Sean Fisher, the Canon at Southaven Cathedral, returned Father Gilbert’s call. Father Gilbert pictured him as they spoke – a short, thin man whose entire demeanour exuded the same precision as the cut of his silver hair. The Canon confirmed that the Doyles had attended the Cathedral infrequently over the years but not to the extent that any of the clergy were on intimate terms with them. The Dean of the Cathedral had gone to the house to offer his pastoral help that morning but was thanked and dismissed within five minutes.

  “What about Colin Doyle’s family?”

  “They aren’t members of the Cathedral,” Fisher said. “They attend All Souls’ Church. You’ll want to talk to Desmond Singh. He’s the vicar there.”

  Father Gilbert looked online and found a website for All Souls’ Church. It seemed to be a lively Evangelical assembly with a variety of meetings and clubs and Bible studies. He navigated to a brief biography of the Reverend Desmond Singh, born and raised in Hyderabad, India, but educated at Wycliffe Hall in Oxford. The designation of “Reverend” pointed to Singh’s Protestant sensibilities, as a contrast to the more traditional and Anglo-Catholic “Father”. Father Gilbert dialled the number on the website.

  “This is Reverend Singh,” a gentle voice said in English, but with a distinct Indian accent.

  “Reverend Singh, this is Father Gilbert at St Mark’s in Stonebridge.”

  “Ah, Father. I was hoping to hear from you. We need to talk.”

  * * *

  Father Gilbert met Reverend Singh at a pub halfway between their respective towns. Mr Urquhart had provided the transport, dropping Father Gilbert off on his way to a garden centre further along the road. The pub had been bought by a corporate chain and converted into a family eatery, complete with a play area for small children. Video games and fruit machines lined a far wall, flashing and occasionally trumpeting bad synthesizer sounds to draw attention to themselves. The rows of bottles behind the bar were lit up, their colours luminous like Christmas lights. A man sat at the bar, cradling a drink in his hands, staring ahead at nothing. In another time, he would have had a cigarette in front of him. He wore a beige mac. His hair was greasy, sticking out in tufts. He was loneliness incarnate.

  “Colin wasn’t the suicidal type,” Reverend Singh said. “Until now, I would have said he was as engaged in his life as a man could be.”

  “So you’re genuinely surprised by what happened.”

  Reverend Singh nodded. He was a dark-skinned man with wide eyes and radiant white teeth. His jet-black hair was combed back and held in place with gel. He stirred a straw around his glass of fruit juice. “He was making plans for a holiday in Spain with his family. He and his wife were house-hunting for a larger home. They also purchased a new car a few weeks ago. Not the behaviour of a man who was planning to kill himself.”

  “Then his decision was impulsive.” Father Gilbert lifted a mug of hot tea to his lips.

  “What would trigger such a sudden impulse?” It was a tough question. Reverend Singh looked truly bewildered. “He was a faithful parishioner. A good man, I’d say.”

  Father Gilbert wished that being a faithful parishioner and being a good man always went hand in hand.

  A thoughtful pause with more stirring. The ice rattled in the glass. “The detective suggested that Colin had stolen a piece of jewellery from the body they dug up. That doesn’t fit with the man I knew. He was no thief.”

  “Was he well off? Do builders make good money these days?”

  “I can’t say for certain, but I suspect they do.”

  “Enough to go on holiday while buying a new car and looking for a larger house?”

  “Are you suggesting he was supplementing his income illegally?”

  “I’m not suggesting anything,” Father Gilbert said. He was pushing hard, perhaps too hard.

  “The reputation of being a Doyle followed him, no matter where he went,” Singh said.

  “I heard he and his father had a falling out.”

  Another nod from Reverend Singh.

  “Do you know what it was about?”

  “I asked him once,” Singh said. “He made it clear he didn’t want to discuss it.”

  No doubt privacy was part of the family code, Father Gilbert thought. It was often the code within dysfunctional families.

  “The Dean of the Cathedral told me he went to Jack Doyle’s house,” said Singh. “He was summarily dismissed.”

  “By Jack Doyle?” asked Father Gilbert.

  “Yes. Though Colin’s mother attempted to be cordial.” Singh finally took a drink of his juice, not using the straw. Then he said, “The Dean said he felt a strong emotion at work in the house.”

  “That can’t be a
surprise, all things considered.”

  “It wasn’t grief,” Singh said. “He said it was something else.”

  “What?”

  “Fear.” Singh levelled his gaze at Father Gilbert.

  Father Gilbert waited. There was more Singh wanted to say.

  “I feel it, too. It has been present with me since yesterday morning, even before I heard about Colin’s death. Fear.” He went back to stirring the ice.

  “Fear of what?”

  “Evil, perhaps.” Singh lifted his drink but didn’t put it to his lips. He spoke quietly. “What do you think of dreams, Father Gilbert?”

  “What kind of dreams?”

  “Dreams that, when we awake, we suspect mean something?”

  “All dreams mean something,” Father Gilbert said. “But I think most dreams are our attempts to sort through the clutter in our minds – all the fragments of thoughts, ideas, memories, experiences, sensations. We’re trying to process them, but without a conscious will or sensible order to the effort.”

  “The Bible speaks of dreams. God used dreams as a way to communicate with men.” Singh gazed at Father Gilbert again. “Do you think He does that now?”

  “It’s not for me to say what God will or will not do. But I see no reason for Him not to use dreams now, if He thinks it’s the best way to communicate to us.” Father Gilbert was intrigued by where this conversation was heading. “What were your dreams?”

  “They’re a bit fuzzy to my conscious mind now,” he said. “Yesterday morning, right before awakening, I dreamt that Colin Doyle was standing on a church tower.”

  Father Gilbert pressed his lips together, if only to keep his mouth from falling open.

  Singh continued, “My impression was that he intended to kill himself. But there was something he was determined to do first. He paced around the tower. In one hand he was holding a… a gold necklace of some sort. In the other hand, he had a knife, the kind one uses to open boxes. He was agitated. Then I saw a flock of winged creatures – bat-like but human-sized, fanged, terrible demons – suddenly descend upon him. It was as if they were after the jewel in his hand. He fought them off. Then, just as suddenly, they flew away as if startled. Then I saw a man coming up through the hatch.”