The Body Under the Bridge

by Paul McCuster

  “Thanks for the warning.”

  An officer at the reception desk stopped them, asked for ID, then pushed a clipboard at them. “Sign in, please,” he said. “They’re tightening security.”

  Benson stepped forward and signed the sheet.

  The phone rang. The officer turned away.

  Father Gilbert picked up a second clipboard and quickly flipped through it. It was the sign-out sheet for the officers and detectives. He found what he was looking for and put the clipboard down again.

  “It’s this one,” Benson said.

  Father Gilbert nodded and signed in.

  The officer led them into the main office. DS Sanders’ desk was covered in a black cloth, like a flag on a coffin.

  DI Wilton, his face set in a scowl, had them sit at his desk. “We’ll find who did this,” Wilton said.

  Father Gilbert nodded, aware that Wilton and Sanders hadn’t got along very well.

  Wilton sat at his computer and served as the stenographer, hammering away at the computer keyboard while Father Gilbert explained the details of what happened at the Doyle mausoleum, why they were there, and what they found.

  Father Benson’s statement repeated the same details.

  “Are you aware that Mary Aston was scheduled to meet with DS Sanders?” Father Gilbert asked.

  Wilton stopped typing and turned to him. “She met with Sanders yesterday morning.”

  “You’ve spoken to her?” Father Gilbert asked.

  “Not since Sanders’ murder. But I was part of their meeting. We discussed Lord Haysham and where she was at the time he was murdered.”

  “London, she told me,” Father Gilbert said.

  He nodded. “And that’s where she is right now. She left after our meeting. She’s still chasing after that Woodrich Set.”

  “Have you checked her alibi for the time when Lord Haysham was murdered?” Father Gilbert asked.

  A condescending smile. “Leave it to us, Father.”

  “To who?” Father Gilbert asked. “Is this your case or Southaven’s?”

  “We’re working it together,” he replied.

  “What was in the crypt?” Benson asked.

  “What crypt?”

  “The one that had been smashed into at the Doyle mausoleum.”

  “A skeleton,” said Wilton. He fixed his gaze on the screen.

  “Whose?” Father Gilbert asked.

  “There’s no knowing unless we bother with the DNA,” Wilton said. “We’re not sure it’s worth the effort.”

  “Did you see the skeleton yourself?” asked Father Gilbert.

  “The photos were in the police report.” More typing from Wilton.

  Father Gilbert was getting tired of feeling brushed off. “Was there anything unusual about it?”

  “It was the normal collection of bones, assembled in the standard way.” He looked at Father Gilbert with a What’s your point? expression.

  “Did it have all of its teeth?”

  The question threw Wilton. “Teeth?” He thought for a moment, then grimaced and worked the computer. He pulled up the photos from Southaven’s SOCO report.

  Father Gilbert positioned himself to see the screen. Images flashed past of the mausoleum, his shoes, various shots of DS Sanders, and the crypt.

  Wilton stopped on an image of the skull. He pointed. “It’s missing a front tooth.”

  “Richard Challoner,” Benson said to Father Gilbert.

  Wilton looked blank.

  “The skeleton found in the cellar of St Mark’s in 1938,” Father Gilbert explained.

  “What about the sword?” Benson asked.

  He shook his head. “No sword. Though we’re assuming that, if a sword was used to murder Sanders, it was taken by the killer.”

  “Can you go back a few photos?” Father Gilbert asked. He’d seen something, but wasn’t sure if he saw it correctly.

  “Technically, you’re not supposed to see these photos,” Wilton said.

  “Can we please dispense with the superiority routine?” Father Gilbert snapped. “There was something on the wall next to DS Sanders.”

  Wilton glared defiantly at Father Gilbert. Then he turned to the screen and, with exaggerated effort, used the mouse to reverse through the images.

  “That one,” Father Gilbert said.

  Benson stood up to look, flinched, and sat down again so the photo was out of view.

  It was a close-up of DS Sanders’ face, from the neck up. He was still propped up against the wall of the mausoleum, as Father Gilbert had found him. Just over his right shoulder, scratched into the wall, was a pentagram.

  Wilton was surprised. “I’m sure the Southaven detectives are aware of it.”

  “Is it old or new?” Father Gilbert asked.

  Wilton switched the screen from the photo to the written reports. He scanned them, then said, “They found bits of concrete on Sanders’ shoulder and sleeve.”

  “Someone knelt over his dead body to carve a pentagram in the wall?” Benson asked.

  Chief Constable Macaulay came over to them. He had dark circles under his eyes. “Has DI Wilton told you the news?”

  “What news?”

  “I was just about to mention it,” Wilton said. Father Gilbert didn’t believe him.

  The Chief Constable said, “The initial forensics report on the weapon that killed Sanders indicates it wasn’t the same weapon that killed Haysham.”

  A different weapon. “What kind of weapon was it?”

  “A sword, probably,” Wilton said. “But not the same sword. There were traces of oxidation in Sanders’ wound—”

  “Suggesting that the weapon had rust on the blade,” said Benson.

  Father Gilbert sat up. “Oxidation would have formed on a sword being kept in a crypt. Whereas, if a new sword had killed Haysham…”

  Wilton smiled. “We thought Todd was off the hook. He was still in here when DS Sanders was murdered. But now, it’s still possible that he murdered Lord Haysham.”

  “Did you find any evidence in Todd’s car?” Benson asked.

  Macaulay leaned against the desk. “We didn’t, because the car had been thoroughly cleaned. There weren’t any fingerprints. Which, of course, raises more suspicions. Who would do a thing like that unless there was something to hide?”

  Wilton turned to face the two priests. “Have either of you seen Todd since he was released?”

  “We’ve talked,” Father Gilbert said.

  “Does he still believe someone’s out to kill him?” Wilton asked.

  “He’s worried.”

  Macaulay asked, “And you believe him?”

  A very good question. Did he? “I believe he’s in some kind of danger.”

  Wilton slowly shook his head, then brightened up as if he’d just had a cheery thought. “Ironically, his being out and about could help us solve this case.”

  “What do you mean?” Benson asked.

  “If he’s telling the truth and isn’t the killer, then he might draw the killer out.”

  Father Gilbert frowned. “You want to use him as bait?”

  “We’re not using him,” Macaulay said. “It’s a possible outcome.”

  “He said he wanted to stay in here,” Benson said. He looked aghast.

  Wilton spread his hands in concession. “His solicitor posted bail. What are we supposed to do? Besides, we’re a police station, not a hotel.”

  “That’s cruel,” Father Gilbert said. He might have thought the same thing when he was a detective, but found it terribly cynical now.

  “Now, now,” Macaulay said and turned to Wilton. “Of course, Father Gilbert is right. We shouldn’t say it, even as a joke.”

  “Right, Chief Constable,” Wilton said with feigned contrition.

  Father Gilbert noted the wink exchanged between the two men.

  * * *

  At ten o’clock, Father Gilbert sat down at his desk at the church. He had a homily to write, but his mind returned to all the
scattered pieces of information around him. Rust on the weapon that had killed Sanders supported his suspicion that Sanders had found the Woodrich sword. Whoever was there used it to kill him. However, if a sword had been used to murder Haysham, it wasn’t part of the Set. Maybe the killer used it to suggest a connection to the Woodrich sword. Otherwise, why else would the murderer use a sword at all? Was it a makeshift attempt to fulfil a ritual? Or it was still possible that two different swords meant there were two different murderers.

  Agitated, he lightly thumped the side of his fist against the top of the desk. It seemed like the pieces were close to fitting together, but they were still slightly misshapen.

  Father Benson stepped into the office. “Just when I thought I’d have a normal day doing normal Church of England things.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Adrian Scott called. He’s found something and wants us to come over right away.”

  * * *

  “I’ve been up all night with that trunk you had sent over from the Haysham estate,” Scott said when he opened the rear door. The bookshop itself was still closed to the public.

  He turned without inviting them in, moving back into the recesses of his home and warehouse. “Following on from your visit yesterday, I focused my search on the areas we discussed,” he was saying as he went.

  “Did you find anything interesting?” Father Gilbert asked.

  Further inside, Scott moved about excitedly, pacing and waving his arms. “I should say so! There was a reference in some of the letters to the ‘Woodrich Society’, mentioned just once, then thereafter coded as the ‘Body’. Not only in Haysham’s correspondence, but in his private diaries – which are illegible and, for the most part, incomprehensible.”

  “Samuel Haysham’s diaries, you mean,” Benson said.

  “Yes, of course,” Scott said as if he hadn’t expected an interruption so soon. “Anyway, that was a key to unlocking many doors. Not only in these documents, but the documents I already had. I’d often wondered what the ‘Body’ was referring to – I thought it might be the church, you know, since it is called that in the New Testament. But it wasn’t the church. Far from it.”

  “Mr Scott, you’re rambling,” Father Gilbert said.

  “Oh, right. I do that.” He chuckled. “It looks as if Samuel Haysham started the Woodrich Society, or the Body, here after he returned from the American war. I told you how he had fallen ill – and I hope to learn more about that as I go through the rest of the documents – but here’s one of the surprises. Are you ready?”

  It looked as though he intended to wait until they said the magic word, so Father Gilbert obliged him: “Ready.”

  “Haysham met a member of the Woodrich family while he was in America.”

  Scott waited, apparently hoping for a big reaction.

  Father Gilbert lifted an eyebrow. Father Benson offered a not-very-convincing gasp.

  “Amazing, isn’t it? After our conversation yesterday, I had to wonder why the Woodrich medallion, sword, and ring would have any importance to Samuel Haysham. Now I see the connection. Haysham learned of the importance of the Set directly from a Woodrich.”

  “But the Bishop at the time was a cousin of Haysham. Wouldn’t he already know of its value?” asked Benson.

  Scott wagged a finger at him. “I didn’t say value, I said importance. The importance of the Woodrich Set wasn’t in the money, but in its power.”

  “What kind of power?” asked Father Gilbert.

  “That’s the thing, isn’t it? The Set has special power. Magic, enchantment, witchcraft – call it what you will.”

  “They’re cursed, you mean.” Benson shot a look at Father Gilbert.

  “A curse for some, but power for the ones who know how to use the Set properly.” Scott was in his element, pacing and lecturing.

  Father Gilbert found an empty chair and sat down. His mind was whirling.

  “You don’t really believe this, do you?” Benson asked.

  “Does it matter what I believe?” Scott challenged him. “It was enough that Haysham believed it, perhaps as a result of his illness. So he called together a group of like-minded men who also believed it.”

  Father Gilbert raised his hand like a student in a class. “Todd and Doyle.”

  “Yes!” Scott exclaimed. “Plus a few other unknowns from the time.”

  “But what was this Society or Body hoping to accomplish?” Benson asked.

  Scott was beaming. “Exactly what you’d expect. They wanted to become wildly powerful, restore their ailing fortunes, cure wig dandruff – how am I supposed to know for certain?”

  “I don’t suppose they published a set of corporate goals,” said Father Gilbert.

  Benson laughed.

  Scott didn’t. “Actually, they might have.”

  One of the cats nudged up against Father Gilbert’s leg. He scratched its head. “What do you mean?”

  “There are references to a single document – a Chronicle – which I take to be some sort of history of their Society and its members, even the spells and incantations they used, maybe their rites for a black mass.” Scott nudged the Haysham trunk with his foot. “It wasn’t in here. And I haven’t found any clues to where it is. Presumably one of the members had it for safekeeping.”

  “Or it’s been lost, like everything else,” Benson said.

  Father Gilbert thought of the book mentioned in the ecclesiastical minutes – and the missing item from the archive’s inventory.

  Scott’s pacing was infectious. Benson was now doing the same. “Though, the medallion has been found,” he said. “And, for all we know, the sword was recovered from the Doyle crypt.”

  “Leaving the ring?” Scott asked.

  “Which may already be in someone’s possession,” Father Gilbert said. “Mary Aston hasn’t mentioned the ring much. She’s been searching for the sword. Maybe that’s because she knows where it is.”

  Scott stood between the two priests, looking aghast from one to the other. “Are you saying there’s a chance the sword, medallion, and ring are together again? The Woodrich Set is complete for the first time in over 200 years?”

  “Possibly,” said Father Gilbert.

  Scott shoved his hands into his pockets, which was no small feat, considering the belly that covered them. “It’s like the fulfilment of a prophecy.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far.” Benson looked exasperated.

  “Why not?” Scott asked.

  “What are you saying? That bringing together a medallion, sword, and ring will change civilization as we know it? We’re living out a Tolkien fantasy?” He gestured to Father Gilbert as if he should intercede somehow.

  Father Gilbert wished Scott would offer them a cup of tea, that great panacea for conflict and confusion. “I believe that items can be blessed and used in sacred ways. Those blessings can include supernatural power. Evil mimics that power. That’s why baptismal fonts had locked covers over them, and Catholic churches locked up the consecrated bread and wine. They were often stolen by Satanists who wanted to desecrate the elements in their black masses and even use the power within them.”

  “If things have God’s power somehow, why would God allow them to be used that way?” Benson asked.

  “Why would God stop them?” Father Gilbert countered. “If consecrated bread and wine are mystically the body and blood of Christ, do we assume they suddenly aren’t the body and blood if placed in unworthy hands?”

  Benson frowned, as if he wanted to answer but wasn’t sure how.

  Father Gilbert pressed on, “What if supernatural power is constant, like electricity or gravity? Think of the story in the Old Testament when the two men were struck dead for reaching out to keep the Ark of the Covenant from falling over. King David was furious with God. But David was messing with a power he didn’t understand – a power that was put into place by God, but not one that could be turned off and on like a light switch.”

  Benson folde
d his arms. His expression betrayed his scepticism. “Then you believe the Woodrich Set has power.”

  “It might have power,” Father Gilbert said.

  “I don’t care about the theological arguments,” Scott said. “But the Woodrich Set can trigger bizarre behaviour in those who do believe in its power. You must keep a close eye on David Todd. If his family have been part of this Woodrich Society in the past, maybe someone is trying to pressure him into joining now.”

  “That’s it. ‘Take your place. Serve or die.’” Benson paced again.

  “Perhaps Colin Doyle and Lord Haysham refused, which is why they’re dead now,” Father Gilbert said.

  “But who is ‘they’? Who is behind this?” Benson asked, his voice on edge. “Can we get out of the realm of superstition and back to some concrete facts?”

  Scott tossed his hands up. “I’m doing the best I can! I need a month with this trunk, not a few hours.”

  “Keep digging,” Father Gilbert said as he stood up. “Father Benson will help you.”

  “I will?” Benson asked. “What about your ‘house guest’?”

  “I’ll keep an eye on him,” Father Gilbert said. “Just to make sure some demon doesn’t claim him.”

  This caught Scott’s attention. “Is that a possibility? What kind of house guest do you have?”

  “The troubled kind.” Father Gilbert walked to the door.

  CHAPTER 33

  David Todd was sitting on the sofa staring at a mind-numbing daytime television talk show when Father Gilbert walked into the vicarage. Todd was still in the borrowed dressing gown. He hadn’t shaved. He looked up at Father Gilbert with the red-rimmed eyes of a man who’d been oppressed by wrecked expectations.

  “I don’t want to stay here,” he announced. “I want to go so you can get on with your business.”

  “Right now you are my business.” Father Gilbert picked up the remote from the table and turned off the television. “Tell me about the Woodrich Society.”

  A sharp look. “I’ve never heard of it.”

  “For an estate agent, you’re not much of a liar,” said Father Gilbert. He sat down in the easy chair next to Todd.

  Todd shrugged. “I’m exhausted, otherwise I’d be lying with the best of them. And, frankly, I’m sick of anything to do with the name ‘Woodrich’.”