The Body Under the Bridge

by Paul McCuster

  Father Gilbert leaned back. His shoulders were stiff. His headache had returned. “Why didn’t your uncle go public anyway – to stop the Society?”

  “I assume he didn’t want to destroy so many families,” she said. “The scandal would have affected everyone, even the innocent people.”

  “Did Clive know about his father and the deal?”

  “He was an eccentric fellow. Except for the occasional hello when he attended church, I rarely saw or spoke to him. We never compared notes on our family history.” She looked concerned. “Has Clive’s daughter said anything about it?”

  “She found a box labelled ‘Woodrich’.”

  “So it still exists.” She pursed her lips, deep lines forming between her eyes. Then she said, “No one has mentioned the Society for over fifty years. It seemed to go away. I had prayed that it was finished.”

  “Clearly not.”

  “Have you seen the box? Did you look inside?” she asked.

  “No. Because Alex picked it up earlier today.”

  “Alex has it?” She lowered her head again, shaking it back and forth. “Oh dear, oh dear. I knew I shouldn’t have talked to him about the death of poor Clive Challoner.”

  “He gave me the impression he didn’t know anything about this business.”

  “Why would he volunteer that kind of knowledge?” she asked. “He’s known since he was a boy. He was always interested by it – as a sort of unsolved family mystery. At times I thought he was a little too interested. I tried to curb his interest. Oh, I hope he doesn’t do anything foolish.”

  “What could he do?” Father Gilbert asked. He looked at the thin white hair covering the top of her head. Each strand seemed delicate, as if he could blow and scatter them all like dandelions.

  She lifted her eyes to him. They were filled with tears.

  CHAPTER 38

  Father Gilbert walked Margaret Clarke to her door, then ran back to Benson’s Mini. He got in and closed the door. The rain drummed its fingers on the small roof.

  “If this is the kind of work we’re going to do, I’ll need a larger car,” Benson said.

  Father Gilbert, who’d done contortions to fit himself into the tiny back seat to accommodate the lift for Mrs Clarke, nodded. The front passenger seat suddenly seemed spacious comparatively.

  Benson put the car into gear and pulled away.

  Father Gilbert took out his mobile phone and rang Macaulay. A brief conversation, and he hung up with a groan.

  “Well?” Benson asked. “What did he say?”

  “Alex Wilton is still missing.” Father Gilbert looked out at the wet night. The image of Sanders came back to his mind. “Though Wilton went to Professor Braddock to get the medallion.”

  Benson shot a look at him.

  “He said he needed it for police business,” Father Gilbert reported. “Braddock handed it over. Macaulay doesn’t know what to make of it, since there’s no official reason for Alex to need that medallion.”

  “What’s he up to?”

  Father Gilbert scratched at his chin. “He doesn’t live far from here.”

  “Surely the police would have checked there.”

  “I assume so. But it’s the only thing I can think of to do right now.”

  * * *

  Wilton lived in a semi-detached house in what had once been a council estate. A low wall separated his tiny front garden from his neighbour’s. A chipped garden gnome frowned at the rain as the two priests walked up to the front door. The curtains in the windows were closed. The front door was open an inch. A sliver of vertical yellow light highlighted the door frame.

  Father Gilbert knocked and the door moved open another inch.

  “Hello?” he called out. “Alex?”

  A figure came towards them and yanked the door open. It was DC Adams.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  “Probably the same thing as you – looking for DI Wilton.”

  “He’s not here,” Adams said, then retreated into the front hall, opening the door for them to enter. “The door was unlocked, so I let myself in.”

  “Friends, are you?” Father Gilbert asked.

  “Close enough,” Adams replied. “It’s not like him to go missing. After what happened to Sanders, I was afraid he was in trouble.”

  “Have you found anything?” Father Gilbert asked.

  Adams gestured for them to follow him. He led them down the hall, past a staircase and a front room on the left. Father Gilbert smelled the remnants of a fire in the air. They continued on to a second doorway on the right. The room was a makeshift office, a disorganized mess.

  “Don’t touch anything,” Adams warned.

  On the desk next to a computer sat an open square box. On the side were a crude drawing of a pentagram symbol and “Woodrich” penned in a handwriting style from another age.

  Father Gilbert moved closer to the desk. Scattered over the surface were books about witchcraft, black masses, and charms. The books were both hardback and paperback, new editions. “These didn’t come out of that box,” Father Gilbert said.

  “I don’t see the Chronicle,” said Benson, leaning in to look.

  “Chronicle?” Adams asked.

  Father Gilbert had an idea and left the office, returning to the front room. It was dark. He found the switch and a single light turned on overhead. On the opposite wall was a modest fireplace. Father Gilbert went over to it and kneeled down.

  Adams came in behind him. “What are you doing?”

  “Do you have evidence gloves?” he asked Adams.

  Adams patted his pockets to show he didn’t. “I didn’t expect to be gathering evidence. I may have a box in the car.”

  “Never mind.” Father Gilbert took a pen from his shirt pocket. He leaned into the grate. Charred fragments of yellowed papers were spread out among the ashes. He used the pen to lift the pages one at a time. They were handwritten letters. Each page had different handwriting. Early twentieth century, was Father Gilbert’s guess.

  “What do you see?” Benson asked.

  “Letters.” He spoke over his shoulder to the two waiting men. “This one is addressed to Albert Challoner. And I see… Haysham… and here’s one from Doyle… and this is from Todd.”

  “If he was trying to get rid of evidence, he did a poor job,” Adams said.

  Benson asked, “Can you tell what they’re about? Are they the negotiations for the deal?”

  “Deal?” Adams asked impatiently. “What deal? What was Wilton investigating?”

  “The same thing we are,” Father Gilbert said, standing up. “Sanders was, too.”

  Adams looked annoyed. “This is connected to Sanders’ death? Are you suggesting Wilton did it?”

  “I’m suggesting that you get the SOCO team here,” Father Gilbert said.

  “Has a crime been committed?” Adams asked, bewildered.

  Father Gilbert bent to look closely at the iron poker lying on the hearth. There was blood and hair on the spear-end. “It’s possible.”

  * * *

  They stood in the front hall of Wilton’s house as Macaulay’s SOCO team people moved in and out of the front room and the office.

  “So what is Wilton doing?” Macaulay asked. “Should I be worried or annoyed?”

  “Worried for now,” Father Gilbert said. “Until we know if the blood and hair on the poker belong to Wilton, or someone Wilton struck.”

  Macaulay harrumphed and walked down the hall.

  Benson stepped close to Father Gilbert. “Is Wilton playing detective or is he the Avenging Angel?”

  Father Gilbert shook his head. “Either could be true.”

  “You think he could be the murderer?” Benson asked. He thought for a moment, then said: “But he was at the police station when Lord Haysham was killed.”

  “As it turns out, he wasn’t,” Father Gilbert said and nodded towards the Chief Constable. “According to Macaulay, Wilton signed out for dinner around the same ti
me they think Haysham was murdered.”

  Benson was surprised. “Is that enough to make him a suspect?”

  “It isn’t enough evidence by itself,” Father Gilbert said. “But it certainly makes him look suspicious.” He stepped out into the small porch and held his hand out. The rain had stopped. “There’s no point in standing around here.” He moved down the path towards the road.

  “Where are we going?” Benson asked from behind him.

  “The church.”

  “Why there?”

  “The church was the centre of the Woodrich Society’s activities at various times over the past 200 years. Why not tonight?”

  “Why tonight?” Benson asked.

  Father Gilbert pointed up. Through a gash in the clouds, the white orb of a full moon shone down on them.

  CHAPTER 39

  When they arrived at St Mark’s, Mr Urquhart was at the side door – the one they used to get directly to the offices.

  “Is the church empty, Mr Urquhart?”

  “Aye, Father.” He hesitated. “You won’t be needing to go into the crypt, will you?” he asked.

  “No. Why?”

  “I’ve got the pump going. The water’s seeping in again,” he said.

  “Thank you, Mr Urquhart. We’ll lock up behind us.”

  Inside, Father Benson walked straight to his office. Father Gilbert continued on.

  “Where are you going?” Benson asked.

  Father Gilbert nodded in the direction of the nave. “Give me a minute.”

  In one of his theological college classes, the teacher had surveyed the students and asked, “Where is your favourite place to encounter God?”

  The answers were varied: in a deep forest, by the seashore, in a book-lined study, in a pub, while playing golf. Father Gilbert was the only student who’d answered, “In church.” The instructor then spent the next hour criticizing the church for not being as attractive to people as a forest or a seashore or a golf course or a book-lined study or even a pub, and then he put forward the assertion that the Church of England needed to replace the liturgy and altars and music with more relevant enticers.

  Father Gilbert was vocal in his disagreement – and was thereafter pegged as a boring traditionalist.

  Most of his fellow students had only ever attended churches that had spent a lot of their time trying to be something other than a church. The liturgy was mere window dressing. The church structures had been abandoned for multi-purpose buildings that could be used for worship services one day and gymnastics the next. Worship itself had been relegated to a self-help effort – whatever had meaning for the individual. Just to be provocative, he would ask his fellow students if they believed God had a particular form of worship that He desired above all else. Of course not, they’d said.

  Yet, in all of his readings of the Bible, he’d found very specific rules regarding the worship of God – dictated by God Himself – and at no point did the Creator ever ask, “Is this good for you?”

  Stepping into the nave, there was no second-guessing where he was or what he’d come to do. This was a place to encounter God, to worship Him, to serve Him.

  Electric candles in red glass holders hung discreetly above the pews, casting a reverent glow. The church was illuminated by small lights, angled to highlight the beauty of the altar, the screen, the marble floors, the dark wooden altar rail, the choir stalls, and the panelling that covered the walls.

  Father Gilbert slipped into a pew, lowered a kneeler, and positioned himself for prayer. The silence would normally have brought him comfort and peace. This time it was thick with menace. He couldn’t shake the knowledge that this church – his church – had once been used for the vilest purposes. He looked up at the altar and wondered if the abominations had taken place right there. Not on that same altar, since it had been replaced just before World War II. But the area itself had been desecrated. Had anyone ever bothered to re-consecrate the church? He didn’t know.

  He wondered why he hadn’t felt the presence of evil. Then it struck him that his various encounters and apparitions might have been caused by the remnants of what had been done there. Perhaps, somehow and for some reason, he had a particular antenna for picking up signals from the spiritual realm.

  He would ask the Bishop to lead a rite of reconsecration.

  Doubling his efforts to pray, he tried to lose himself in time with God. But the present murders and the accounts from the past crowded in. A parade of the dead taunted him, shouting out and shattering the silence.

  He held no illusions about the evil men were capable of doing, but he always held out hope that the mercy and grace of God would eventually prevail. Whoever had killed Lord Haysham, DS Sanders, and Adrian Scott would be found. Whatever had driven Colin Doyle to suicide would be exposed. One way or another, he was determined to solve this mystery.

  He made his way back to his office. Father Benson was sitting at Mrs Mayhew’s desk, typing away on her computer.

  “Everything all right?” Benson asked.

  Father Gilbert nodded. “You?”

  “Just catching up on emails,” he said. He looked up at Father Gilbert. “Why are we here?”

  “I want to go through what we’ve learned, to see what I’ve missed.”

  “Why do you think we’ve missed anything?” Benson asked.

  “Because we haven’t caught the criminals,” Father Gilbert said. “And they’re not here.”

  “Who aren’t here?”

  “The Society. This is where they’ll come – and they’re not here.”

  “You could have said so before I agreed to bring you here,” Benson said.

  “Do you want to leave?”

  Benson looked as if he might say yes. Then he shrugged. “Maybe it’s too early. Midnight is the witching hour, right?”

  “Or maybe they didn’t like how we’ve redecorated since they were last in St Mark’s,” Father Gilbert said. From somewhere below, he heard the sound of the water pump in the crypt. “If they aren’t going to meet here, then where are they?”

  He turned and went into his office.

  * * *

  Father Benson made coffee. The two priests sat on opposite sides of Father Gilbert’s desk and went through the documents they had, the facts they’d been told, even the information Benson had scribbled down on the napkin. They listed the cast of characters from the past and present and created a chart connecting them.

  They returned to the murder of Joshua Todd, the tenure of Francis Todd at St Mark’s in the nineteenth century, and the events surrounding the discovery of Richard Challoner’s skeleton in 1938. Without question, the Woodrich Set seemed to be a source of corruption. The pattern of evil had been established by Samuel Haysham and carried on haphazardly after his death.

  Three cups of coffee later, nothing new had emerged.

  Father Gilbert glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was almost 11:30.

  “What if we’re wrong?” Benson asked. “What if this whole thing isn’t about the Society, but the value of the Woodrich Set? If it’s worth a lot, then the murders may be more about greed than the occult.”

  “If that’s true, then I’ll be relieved.”

  “Why?”

  “Basic greed is easier to deal with. I’m more worried about the restoration of an evil Society by evil people – or, equally dangerous, a group of people who may not know what they’re doing.”

  “Are you thinking of anyone in particular?”

  “Alex Wilton,” he said. “He’s not technically part of the Society’s legacy, not as a direct descendant. But Margaret Clarke said he’s been fascinated by its existence for years. What if it’s been an unhealthy fascination? What if he’s been seduced by a fantasy of demonic power and wants to ‘earn his stripes’ by playing the role of the Avenging Angel?”

  “Is he the type of person to do that?”

  “Who isn’t that type of person?” Father Gilbert asked. “Which one of us, when tempted at the
right time and in the right way, wouldn’t give in?”

  “Capability doesn’t make it likely,” Benson said.

  “No, it doesn’t,” Father Gilbert agreed. He returned his attention to the copy of the file of Francis Todd’s ecclesiastical trial, sent from the diocesan library by Mrs Littleton.

  Benson took part of the file and looked over the pages.

  Another few minutes passed, and Father Gilbert saw a small section he hadn’t noticed before. “In the list of grievances against Francis Todd, it states that he’d had conflicts with his vestry over unauthorized work on the church.”

  “What kind of work? Does the record get specific?”

  Father Gilbert checked the pages. “No.”

  “Do we have any records here?”

  “Possibly.” Father Gilbert grabbed his mobile and dialled Mrs Mayhew.

  “It’s almost midnight,” Benson said.

  “She’s used to it.” He punched the speaker button.

  “Hello, Father. What’s wrong?” Mrs Mayhew asked when she picked up. She sounded as fresh as she did at any other time of day.

  “Where do we keep the files for any work done in the church?”

  “What kind of work?”

  “On the building. Changes, improvements, renovations, that sort of thing.”

  “Recent – or further back in time?”

  “Further back. The Francis Todd period.”

  “Oh dear,” she said. A rustling sound. Had she thrown the covers aside? “I’ll come and get them,” she said.

  “No,” he said firmly. “Just tell us where they are.”

  “There are three filing cabinets in the alcove to the left of Father Benson’s office door. Look in the second cabinet, fourth drawer down.”

  “Can you be more specific? How many files back?” he asked.

  She didn’t get the joke. “I’m not sure, it may be—”

  “Never mind, Mrs Mayhew. Sorry to awaken you. Come in late tomorrow.” He hung up.

  “You know she won’t come in late,” Benson said.

  “I know.”

  They went to the filing cabinet and pulled out several files filled with musty papers.