“Divide and conquer.” Father Gilbert gave half of the files to Benson.
* * *
Over the next hour – which took them past closing time and got them scowls from Vivian Littleton – they learned some disconcerting things about the Reverend Francis Todd. Sporadically, over his six years as the vicar of St Mark’s, he received complaints from various parishioners. On the surface, the complaints were petty and haphazard – a flash of inappropriate anger from him, some unkind words, a small amount of missing money from the church funds, an inappropriate deference to the wealthy, flirtations with married women, excessive and sometimes expensive socializing, a conflict with members of his vestry over unauthorized work on the church – and were all explainable and easily defended. Little wonder the Bishop at the time didn’t take any particular notice or action.
Then they reached paperwork for the more serious allegations that Francis Todd had something to do with Richard Challoner’s disappearance. Richard had been seen by several villagers – the names were given – entering the church on the evening of 3 August, and was not seen leaving the church again. The Bishop was forced to take action. He launched an investigation lasting three months. In January 1890, he convened an ecclesiastical panel to review the allegations and evidence and to come to a conclusion.
The minutes of an ecclesiastical meeting were detailed in the file. Reverend Francis Todd insisted that Richard had come to see him about borrowing money. Todd gave him a token amount. Richard departed by a back door. Todd believed that Richard was an unhappy young man who wanted the money so he could leave the area. Todd assumed Richard did just that.
Jane Challoner insisted that Richard had been invited to the church at that specific time by Todd to discuss “a private matter regarding the Doyle family”.
A woman who often cleaned the church, Edith Peters, claimed that Todd had not been alone when Richard had arrived, but that several others had entered the church by another means. She also claimed to hear noises coming from the crypt, though the door to that stairway was closed. She didn’t go down to investigate, “as she was in a state of distress” due to the sounds. Todd’s response was that the noises Edith Peters had heard were made by a couple of stray cats “in heat” that had found their way into the crypt. The cats, he said, had gone wild and knocked over various tins, bottles, and boxes that were stored there.
A second woman, Anna Rogers, a member of the Altar Guild, stated that she had discovered remnants of occultism – candles, unexplained stains on the stone floor, and matted fur. She alleged that demonic orgies were taking place in the church. In his defence, Todd provided evidence that Anna Rogers was mentally unstable, creating all sorts of sexual and violent fantasies in her mind.
There was a transcript of a closed-door testimony with a Stonebridge prostitute who admitted to being paid to participate in sexual activities with the Reverend Todd – once on a slab in the church. The experience frightened her too much to go back, though she’d been offered more money. Todd called the prostitute a liar, plain and simple, and rebuked the panel for listening to such a witness.
Then a constable from Southaven gave testimony. He spoke of a prostitute from the docks who had told an acquaintance how she was to be paid well for an evening with the vicar in Stonebridge. She went and never returned. No investigation was conducted, since prostitutes often appeared and disappeared – and the disappearance of a prostitute was not a priority for the overworked police force. The constable admitted that a conversation had been held with his superiors over concerns that a Jack the Ripper had appeared in the area but, since no murders had taken place, the concern went away.
At the ecclesiastical meeting, documents in defence of the Reverend Francis Todd came from Thaddeus Haysham, Lawrence Doyle, and Edward Challoner, all reputable men who carried great influence in the diocese.
“Edward Challoner?” Benson asked.
“The father of Jane. She had the affair with Martin Doyle, resulting in the birth of Richard Doyle Challoner.”
Benson scribbled the information onto a pad.
The Bishop and the members of the panel had been undecided until an additional piece of evidence was presented – a book that a housekeeper had smuggled out of the vicarage. The minutes didn’t say what the book was or why it had swayed the panel. Within an hour of deliberations, the panel determined that, while no legal charges could be brought against Todd, it was within their powers to recommend that he be removed from the priesthood. The Bishop agreed with the recommendation and Todd was defrocked on 11 February 1890.
“Shouldn’t the book be here?” Benson asked, searching the tabletop and the cart for it.
“Maybe that’s the missing item Miss Littleton mentioned,” Father Gilbert suggested.
There was nothing else about Todd in the file, except a news clipping from 1907 reporting that he had died in London after a career as a spiritualist in the Chiswick area. He was known for his ability to communicate with the dead through séances.
“What do you make of it?” Benson asked.
Father Gilbert leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, forming a bridge with his fingers in front of him. “Here’s one hypothesis. Francis Todd was a Satanist who used St Mark’s for black masses, the dark arts, and orgies. Maybe he had a group of participants.”
“Haysham, Doyle, and Challoner?”
“Possibly. Then things got complicated in 1889 when Richard Doyle Challoner asserted his rights as a member of the Doyle family. He was a pest. He wouldn’t go away. So Doyle turned to Todd to do something about it. Todd told the entire coven.”
“Coven?”
“That’s what they were,” Father Gilbert said. Then he continued, “They lured Richard to the church to discuss the situation. He wouldn’t be reasonable. They drugged him, or overpowered him, and took him into the crypt. They conducted a black mass and offered him as a sacrifice—”
“You’re kidding.”
He shrugged. “It’s one hypothesis. Even if we forget any satanic activity, it’s possible they murdered him. They got rid of the body by burying it in the cellar of the church.”
“Do you really think Edward Challoner would agree to the murder of his grandson?”
“Maybe he didn’t know, or wasn’t there. Or maybe he was so committed to the others that he was willing to go along with it. It’s possible he simply wanted him out of the way.”
“If Jane knew the truth, it might explain why she became mentally unstable,” Benson said. “That’s a horrible thing to have to live with.”
“For anyone with a conscience.”
“What about the sword?” Benson asked.
“Maybe it was part of the satanic ritual. They buried it with the body in the cellar.”
“Why would they bury something so valuable?”
“To get rid of the evidence?” Father Gilbert said. He thought about it further. “We’re assuming the sword was placed with him at the same time he was buried. Todd may have buried it later when the accusations began.”
Benson frowned; the lines around his eyes were pronounced. “We’re talking about something that happened in our church.”
Father Gilbert had never thought of St Mark’s as the epitome of holiness, but never imagined that it might be a place of profanity.
Vivian Littleton waddled up to them.
“Father Gilbert, the Bishop wants to see you,” she said.
“Did you tell on us?” Father Gilbert asked.
“I would have, had I known he was here,” she said.
“How did he know we were here?”
She shook her head, as if there was no knowing how the Bishop knew all the things he knew. “You’ll find him in his office.”
Benson looked puzzled. “His office is in Tunbridge Wells, isn’t it?”
“One of several. He has an office here for his visits.” Father Gilbert addressed Vivian Littleton. “I know you’ve gone above and beyond the call of duty. But would you mind makin
g copies of this material and sending it to St Mark’s? We’ll cover any costs.”
“I’ll send what there is,” she said, hinting at something Father Gilbert didn’t understand. His expression prompted an answer from her. “According to the inventory, there was a bound book that had been entered as evidence against Francis Todd. But it was taken out on the 6th of May, 1938.”
“By whom?” Father Gilbert asked.
“The verger at St Mark’s: Albert Challoner.”
* * *
The Bishop’s office was a perfunctory box situated on a corner of the top floor. The desktop was mostly barren, apart from a few items the Bishop had brought with him. The bookcases held innocuous ornaments and only a few books, possibly lifted from the library or the church-owned second-hand bookshop. A small sofa sat along one wall. A matching chair sat next to it. Old magazines littered the coffee table.
One of the two windows looked down on the car park. Father Gilbert could see Hugh Benson standing next to his Mini, arms folded, lost in his thoughts.
Bishop William Spalding strolled in, wiping his hands with a paper towel. “Oh, hello, Gilbert.” He binned the towel and they shook hands. His hands were clammy. “Sit down,” he said, gesturing to the chair.
“I didn’t know you were here,” Father Gilbert said as he sat down.
“Nor I you,” the Bishop said. He sat on the end of the sofa closest to Father Gilbert, leaning back, putting his feet up on the table. Had he been wearing a tie, he might have loosened it. He closed his eyes. In repose, he had a feminine face, with soft pale skin, no discernible beard, pink lips, and eyebrows that might have been meticulously trimmed. But Father Gilbert knew not to confuse his look with any sort of weakness. The Bishop’s eyes were sharp, fierce at times. The man was ruthless with church politics. “Endless meetings today. Tedious.”
Father Gilbert was aware of the Bishop’s propensity for play-acting. The informal posturing on the sofa could have been genuine, or it could have been a contrivance to communicate that they were just a couple of pals having a chat, to get Father Gilbert to relax.
“How are you?” the Bishop asked.
“All right,” said Father Gilbert.
“I mean, how are you really? We were meant to have regular meetings after you returned from your sabbatical,” he said.
“You’ve been busy.”
“I’m sorry about that.” The Bishop opened his eyes. He picked at a piece of lint on the front of his trousers. “Well?”
“Well?”
“How are you really doing? Have you spoken to your father much since your mother’s death?”
“Actually, he’s not my father,” Father Gilbert said. “He’s my real father’s brother.”
“Yes, of course. But it’s awkward knowing how to refer to him.”
Awkward indeed, thought Father Gilbert. “I call him Uncle George.”
“Not ‘Dad’?”
“He was never much of one. It was easy calling him my uncle once I learned the truth.”
“An itinerant actor,” the Bishop confirmed. “He travelled a lot.”
“That’s right.”
“Your real father was a policeman, is that right?”
Father Gilbert nodded. “He was killed before I was born. I knew him as Uncle Louis. I was named after him, though I wasn’t sure why until my mother’s death. She married George to give me a stable family life. It was a mistake, since George found it impossible to stay at home for more than two weeks at a time.”
“You’re not in touch with Uncle George at all?”
“I get the occasional letter from him, usually filled with newspaper clippings reviewing his stage performances, but I haven’t seen him in a while,” Father Gilbert said. He was growing restless with this recap of his personal life. He didn’t know what the Bishop was after, but didn’t want to be disrespectful enough to ask directly.
“Tell me about your mother,” the Bishop asked.
“She’s still dead.”
The Bishop shot him a look of disapproval. “You know what I mean.”
Father Gilbert tipped his head as a concession. “I grieved in all the normal ways after her death. I think of her often – and miss her.”
“And what about the mystery? The one that began after her death. That woman – your girlfriend—?”
“She was my first girlfriend when I was a teenager,” Father Gilbert clarified. “Katherine Donovan – er, Perry.”
“Married that vicar in Windsor—”
“Ascot.” Father Gilbert fought off a feeling of impatience. “Kenneth Perry.”
“He died of cancer – how long ago?”
“A few years.”
“Are you in touch with her?”
“Katherine lives in Southaven. We’ve had coffee together once or twice.”
“Any sparks? Any rekindling of the old flame?”
“No.”
The Bishop eyed him. “I’d have thought that you might, you know, pursue the relationship because of…” His voice trailed off.
“Because of the daughter I didn’t know I had,” Father Gilbert said. It was beginning to sound like a bad television series.
“Katherine broke up with you because…?”
“I was accepted for police training. She didn’t want to be married to a policeman.”
“But she failed to tell you she was pregnant with your child.”
Father Gilbert nodded.
“Katherine married this Kenneth fellow – the vicar. How did you feel about your daughter being raised by another man?”
“Since I didn’t know she existed, I couldn’t have any feelings about it.”
“And now? How do you feel about – what’s your daughter’s name?”
“Clare. Clare Perry,” Father Gilbert said.
“She was adopted by Perry.”
Another nod from Father Gilbert.
“She doesn’t know about you, does she?”
“No. Katherine made me promise never to contact her.” The irony wasn’t lost on him – having a father who wasn’t really his father, and having a daughter who’d experienced the same thing, and still didn’t know it.
“How do you feel about that?”
“I’m reconciled to the idea.”
“Where is Clare now?”
“Married and living in America. Her husband is a computer specialist, or something like that.”
The Bishop gave a thoughtful hm. Then he sat up and faced Father Gilbert again. “The loss of your mother, the discoveries about your family…” The Bishop shook his head slowly. “Very difficult. A great emotional strain.”
“The sabbatical gave me time to sort it out,” Father Gilbert said. That’s what the Bishop was really wondering about. “It took a while, but I had to admit that your predecessor was wise to force me to take it.”
“He told me to watch out for you,” the Bishop said. “He said you have a strong inclination to get in the middle of things, to lose your way as a priest for the sake of solving a mystery.”
Father Gilbert didn’t say anything. The Bishop was finally getting to his point.
The Bishop said, “It’s a nasty business, with Lord Haysham and now that policeman—”
“Steve Sanders.”
“You’re caught up in it.”
“At the request of the police.”
“Not to the degree of involvement you’ve taken on.”
“They didn’t give me specific parameters for what I had to do.”
The Bishop stood up. Informality time was over. “Let the police do their jobs, Father Gilbert,” the Bishop said. “Don’t get in the way.”
“I wasn’t aware of being in their way,” Father Gilbert said, also standing. “Has someone complained?”
“You paid a visit to Colleen Doyle – while her husband wasn’t home.”
“You know the Doyles?” Father Gilbert asked.
The Bishop let the question slide. “I don’t want you to lose your way agai
n. Visions, hallucinations, visitations. It’s all so freakish. You’re really too valuable to be put back in a monastery.”
Was it a threat? Of course it was. But, giving the Bishop the benefit of the doubt, it was also a fair warning. Slipping into detective mode, chasing after the Woodrich Set, digging into the past… for what? The police were investigating the murders. What could Father Gilbert do that they couldn’t? The past was done, little more than an intriguing backdrop.
Even if he wanted to defend himself, there was little he could say. The Bishop didn’t strike him as a deeply spiritual man, certainly not one who’d be able to discern the supernatural events of the past few days. What insight or advice could he offer?
“I understand, Bishop,” Father Gilbert said.
* * *
“What did the Bishop want?” Father Benson asked.
They were driving back to Stonebridge. An accident further ahead put them in a long tailback.
“Just inquiring after my well-being,” he said. “And he wanted to make sure I was happy with you as my curate.”
“Really?”
“No.”
“So he didn’t mention me at all?”
“No.”
Benson looked relieved.
A half-hour later, when they pulled up in front of the vicarage, Father Gilbert opened the door but didn’t get out. “Come inside for a cup of tea.”
“I ought to go home.”
“Come inside.” Father Gilbert climbed out and walked up the stone path to the door. He heard Benson turn off the engine. Then the driver’s door closed.
Father Gilbert made the tea while Benson hovered, clearly wondering why he was there.
“I want to make sure you aren’t unduly stressed by everything that’s happened,” Father Gilbert said as he handed over a mug.
“What’s to be stressed about?” Benson asked. “Two people have been murdered. I saw one of the victims – which was a first for me. My boss gets regular visitations from dead people. And I’ve discovered that the church where I work might have a history including occult practices and all kinds of depravity. Honestly, it’s all in a day’s work.”
Father Gilbert smiled. “In the future, talk to me before you go to the Bishop. It’s all right.”
The Body Under the Bridge Page 21