“When is this going to end?” she asked after they’d expressed their sympathy about the death of Colin. She was already aware of the death of DS Sanders in their mausoleum. She paced back and forth, wringing the life out of a handkerchief. “First, Colin. Then Lord Haysham. Now this,” she said. “It’s like a war.”
A spiritual one, Father Gilbert thought.
“They don’t think Jack had anything to do with the detective’s death, do they?” she asked.
“Is there any reason they should?” Father Gilbert asked.
“No, of course not. But Jack and the police don’t get on,” she said. She spoke in a weary matter-of-fact tone, as if they were discussing problems with teachers at school.
“I’m sure Colin’s death must have you both deeply grieved,” Father Gilbert said.
She looked at him with a sad look. “Jack doesn’t grieve. He gets angry. All of his emotions wind up as anger.”
What was the outlet for that anger? Father Gilbert wondered.
“Was it his anger that drove Colin away?” Father Benson asked.
Father Gilbert winced. The question was too direct. He shot a look at Benson, but the priest’s eyes were on Colleen. Benson held his cup of tea tightly with both hands.
Colleen shook her head. “Colin grew up with his father’s anger. He was long past allowing it to bother him.”
“Then why were they estranged?” Benson asked.
Again, the question was too direct. Father Gilbert expected Colleen to retreat and shut down the conversation.
Instead, she sat down on the edge of the sofa. She leaned forward and clasped her hands together. “Colin is – was – like his father. They’re both so stubborn. So it was a surprise when Colin said…” Her voice trailed off.
“Said what?” Father Gilbert asked gently.
She sighed deeply and looked at the floor. “He said he was done with being a Doyle. He stood in this very room and announced it. He had better options, he said. Well, you can guess how Jack felt about that. Family pride is very important to him. He expects everyone to take their place, play their part.”
The phrase caught Benson’s attention. He looked at Father Gilbert.
“Take their place? To do what?” Father Gilbert asked.
“To do his duty for the family, to take responsibility.” She lifted her head. Her eyes were filling with tears. She fought them back with a frown. “I don’t know why Colin would take his own life. None of us can work it out.”
“I’ve wondered if it had something to do with the body they found on Haysham’s estate,” Father Gilbert said. “There was a medallion…”
“I’ve heard something about all that.”
“The medallion doesn’t mean anything to you?” Father Gilbert asked.
“Why should it?”
“No reason, really,” Father Gilbert said. “Do you know the name Richard Doyle Challoner?”
She thought about it and then shook her head. “No. Is it one of our relatives?”
“From the past.”
“I don’t know much about the Doyle family’s past.”
“Do you have any family histories or records?”
“The Doyles go back a few centuries, Father. They’re Jack’s ancestors, not mine.” She sat up straight. Father Gilbert anticipated that her good grace would end soon. “What does this have to do with anything?”
“Maybe nothing, maybe a lot,” Father Gilbert said. “The discovery of that body – and the medallion – affected Colin for some reason. It may be connected with the family histories of the Hayshams, the Todds, and even the Doyles.”
“I can’t imagine how.”
“That’s why I’d hoped to look over any family archives you might have.”
She thought for a moment. “Our solicitor keeps all our legal documents.”
“I’m thinking of more informal records – diaries, letters…”
“Anything like that would be in Jack’s office.”
“May we look?”
She was on her feet. “Absolutely not. Jack would be furious if I let anyone snoop around in his office.”
Father Gilbert stayed seated. He wasn’t giving up easily. “Will you please look?”
She stared at him.
“Please. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important,” he said. “There’s a link between the past and what’s happening now. We’re examining Lord Haysham’s archives and hope to do the same with David Todd’s.”
He could tell she was trying to assess the risks. “I won’t dig around in his files,” she said.
“I’m talking about the past, Mrs Doyle, not anything from your husband’s present.” He hoped to reassure her that it wasn’t a ruse to implicate Jack.
“I’ll look,” she said.
“Thank you.”
“Now?” she asked.
“If you don’t mind.”
She went off. Father Gilbert and Father Benson looked at each other.
“You’re getting some colour back into your cheeks,” Father Gilbert said to Benson.
“I feel sick.”
“That’ll pass, too.”
“This feels wrong. She’s grieving over the loss of her son and we’re…”
“Being ruthless?” Father Gilbert asked. He’d thought the same thing.
“I’m surprised she hasn’t thrown us out,” Benson said. His eye went to the hall, his voice lowered: “You don’t think Jack is abusing her, do you?”
Father Gilbert didn’t know how to answer. If the rumours about Jack Doyle were true, he was capable of anything.
Colleen’s footsteps brushed the carpet as she returned to them. “Everything’s gone. Jack must have got rid of the boxes. Or maybe Colin had them. I remember he went through a period where he was interested in our family history. Ask Amanda.”
“Colin’s wife,” Father Gilbert confirmed.
She nodded. Remaining by the door, she waited.
Father Gilbert stood up, as did Father Benson. They thanked her for the tea and expressed their condolences again.
At the front door, she put a hand on Father Gilbert’s arm. “Is there a chance Colin didn’t kill himself?”
Father Gilbert often thought about the odd hope that came with such a question – as if her son being the victim of a murder was more tolerable than him wilfully taking his own life.
“I don’t want to give you the wrong impression,” Father Gilbert said gently. “The evidence shows that he did. Why he did it may never be known. Or, by the grace of God, we may discover what pushed him to do it.”
“If you do, please let me know,” she said. “Promise me that.”
“I will,” he said. But he doubted she would like whatever he found.
* * *
“No,” Father Benson said when they were in the car.
Father Gilbert had been looking at his watch. It was after nine. “No – what?”
“I won’t take you to Amanda Doyle’s,” he said. “I’ve had enough grief and death for one night.”
“All right,” Father Gilbert said. His mind had already moved beyond paying Colin’s wife a visit anyway. “I’ll phone Reverend Singh. If there are any family documents there, then he’s the one to get them.”
Benson looked at him. “Sometimes you’re more like a detective than a priest.”
Father Gilbert grimaced. “Yes, I know. I’m not sure that’s a good thing.”
CHAPTER 30
“There was a box in the garage, but it contained mostly legal documents,” Reverend Singh said. He’d arrived at St Mark’s unannounced late the next morning. Father Gilbert was surprised; he’d only left a voicemail about the Doyle family archives the night before.
“Thank you for checking so quickly,” Father Gilbert said after they shook hands. They were in his office. He waved to the guest chair.
“I was going to see Amanda anyway,” Singh said as he sat down. “She was confused, though. She was certain Colin had a second box of family p
apers, an older one.”
“It’s missing?”
“Burnt.”
Father Gilbert frowned.
“There was a barrel in the back garden. I assumed it was for burning leaves. But there was part of a box inside – wooden – vintage-looking. It looked as if Colin had tried to burn the whole thing.”
“Did anything survive?” Father Gilbert asked.
“There were bits of paper among the ashes, but nothing one could read.”
He wondered what had been in those papers that had caused Colin to burn them. Something terrible, he thought. So terrible that he killed himself? “Then there’s nothing left.”
“There is this.” Singh held up a book. It looked like a trade paperback. “This was in the box in the garage.”
“What is it?”
“An aunt of Jack Doyle’s spent years writing up a family history. She had it published – oh, twenty years ago – and sent it around to everyone in the family. She was very proud of it.” He handed the book to Father Gilbert.
The cover was adorned with a family crest and was fancifully titled, The Doyle Family: Larks, Legends, Gossip and Scandal.
“I glanced through it,” said Singh. “The first half is mostly about the Doyles of Ireland. The second half is about the branch in England.”
Father Gilbert thumbed through the pages. Blocks and blocks of type, with a few family trees and diagrams.
“She wasn’t much of a writer, but she was meticulous,” said Singh. “There’s even an index of names in the back.”
“I wonder what Jack Doyle thought of this,” mused Father Gilbert. He couldn’t imagine Doyle appreciating anything dragging up his family’s larks, legends, gossip, or scandal.
Singh smiled. “Amanda said he hated it. He didn’t think it was anyone’s business to dig up the past. In fact, he didn’t want Colin to take it out of the house. He was afraid someone outside the family would read it. He thought it would give people a reason to laugh at them.”
Family pride, Father Gilbert thought, then asked: “How is Colin’s wife?”
“Not well,” said Reverend Singh.
“Is she on good terms with Colleen Doyle?” Father Gilbert was thinking about Colleen, alone at home.
“I don’t believe they are close. I don’t believe Jack Doyle allows his wife to be close to anyone.”
“That’s what comes from keeping secrets,” Father Gilbert said.
* * *
After the midday service, Father Gilbert and Father Benson went to The Mill House for lunch. They found a booth for privacy. Father Gilbert put on his glasses and opened the Doyle family book while Benson ordered their food.
“Well?” Benson asked after the waiter stepped away. “Anything useful?”
Father Gilbert took a drink and looked at the curate. “How did you sleep last night?”
“Fine,” Benson said, “apart from the image of DS Sanders’ face appearing over and over.”
“I’m sorry you saw it.” Father Gilbert returned to the book and began to summarize what he saw there. “Richard Challoner has a lengthy annotation in the Doyle canon. He was allegedly the illegitimate son of Martin Doyle and Jane Challoner – thus the middle name, given to him by Jane to assert his true lineage. Richard was an awkward lad who had a harelip and lost a front tooth in a fight.”
“Margaret Clarke said that the skeleton from the church cellar was missing a front tooth.”
“Right.” Father Gilbert took another long drink. “As a young man, Richard Challoner went to the Doyles to claim his rightful place in their family. He was soundly rejected. Shortly thereafter, he disappeared from the area under suspicious circumstances. There were claims by the Challoners that the Reverend Francis Todd of Stonebridge was somehow involved, since Richard was last seen going into St Mark’s Church – and was never seen again.”
“Incredible,” Benson said. “So the skeleton is his.”
“Hold that thought,” Father Gilbert said. “Jane, convinced that Richard had been murdered, insisted on a grave for him in the Challoner family vault, even though his body wasn’t in it. Though she later married and had other children, it was said she bordered on the insane. And, according to this book, local legend claims that Richard’s ghost wanders the fields between the Challoners’ and Doyles’ homes during full moons, looking for his lost honour.”
“Is that really a local legend?”
“I’m not a local boy.”
Benson eyed Father Gilbert. “Have you seen Richard’s ghost?”
Father Gilbert laughed. “No.”
“It wasn’t an unreasonable question, all things considered.”
“I’m curious about something else.” Father Gilbert pointed to a page and read: “‘Reverend Todd, who was rumoured to be a disreputable person and was later defrocked, denied ever seeing Richard Challoner, though several witnesses clearly saw the young man enter the church.’ ”
Benson looked surprised. “Todd was defrocked? I didn’t think the Church of England ever defrocked anyone for anything—”
“—except being faithful to orthodox Christianity,” Father Gilbert added wryly.
Benson shook a finger at him.
“What time is it?” Father Gilbert asked.
Benson glanced at his watch. “A little after one.”
Father Gilbert dug into his pocket and pulled out his mobile phone.
“I know how to find the truth about the Reverend Francis Todd.”
* * *
The diocesan library was located in a cold stone building in Lewes, as part of the small seminary established there by a nineteenth-century bishop.
A fastidious and bird-like woman named Vivian Littleton pretended to be put out by the priests’ unscheduled arrival. It was now close to three o’clock. “We close at four, you know.”
“Isn’t that early?” Father Benson asked.
“We don’t have the budget or the volunteers to stay open longer,” she said. She looked at Father Gilbert. “I don’t have time to run around finding you things in my last hour of work.”
“You are a marvel to me, Vivian,” Father Gilbert said.
She looked stern. “Stop flirting and tell me what you want.”
“Whatever you’ve got on the Reverend Francis Todd. He was the vicar in Stonebridge around—”
“I know very well who he is. I haven’t worked here all these years to stay ignorant of the diocese’s history. And one doesn’t easily forget the scandals.”
“Todd was a scandal?”
She gave him an oh-you-ignorant-man look. “You’ll see. Go and find yourself a table and don’t make a lot of noise.” She gave Father Benson an impatient look, as if she resented him for existing.
They sat down at the appointed table. Father Gilbert looked at the various shelves surrounding them – theological tomes, academic magazines, and a few displays.
Benson asked, “Did you often find the truth to be so evasive? When you were a detective, I mean. We seem to be bouncing back and forth all over the place – even in history – to find out what’s going on now. Were most of your cases like that?”
Father Gilbert thought about it for a moment. “Most cases are simple. A man robs a corner shop to get money to buy drugs. That’s easy. It’s a basic transaction, an exchange of goods. Why he’s addicted to drugs may be more complicated, but the law isn’t concerned about his abusive father or enabling mother or whatever drove him to drugs – that’s for the solicitors to argue over. For a detective, there was a robbery, the culprit was found and arrested.”
“So, which cases were the most complicated? The ones where death was involved?” Benson asked. “A man robs a corner shop to get money to buy drugs but the cashier won’t cooperate. The man, who may be strung out, gets angry and shoots the cashier.”
“Even that’s fairly straightforward,” Father Gilbert said. His mind raced around a dozen other scenarios. A man finds his wife in bed with another man and, in a flash of rage, kills
one or both of them. No, that wasn’t very hard for the law to deal with. “Now, premeditated murder – for one man to take another man’s life as a matter of intention – is where things get complicated. The why of the murder takes centre stage. And when a detective is going after the why, then he finds himself in a labyrinth of relationships and motivations and activities.”
“So you start with the why?” Benson asked.
Father Gilbert nodded. “Why did Colin Doyle commit suicide? The discovery of that body and the medallion seemed to be a trigger. Why was it a trigger? What’s the significance of the Woodrich Set to him, or anyone, to the degree that it has now impacted the lives of all who came near it over the past couple of hundred years? Why? Mere coincidence? I don’t believe in coincidence. Something else is at work here, bringing a pattern to what looks like random events.”
“That’s the priest talking, not the detective,” Benson suggested.
“As a detective, I didn’t believe in Providence. Good and evil were the result of psychological or circumstantial factors. But I was still wary of calling anything a coincidence. When I was solving a case, there were often too many coincidences for them to be coincidences,” he said, smiling.
“If you didn’t believe in Providence, what would you have called that?”
He had to think about it for a moment. “The pull of some kind of Truth. As if nature and evolution and all the forces in the world were being pulled to a great magnet of Truth. The pieces were being pulled together to get us to Truth. Since then, I’ve come to a better understanding of God, of good and evil – and I know that coincidences, the pull of Truth, are all part of a providential conspiracy to get us to Him.”
Vivian Littleton arrived, pushing a cart covered with neatly stacked files and documents. “This is what we have,” she said. “It won’t be enjoyable reading.”
“Thank you.”
“We’re missing an item. I’ll check to see what became of it.” She walked away and Father Gilbert noticed that she waddled. He remembered Mrs Nelson, the librarian at his grammar school, waddling like that. Did librarians go to a special school to learn that walk?
The Body Under the Bridge Page 20