The Body Under the Bridge

by Paul McCuster

  “A lot of people do. Why?”

  “There was one parked near my house – with someone in it. I got the impression I was being watched. Or someone was watching Mary Aston.”

  “Mary Aston was at your house?” A look and tone of immediate disapproval.

  “Don’t get yourself worked up,” Father Gilbert said. “She came to the house first, then we went down to the pub. Her car was parked in front of the house. When we came back I noticed a red saloon sitting a few houses up. Someone was in it. After she drove away, the red car followed.”

  Benson shrugged. “Considering the impression Mary Aston gives, it could have been any one of a dozen men in that car.”

  Father Gilbert couldn’t disagree – and left it alone at that. He invited Benson to sit down so they could go over the day’s schedule – hospital visits, home visits, a meeting with a bank official, and an evening Bible study at the Stonebridge police station.

  An inquisitive look from Benson.

  “It’s for ex-convicts on probation,” Father Gilbert explained.

  “I don’t see much time for my visit with Adrian Scott,” Benson said.

  Father Gilbert knew it was unfair to throw Father Benson, a stranger, at Adrian Scott. Especially in this situation. “Squeeze it in somewhere. I’ll go with you, if there’s time. Just don’t wait for me. Use Haysham’s authority to get him to cooperate.”

  Mrs Mayhew returned. “Well.”

  “Well what?”

  “I just phoned Clive Challoner’s house,” she said. “I spoke with his daughter and she said she’d intended to call you. She needs to see you immediately.”

  “Oh dear. Has Mary Aston already caused that much damage?” he asked.

  “No. She wants to discuss funeral arrangements.”

  “Whose funeral?”

  “Clive Challoner’s. He died last night. A sudden heart attack.” Mrs Mayhew handed him a slip of paper. “Here’s the address.”

  * * *

  Father Benson drove them both to the village of Summerhill, which was little more than a pub and a post office with a handful of houses scattered around them. Number 15, Summerhill Road, was a bungalow only a stone’s throw from a pleasant river that pushed itself alongside the main road. A man was walking a Labrador on the opposite side. The trees on the bank were turning green with fresh leaves. Father Gilbert wanted to stop, stretch on the grass, close his eyes, and put his face to the sun. His headache had subsided, but he still felt tired.

  Lynn Challoner was a middle-aged woman with wiry copper-coloured hair and red-rimmed blue eyes. She greeted the priests at the front door and burst into tears while thanking them for coming so quickly. Sympathies were offered and a round of tea was prepared in a cramped kitchen that smelled of cleaning chemicals. The dutiful daughter had been tidying up her father’s house. Routines, no matter how mundane, defied death’s attempts to take comfort and consistency away.

  Once they were settled at the kitchen table, she explained, “I come up from Southaven every morning to spend time with him. This morning he didn’t answer the doorbell, so I used my key and let myself in. I nearly tripped over him. He was lying on the floor of the front hallway.”

  “Did he have a heart condition?” Father Gilbert asked.

  “He had one of those angioplasty procedures a few years ago and has been on daily medication since, but I didn’t believe a heart attack was imminent,” she said. She pressed a tissue to her nose. “He was in good health. He should have had more time.”

  Her eyes flooded and she dabbed at them with the tissue.

  “Why the front hall?” Father Benson asked.

  She looked at him, startled, as if he’d suddenly appeared. “I don’t know. I talked to him on the phone at 9:30 last night and he was about to go to bed. He was often in bed before ten.”

  “Where is the phone?” asked Father Gilbert.

  “There’s one in the kitchen and another one on his nightstand.”

  “Maybe someone came to the door,” Benson suggested.

  “At that time of night? Anyone who knows him wouldn’t think of dropping by that late.”

  “Maybe it was someone who didn’t know him,” Father Gilbert said, thinking of Mary Aston.

  “A salesman? At that hour?”

  Father Gilbert shook his head. “No.” He knew he couldn’t go further without suggesting more than he knew.

  “Why are you asking so many questions?” she asked. “Do you think there’s something suspicious about his death?”

  “Not at all,” Father Gilbert said. “We don’t mean to alarm you. It’s only that we were going to contact your father about something that’s come up at the church.”

  A flicker of memory came to her. “Oh – that’s why your secretary called. Yes, it was providential, I told her. But why did you want to talk to my father? He hasn’t attended your church in years.”

  “It’s not about him. It has more to do with his father, when he was the verger at St Mark’s,” said Father Gilbert.

  “My grandfather?” she asked, and her brows knitted together. “What kinds of questions could you possibly have about him? Did he run off with the church funds?”

  Father Gilbert chuckled. He wished it was as simple as that. “Did your father ever mention the Woodrich sword?”

  She shook her head. “What is it?”

  “It’s part of an antique collection. There was a sword, a ring, and a medallion. Your grandfather saw the sword in 1938. Maybe your father did, too.”

  “1938! Good heavens, you’re going far back. My father would have been only three years old then. Why are you asking about it now?”

  “The medallion has been found and now we’re searching for the sword,” Father Gilbert replied. “Our church records indicate that your grandfather had it moved to a vault of some sort, but we don’t know what vault.”

  “Vault?” She tilted her head back and lightly touched her throat. “The only vault that comes to mind would be the mausoleum at the cemetery.”

  “You have a family mausoleum?” Father Gilbert asked. He couldn’t imagine that the Challoners were that wealthy.

  “It’s a shared mausoleum,” she said. “Other families are buried in it, too.”

  “Which cemetery?” Father Gilbert asked.

  “Sussex Memorial Gardens. It’s where my father will be interred.”

  * * *

  Back on the road to Stonebridge, Father Gilbert thought about Clive Challoner’s death. That he’d died now was troubling enough. But he wondered if Mary Aston had gone to visit him after she’d left the pub. She was determined enough to do it. But, he reasoned, even if she had visited him, it wasn’t as if she had the ability to induce a heart attack – unless she’d tried to seduce the poor man. He frowned at the corruption of his thoughts.

  “Clive Challoner died of a heart attack, right?” Father Benson suddenly asked. “You’re not thinking he was murdered.”

  Anything was possible. “There’d have to be an autopsy to determine the cause of death.”

  “Lynn Challoner didn’t say anything about an autopsy,” Benson said. “Are you going to suggest it?”

  “I’d like to,” he replied, then closed his eyes and sighed. “But I won’t.”

  Benson glanced at him. “What’s wrong?”

  “Did you see what was scratched into the wood next to the front door?” Father Gilbert asked.

  “No.”

  “A pentagram, like the one at the church.”

  “What? ” Benson gripped the steering wheel as if he was afraid he might drive them off the road.

  “To the left of the door-post.” Father Gilbert had seen it on the way out. It was a fresh cutting, too. Probably done by whoever had visited Clive Challoner. He thought of the wall in the church cellar – and his mirror.

  “Should we go back?”

  “And do what?” Father Gilbert didn’t want to distress Lynn Challoner more than he had to. Not after she’d lost her father. />
  “Should we call the police?” Benson asked.

  “I’ll tell DI Wilton.”

  Benson hummed to himself, or it might have been a groan. “Do you trust Wilton after what DS Sanders told you?”

  “I don’t trust anyone at this point,” Father Gilbert said bluntly. “But Wilton is in charge of the investigation. I have to speak to him if I’m going to speak to anyone.”

  “Spoken like a former policeman. Follow procedure.” He may have been jabbing at Father Gilbert, or simply acknowledging reality. Father Gilbert didn’t know or care. His mind went back to Mary Aston. Had she gone to see Challoner after she’d left him? Did she see the pentagram? Or had she scratched it into the wood herself – and, if so, why? If not, then who did?

  “Is there any way we can look inside the mausoleum?” Benson asked. “The sword may be there. And if it’s all connected…”

  Father Gilbert had already thought about that. “We have to make arrangements for Clive Challoner’s burial anyway,” he said, as if an added excuse was needed.

  “This is getting messy,” Benson said.

  Father Gilbert looked out of the passenger window. It was beyond messy now – and every instinct in his being said it would get messier.

  CHAPTER 19

  Father Gilbert tried to reach DI Wilton but didn’t get an answer on his mobile phone. He then called the office number and wound up with DS Sanders. Sanders took the news about Challoner’s death in his stride, declaring it another unfortunate coincidence in this very bizarre case. He offered to contact the Southaven Police – they had jurisdiction over Summerhill – to see if an autopsy was legally warranted. He doubted it would be.

  Throughout the afternoon, Father Gilbert and Father Benson went about their various parish duties, dividing responsibilities between them to make up for their lost time in the morning. Benson officiated at the noon service and then visited three parishioners at the hospital.

  Reverend Singh phoned to say that Colin Doyle’s body had been released by the coroner. There’d be a funeral in a few days, though no one but immediate family would be allowed to attend. Father Gilbert hadn’t been sure it would be appropriate for him to attend, but this put the question to rest.

  Father Gilbert took the Evensong service with the hope that Father Benson would use the free time to talk to Adrian Scott, Haysham’s archivist.

  Father Gilbert thought about the mausoleum holding the Challoner graves. And he was determined to find out if Mary had visited Clive Challoner last night. But she didn’t answer her phone at the odd times he called during the day, nor did she return his messages.

  A little before eight that evening he walked over to the Stonebridge police station – a plain brick building that looked like a community hall. DI Wilton was in the reception area when Father Gilbert arrived. Just as Father Gilbert started to ask if he’d talked to DS Sanders about Clive Challoner, Father Benson came in, looking like a man who thought he was late.

  “Perfect timing,” Father Gilbert said.

  Benson looked relieved.

  “This way,” DI Wilton said and led them past the sign-in area, through an electronically locked door, and into a room containing a haphazard collection of desks, chairs, and filing cabinets that looked like boats washed into a cove after a hurricane. A handful of uniformed and plain-clothes officers were still at work, only glancing at the priests. One wall contained a line of closed doors that led to other offices and the holding cells in the back. Set into the far wall was a rectangular window giving a clear view of the conference room where the Bible study would take place.

  Father Gilbert had created the Bible study a few years before as a help to convicted criminals placed on probation. He’d reasoned that, since the convicts had to check in with the local probation officer there, a study and discussion time might be useful. Most of the convicts were white-collar or low-risk criminals whose crimes hadn’t warranted much time in jail. An average of six men attended.

  Father Gilbert and Father Benson adjusted the chairs and placed the Bibles and the evening’s printed handouts on the scarred wooden table.

  DI Wilton watched them for a moment, then said, “I heard from Sanders about the latest fatality in our case.”

  “Do you think it’s connected?” Father Gilbert asked. “DS Sanders seemed to think it was a coincidence.”

  “A strange coincidence, then,” Wilton said. “Though it would have been helpful if you’d called me directly rather than DS Sanders. I’m head of the investigation, you’ll remember.”

  Father Gilbert noted the rebuke and said, “I tried to reach you first, but you didn’t answer your mobile. I called here and Sanders picked up your phone.”

  “Try harder to get me next time,” DI Wilton said and walked out.

  Father Benson watched him go. “He’s getting rather feisty.”

  “Police work is a competitive business,” Father Gilbert said, remembering well the inter-office politics and endless manoeuvring for promotions or recognition. A lot like the Church of England, he thought.

  The Bible study attendees drifted in, stopping by the parole officer’s cubicle, then wandering into the meeting room. Father Gilbert greeted each one warmly as he introduced Father Benson. Father Gilbert could tell from the priest’s eyes that he was unaccustomed to dealing with the criminal classes. He seemed to peruse each one, as if trying to figure out by how they dressed what crime each had committed. Father Gilbert knew that one could never tell by looking. These men looked and dressed very average and middle-class – more likely to get in trouble for stealing pens from banks rather than embezzlement of the high-finance kind or, in one man’s case, sex with a minor he’d met on the internet.

  The evening’s study integrated passages from the Bible with Francis de Sales’ Introduction to the Devout Life. Father Gilbert had a particular affection for de Sales, a sixteenth-century priest, later declared a saint, who was dedicated to helping the average person practise holiness. He brought de Sales’ writings, together with the words of St Paul and St Peter, to get the group beyond any “pie in the sky” piety. These were men who needed down-to-earth and unflinching Christianity.

  The study itself lasted only half an hour. The rest of the time was dedicated to a sort of group therapy, as each man unloaded about trouble at home, the social embarrassment of being convicted, difficulties finding jobs, trying to hold onto some semblance of normal life. Father Gilbert effectively discouraged any self-pity or excuses from the men. Practical holiness, he reminded them, was about being honest about oneself.

  The meeting ended a little after nine. As the two priests tidied up the room, Father Benson commended Father Gilbert for his leadership in the meeting.

  “Thank you,” Father Gilbert said. “I look forward to seeing what you do with the meeting next week.”

  “What I’ll do?” Benson frowned.

  “The purpose for you being here was to meet the men and watch how we conducted the group so you could take over from me occasionally.”

  “But I don’t know anything about the lives of convicts.”

  “You know about men, don’t you?”

  Benson shrugged, then nodded.

  “By the way, any chance you got in touch with Adrian Scott?” Father Gilbert asked.

  “Not yet. I drove over to—”

  His statement was cut off by a commotion from the main room. There was a shout, and a chair was knocked over with a crash. Father Gilbert looked out through the glass and saw Lord Haysham struggling against DS Sanders at one of the desks.

  “Please, just sit down!” DS Sanders shouted.

  “I will not sit down,” Lord Haysham said. There was a slur in his voice.

  Father Gilbert drifted to the doorway of the meeting room, still moving as if he was picking up papers. Benson did the same – very close by.

  A side door flew open and DI Wilton burst in. He stormed over to Sanders’ desk. “What’s going on here?”

  “Lord Haysham
is about to get thrown into a holding cell if he doesn’t sit down,” DS Sanders said. He righted the chair and stood it next to Haysham, who glared and swayed unsteadily.

  “I want my solicitor,” Haysham snarled as he dropped down onto the edge of the chair.

  DS Sanders sat down at his desk and opened a file drawer. He pulled out a handful of forms.

  “Well?” DI Wilton asked, stepping between Sanders and Haysham.

  “I was on my way home when I saw Lord Haysham driving in an erratic manner. I pulled him over. He’s well over the drink limit.”

  “Since when are you on traffic duty?”

  “I’m always on traffic duty when people drink too much and drive.”

  “I had one drink,” Lord Haysham said. “Ask anyone at The Mill House.”

  “It must have been a very large drink,” DS Sanders said.

  “Leave this to me,” Wilton said to Sanders.

  “So you can let him off? I don’t think so.”

  Wilton glowered at Sanders, then adopted a more reasonable tone. “Come on, Steve. Leave him to me.”

  It was the first time Father Gilbert had heard Sanders’ first name.

  Sanders shook his head. “Just because he’s rich – and your pal – doesn’t mean he can ignore the law.”

  “One drink is not breaking the law,” Haysham said.

  “Be quiet,” Sanders snapped at him.

  “You can’t speak to me that way.” Haysham looked as if he might stand, but Wilton put a hand on his shoulder.

  “Do something,” Haysham said to Wilton.

  Wilton said to Sanders, “Let’s talk.”

  Sanders shook his head. “Not interested.”

  “I outrank you. Come into the other room. Now.”

  Sanders wouldn’t look at Wilton. He stared at the top of his desk.

  “Think about what you’re doing,” Wilton said more gently.

  Sanders frowned, then slumped ever so slightly. He abruptly pushed his chair away from the desk and stood up. “Don’t move an inch,” Sanders ordered Haysham.

  The two detectives disappeared into one of the side rooms.