The Body Under the Bridge

by Paul McCuster

  “She didn’t shake my hand like that,” Father Benson complained as they drove back to the church.

  “You’re too young for her,” Father Gilbert said.

  “Aren’t you too old?” he countered.

  “Women like that appreciate maturity.”

  Benson laughed. “I’ll bet she appreciates more than maturity,” he said.

  “Behave yourself.”

  Father Gilbert thought about Mrs Clarke’s account of the sword. Finding the sword with the skeleton in the cellar had certainly triggered tragic events. If it was cursed, if it truly carried some kind of evil within it, then finding it now could be hazardous. And her logic that uniting the three pieces of the Set might empower evil all the more wasn’t such a ludicrous idea.

  Mr Urquhart stepped into the doorway. “You wanted to see me, Father?”

  “Is the boiler room locked?”

  “No, Father.”

  “I’d like to have a look at it.”

  “Any particular reason?”

  “I want to see where the body was found.”

  The fuzzy eyebrows lifted high.

  CHAPTER 16

  Father Gilbert explained to Mr Urquhart about the discovery of the body in 1938. He took the news in his stride.

  “Strange things are always happening around St Mark’s,” the Scot said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Items out of place, strange noises coming from nowhere. I was working in the crypt early today and found some red-coloured clay on the ground.”

  “Is that unusual?”

  “You won’t find clay that colour anywhere in our crypt, or even around the church. It was tracked in by someone.”

  “Who?”

  Mr Urquhart shrugged.

  “We lock the crypt, don’t we?” Father Gilbert asked.

  “From time to time, because of the rain. The water seeps in there from the Lord knows where. I wouldn’t want guests to make a mess,” he said. “I’ve kept it locked since that Doyle fellow killed himself.”

  “Why the crypt? I’d have thought it was the tower we’d want locked,” Father Gilbert said.

  Mr Urquhart hesitated, then said: “I think he went down into the crypt before he went up to the tower.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  “That red-coloured clay is all over the Haysham estate. I’ve often seen it on Lord Haysham’s boots.”

  Mr Urquhart’s workroom was tucked away in the far corner of the church. There he kept his workbench and tools, gardening implements, and other handyman gear. An old door stood to the side of the workbench. He wrenched it open. Just then Father Benson rounded a corner, looking red-faced.

  “Taking the tour without me?” he asked, slightly miffed.

  Mr Urquhart flipped a switch and a bare bulb lit up over a wooden staircase. Down they went on the rickety steps to an uneven cement floor. A narrow passageway took them further into the recesses of the church. Pipes and wiring criss-crossed over their heads, thanks to years of renovation and restoration. Water-stained boxes and crates stretched out along the stone walls. Old Christmas wreaths and other seasonal church decorations hung from hooks. As cluttered as it all looked, there was a sense of Mr Urquhart’s organization.

  They came to another room and Mr Urquhart found the light switch and turned it on. The room contained the mechanics of the church: a furnace, an electrical panel, various gauges and dials, large water pipes with pressure valves and handles.

  He led them around the furnace. A torch appeared in his hand as if by magic. “This is where the old boiler sat,” he said, pointing to an empty concrete slab tucked away in a dark corner. “I assume your body was found back there.”

  The three of them squeezed between the furnace and its various appendages, and the wall. There was an open space on the other side of the furnace. It was certainly large enough to accommodate the burial of a body. The cement floor stopped there and dirt stretched on into darkness.

  “May I use that?” Father Gilbert asked. Mr Urquhart handed over the torch. He shone the light on the ground and the shadows scattered like rats. He almost expected to see the outline of a grave in the dirt, but it was brown and undisturbed.

  Father Benson shivered. “Am I the only one feeling a draught?”

  “It’s always cold and damp down here,” Urquhart said.

  Father Gilbert moved the light along the ground, then a few inches up on the wall. “What’s that?” he asked and stepped across the dirt. “Something is scratched into the stone.”

  He moved in closer and knelt down, the light intensifying the dark lines. It was a circle with an inverted star inside.

  “What is it?” Mr Urquhart asked.

  “A pentagram.”

  “I’ve never noticed it before,” Mr Urquhart said.

  “Have you been back here much?”

  “No. I pulled out some old boxes a few years ago,” Mr Urquhart said. “But I would’ve noticed that. I’ll sand-blast it out, first chance I get.”

  Father Gilbert reached out to touch it, but stopped a fraction of an inch short. The symbol, though it had become something of a cliché in pop culture, still had power. “I’d say it’s been here for a long time.”

  Father Gilbert stood up and turned off the torch. The shadows gathered again. He had a strong desire to get out of that corner, to flee the darkness of the cellar.

  Mr Urquhart suddenly announced: “It gives me the creeps. I’m not staying.”

  Father Benson nodded and moved quickly around the furnace.

  Mr Urquhart waited for Father Gilbert to move. He waved his hands as if shooing the priest out.

  As they ascended the stairs, Father Gilbert decided to talk to the Bishop about a rite or ritual they might use to reconsecrate that part of the building.

  * * *

  “A pentagram,” Benson said once they were back in Father Gilbert’s office. “Isn’t that something out of horror B-movies?”

  “And heavy metal bands,” Father Gilbert added. Apart from anything to do with curses, he wondered if satanic symbols were connected to the sword, ring, and medallion somehow.

  Benson seemed to be thinking along the same lines. “Does it have anything to do with the body and the sword?” Benson asked.

  “Mary Aston will have to answer that question,” Father Gilbert said.

  Benson paused, and then asked, “Do you trust her?”

  “I’m prepared to give her the benefit of the doubt.”

  “Is that because she’s especially attractive?” he asked.

  “Her being attractive makes me less inclined to give her the benefit of the doubt,” Father Gilbert said.

  “That’s uncharitable.”

  “Mary strikes me as a woman who has learned to use her looks and the force of her personality to get what she wants,” Father Gilbert said. “We have to be careful.”

  Mrs Mayhew stepped in with a file of papers. “I’ve found something for you.”

  * * *

  Mrs Mayhew had made a copy of the typed minutes from a church vestry meeting held on 31 October 1938 – Halloween, of all days. She pointed to a single paragraph in which the verger, Albert Challoner, informed the vestry that Mrs Rachel Ainsley wanted the “Cellar Sword” removed from her household. Mr Challoner proposed that he should reclaim the sword and place it in the vault for safekeeping.

  “What vault?” Benson asked.

  “It may be a bank vault,” Mrs Mayhew said. “The church kept certain valuables in it during World War II. But we’ve inventoried everything in it. No sword.”

  Father Gilbert knew of another vault, of sorts, in the cellar of the old vicarage. It had been bombed out during the War. A few years ago, while searching for other missing antiques, he had retrieved the few items inadvertently left in it. No sword there, either.

  “Are there vaults in the crypt?” Benson asked.

  “Not the kind one would use for safe-keeping a valuable antique,” Father Gilbert sa
id.

  “May I hold onto this?” Father Gilbert asked Mrs Mayhew.

  “It’s your copy,” she replied. “Though I don’t know what use it is.”

  “I’ll show it to Mary Aston,” Father Gilbert said.

  Mrs Mayhew frowned.

  Father Gilbert asked: “Do you know anything about the Challoners?”

  She shook her head. “It will be my life’s goal to find out,” she said.

  * * *

  Father Gilbert took a stroll around the church grounds. Ostensibly, he wanted some fresh air. In fact, he wanted to call Mary without worrying about Mrs Mayhew or Father Benson eavesdropping. He didn’t expect to say anything worth overhearing but, if he wanted to be truly honest, he felt embarrassed about talking to her in front of anyone else.

  Standing on the graveyard side of the church, he took out his wallet and retrieved Mary’s card.

  He felt an adolescent sense of anticipation. It was ridiculous, he knew. But her actions, even if he misinterpreted them as flirtations, gave him a feeling he hadn’t felt since school. Perhaps it was his ego, flattered to have a beautiful woman give him a second glance. Or maybe it was sheer loneliness. Whatever the reason, he told himself that his actions and motives were pure. He wanted to pass on information. That was all. He dialled her number on his mobile phone.

  Be careful, he heard himself say to Father Benson.

  A movement in the graveyard caught his eye – actually, an impression of movement more than a clear visual. He looked up. For a moment there was nothing. Then a boy appeared from behind a headstone, running in a crouch, and dashed behind another, as if he was in a game of hide-and-seek. But there were no other children around.

  It struck Father Gilbert as curious – something about the way the boy was dressed – but he’d only caught a glimpse. The boy didn’t appear again. He thought about walking over to look, but the phone suddenly rang in his ear. He’d forgotten he had dialled. The chirps went on several more times before Mary’s voicemail picked up. “Gilbert here. Come to Evensong,” he said after the beep. “I have a piece of the puzzle for you. Or we can meet afterwards.”

  Meet afterwards? Why didn’t he simply give her the information in the message? There was no need to meet.

  He was being reckless. He admitted it.

  She won’t come to Evensong anyway. She won’t meet me afterwards, he assured himself – and felt disappointed.

  * * *

  It wasn’t Mary who showed up after Evensong, but Detective Sergeant Sanders. Standing next to the door with his arms folded, he looked like an overdressed homeless man. His skin was pale, and heavy bags had gathered under his narrow brown eyes. From the frumpiness of his dark suit, Father Gilbert guessed he’d slept in it – or not slept at all.

  “A word, if you don’t mind,” he said to the priest after the obligatory hellos.

  The congregation had gone, so they sat down on a back pew.

  “I’m following a few leads,” Sanders said.

  “I thought Alex Wilton was in charge of the investigation.”

  “I’m doing this on my own initiative,” he said sourly. “I don’t have time for their politics.”

  “Politics? Is that why you were taken off the case?”

  “As a former cop, you should know the answer to that question.”

  “As a former cop, I also know it’s a bad idea for a detective to continue working a case from which he’s been removed.” Father Gilbert eyed him. “Does DI Wilton know?”

  “No, and I’m not telling him.” Sanders’ look at Father Gilbert suggested that he shouldn’t mention it either. “DI Wilton is in Lord Haysham’s pocket. Haysham and the Chief Constable are golfing pals. You’ve seen how quickly things are getting done.” He snorted. “Haysham knows more about the case than I do.”

  Father Gilbert nodded. “What leads are you following?”

  Sanders glanced around the nave, making sure they were alone. He said in a low voice, “We could start with David Todd and his various relationships.”

  “Why David Todd?”

  He gave the priest a coy look. “You already know that Colin Doyle was on Todd’s payroll.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “Todd was paying Doyle to spy on the work at Lord Haysham’s estate.”

  “Corporate espionage? Is that what this is about?” Father Gilbert asked.

  “It’s about the truth, Father. I spent two hours with Colin Doyle’s grieving widow. Something drove him to suicide. This business with Todd is connected. I promised her I’d find out what happened to her husband.”

  “It’s never a good idea to make promises to the victim’s family.”

  Sanders gave him a cold look.

  Father Gilbert said, “So, what does David Todd say about paying Doyle?”

  “He won’t talk to me without a solicitor, which says a lot all by itself.”

  “David Todd is good at watching his back,” Father Gilbert said, and wondered if the same could be said of DS Sanders.

  “I’m checking into that medallion, too.”

  “Isn’t that Mary Aston’s job?”

  “She doesn’t care about the investigation,” he said. “She cares only about the medallion and that sword and ring.”

  Father Gilbert made a non-committal “Hmm.”

  Sanders kept his eyes on Father Gilbert. “She’s had a romantic relationship with David Todd.”

  Father Gilbert restrained his surprise. “Had?”

  “A couple of years ago. The affair may have ended his marriage,” Sanders said.

  “Speculation,” Father Gilbert said. He didn’t know the specifics of why Todd’s wife had left him. Todd had never discussed it directly, though Father Gilbert had offered to counsel them both. Todd claimed his wife didn’t want help – and he made it clear he wouldn’t have agreed anyway.

  “I don’t care about Todd’s love life – or hers,” Sanders said. “But it complicates things because of Haysham.”

  “How so?”

  Sanders’ expression skirted an outright you-don’t-know? smirk. “David Todd stole Mary Aston away from Lord Haysham.”

  Father Gilbert clenched his teeth. He knew the two men were competitive but, if true, this was ridiculous. “Is that gossip or do you know it as a fact?”

  “Fact. She was sleeping with Haysham, but Todd must have made her a better offer.”

  Father Gilbert took a deep breath. Hearing this kind of sordid news was bad enough, but the feeling that Sanders was playing him somehow made it worse. “Why are you telling me all of this?” he asked.

  “You’re part of this investigation. Don’t you think it’s important to know the backgrounds of everyone involved? Motives?”

  Father Gilbert conceded the point with a nod.

  “Mary Aston was with you when you met with Margaret Clarke, right?”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Mrs Clarke told Wilton. We sit opposite each other at the station. I overheard his side of their phone conversation.”

  “And?”

  “I’d like to know what you talked about.”

  “There’s nothing confidential in it,” Father Gilbert said, as if to assure himself that he wasn’t betraying anyone. He then explained to DS Sanders about the events from 1938, including the discovery of the body and what Mrs Mayhew found in the church records about the sword being moved to an unknown vault.

  DS Sanders tapped his finger against his chin. “1938? I’ll check our records for any information about that.”

  “Don’t be surprised if DI Wilton already has,” Father Gilbert said.

  A smug look. “Wilton wouldn’t know where to begin to look. I do.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Father Gilbert bought some fish and chips and ate it at home. He washed it down with a pint of ale and thought about the rivalry between Lord Haysham and David Todd. He wondered if he should do more to bring an end to it. He was their vicar, after all. And for both Haysham and Todd to
bed the same woman while married to others was beyond the pale.

  He tidied up after his meal and stood at the kitchen sink to rinse the dishes. It seemed like a lonely act: a place setting for one, nothing to do next except check emails or go through some paperwork. The house threw echoes back at him. He prayed, hoping to unburden himself of a mixture of self-pity and – what? Jealousy? Was he jealous that Haysham and Todd had slept with Mary? Or was it envy that they both felt free enough from moral constraints to do such a thing?

  He thought about Mary. In times long past men talked about being bewitched by women. He’d always dismissed the idea. But the irrationality of his thoughts and feelings made him wonder.

  The dishes were dried and put away when the doorbell chimed. He glanced at the clock – it was a little before eight. He went to the front door and opened it, expecting to see Father Benson there on church business. Mary Aston stood in the shadows of the porch.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, not sorry at all. “I only got your phone message fifteen minutes ago. I hope I’m not bothering you.”

  “Not at all,” he said. There was a pause, the moment when he was supposed to invite her in. He didn’t.

  She waited, then gave him a verbal nudge. “You said you found something?”

  “That’s right.” His brain began to function again. “A reference to the sword. In the minutes from a 1938 vestry meeting.” He realized he had left the copy in his jacket and turned to get it.

  She stepped inside. “May I come in?”

  Men never really grow up, Father Gilbert thought in the millisecond after her question. At heart, they remain the same boys they were in school: glandular, testosterone-saturated, with a stunted and very adolescent view of women and sexuality. His first thought was, Yes, of course, come in. And drinks would be poured and their guards would be down and something interesting would happen between them, without commitment, without guilt, without consequences of any sort.

  Concurrent with the first thought was a second: Yes, of course, come in. I’ll put on the kettle, because he was a priest and his motivation would be one of hospitality and pastoral care. And they’d drink tea and talk, and nothing would happen between them whatsoever except that she’d be impressed with his strength of character and he’d be all the stronger for it.