Benson froze with the mug positioned in front of his lips. He lowered it and trained his eyes on the floor.
“Did you write to him just the once, or are you sending regular reports?” Father Gilbert asked and then drank some of his own tea.
“The Bishop asked for regular reports,” he replied. “He said you needed someone to keep an eye on you. For your own good.”
Father Gilbert nodded.
“I’m sorry,” Benson said.
“You’re under his authority. It’d be wrong to do otherwise.” Father Gilbert pointed to the laptop computer on the small worktable in the corner and said as a clear change of subject: “Let’s go over the schedule for the next few days. Mrs Mayhew will be reassured to know things are covered. We can’t depend on Reverend Walker forever.”
Benson sat down at the laptop.
“The schedule is one of the icons on the screen,” Father Gilbert said.
He went to the French windows that led to the back garden. He looked through a panel of glass at the green lawn and trees beyond. Then his eyes focused on his own reflection, the face looking back at him a distortion of his own. Perhaps that was the problem: he couldn’t see himself clearly.
He looked over at Father Benson. He didn’t feel betrayed by the young priest. More than anything, he was bothered that the Bishop would put his curate in such an awkward position.
He turned his gaze to the back garden again. In the panel of glass, another face entirely peered back at him.
CHAPTER 31
Father Gilbert gasped and stepped back. Hot tea splashed on the floor.
Father Benson was on his feet. “What’s wrong?”
The face moved and the handles on the doors jiggled.
“It’s David Todd,” Father Gilbert said and unlocked the door.
Todd came in, his expression twisted up.
“You scared the living daylights out of me,” Father Gilbert said, annoyed.
Todd put a finger to his lips and spun around to lock the doors again. He grabbed the curtains and pulled them closed.
“What are you doing?” Father Gilbert asked him as he went to the sink to get a towel to mop up the spilled tea.
Todd went to the window above the sink and drew those curtains closed.
“David—”
“Just in case,” Todd said. His eyes were wide and his face ashen.
“It’s good to see you out of jail,” Father Gilbert said. He knelt to clean the spill.
“I didn’t want to leave. They forced me to go.”
From his mopping position on the floor, Father Gilbert looked up at Todd. “You didn’t want to get out of jail?”
“No! They told me about DS Sanders as they were releasing me. I begged them to put me back in where it’s safe. If they’ll kill Lord Haysham and a copper, they’ll kill me without batting an eye.”
“They?”
“I can’t go home. I won’t go home. That’s why I came here.”
Benson looked worried. “Were you being followed?”
“I don’t think so.” He went to the window and moved the curtain slightly to look out.
Father Gilbert put a hand on his shoulder and pulled him back. “David, sit down. I’ll make you a cup of tea. Or wring one out of this rag.”
Todd sat down at the kitchen table and said in a small voice, “I don’t know what’s happening to me.”
“You’ve been through a lot,” said Benson.
“I’ve never been so afraid.” Todd looked at the two priests, dark circles under his eyes. Then he searched his pockets. “I got another message in jail.”
He pulled out a slip of paper. It was torn from a yellow notepad. “It was in the discharge envelope with my belongings. I told the police it wasn’t there when they brought me in. They said it must have been, since no one is allowed to tamper with personal effects. Do you see?”
Father Gilbert was pouring the tea, so Benson took the paper.
Benson showed it to Father Gilbert. It said Take Your Place.
Father Gilbert nodded and asked, “Finish making the tea, will you?”
They traded places. Benson finished making Todd’s tea while Father Gilbert took the note and walked over to an alcove next to his refrigerator. It was the kind of place where people put papers they don’t know what to do with, or haven’t organized yet. He rifled through the stack.
“I need help,” Todd said as Benson gave him his tea. “I have to get out of here and go somewhere safe.”
“You’re out on bail, right?” Father Gilbert asked.
“Right.”
“Then the police won’t be very happy if you leave the area.”
“But someone will kill me if I stay! You don’t really think I got this bruise and bashed lip from falling, do you? I was attacked outside of my house the night Haysham was killed.”
“By whom?” Benson asked.
“I don’t know. He was in a disguise – a hood and robe. He came at me out of the shadows, beat me up, and took my car.”
“Which car?” Father Gilbert asked. He’d found what he was looking for in the stack of papers.
“The red Peugeot.”
“Can you prove that? You didn’t mention it to the police,” Father Gilbert said as he moved towards the table.
“I was too stunned – too afraid. He said not to tell anyone or I’d die. I believed him. He returned the car later. When the police came for me about Haysham’s death, it was in the garage.”
“You didn’t tell the police then.”
Todd shook his head. “I told Wilton. Or, rather, I tried to tell Wilton. He wouldn’t listen.”
Father Gilbert placed Todd’s yellow note and a second piece of white paper on the table in front of him. “David, the note you got in jail is in your handwriting.”
Todd looked confused. “It can’t be.”
Father Gilbert pointed to the note. “You wrote this to me during one of our committee meetings. It’s the same handwriting.”
“I didn’t write it,” Todd said and pushed both notes away. “Someone is forging my writing to make me look guilty – or crazy.”
“Why would anyone do that?” Father Gilbert asked.
“Wilton!” Todd shouted. “He has it in for me. He’s friends with Lord Haysham. All of the police are. He used to throw parties for them and won them over with his charming smile. Now Wilton wants to pin Haysham’s murder on me.”
Father Gilbert sat down opposite Todd. “That may be harder for him to do now. If DS Sanders was killed with the same weapon as Lord Haysham, then you’re in the clear. You couldn’t have killed Sanders while you were in jail. Unless you’ve made a deal with someone else to do the job.”
“What kind of deal? What do you mean?” demanded Todd. “Are you suggesting I’m part of a conspiracy?”
“Nobody’s saying anything, David. Calm down.”
“I can’t tell whose side you’re on.”
“This isn’t a football match. We’re not on sides. We’re all trying to get at the truth.”
“Of course,” Todd said sheepishly. He sipped his tea with shaking hands. He seemed childlike now, vulnerable and confused. It was a far cry from the brash and aggressive man Father Gilbert had known for so long. He wondered if it was an act.
“This is the vicarage. It’s a holy place, right?” Todd asked.
The question reminded Father Gilbert of Colin Doyle on the tower, when he held out the medallion and expressed the hope that giving it to a holy man might change things.
“It’s only as holy as I am,” Father Gilbert said. “If you want sanctuary, then we should go to the church.”
“No – not the church,” Todd said. He leaned forward onto the table and grabbed Father Gilbert’s arm. “May I hide here for the night?”
Father Gilbert looked up at Benson, who was standing by the kitchen counter. He shrugged.
“You can stay the night, David. But I’m going to want answers from you.”
“What kinds of answers?”
“Well, we can start with what you know about your ancestor: Francis Todd.”
* * *
The three men relocated to the living room, but only after Father Gilbert had made certain that all the curtains were closed and all the doors were locked. David Todd slouched in an armchair. Benson sat on the antique wooden chair with the tapestry cushion. Father Gilbert had inherited it from his mother.
“Francis Todd, then,” Father Gilbert said as he sat down on the couch.
“Francis Todd was my great-great-grandfather’s brother, I think. The black sheep of the family,” Todd said. “Nobody talks about him.”
“Why not?”
Todd looked at the ceiling and squinted. “He was defrocked and became a spiritualist medium in London. They say he knew Arthur Conan Doyle and once met Harry Houdini.”
“Was it ever suggested that Francis was a member of a satanic cult while he was the vicar here in Stonebridge?”
A shadow fell across Todd’s face. “Just rumours, mostly. But talk of a satanic cult in this area goes back before Francis.”
“How far back?”
Todd rested his elbows on his knees and concentrated on a spot on the carpet. “Joshua Todd. He was in some sort of alliance with Samuel Haysham.”
“I thought they were sworn enemies.”
“They were. But something changed between them after Samuel came back from America. They weren’t friends, but they connected over… I don’t know.”
“You do know.”
He hesitated, then said as a reluctant admission: “Joshua Todd and Samuel Haysham were involved in witchcraft of some sort. Maybe satanic rites. I don’t even know the difference. But I never really believed any of that. Our families hated each other, then and now.”
“Enemies can unite over a common cause.”
“Maybe, but I don’t know what common cause would have brought Joshua and Samuel together.” He shook his head sadly. “It’s funny, but my mother used to say things like, ‘Behave yourself, you don’t want to turn into a Joshua.’ It became a family catchphrase. Sometimes they’d use Francis as the example instead.”
“To have that kind of legend in the family sometimes means there’s an undercurrent of genuine fear,” Benson said.
“Fear that I might turn into one of my ancestors? Is that what you’re saying?” Todd was on his feet, suddenly on the verge of panic. “Am I supposed to take my place?”
“David—” Father Gilbert was on his feet, too. He raised his hand, trying to anticipate what might happen.
“What kind of priests are you? Am I predestined to behave a certain way just because a couple of my ancestors did?”
“I wasn’t suggesting anything,” Benson said, also standing. “You make your own choices.”
“Serve or die, that’s what you’re saying. I’ve heard it before.”
“Sit down, David!” said Father Gilbert forcefully.
Todd sat down. He glowered at them.
The two priests sat down again. Father Gilbert stayed on the edge of the sofa, just in case. “That phrase – what does it mean to you?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I think I dreamed it.”
“You scribbled it on a piece of paper,” Father Gilbert said.
“I did?”
“It was written on a sheet of paper, in your kitchen.”
“It was?” Todd asked, and his expression went from annoyance to alarm. “I don’t remember that.”
“Those specific words. ‘Serve or Die.’”
Todd’s eyes widened. “I’ve told you: someone is forging my handwriting. I’m being set up.”
Father Gilbert stood up again. “You should rest. I’ll show you to the guest room.”
* * *
“I wouldn’t want to sleep in the same house with him,” Father Benson said softly. He was making his way to the front door. “Has he gone crazy?”
“He’s terribly conflicted,” Father Gilbert said.
“Do you think he’s told us everything?”
“He’s told us everything he’s able to tell. But, no, he hasn’t told us everything.”
Father Gilbert listened to the water rush through the plumbing. Todd was having a bath.
Benson opened the door, then lingered a moment. “I am sorry about the reports to the Bishop. I won’t write any more.”
“You must, if he asks for them,” Father Gilbert said. Though he now knew he had to be more careful with anything he said to Father Benson.
He paced the house while David Todd was in the bath. Finally he settled in the front room, sitting in an armchair with a glass of Scotch and a novel about a priest on Malta trying to save lives during World War II. He didn’t open the book. Instead, he thought about Colin Doyle, Lord Haysham, their ancestors, the past and the present, family legacies, and whether the sins of one generation could be carried on down the line like a kind of DNA. If so, then where was free will? Or was mankind living in a mixed reality of predetermination and choice, coexisting with an ongoing tension between them both?
He thought about Mary Aston and DS Sanders and the possibility that they had been in the Doyle mausoleum together. He imagined Sanders falling for her charms, taking a sledgehammer, and smashing through the grave marker for Richard Challoner’s bones and the Woodrich sword. Sanders took the sword out and politely gave it to an astonished and grateful Mary. She looked it over with an expression of wild-eyed greed – and then suddenly thrust the point through Sanders.
Where is Mary? Father Gilbert wondered.
She stood over him now, wearing nothing but lingerie, the sword in her hand. “It’s magnificent,” she said.
Startled, Father Gilbert opened his eyes.
David Todd stood in front of him, wearing a dressing gown the priest had lent him. It was too big, making him look diminutive. “Are you all right?”
Father Gilbert sat up. The book had fallen to the floor. He must have been asleep. “Yes, why?”
“You cried out,” Todd said.
“I’m sorry if I disturbed you,” Father Gilbert said. Todd looked better for having had a bath. He seemed more relaxed.
“Do you often have bad dreams?”
“Lately, yes.” But Father Gilbert wasn’t about to mention the other strange experiences he’d been having.
“What’s happening to us?” Todd asked.
Father Gilbert shook his head. He looked at his glass. It was empty. “There are times in our lives when all of our speculation about good and evil comes up against real good and real evil.”
“This is one of those times?”
“It would seem so.”
Todd shivered, and wrapped his arms around himself. “I don’t think I’ll survive. I’m going to wind up like Lord Haysham or Sanders.”
“There is protection…”
Todd snorted. “The police are useless.”
“I’m not talking about the police.”
CHAPTER 32
In spite of his morning prayers and Bible meditations, Father Gilbert fell into a melancholy mood. He felt as if he was spinning in circles around something that should be obvious to him, something that was proving to be elusive.
The phone rang. It was DI Wilton.
“The Southaven Police have said you could give your statement about Sanders’ murder to me,” he said. “Bring Father Benson.”
“When?”
“As soon as you can,” he said. His voice was raspy, tired. “One question, though.”
“Go ahead.”
“Why are some of you called ‘Father’ and some are called ‘Reverend’?” he asked. “I’m making a mess of my reports trying to keep it straight.”
“Ministers with more Protestant leanings call themselves ‘Reverend’. Those with an Anglo-Catholic sensibility go by ‘Father’.”
“So that means you’re rather cosy with the Pope?” he asked.
“We haven’t had dinner lately, if that’s what you’re ask
ing.”
“Just wondering.” He hung up.
The phone instantly rang again.
“How is your cellmate?” Father Benson asked.
“Sleeping,” Father Gilbert said, having checked on him before going downstairs.
“I wish I’d been able to,” the curate said. “My mind kept jumping around between mysterious medallions, missing swords and rings, finding DS Sanders, and playing detective with you. Is it insensitive to say that it’s all quite exhilarating?”
“There’s an energy that comes with the effort,” Father Gilbert said, remembering the buzz that came with investigating crimes. But he also knew the very high price for the exhilaration was the deaths of Colin Doyle, Clive Challoner, Lord Michael Haysham, and DS Steven Sanders.
After a moment, Benson asked, “Is that why you find it so hard to give it up?”
“I might be able to give it up if I weren’t dragged into these situations,” Father Gilbert said, trying not to sound irritated. “It’s not as if I’m actively looking for these mysteries.”
More silence. Father Gilbert could guess what Benson was thinking, but knew the conversation would only darken his mood.
Changing the subject, he said: “DI Wilton would like us to give our statements about what happened yesterday. I’ll meet you there.”
“I can pick you up.”
Father Gilbert looked out of the window. A sun-bathed morning. “The walk will do me good.”
* * *
Father Gilbert waited by the main door to the police station. He watched as Father Benson navigated his car through the crowded car park, found a spot at the opposite end, and half-jogged over.
“Are they having a sale?” he asked as he came close.
“Be warned,” Father Gilbert said. “There is a palpable edge at police stations after a policeman has been killed.” He’d seen it more than he wanted to remember. The staff became mournful, angry, and determined, wrapped up in camaraderie and bravado. Behind it, though, was the awareness of their own mortality – the sudden recognition that, at any time, the job could be a matter of life and death.
Father Gilbert pulled open the door. “They want to get the killer, no matter what it takes or who gets trampled along the way.”
The Body Under the Bridge Page 22