The Body Under the Bridge

by Paul McCuster

  “Adrian Scott must have misunderstood,” Philip said. “There are a dozen other places where those kinds of boxes might be, but I’d have to ask my Mum when she’s able to think about it.”

  Father Gilbert noticed an old-fashioned trunk in the corner. “What about that?”

  It took some work to get to it, pushing all the other clutter aside, but they eventually cleared enough room to pull it out. It was heavy – wooden with leather straps, metal studs, and a tarnished brass latch. Philip struggled with the lid and finally got it open.

  Father Gilbert mused on the childlike feeling old trunks brought out in him: an expectation of lost pirate treasure, jewels and bullion, or rare books, or a monumental discovery of documents or sketches by a famous artist. This trunk, however, was filled with notebooks, ledgers, boxes of letters in their envelopes, and coloured binders.

  Philip dug through it all, as if to make sure he wasn’t giving anything valuable away. Then he closed the lid. “You can take it,” he said and helped them carry the trunk back to the front door.

  At that moment Father Gilbert remembered that they were in Benson’s Mini Cooper.

  Benson thought of the same thing. “I’m afraid I don’t have room in the boot or back seat for a trunk that size.”

  Philip didn’t seem bothered. “It’s easily taken care of. I’ll have it sent over to Mr Scott right away.”

  “He’s in number 7, above his shop,” Father Gilbert said.

  “He’ll have it within the hour.” Philip walked them to the door. “But I want to be the first to know if he finds anything incriminating.”

  “You’re more likely to find any incriminating documents in the recent file boxes we looked past,” Father Gilbert said.

  Philip’s expression lit up as if he’d been given a new purpose for being there. Grief, Father Gilbert knew, could be a huge black hole of waiting, of tedium. Endless cups of tea and merely sitting around fielding sympathy. That’s why so many people filled it with busy-ness, as Lady Haysham had with the gardening.

  “Perhaps I’ll look,” Philip said.

  Father Gilbert doubted Philip would find anything, but hoped the young man would find a helpful distraction in the effort.

  * * *

  Mrs Mayhew was hunched over her desk, looking with great concentration at a piece of paper.

  “Is everything all right?” Father Gilbert came close to the desk. Father Benson seemed to linger a few steps away.

  She looked up at Father Gilbert, then at Father Benson, with tired eyes. “I’ve spent most of the afternoon searching the files for anything at all about that mysterious skeleton. Finally, after going through every drawer and box I could find, I found a single reference in a file that I had placed on my desk yesterday. It was right here under my nose.”

  “What’s the reference?” asked Father Gilbert.

  “It’s an unsigned note to Reverend Ainsley in 1938, explaining that the ‘unfortunate person’ from the cellar would be honourably interred in Southaven at All Souls’ Church. And ‘Happy Christmas!’” She held up the note for them to see. A very masculine writing style, Father Gilbert thought. There were no other markings on the plain white sheet.

  It was more than nothing. “Thank you, Mrs Mayhew.”

  She put the note down again. “That’s not all,” she said. “I rang DS Sanders, like you asked, and gave him this information. Because of the ‘Happy Christmas’, he looked up reports from December 1938. He found that the body was officially released to be buried on the 12th of December, 1938.”

  “Released to who?” Benson asked.

  “Whom,” she corrected him.

  “Who picked it up?” Father Gilbert asked.

  “The first name was unreadable. The last name was Doyle.” She looked rather pleased with herself. “The skeleton was buried with the Doyle family.”

  CHAPTER 27

  “But didn’t you say Richard Doyle Challoner was in the Challoner mausoleum?” Benson asked as they drove into the car park for All Souls’ Church.

  “There’s a marker there for him. But that doesn’t mean he’s there,” said Father Gilbert.

  “So the skeleton from the church cellar might not be his.”

  Reverend Desmond Singh came out of All Souls’ Church to greet them. He wore a traditional priest’s shirt and collar. He seemed relaxed and greeted both of the priests warmly, as if they were all old friends. Father Gilbert was all too aware of the weirdness of their last conversation. He hadn’t told Father Benson about the implausible dreams they’d discussed. He hoped Reverend Singh wouldn’t bring them up.

  After Father Gilbert explained more fully why they’d come, Singh simply shook his head. “Do you think the events from the past 200 years will answer questions about poor Colin’s suicide or the murder of Lord Haysham? Are you sure the two of you aren’t getting carried away by this mystery – a bit of Indiana Jones thrown in with Agatha Christie – that sort of thing?”

  “The lives of this generation have been impacted by things that happened in previous generations,” Father Gilbert said. “So we’re chasing every clue we can get.”

  “So, how can I help you?” Singh asked.

  “Would your church records register a burial in the Doyle mausoleum – late in 1938?” asked Father Gilbert.

  “That’s an easy question to answer: no.”

  Father Gilbert was surprised to get such a fast answer. “Why not? Don’t your records go back that far?”

  “They do. But there’s no record of the burial you’re looking for.”

  “How do you know?” Benson asked, as puzzled as Father Gilbert was.

  “I had to look up the answer to your question not an hour ago, for a detective from Stonebridge.”

  “Which detective?” Father Gilbert already knew the answer.

  “Sanders.” He pointed to a silver car sitting alone at the other end of the car park. “That’s his car over there.”

  “He’s still here?”

  “I assume so. I didn’t see him leave.”

  “Would you mind showing us to the Doyle mausoleum?” asked Father Gilbert.

  “Not at all.”

  They walked down a stone path to a low iron gate. Reverend Singh opened it and they continued on into the vast graveyard. Father Gilbert glanced up at the sky. He wondered if they’d have more rain.

  “Why don’t your records say anything about the burial?” Benson asked Singh.

  “If the body was buried there, then it may have been done surreptitiously, probably late at night without the vicar knowing about it.”

  “Or he knew and agreed not to record it,” Benson said.

  “It may have been a matter of great privacy, or scandal,” said Singh.

  “So Sanders talked to you about Richard Doyle Challoner?” Father Gilbert asked.

  “He asked about the Doyles,” Singh said. “No, I’m not familiar with any Challoner. Did he attend All Souls’ recently?”

  Father Gilbert shook his head. “He died in 1889.”

  “I thought we were talking about 1938,” Singh said.

  “We are,” said Father Gilbert. He could appreciate how confusing this was becoming. “I suspect the skeleton found in the cellar of St Mark’s Church in 1938 was actually Richard Doyle Challoner from 1889. He was belatedly buried here.”

  “What exactly is going on, Father Gilbert?”

  Father Gilbert explained as simply as he could about the Woodrich Set, the Doyles and Challoners, and everything else they’d learned since Colin Doyle had died.

  Singh took it all in his stride, nodding silently from time to time. “And you believe the sword was placed with that skeleton?” he asked at the finish.

  “Possibly.”

  “Why put the sword in his vault – or any vault, for that matter?”

  Benson looked as if the question had been on his mind, too.

  “If the vault is well kept and weatherproof, it’s a fairly good place to hide durable treasures.�
� Father Gilbert wasn’t convinced by his own statement, but it was better than admitting he was working from gut instinct.

  Benson said, “I’ve read how, in some ancient cultures, a warrior’s weapons were buried with him so he would have protection in the afterlife. It was a matter of honour.”

  “That makes sense for an ancient culture, but is that how they were thinking in 1889 or 1938?” Singh asked.

  Why should it be any different then? Father Gilbert wondered. The note Mrs Mayhew found in the files had mentioned the word “honourable”. Why would putting the skeleton in this mausoleum be honourable – or more honourable than being buried in the Challoner mausoleum, or in the cellar of the church?

  More questions for which he had no answers.

  * * *

  Singh stopped in front of a mausoleum made of a light-coloured sandstone. It was a plain square structure with an arched roof. An iron gate stood open at the front.

  “Is this where Colin Doyle will be buried?” Father Gilbert asked.

  “If Jack Doyle gives his permission,” Reverend Singh said. “He hasn’t confirmed what he wants to do.”

  “Surely Colin’s wife has something to say about it,” Benson said.

  Singh looked at Benson with a thin smile. “You would think so, wouldn’t you?”

  The three men walked into the mausoleum. Father Gilbert guessed it was about thirty feet by thirty feet in size. Burial vaults were lined up like filing-cabinet drawers, much like the mausoleum containing the Challoners, except this one had individual rectangular tombs sitting on the floor itself. The afternoon light shone through the entrance, turning the very air a hazy yellow.

  “What’s that?” Singh asked and their eyes went to one of the markers. The stone had been bashed open and gaped like a black wound.

  They moved closer to look. Father Gilbert knelt next to the hole. Reverend Singh crouched down next to him.

  “Can you see inside?” Benson asked from behind them.

  “It’s too dark,” Father Gilbert said.

  “I have a light on my mobile phone,” Benson said and dug into his pocket.

  To make room, Father Gilbert stood up and took a few steps further into the mausoleum. His foot slid on something slick and he looked down. It was a puddle of rust-coloured water. He moved off it, wondering where the leak might be, his eye following the stream.

  The liquid wasn’t water – and it wasn’t really rust-coloured – and it had come seeping from a shadow where a crypt met the stone wall.

  “Bring that light over here,” Father Gilbert said.

  Benson approached, the mobile phone light bright enough to guide planes in for a safe landing. Father Gilbert pointed and the light followed.

  DS Sanders was propped up against the wall, his eyes wide open and his mouth slack, as if he simply couldn’t believe the amount of blood coming from beneath his blood-soaked shirt.

  CHAPTER 28

  The sun was on its descent, the headstones reaching out as long shadows. Father Gilbert watched the Southaven SOCO officers do their work, moving in and out of the Doyle mausoleum, the occasional flash of a camera inside – photos for evidence – and the meticulous effort to find anything that might help identify the cop-killer. They wanted Father Gilbert’s shoes, just to match the bloody footprints he’d made. Maybe the soles had picked up evidence.

  Reverend Singh had found a replacement pair in the church’s charity box. They were tight, but would do.

  Chief Constable Macaulay was there, pacing and fuming about the murder of one of his own men. He’d interrogated Father Gilbert as if he suspected the priest of being involved somehow.

  And, of course, Father Gilbert was involved. Only, he still didn’t know why.

  “DS Sanders didn’t pay you a visit after he died, did he?” the Chief Constable asked sarcastically.

  Father Gilbert responded in kind. “The night is still young.”

  A bird called from a tree somewhere. In the distance, a lawnmower roared and rattled. Father Gilbert thought he smelled fresh-mown grass.

  Nearby, Father Benson leaned against a tall cross-shaped headstone, looking as ill and bewildered as he had when they’d first seen the body. Father Gilbert assumed he was in shock. Reverend Singh walked over, placed a hand on his shoulder, and bent forward to say something privately. Benson nodded at whatever Singh was saying. Father Gilbert hoped he was speaking comfort to the poor curate. Then they both looked in the direction of Father Gilbert.

  He felt a flash of guilt, as if he’d somehow caused DS Sanders’ death. It was irrational, he knew, but the feeling was there anyway.

  The obvious question was: why would anyone want to murder DS Sanders? Who would gain by it?

  Mary Aston had been going to meet with DS Sanders. She’d said so. Was she the last to see him? Did they find the sword in a vault? Had she killed him for it?

  Father Gilbert should tell the Chief Constable about it. But, for all he knew, Macaulay had also had an affair with Mary. He’d mention it to the investigating officer from Southaven.

  He was so very tired of the secrets, the not knowing. He was weary of how motivations, rationalizations, justifications, and simple denial became the weapons that people used to destroy themselves – and others. His mind kept replaying Colin Doyle’s suicide on the tower, but now, instead of the face of Colin he saw the grotesque death mask of Sanders.

  What was Sanders’ first name? Father Gilbert couldn’t think of it.

  Reverend Singh was at his side. “Are you all right?”

  Steve. His name was Steve. Father Gilbert nodded.

  “Father Benson is worried about Evensong.”

  “Mrs Mayhew is taking care of it,” he said, glad he’d thought to phone her. He hadn’t explained why he and Father Benson were delayed, but she’d assured him Reverend Walker, a local retired vicar, would fill in.

  “Will they want formal statements?” Singh asked. All three of them had already answered a lot of questions.

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Good. I don’t think Father Benson is in any shape to do it now.”

  Father Gilbert glanced at Benson again. He hadn’t moved. He leaned and stared. “He must be wondering what he’s walked into by taking a job at St Mark’s,” said Father Gilbert.

  Singh gave a practised smile – which wasn’t a denial. He said, “One of the police radios said that Jack Doyle is at the Southaven station answering questions.”

  “Why?”

  “He was here earlier today, to talk about his son’s funeral.” Singh’s tone betrayed little. “He came to look at the mausoleum.”

  “Before or after DS Sanders arrived?”

  “They may have overlapped.”

  Father Gilbert nodded, understanding. “They’ll want to know if he saw anything unusual.”

  Or maybe Jack Doyle killed Sanders.

  He had no idea why Jack Doyle would do such a thing. Maybe DS Sanders had annoyed Doyle. Or he’d once been on a taskforce to catch Doyle doing something illegal. Or Doyle was angry about his son and decided to take it out on the nearest person available. Or Doyle hadn’t done anything at all. As insane as the last few days had been, anything seemed possible.

  “Go home,” Reverend Singh said. “Take Father Benson home.”

  Father Gilbert nodded. He walked over to Benson, put a hand under his arm, and guided him away. “Are you able to drive?”

  “Where are we going now?” he asked, a slight whine to his voice. “I feel like I want nothing more than to curl up in bed and pull the covers over my head.”

  “I understand.” Father Gilbert gently led him along, the tragedy falling behind them. “Can you drive?”

  “Yes.”

  Father Gilbert wanted to assure him that they were going home. Their work, for this day, was done. He couldn’t dare ask any more of his curate.

  But there was a momentum building around this case and he didn’t want to lose it.

  This case, he thought. Was he
investigating a case? Was it true that, while you could take a detective out of an investigation, you couldn’t take the investigation out of the detective?

  “Where are we going?” Benson asked again.

  He looked at Benson and rebuked himself. He was a pastor, not a detective.

  “I’ll call a taxi.”

  Benson stopped and turned to him. “We don’t have to go back to Stonebridge. I’m all right. Tell me where you want to go.”

  “You don’t have to—”

  “Where do you want to go?” Benson said, his voice raw emotion.

  “Jack Doyle’s. He’s with the police.”

  They continued walking to the car. “If he’s with the police—”

  “Then I may be able to talk to his wife,” Father Gilbert said.

  “About what?”

  “I’d like to hear why Colin and his father had a falling out. And we might get some information about the family history and how they’re connected to the Hayshams and Todds,” he said.

  Benson pulled the car keys from his pocket. They jingled as they trembled in his hand.

  CHAPTER 29

  The Doyles lived in a surprisingly modest house, tucked away in an older section of Southaven. Colleen made them tea while they waited in the front room – a cosy space with a small fireplace, faux antique furniture, and paintings probably bought from a department store.

  Father Gilbert was grateful to be proven right. Colleen had allowed them to come in, based on Father Gilbert name-dropping Reverend Singh. But she was quick to point out that her husband wasn’t at home, the hint being that, should he arrive, they would have to leave.

  Her willingness to invite them in gave Father Gilbert the impression that she was lonely. Where were her relatives and friends? Considering the fact that their family had just suffered a tragic death, the house seemed quiet.

  Colleen was ginger-haired with expressive green eyes, a petite nose, and a perfectly shaped mouth. The lines around her eyes and mouth were complimentary, speaking of character rather than age. Father Gilbert wondered how Jack Doyle had wound up with such a wholesome-looking woman. She didn’t have the clichéd look of a crime-boss’s wife. On the contrary, she wore the expression of a woman who seemed mystified by her circumstances, as if she were stuck in the wrong place at the wrong time.