The Body Under the Bridge

by Paul McCuster

  Benson shrugged. “Has the house been in the family long? It looked fairly modern.”

  “The section we were in was added to the original house several years ago,” Father Gilbert said. “But other parts date back to the late 1800s. I believe the garage was originally a stable.”

  “Did Francis Todd live in that house?”

  “He may have. But more than likely he lived in the vicarage.”

  They reached a junction. “Are we going back to the church?” Benson asked.

  “No. Let’s talk to Adrian Scott.”

  CHAPTER 25

  Adrian Scott’s bookshop in Stonebridge sat on a corner of the High Street and Darcy Lane, one of the many slivers of road that branched off from the town centre. The front of the shop looked as if it had been designed from drawings in a Charles Dickens novel – the kind of shop that ought to have “Ye Olde” in front of the name. Instead, the sign simply said Scott’s.

  The two bay windows sitting on both sides of the front door sported cluttered displays of rare and antique books. One on local shipbuilding, another covering the history of the world as it was known up to 1919. There was a uniform set of Graham Greene novels and a hodgepodge of G. A. Henty titles. A cat slept in the corner.

  Beyond the displays, the shop was dark. A sign on the door announced in neat lettering that “The shop is closed out of respect for Lord Haysham and his untimely death.”

  A woman from a clothes shop next door was gazing at her front window display and giving directions to someone inside about how to rearrange the mannequins, when she saw Father Gilbert standing at the door. “He’s at home,” she said.

  “Where does he live?” Benson asked.

  Father Gilbert pointed up. “Above the shop. It’s a flat. We can use the stairs around the back.”

  The rear of the shop faced a car park. There was a door for the shop itself on the ground level. A wooden staircase rose and dog-legged onto a wide balcony that covered the width of the building. In the middle of the wall was a door with the number “7” on it and a small button for a doorbell. Father Gilbert pushed the button.

  The Dickensian look of the shop was explained when Mr Fezziwig himself opened the door.

  “Hello,” Adrian Scott said. He seemed a foot shorter than most adults, with a round face and a matching round body that he had marginally contained in a white shirt, a very tight waistcoat, and trousers that looked like riding breeches. He had a mop of long brown hair and side-whiskers that flared out like bird’s wings. A pince-nez was perched on his bulbous nose.

  Father Gilbert had to smile every time he saw Scott, which was once a week when he went to see what might be new or interesting on the shelves.

  “Father Gilbert,” he said, then turned to Benson. “You must be Father Benson. Lord Haysham – God rest his soul – said you’d be paying me a visit. Come in, come in.”

  The two priests stepped in and were transported to a home that Dickens himself would have described. Uncarpeted creaky floorboards and bare wooden walls and a scattering of furniture were centred mostly around a modest fireplace in the corner. The place was dominated by rows of open bookcases, with shelf after shelf of books from various epochs and in various conditions. Father Gilbert resisted the temptation to stop right then to look.

  Another cat brushed against his leg. A third cat gave Father Benson a similar expression of welcome.

  “Can you believe he’s dead?” Scott asked. “I can’t. It’s more than I can bear. There are those you can imagine being murdered, but he isn’t one of them. No, indeed. They think David Todd did it, and he might have, but it hardly seems possible. I never thought of Todd as the killing type. But, then again, I never thought of Lord Haysham as the being-murdered type.”

  “How well did you know Lord Haysham – I mean the father of the Lord Haysham who has just – er – passed away?” Benson asked.

  “Not very well,” he said. “He invited me to a Christmas party at his estate once. He shook my hand and said that he loved, absolutely loved, my bookshop. To my knowledge, he’d only set foot in it once and that was to buy his wife a Jane Austen. Not even a first edition, just a run-of-the-mill Nelson’s. But he said he liked how I had organized the shop and wondered if I was as good with family documents and archives. I didn’t know anything about archiving, but I thought I could learn as well as anyone. And I did. Would you like a cup of tea or coffee?” His eyes darted back and forth between the priests.

  “Tea, thank you,” said Father Gilbert.

  Benson asked for the same.

  Scott scurried off, disappearing around a corner. Benson put a hand to his mouth, as if he might laugh. Father Gilbert nodded.

  “This way!” Scott called out.

  They followed the sound of his voice and entered a kitchenette, enclosed with bookcases as walls. He stood at a small counter and busied himself with the kettle and mugs.

  “Milk, sugar?” Scott called out.

  “Both for me, please,” Father Gilbert said.

  “Neither for me.” Benson stepped to one side and nearly toppled a stack of books on the floor.

  Father Gilbert turned to a shelf behind him. He was faced with a row of novels from the middle of the twentieth century – replica first editions of brilliant authors who had led Western literature into angst, despair, and cynicism.

  “We’re investigating the Haysham family’s relationship with the Todd family over the past 200 years,” Father Gilbert said.

  “That’s easy. They didn’t like each other,” Scott stated.

  “We know that much. But we’d hoped to get more specific about it.”

  “Well, that will be so much easier than it used to be.” He turned with two mugs, thrusting one into Benson’s hands and another into Father Gilbert’s. He returned to the counter to retrieve his own mug and then went over to a table with a computer nearly hidden amongst piles of books. “I’ve spent the past few years organizing the Haysham family’s letters and deeds and documents of all sorts. I’ve been scanning and cataloguing everything into the computer, even paintings and photos. It’s an exhaustive database, but I haven’t quite organized it yet.”

  “Then you can look up the Woodrich Set,” Benson said.

  Scott turned to him, his eyebrows dark clouds over a stormy expression. “Oh, we don’t talk about that.”

  “Who doesn’t?” asked Father Gilbert.

  “Those of us who know about it.”

  “Why not?”

  “The Woodrich Set is bad luck.”

  Benson looked surprised. “Seriously?”

  Scott nodded with great fervour.

  “But we have to talk about it,” Father Gilbert said. “We believe it’s connected to Lord Haysham’s murder – and to everything else that’s gone on around here since that body was found.”

  “The body. Yes, I know about that. Joshua Todd.”

  “They don’t know for certain. Not until the DNA results come back.”

  “They’ve come back. It’s Joshua Todd. No doubt about it, for those who had doubts. I didn’t.”

  “How did you hear that?” Father Gilbert asked. It bothered him that he hadn’t been told.

  “I’m a resourceful fellow,” said Scott with a wink.

  Benson looked at Father Gilbert and frowned.

  Scott tapped the computer screen. “It’s all in here, only it’s in bits and pieces for someone clever to put together.”

  “And you’re clever enough to do that,” Father Gilbert said.

  “With what I have, yes. But there are a few boxes the Hayshams haven’t let me catalogue.”

  “Why not?” Benson asked.

  Scott looked thoughtful. “Maybe they’re embarrassed. Or ashamed. Some families get like that. Very proud of their heritage and they want to keep up appearances. Other families don’t care so much. They don’t think the actions of their ancestors reflect poorly on them now. But they do, you know. It can’t be helped. The sins of one generation will be carried
to the next, and the next, and the next, until something breaks the chain – or curse.”

  Benson was about to drink his tea, but lowered it again. “What curse?”

  “Are you talking in general, or about the Woodrich Set?” Father Gilbert asked Scott.

  “Curses in general and the medallion in particular. It was found with the body under the bridge. And what happened next? Poor Colin Doyle offed himself because of it. He knew something.”

  “What did he know?” Father Gilbert pulled a wooden chair over and sat down to face Scott. He crossed his legs and rested his mug of tea on his knee.

  Scott spoke slowly, as if speaking to an obtuse child: “That the sins of one generation get carried onto the next – to his.”

  “What sins?” Benson asked.

  “Well, if I knew that, I wouldn’t be wondering about it, would I?” said Scott impatiently. “Lord Haysham was upset about the medallion. I could hear it in his voice on the phone. He knew it had meaning, but he wasn’t sure what that meaning was. Though he probably had his suspicions but didn’t want to admit what they were.”

  Father Gilbert shook his head. “Can we go a few steps back in this conversation?”

  “We can go further than a few steps,” Scott said and turned to the computer. He fiddled with the mouse and the keyboard and then he turned the screen so Fathers Gilbert and Benson could see it. A black-and-white photo of a painting appeared. A plump-faced man in a white wig and a red uniform looked unpleasantly at them.

  Father Gilbert froze. It was the man with the sword – the one he’d seen behind him in his bathroom.

  “This is Samuel, the third Lord Haysham,” Scott explained. “He lived from 1752 until 1804. He was born on a wintry night—”

  Father Gilbert held up his hand. “Not to be rude, Adrian, but I’m not sure we want to go back that far. Can you stay with the relevant highlights?”

  Scott looked disappointed. “I would if I knew what the relevant highlights were. I can’t know without going through everything.”

  Father Gilbert took a sip of his tea and opted to be blunt. “Did the Hayshams cheat the Todds in business back then?”

  Scott was unperturbed by the question. “Based on what I’ve read, yes. I would say so.”

  “Did this Lord Haysham – Samuel – murder Joshua Todd on the bridge and dump his body in the river?”

  “Ah, now, that’s a more difficult question to answer.”

  “Why?”

  “Because there’s no evidence that he did, but it was well within his personality to do it.”

  “He was a nasty man?” Benson asked.

  “Ruthless,” Scott said. “And he became rather volatile and short-tempered after returning from the war.”

  “Which war?” Father Gilbert asked.

  “The American war for independence.”

  “He fought in that?” Benson asked. “For which side?”

  “England, of course.” Scott tapped at the computer keyboard. “It changed him.”

  “How?” asked Father Gilbert.

  “Whereas he’d been an amiable sort of person, if a little eccentric, he turned into a bit of a monster. I tracked down a letter from a servant describing how horrible he’d become. It described him as storming around the mansion, shouting at no one in particular, and ranting about the glory that would come.”

  “Glory – because of the war?” Benson asked. “Was his battlefield experience that impressive?”

  Father Gilbert wondered if he had meant some sort of spiritual glory.

  A cat leapt on the table and sniffed at Scott’s mug of tea. Scott didn’t seem to mind. “I don’t know how much battlefield experience he had. He served briefly with Cornwallis in New Jersey and Philadelphia. That was long before the Yorktown debacle.”

  “Then what was he talking about?” Father Gilbert asked.

  Scott shrugged. “Two things happened while he was in the Colonies. First, his father died. He adored the man and the loss was hard on him. Second, he came down with a terrible illness – a fever of some sort – that rendered him incapable of any further military service. So he came home in 1778 to take charge of the estate and to recuperate. But he never really did. The consensus is that he wasn’t the same man. He had become irrational, even egomaniacal. That’s why, though there hasn’t been any proof, it’s easy to believe that he murdered Joshua Todd.”

  Staring at the face on the screen, Father Gilbert imagined that same face on the man in his bathroom. He saw the uniform and the sword held high. He thought he felt a cool movement of air on his neck as the blade swung past. He winced.

  Father Benson looked at Father Gilbert with a quizzical expression.

  Father Gilbert took a deep breath and turned his attention back to Scott. “We know that Joshua Todd had the Woodrich medallion around his neck, but did Samuel Haysham have the Woodrich sword and ring?”

  “I can’t confirm that,” Scott said. “Persuade Lady Haysham to let me have a look at those other boxes, and I might be able to.”

  “Father Gilbert may be able to do that,” Benson said.

  “And tell David Todd, if he ever wants anyone to archive his family’s documents, I’m the one to do the job.” Scott nudged the cat and picked up his mug of tea.

  “I’ll mention it,” said Father Gilbert. “Though he’s a little preoccupied right now.”

  Scott tapped a finger alongside his nose. “Understood. And you might mention my archiving services to the Doyles, too. If they have need for them.”

  “Thanks for the tea.” Father Gilbert stood up. “By the way, have you seen in any of the documents phrases like ‘Serve or die’ or ‘Take your place’ – in English or Latin?”

  “I don’t believe so.” He thought about it. “No – it doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “What about pentagrams? Have they shown up?”

  “Pentagrams, yes – occasionally,” said Scott. He hammered at the keyboard again. “Samuel and various Hayshams after him put the symbol in the corners of their letters, or under their signatures, like a seal.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “No.”

  “When did they start? Using the symbol, I mean.”

  “After Samuel’s return from America, I believe.”

  Father Gilbert couldn’t think of any other questions. “Thank you for your time. We’ll be in touch.”

  Benson drained his tea and put the mug on the table.

  The three men walked back to the door.

  “You’re going to call back to say that I’m allowed access to those other boxes, right?” Scott asked. “Unless they’ve been moved, Lord Haysham kept them in a storage cupboard off his main study. You’ll let me know soon, yes?”

  Father Gilbert thought about the grieving family and couldn’t imagine anything more absurd than asking for boxes of old papers.

  CHAPTER 26

  Father Benson drove Father Gilbert out to the Haysham estate in the middle of the afternoon. Father Gilbert didn’t want to bother the grieving widow about mundane issues like the archives, but he conceded that they might yield information that would help the police investigation now rather than later.

  Approaching the door, Father Gilbert thought about the manor – the generations that had suffered pain and loss, had come and gone within its walls. The manor was still there while its inhabitants had been relegated to painted portraits, old boxes of letters, framed photos, and whatever memories the living still held of them. The size of the house, the value of its contents, even the beauty of the grounds, suddenly seemed indifferent to the humanity that had built and maintained them all.

  A young man answered the door – a younger version of the now-deceased Michael Haysham, complete with blond hair and fair complexion. Even the lips were turned down in the same way. His eyes were glassy and the tip of his nose was an angry red from too many tissues. He wore a sweatshirt with a logo Father Gilbert didn’t recognize, and faded jeans. This was Philip, Lord Haysham’s son. />
  “I’m very sorry about your father, Philip,” Father Gilbert said as they shook hands.

  A brief nod in return.

  Father Gilbert introduced him to Father Benson.

  “Come in,” Philip said.

  They stepped into the front hall, but no further.

  “Look, Mum’s in no condition to talk right now,” Philip said. “The doctor’s got her medicated. What can I do for you?”

  “It’s an odd time to ask,” Father Gilbert said, “but Adrian Scott believes you have some boxes of documents he hasn’t seen.”

  “Adrian Scott? The bookshop owner?”

  “Your grandfather hired him to serve as the family archivist,” Father Gilbert said.

  Philip nodded. “Oh, yes. I remember something about that now. But why are you bothering about the archives?”

  “Because we believe your family’s history may be connected to your father’s murder,” Father Gilbert said.

  His eyes widened. “Do you think Todd was motivated by something from the past to kill Dad?”

  “We don’t know that he killed your father,” Father Gilbert said.

  “Of course he did it!” the young man said. “He’s hated my father for as long as I can remember. If it’ll help make the case, then you’re welcome to whatever we have. But I’m afraid I don’t know where they are.”

  “Mr Scott said they’re in a cupboard off the main study,” Benson said.

  “This way, then.”

  Philip led them down a long hallway to Haysham’s office. It had the look of a well-worn study, with books shoved haphazardly on the shelves, a desk cluttered with papers and mail, and even a miniature indoor putting green near the window. A filing cabinet sat next to a door. Philip pulled the door open.

  “It’s a bit of a mess,” he said as he turned on an inside light.

  They crowded into the small room. There was little floor or wall space left thanks to the discarded office machines, unused furniture, and stacks of cardboard file boxes.

  The three of them turned in different directions to scan the handwritten labels on the boxes. There were business files and correspondence from recent years, magazines, seasonal cards and decorations, keepsakes, but nothing indicating old archival material.