The Body Under the Bridge

by Paul McCuster

  “We’ll start there,” Father Gilbert said. “I’ll donate Father Benson’s time to the effort.”

  Benson cringed. “What?”

  “Anything to bring peace to our parish,” Father Gilbert added.

  Benson nodded.

  Haysham groaned. “It’s a waste of time. But you have my permission, if you think it’ll help. Tell Scott to show you everything we have.”

  There was nothing else to be said, so the two priests moved towards the door. Haysham trailed behind them.

  “Look,” Haysham said, “I’m dreadfully sorry about my tantrum. Finding this body has undone me. I’m not a superstitious man, but the body and Doyle’s suicide seem like bad omens.”

  “Surely you don’t believe in omens,” Father Gilbert said.

  “I didn’t used to.”

  CHAPTER 15

  “Am I supposed to thank you for that assignment?” Benson asked Father Gilbert as they climbed into the Mini.

  “You can if you like,” Father Gilbert said with a half-smile. “I meant what I said about keeping the peace. If you can find anything in the archives that’ll help defuse this situation, then your time will be well spent.”

  Benson headed the car towards Stonebridge. “What if I find that Lord Haysham’s ancestor really killed Todd?”

  “Then we’ll use that information to find another way to peace.”

  “Are you that much of an optimist?”

  “Not at all.” Especially not in this case, Father Gilbert thought. “But the truth is bound to help us more than accusation or speculation.”

  “How do I find Adrian Scott?”

  “Scott’s Second-Hand Bookshop is in the centre of the town, down the High Street on the corner across from the large furniture store.”

  Benson glanced at the clock on the dashboard. “It’s almost three. Will it wait until tomorrow?”

  Father Gilbert scratched at his chin. “I suppose two centuries of fighting can wait to be resolved for one day. As it is, we’re due at Mrs Clarke’s at four.”

  There was a long pause. Benson came to a small roundabout, entering it too fast. The tyres squealed. Father Gilbert grabbed the dashboard to keep from sliding over to the driver’s side.

  “Is everything all right?” Father Gilbert asked once they were righted.

  “Sorry,” Benson said. “This isn’t how I expected my first few weeks in this parish to go.”

  Father Gilbert looked at the young priest. He wished he could say that this was the first time anything like this had ever happened in his experience, and that probably nothing like it would ever happen again. But he couldn’t.

  * * *

  Mrs Clarke’s bungalow was one of many on The Avenue, an upmarket part of Stonebridge. The houses themselves were modest when they were built after World War II, but had now gained character and prestige with age. The Tudor-style dark beams stretched out horizontally, vertically, and diagonally against the white stucco. The windows were leaded with a diamond pattern in their centres and Father Gilbert could make out the blurred colours of flowers in vases inside each diamond. Just as they reached the door, a car pulled up to the kerb. Mary Aston got out. She smiled and waved.

  “Mary Aston?” Benson said.

  “That’s her.”

  “Good heavens,” Benson whispered.

  Father Gilbert glanced at the curate, then at Mary as she approached them. He was acutely aware of her good looks and noticed the very graceful way she walked, as if she was on a fashion runway rather than a stony pavement. He wondered if her poise and confidence came with instinct or with training.

  “Am I late?” she asked. She pushed a lock of hair away from her face.

  “You’re not.” Father Gilbert nodded to Father Benson. “This is—”

  Benson held out his hand. “Father Benson.”

  “A pleasure,” she said.

  Benson had a slight blush in his cheeks. Father Gilbert held back a smile. Her beauty was undeniable, he thought. Even the slight wrinkles around her eyes added character. As did the tiny scar just above the right side of her mouth.

  Suddenly the front door was pulled open from the inside. Mrs Clarke gazed at them. “I was beginning to wonder if you intended to knock or if we should have our tea here by the front door.”

  She was thin, with a milk-white face and deep lines in her forehead and around her mouth. She had sharp blue eyes, but they were redrimmed and pinched, as if she spent a lot of time squinting – or worrying. Her grey hair was meticulously styled.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs Clarke,” Father Gilbert said. He introduced Father Benson, whom she had met at church but might have forgotten, and then Mary Aston.

  “Well, aren’t you a pretty thing,” she said to Mary as she took Father Gilbert’s arm and drew him into the house. “We mustn’t dawdle. The tea will get cold.”

  They entered a short entrance hall and turned right into the front room. It was decorated with cherry-wood furniture and coloured fabrics – a lot of creamy pinks, rosy pinks, bright pinks, and those kinds of pinks that look more purple than pink. Father Gilbert felt as if he’d stepped inside a ball of candyfloss. Small shelves held dozens of porcelain figurines of cats and dogs of varying breeds. They reminded him of the many figurines in his mother’s house in Tunbridge Wells – though hers were of men and women dressed in Regency-era clothes, reflecting her insatiable enjoyment of Dorothy Sayers novels. He also remembered what a chore it had been selling them all after she’d died.

  A marble coffee table sat in the centre of four chairs. A teapot under a cosy, cups and saucers, and small sandwich plates were assembled along with an assortment of scones, jam, cream, and finger sandwiches of cucumber and salmon – with the crust trimmed from the bread, of course. Mrs Clarke indicated where each should sit, then sat down herself and poured the tea.

  Father Gilbert thanked her for going to such trouble for them. There was the obligatory chit-chat about Mary’s work in antiques, which Mrs Clarke said must be fascinating, and then quickly changed the subject to the weather and the condition of the garden and then a scandal in Parliament that Father Gilbert had missed on the news – all followed by an awkward silence.

  “You must be wondering why we’re here,” Father Gilbert finally said.

  “Mrs Mayhew said it has to do with the history of St Mark’s.”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it because of that ghastly business at Lord Haysham’s? A corpse under the bridge? My nephew told me a bit about it. Well, rather, he’s my great-nephew.” She looked at Father Gilbert with anxious eyes. “Is that it?”

  “Have you ever heard of the Woodrich Set?” asked Mary.

  Mrs Clarke was putting a spoonful of sugar into her tea and Father Gilbert thought he saw a slight hesitation in the action.

  Mary continued, “It’s a medallion, sword, and ring.”

  As Mrs Clarke picked up the cup, it rattled against the saucer in a way it hadn’t before. “I’ve heard of them,” she said. “Though no one’s spoken of them since I was a young girl.”

  “Why did someone speak of them then?” Mary asked.

  “My father – Tom Wilton – was a police constable in Stonebridge. He was also a regular member of St Mark’s. There’s a stained-glass window dedicated to him – the one with Jesus and the children on the north side of the nave.”

  Father Gilbert remembered it. “The craftsmanship is excellent.”

  “I’ll be sure to look for it,” Mary said with an endearing smile. “What can you tell us about the Set?”

  Mrs Clarke looked distracted, her eyes fixed on her cup of tea, but seeing something else. “It was a long time ago. 1938. So I can’t promise factual accuracy. I was eight years old at the time.”

  “Understood.” Mary leaned forward, as if nothing should distract them from what Mrs Clarke had to say.

  “There was a sword – the Woodrich sword – discovered in the cellar of the church—”

  “The crypt?” Father Gilbe
rt asked.

  “No, in the other section, the one with the plumbing and pipes. I believe workers were putting in a new boiler or some such thing. I was never clear about that. They had to dig up the ground in a corner and found the sword wrapped in old oilcloth.” She paused as if she was unsure about continuing, then said, “They found it with a skeleton.”

  There was a rattle as Benson almost spilled his tea. Mary sat up straight.

  Father Gilbert leaned forward. “A human skeleton?”

  Mrs Clarke nodded. “The sword was placed in its arms, like you see in those brass rubbings of knights in ancient cathedrals.” She glanced around at them. “More tea?”

  Without waiting for a reply, she poured tea into their cups.

  “The police were called in, of course, which is how my father got involved,” she said. “Detectives from Scotland Yard also came from London to assist in the case.”

  “Did they ever learn who the skeleton was?” Mary asked.

  “I don’t believe the body was ever identified. They speculated that it had been there for over a hundred years.”

  “The letter written by Francis Todd,” Mary said softly to Father Gilbert. “He said the sword was safe at the church.”

  “That was 1889. The body had been there all that time?” asked Father Gilbert.

  Father Benson looked puzzled. Father Gilbert gave him a quick nod, yet another I’ll-explain-later look.

  “You’ll have to speak up,” said Mrs Clarke.

  “I’m sorry,” said Father Gilbert. “Please continue.”

  She put her saucer and cup down. “I heard my father say one night that whoever it was had probably been killed by the sword and then buried with it. Apparently there was a tell-tale mark on one of the bones in the ribcage where the sword had nicked it.”

  “The victim had been stabbed in the chest?” Mary asked.

  Mrs Clarke gave a small shrug. “I don’t know. Though I remember they said it was missing a front tooth. Isn’t that a peculiar thing to remember? It made me think of a boy I knew at school who was missing a front tooth. He could spit further than anyone else, as if that was any sort of accomplishment.”

  “Was there a ring?” Mary asked.

  Mrs Clarke looked puzzled.

  Mary held out her hand and spread her fingers, to offer an example. “Maybe a ring on one of the skeleton’s fingers?”

  “No one said so in my presence,” Mrs Clarke said. “I would have remembered that. But the sword – that was the topic of a lot of conversations.”

  “No doubt people were curious,” Father Gilbert said.

  She glanced around. The lines of worry around her eyes seemed to deepen. “It was more than that. People began to speak as if the sword was cursed. Even people with good sense, who didn’t believe in such things.”

  Father Gilbert’s eyes went to Mary and then Father Benson. Both were watching his reaction.

  “Why would people talk about a curse?” he asked.

  “Because bad things happened after that sword was found,” she said in a hushed tone.

  Benson said, “I’m sure anything that happened could be explained rationally.”

  “Perhaps. But it was very strange.” Mrs Clarke used both hands to spread her skirt, then folded them on her knees. “A young man was scalded by a puncture in one of the boiler’s pipes only an hour after the sword was found. Then the sword was taken to the local police station and kept there – until the building burnt to the ground.”

  “Is this fact or the musings of an eight-year-old girl?” Father Gilbert asked.

  Mrs Clarke looked at him earnestly. “I saw the sword for myself, Father. There was something about it that made me uneasy, as if I was in the presence of…” Her voice trailed off.

  “You saw the sword?” Mary asked.

  “We kept it at our house for a short while, after the incident at the police station. My father was a constable, as I said. It was evidence. Then odd things happened to us. Our cat disappeared. We had an infestation of bats in our attic. I remember there was tension in the house, as if we were all on edge and didn’t know why. No one wanted to say it was because of the sword, but we all thought it was. I sneaked a peek at it one day when my parents weren’t home. I was surprised.”

  “Why?” asked Father Gilbert.

  “When the police station burned down, everything had been destroyed. Even the guns they kept in a safe were damaged by the intensity of the heat. But not the sword. There wasn’t a mark on it.”

  “How did they explain that?” Benson asked.

  “They couldn’t,” she said, then clasped her arms around herself as if she’d become chilled. “It gave me nightmares – and seemed to change every time I dreamed about it. Longer, brighter, more colourful, more gems, more dangerous. And I imagined it in the clutches of that skeleton.”

  “Can you describe the sword for me?” asked Mary.

  “I wouldn’t vouch for my description, not after all these years and all those dreams,” she said. “It’s all mixed up in my mind now.”

  “If I showed you a drawing?”

  Mrs Clarke shook her head. “Oh, I wouldn’t want that. I might have nightmares again.”

  “It left that much of an impression on you,” Father Gilbert said.

  “Yes,” she said. “Especially since my mother didn’t like having it in the house. She and my father had rows. She demanded that he get rid of it.”

  “Did he?” asked Mary.

  A nod.

  “What did he do with it?” she asked.

  “He gave it to the Vicar of St Mark’s. They reasoned that, by rights, it was the church’s property, because it was found there.”

  “Didn’t anyone realize what it was? Why didn’t they contact a museum in London or an expert?” Mary sounded exasperated.

  “An expert came, I think,” Mrs Clarke said. “He specialized in swords.”

  “A metallurgist?” Benson offered.

  “He didn’t know what to make of it. Even Scotland Yard thought it was just an unusual find. We got the impression that no one could be bothered with it. We were a nation headed for war with Germany. A sword like that seemed unimportant.”

  “Surely the Todds were here at the time. And the Hayshams. Even the Woodrich family would have said something, had they been told,” Mary said.

  “It wasn’t the age of mass communication, my dear girl,” Mrs Clarke said politely. “We were a small town and had no internet or mobile phones like you do. And it wasn’t important enough to put on the radio. The local newspaper may have done an article.”

  “Still—” Mary began.

  “I won’t attempt to explain the actions of the people of the time,” Mrs Clarke said firmly.

  Mary nodded.

  Mrs Clarke chuckled and looked at Father Gilbert. “We didn’t even have regular use of telephones then. It was a simpler time.”

  Father Gilbert remembered visiting his grandfather in one of the villages outside of Bristol. No telephones, no indoor toilets, a coal-fired stove. It was indeed a simpler time, but not necessarily easier.

  Mary asked, “What became of the sword after it went to St Mark’s?”

  “The Vicar of St Mark’s – John Ainsley – kept it at the vicarage until they’d had enough of it.”

  “Enough of what?” Benson asked.

  “The curse, of course,” she said. “That was tragic. Adam, the oldest son, drowned in a pond. He was only twelve years old. Then Mrs Ainsley miscarried her unborn child, possibly from her grief. And John Ainsley – who was a vibrant middle-aged man – had a stroke and lost all mobility on his right side, including his ability to speak clearly. All of this happened in the three months the sword was in the house. Mrs Ainsley demanded that the church leadership take the sword away.”

  “Did they?” Mary asked.

  “Yes.” Mrs Clarke’s brow furrowed. “I don’t know who took it or where it went. My memory can only go so far. That I remember as much as I do is a
miracle in itself.”

  “I’m grateful,” Mary said. “What you’ve told us fills in a large gap in the story of the Set.”

  “It doesn’t seem like much of a Set,” Benson stated. “It sounds like the medallion, sword, and ring haven’t been all in one place for a couple of centuries.”

  “Think of the value if they were reunited,” said Mary.

  Mrs Clarke shivered. “I wouldn’t want to think of that at all.”

  “Why not?”

  “If the sword alone is cursed with so much evil, what about the other items? What would happen to the poor owner?”

  Father Gilbert’s gaze went to Mary. Her eyes were on Mrs Clarke. Her expression suggested that she was imagining the Set being together in one place again – and she didn’t consider it a curse at all.

  Aware of being looked at, she turned to Father Gilbert. He looked away quickly.

  “I wonder if we might turn to more pleasant subjects,” Mrs Clarke said and picked up the plate of sandwiches to pass around. “Tell me about your plans for restoring the tower, Father.”

  * * *

  “I don’t believe she told us everything,” Mary said once they were outside and moving to their cars.

  “Why do you think that?” Father Benson asked.

  “Years in this business have given me an instinct about people.”

  “Meaning that you’ve learned not to trust anyone,” Father Gilbert said.

  She shot him a look, but didn’t respond.

  “This doesn’t put you any closer to the sword,” Benson said.

  “I’ll take whatever information I can get. I’ll search for the Ainsleys. Someone in that family may know where the sword went.” She reached the driver’s door of her car. Both men had followed her.

  “Maybe it’s in the church records,” Benson offered.

  “I’ll ask Mrs Mayhew to search our files,” Father Gilbert said. “I’m sure she’ll be overjoyed to do it.”

  * * *

  From his office, Father Gilbert could hear Mrs Mayhew slamming filing-cabinet drawers. He had known she wouldn’t be happy about the assignment, but he hadn’t expected outright hostility from her.

  He thought about Mary again. He had noticed that she’d made it a point to shake his hand before she got in her car, grasping it for a moment longer than was customary. “I’ll be in touch,” she’d said.