The Body Under the Bridge

by Paul McCuster

  Father Gilbert had to rethink what had happened with Todd. Was he really a frightened victim? Or perhaps he was playing them all. For all he knew, Mary was also playing him. And, admittedly, she was doing a good job of it.

  “Have you seen David? Is he all right?” she asked.

  “He was released by the police. He ran off,” he said, staying with the short version.

  “That idiot!” she cried. “With the three pieces of the Woodrich Set gathered together – we’re all in danger.”

  He looked at her sceptically. “You think they’ll try to take over the world?”

  “Don’t you believe in the power of evil?” she asked. “Haven’t two people already died? There’ll be more.”

  “We have to take all of this to the police,” he said.

  “DS Sanders was the police. It didn’t help him at all.”

  “He should have told someone where he was going. It’s basic procedure.”

  “Who should he have told?” she asked. “Not Alex Wilton. He’s in on it somehow. Sanders was sure of it.”

  “Then we’ll find someone else.”

  “How will we know who to trust? What if the Woodrich Society is like the Masons – with secret handshakes and secret identities? If we go to the police and they arrest me for Sanders’ murder, I won’t survive the night.”

  “David Todd suggested the same thing.”

  “And you don’t know where he is right now, do you? He could be dead.” She looked at him with eyes of fury. “Why aren’t you taking this seriously? I thought you believed in the supernatural.”

  “It’s not about what I believe,” he said. “What do you believe?”

  “I don’t know how to explain any of this.” She looked at her hand and rubbed the fingernail marks she’d made there. “There’s something about the Woodrich Set that brings the worst out in people. It has its own kind of power.”

  * * *

  They approached the town from the east. The rain fell harder against the windscreen. She sped past the turning for the police station and drove Father Gilbert back to Scott’s.

  “You’re making a mistake,” he said.

  She was resolute in her silence. She pulled into the car park behind Scott’s, returning him to where she’d picked him up. Father Gilbert considered his options. Should he try to physically restrain her somehow? Grab the keys?

  He touched her shoulder. “Come into Scott’s. Have a cup of tea. We’ll sort out what to do.”

  “Do you trust Scott?” she asked.

  “I have no reason not to,” he said. “He’s been a huge help. And he’s found documents in Haysham’s archives that will fill the gaps in what you told me.”

  This caught her interest. “I’ll come in.”

  “Smart girl.”

  She pulled into a parking slot and turned off the engine. Father Gilbert waited until she had removed the keys, opened her door, and started to get out. He worried she might take off if he got out first. Together they ducked from the rain and ran up to Scott’s flat.

  Father Gilbert walked in without knocking and called out, “Adrian? Put some decent clothes on. I have a guest.”

  One of the cats cried from somewhere beyond the rows of books.

  “Adrian?” They squeezed between the bookcases. His eyes went expectantly to the table where Scott had been working. The seat was empty and the table had been cleared of Haysham’s archival material. The trunk was gone. David Todd’s boxes were gone.

  Mary stopped. “I don’t like this.”

  Father Gilbert didn’t either. He had that feeling in the pit of his stomach again. He held up a hand. “Then stay back.”

  The cat cried again, more of a howl.

  After a few more steps, he saw a pair of legs stretched out on the floor from behind one of the bookcases that enclosed the kitchen. Mary gasped from behind him. Father Gilbert rushed forward. He saw the blood before he saw the rest of Scott’s body. “Call emergency services!” he shouted.

  Mary was backing away towards the door. “You see? You see?” she said over and over.

  “Don’t go,” he said. “Call for help!” He navigated around the puddle, knelt down, and checked the pulse in Scott’s neck. He was still warm, but definitely dead.

  “I’m sorry.” She spun on her heels and dashed out.

  A cat brushed against Father Gilbert’s leg and gave a spine-chilling cry. It then moved on to Adrian Scott’s head, nudging it with a sniff.

  Scott’s head turned. It stared at the priest with an inquisitive look on its face.

  CHAPTER 37

  DC Adams, whom Father Gilbert had met right after Colin Doyle’s suicide, arrived on the scene. Then the SOCO team. Then Chief Constable Macaulay. And it was a blur of activity and questions and statements, official and otherwise. Macaulay was put out – not by the murder, but by the absence of his lead investigator. DI Wilton had disappeared.

  “What’s he playing at?!” the Chief Constable shouted at one of the uniforms. “Doesn’t he remember what happened to Sanders?”

  Father Gilbert went out to the balcony. He leaned on the handrail, the rain dripping past him from the slanted roof. The flashing coloured lights from the police cars and the ambulance reflected on the puddles in the car park and sprayed the surrounding walls.

  The body count was up to three. Four, if one included Colin Doyle. Five, if one included Clive Challoner. Six, if one added the corpse of Joshua Todd.

  And Mary Aston, David Todd, and DI Alex Wilton were now unaccounted for.

  Dark clouds and the steady rain had swallowed up the afternoon. Father Gilbert wasn’t sure how much of the darkness was the storm and how much was the approaching evening. The occasional thunderclap sounded from somewhere in the distance.

  Father Benson ascended the stairs.

  “What happened?” the curate asked.

  Father Gilbert let out a long, deep sigh and wiped a hand across his eyes. “He was stabbed in the chest, just like Sanders.”

  Benson groaned.

  “He was a good man,” Father Gilbert said.

  “Did he have family?”

  “No. His wife died a few years ago. He had a son in the army, killed in the Middle East.” He felt a pang of regret. He hadn’t known Scott well. Only as a customer in his shop. All of the should haves came rushing to mind.

  They stood quietly for a moment. The noises from the police in the flat echoed out to them. Father Gilbert yearned for a cigarette, something he hadn’t done in years.

  “It occurs to me that Lord Haysham was struck in the head, like Joshua Todd,” Benson observed. “But Sanders and Scott were stabbed in the chest. Two different weapons, two different killers?”

  “Two different styles of execution,” said Father Gilbert.

  He looked down at the car park. Even in the downpour, a few people had gathered to see what the police were doing at Scott’s. He scanned the faces beneath hats and hoods. He remembered from his police days how murderers often reappeared as part of a crowd. He almost expected to see the shadow-man standing there.

  “Why Adrian Scott?” Benson asked.

  “All of the archival material was stolen,” Father Gilbert replied. “Maybe the killer hoped to find more information, or to keep us from finding it.”

  Benson shivered. “If I hadn’t gone to the hospital, I would have been in there.”

  “How is Joe Mumford?” Father Gilbert asked.

  “Braver than most people in the same circumstances,” he said. A sideways glance at Father Gilbert. “Why weren’t you in Scott’s flat?”

  “I was with Mary Aston.”

  Father Gilbert felt the change in Benson’s posture.

  “She picked me up right after you dropped me off,” Father Gilbert explained. “She was upset.”

  “About what?”

  Father Gilbert told him everything Mary had said.

  Benson frowned. “You believe her?”

  “As much as I believe David Todd.” Me
aning: he didn’t know.

  “So she could have murdered Sanders,” Benson said. “Did she kill Adrian Scott?”

  “I thought about that,” Father Gilbert said. “She could have killed him before we arrived. But Adrian was still warm when I found him.”

  He saw himself, sitting there with the body, waiting for the police, trying to keep the cats from messing up the crime scene. He had watched Scott’s face, thinking he might gasp or blink or suddenly snap back to life.

  “How long were you and Mary gone?”

  “Nearly an hour.”

  “The body would have been cold?”

  “Not as warm as it was,” Father Gilbert said. “The murder happened shortly before we arrived.” He didn’t add that the flow of blood had continued to trickle out of the body, though the heart had stopped.

  “What does DI Wilton say?” Benson asked.

  “He isn’t here. He must be hidden away somewhere, reading the Chronicle he got from Lynn Challoner.”

  “Wilton might be part of the Society,” Benson said. “He has family links to it.”

  The door to the flat opened behind them and Macaulay stepped out. He lit a cigarette and took a luxuriant drag. “Is the entire town going to be wiped out before we put an end to this?”

  Father Gilbert shrugged sadly. He continued to watch the crowd in the car park below. A uniformed officer in a plastic mac held up his arms as if warning them off. The rain had subsided. Mostly, they stood still and talked amongst themselves. Then a woman crossed behind the crowd and headed for the bus stop at the far end. She didn’t look at the crowd or the police cars or up at Scott’s flat.

  “Are we finished here?” Father Gilbert asked as he moved for the stairs.

  Macaulay plucked a bit of tobacco from his lip. “For the time being. Why? Do you have a dinner date?”

  “I might.” Father Gilbert took the stairs two at a time.

  “Father?” Benson called out.

  The gathered crowd watched him as he ran, a stir of excitement that something dramatic seemed to be happening. He circled around them and intercepted the one person who didn’t seem the least bit curious about what was happening at Adrian Scott’s flat.

  “Going home so soon?” Father Gilbert said as he touched her arm.

  Margaret Clarke turned to him, a startled look on her face.

  * * *

  In the café light, Margaret looked as if someone had replaced her blood with chalk. Her eyes were anxious, her mouth set tight.

  Father Benson brought over three cups of tea and placed them on the table. He sat down next to Father Gilbert, who faced the apprehensive woman.

  “You haven’t been completely honest with us,” Father Gilbert said to her with a gentle smile. He felt genuine warmth for her. Not only did she remind him of his mother, but he was sure she didn’t understand what she was up against.

  She lowered her head. Father Gilbert thought it was a hint of contrition. Then he noticed she was trying to sneak a peek at her watch.

  “Are you expecting someone?” he asked.

  “No, no – not at all.” She sat up straight. “Has something happened at Adrian Scott’s?”

  “You’re interested now?” he chided her. “You weren’t a few minutes ago.”

  She looked shaken. “I didn’t want to miss my bus.”

  He told her about Adrian Scott, leaving out the gory details.

  She closed her eyes for a moment. “That poor man. I often went in on a Saturday afternoon. He had a nice selection of Georgette Heyer novels.”

  “Where is Alex?” Father Gilbert asked, sliding a cup of tea in front of her.

  She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  “Have you spoken with him today?”

  A pause. She was working through the implications of her answer.

  Father Gilbert said, “Margaret, this isn’t a good time to hold anything back. We need to know what you know. His life may depend on it.”

  She looked as if she believed him. “Alex dropped by earlier this afternoon,” she said.

  “And?”

  A small lift of her shoulders suggested the visit was merely incidental. “He wanted to talk.”

  “You have to be a little more cooperative,” Father Gilbert said. “Otherwise, Father Benson will run back to Adrian Scott’s flat and bring Chief Constable Macaulay here to talk to you.”

  Her eyes widened.

  “Or he’ll probably want to talk to you at the police station,” Father Gilbert added. “Your nephew is being derelict in his duty as a policeman and the Chief Constable will want to know why.”

  She shook her head. “Please don’t.”

  “What did you and Alex talk about?” Father Gilbert asked again.

  She placed her hands around the cup of tea but didn’t pick it up. The blue veins stood out like small rivers against her brown age spots. Her arthritic knuckles were swollen and white. “He wanted to know about that horrible skeleton in the church cellar,” she finally said. “I told him what I told you.”

  Father Gilbert watched her. Her eyes found no fixed place to look on the table. “You know about the Woodrich Society,” he said.

  She slumped as if the effort of will holding her up had come undone. “Yes,” she said. “We all knew about it, if only through whispers and rumours. It was what some might call an ‘open secret’.”

  “What ‘all’?”

  “My family. Some of the people at the church. Many of the influential men around Stonebridge, I would imagine.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us the other day?”

  “Because of her,” Mrs Clarke said, her tone contemptuous.

  “Mary Aston.”

  “I would have told you, even Father Benson—”

  “None taken,” Benson said under his breath.

  “But I didn’t trust her.”

  “She’s not here now,” Father Gilbert said. “Were any of your family members of the Society?”

  She reeled back, indignant. “Heavens, no!”

  “Your ancestors?”

  She picked up her teacup. It shook in her hands. She put the cup down again.

  “Tell me what you know,” Father Gilbert said.

  Her eyes, blue but losing the vitality of the colour, fixed on Father Gilbert. “My father did what you’re doing now. He investigated the Society. He wanted to know what really happened with the skeleton in the church cellar. It was the policeman in him. My mother was terribly upset. She was certain that something bad would happen to us.”

  “Why would something bad happen to you?”

  She looked at him as if he hadn’t been paying attention. “A demonic society? A cursed sword? She believed my father would get hurt.” She shook her head slowly. “The police station burned down and the sword came into our house. Bad things happened. I’ve told you. That’s why my mother demanded they take the sword out of our house.”

  “Did Albert Challoner help him?”

  “Dear Uncle Albert,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.

  “He was your mother’s brother, I assume,” Father Gilbert said, to clarify. “Was he a member of the Society?”

  “Oh no. Not him. If anything, he would have wanted the Society destroyed. I think he helped my father with the investigation. But – fear does strange things to people.”

  “He was afraid?”

  “Everyone was. There was always a threat that something terrible would happen if you didn’t look the other way.”

  “Why didn’t the police arrest the members?” Father Gilbert asked.

  “There was never enough evidence,” she said. “But my Uncle Albert was shrewd. He made a deal.”

  “With the Society? What kind of a deal?”

  “A deal to repair the past,” she said slowly, as if repeating a well-practised phrase.

  “What does that mean, exactly?”

  “Uncle Albert had a deep love for his older brother. He couldn’t bear what had happened to him.”
>
  Father Gilbert looked over at Father Benson, who was writing names on the back of a serviette – drawing lines to connect them. “What older brother?” he asked.

  “Richard Challoner. He was Uncle Albert’s half-brother. Surely you know that Richard was the son of Martin Doyle.”

  Father Gilbert nodded.

  “Richard’s murder devastated Uncle Albert. He hated the Doyles for it.”

  “Why the Doyles?”

  “He was sure they’d arranged it. They wanted Richard killed.”

  “They arranged it with whom?”

  “Francis Todd, of course.” She worked her lips as if saying the name had put a bad taste in her mouth. “The man truly was evil.”

  “Evil enough to kill someone with whom he had no grievance?”

  “Yes. We used to call it ‘bloodlust’ – maybe people still do.”

  Father Benson asked, “If Albert hated them, why would he arrange for the sword and the skeleton to be put in the Doyle mausoleum?”

  She looked at him as if she hadn’t realized he was there. “It was part of the deal,” she said. “He wanted Richard buried properly, to be acknowledged as a son of the Doyles. I’m sure money changed hands, too, as recompense for Richard’s death.”

  “And the deal was what? Your Uncle Albert would keep his mouth shut about the Society?” asked Father Gilbert.

  “He persuaded my father not to investigate it any further.” She sighed. “I believe that’s how it happened. I was only able to piece it together much later. I’ve been haunted my entire life by the events of 1938 and I finally got my father to tell me what really happened shortly before he died.”

  “Did your Uncle Albert say anything about the book?” Father Benson asked.

  “What book?”

  “The Society’s,” Benson said. He tapped his pen against the napkin.

  She thought for a moment, then said distastefully, “That book.”

  Father Gilbert explained, “Your Uncle Albert took it from the diocesan library around that time. Did he give it to them as part of the deal?”

  “No. That was part of his protection.” She nodded, as if remembering. “It was evidence. He threatened that if they went back on their agreement he’d make the book public. Everyone would know the truth in great detail. As far as I know, they left him alone.”