by D C Macey
Francis and Elaine stood feeling the world continue to spin around them. Who next? Who next?
• • •
The rest of the morning had come and gone in a flash. Helen and Sam had shared a long walk, stopping off at the church to pick up the communion set; before lunch, Helen had another residential home to visit, a service to conduct in John Dearly’s stead. They walked towards the retirement home through what she could not help but feel was now her parish. Cars and buses rolled past and anonymous people bustled around them. On both sides of the street, tall tenement flats rose up to create a shadowed urban canyon. Deep in conversation, they were oblivious to it all, but their deliberations led to no resolution or understanding. Eventually, they reached the retirement home and Helen went in as Sam continued on to the university. He wanted to look into some of what Francis had said and to search for any more information about Suzie.
• • •
The service over, Helen headed for home and welcomed a quiet hour or so alone to mull things over before she finally made a phone call to her father. From their regular long distance conversations she knew he was worried, and feeling a bit guilty too. After all, it was he who had sent her here, to what suddenly seemed nothing like the safe and cosmopolitan city he thought he knew.
In the end, she half wished she hadn’t called him. She was worried sick by all the seemingly senseless violence and killing. Now she had set him worrying again, and he was 3,000 miles away and unable to help.
A text alert sounded on her phone. Helen grabbed the communion set in its carry case and headed for the door. Sam had collected his car on the way back from campus; he was now parked outside her flat’s main door, waiting, engine running. With strict parking restrictions in force, he could not leave the car without picking up a hefty fine. He had learnt that the traffic wardens were merciless and had an uncanny ability to sniff out an unattended vehicle almost before the owner was out of sight. He saw Helen emerge from the common stair and reached over to turn down the volume on the car radio.
She jumped into the passenger seat, slipped the old case to the floor and leant towards Sam as he turned his face to hers. They kissed, a light brushing of lips, just enough to convey a message.
‘Thanks for picking me up,’ said Helen.
‘No problem, I’m done in the office and I’d rather be with you right now. It’s all so mad,’ replied Sam.
‘Well let’s go then, Mr Cameron, and don’t spare the horses,’ she buckled her seatbelt and settled back for the ride.
It was only a five-minute journey to St Bernard’s, one that Helen had done countless times, but today she didn’t want to go into the church alone. It wasn’t her way to be afraid, but she just wanted a friendly soul beside her.
They discussed what she had said on the phone to her father. Helen believed in telling the truth, but on this occasion was now wishing she had said less than she did. She hadn’t wanted to add extra worries on her father’s shoulders and perhaps telling him might even have put him in some danger: Archie, John, the MacPhersons, Suzie, Davy and Barty the dog, she’d covered the lot in an unstoppable torrent. Mention of the MacPhersons triggered a memory for Sam.
‘Oh, here, in my jacket pocket, there’s a letter for you. It came through the university’s internal mail. MacPherson must have dropped it off.’
‘Let me see,’ Helen stretched across and rummaged in Sam’s jacket pockets, finding the envelope and pulling it out. She sat back and with a little shiver opened the envelope. To her surprise, it wasn’t from MacPherson but from his wife.
Helen,
Mission accomplished. MacP will be grumpy if he finds out, so don’t spill the beans. Come and see me, we’ll crack this one together!
Sarah.
‘What on Earth is this all about?’ Helen puzzled for a moment. Then she read it aloud for Sam. ‘Got any idea?’ she asked.
He shrugged. ‘Not a clue, do you think she sent you the wrong message?’
Helen looked again and dismissed his suggestion. ‘No, she’s addressing me directly, but it doesn’t make any sense.’
‘Maybe she was planning to share another bottle of rosé with you? Or maybe she’d been drinking it herself?’ suggested Sam and he got a smart dig in the ribs.
‘Sam! Don’t talk about her like that. The poor woman’s dead.’ Helen’s reprimand was meant but her tone was light. ‘No, this message certainly meant something, but I guess we’ll never know. It’s so sad, she was asking me to visit, and now she’s gone.’
Sam swung the car off the road and into the car parking space beside the church just as the radio news caught his attention. He pushed up the volume. They both listened in horror as Sam’s fear of the past few days became real.
‘… until next of kin have been informed, the police have refused to identify the body of a young woman that was found earlier today floating in the Firth of Forth, off Cramond Island. Some have speculated she may have been walking back from the tidal island and been caught out by the inrushing tide. A spokesman for the Queensferry lifeboat said many people are cut off each year at Cramond Island and rescues are commonplace.
‘The police would not comment on any link with the missing museum worker Suzie Dignan, but did confirm they were no longer actively searching for her. The police also confirmed that no missing artefacts were with the body found at Cramond. For the time being, police are referring all questions about missing artefacts to the National Museum of Scotland.’
Sam flipped the radio off and leant forward, pressing his head hard against the steering wheel. ‘Oh God, I knew it,’ he said, leaning back, staring up at the roof. ‘What the hell’s going on, Helen?’ He turned to her and she stretched out a hand to touch his arm. ‘I brought her into this mess, and she didn't deserve it. She was a really bubbly girl, kind, good hearted. Now she’s dead,’ he banged his fist on the wheel. ‘Dead for helping me.’
Helen gently rubbed his upper arm, then slid her arm round his neck and pulled him towards her. He responded and for a few moments, their heads rested against one another.
Pulling apart, Sam’s voice was altogether harder, once again focused, determined. ‘What’s happening here? What in God’s name is this all about? Surely nothing can be worth all this slaughter?’ He sighed and closed his eyes for a moment, composing his thoughts. ‘Come on. Let’s get your communion set locked away. We can try to fathom it all out later.’
‘They’ve got the museum dagger, haven’t they?’ Helen was still not sure why the daggers were so important, but once again, somebody thought them worth killing for.
‘Seems that way.’ Sam slammed the car door shut and they linked arms as they stepped towards the church entrance. Suddenly, more than anything else, Helen just wanted to see the old reassuring face of her father. She knew he could not just make things right as he used to back in her childhood. But she still longed for the reassurance and stability that only a good father could bring. She wished he was here but knew his health wouldn’t let him come.
The church doors were closed. DCI Wallace had insisted the church be kept locked when unattended. Helen unlocked the doors, slipped inside and keyed in the alarm deactivation code. Together they proceeded down the centre aisle. Other than their movement, the church was quite still. Helen had grown up in and around churches; busy or quiet, for her they were comfortable places where she never felt alone. Yet today she was glad of Sam’s presence. They hurried to the vestry where Helen locked the communion set in the safe.
As they retraced their steps she locked the vestry then paused for a moment in front of the cross and bowed her head slightly, wanting to say some words for John, for Archie, for the MacPhersons, for Suzie. Who else? Who next? She prayed the killing would end.
After a minute she stopped. ‘Come on,’ she said, linking arms with Sam again. ‘Let’s go.’
• • •
Now, late into the evening, the wine bottle beside the sofa on Helen’s living room floor was three quarters
empty. They had talked everything through, over and over again.
Eventually, Helen tried to sum up their position. ‘So, they, and we don’t know who they are, seem determined to kill anyone who has contact with these daggers, and they want to collect the daggers. All for reasons we don’t know, but it might have something to do with an old treasure. They got the dunes dagger we found in Fife and they got the museum dagger that your students spotted. We don’t know how many more daggers there are or where they are, or for certain what they are for, but Francis thinks there might be several. And it seems they are all somehow linked together with St Bernard’s, and they want whatever that link is too.’ She looked at Sam for confirmation. He smiled encouragingly and Helen continued.
‘You believe there’s a chance there might well be a dagger here in St Bernard’s, we don’t know for sure, but I’m going along with you on that just now. Whatever they want from here is clearly important, because it seems this place is where everything revolves around. Unfortunately, the only people who could have cast light on this were Archie and John, and they killed them both. God! Who are they?’ Helen’s casual invocation of God’s name passed without note.
‘Every death seems to have some link to us. It’s getting so it’s not safe to know us. Looking at it from outside, each incident seems isolated, motiveless, though clearly the more we see the more there must be a plan or reason behind it. We just can’t work out what it is or why people we know are being killed.’
‘Yes, but there must be information somewhere. Something that will help us understand,’ said Sam.
‘Francis and Elaine have told us what they can, but really that’s little more than a mix of history lesson and folklore. We can’t really see what all that’s got to do with today’s events. What’s more remarkable is how little the pair actually know.’ Helen paused, looked at Sam, he nodded agreement but remained silent.
‘I don’t know what John got himself mixed up in. Was he really a good guy? Was he a villain? Where do Francis and Elaine stand? And, now…’ she threw her hands in the air, tilting her head to one side and adopting an incredulous tone. ‘Now the pair of them say this guy Xavier is flying in from Sardinia, in a private jet no less, and apparently he might have some answers. I know he was here for Archie Buchan’s memorial service, but I never met him. Do we trust him? Do we run for the hills?’
Sam’s arm was draped around her shoulder and his hand squeezed it gently, expressing something between support and consolation. He gave a little wry laugh. ‘At least we don’t have any money worries.’
Helen turned her head to look at Sam and gave him a rueful theatrical grin. ‘What do you think buddy? It’s a mess, that’s for sure.’ She raised her wine glass. ‘Next time I want a work placement, remind me not to take my pop’s advice. Let me make my own arrangements, okay? Anyway, as you say here in Scotland, slàinte.’
She drained the glass and stretched forward to put it down very carefully on the floor. Then on a second thought, lifted it again, a flick of the wrist tilted the glass fractionally towards Sam, a clear request for a top up. He responded at once, picking up the bottle and filling her glass.
‘Seriously, it is a mess. I don’t know what to do. There isn’t enough information to make any decisions,’ she said.
‘I know. Everywhere seems dark. I can’t see a way ahead either. Maybe we just need to sit tight a little and think it all through again,’ said Sam.
Helen nodded glumly as her phone chimed to signal the arrival of a message. Checking it, she exclaimed. ‘It’s from my pop - some pictures in the cloud for you. Come home quick.’
They scanned the pictures her father had sent. They were old. A young Peter and Joan Johnson holidaying in Edinburgh; Archie Buchan, even then he seemed old; a young man, straight, tall, unwrinkled, and unmistakably John Dearly; and Francis, slight, youthful but instantly recognisable by the broad smile and head tilt. They laughed and for a minute were carried away from the pressures of the moment.
The last picture had them puzzled; it was a christening. Her mother was sitting, holding a baby, surrounded by the usual family suspects. And clustered around the picture’s edge were others who Helen had come to know more recently.
‘Is that you?’ asked Sam.
‘I don’t know, I’ve never seen this picture before, it must be one of us kids, but I didn’t think any of these guys came to the christenings.’
‘Well, you wouldn’t know would you?’ Sam pointed a finger at the screen. ‘Who’s that Latin guy? Did you have the inquisition at your family christenings too?’
‘I don’t have a clue, but I tell you what, I’m phoning someone who does.’ She called her father as she spoke.
‘Hi Pops,’ she said as the phone line opened.
‘Helen? Helen, how you doing, honey? Your mom and I are worried sick. What’s happened now?’
His voice faded slightly as he turned away from his phone. ‘Joan, it’s Helen calling again, she’s on the line now.’
‘Pops, I’m doing fine, you don’t need to worry, honest. Sam’s with me and we’ll get through this for sure. And you know what? Nothing bad has happened since my last call.’
‘That was only nine hours ago, honey.’
‘Yeah, believe me, here that’s an improvement.’ Helen felt her spirits rising; he always did that for her.
‘Your mom thinks you should be coming home now, can you do that?’
‘I don’t know. I’m a material witness, so I don’t think the police will want me to go far right now. And anyway, I’ve got unfinished business here.’
Her mother’s voice came through clear and worried. ‘Don’t you get involved there, you hear, Helen. You need to get home, now.’
‘Right Mom, I don’t think I can though. But listen, I’m not alone. I’ll be fine. I’ve got Sam with me. Tell you what; I’m going to put the phone on speaker so he can hear too.’
She looked at Sam and he nodded.
‘Pops, speaker’s on now.’
‘Hi Sam, good to speak with you at last. Though not good times.’
‘Hello Mr Johnson, good to speak with you and you too Mrs Johnson. And I agree it could have been under better circumstances.’
The small talk of introductions never really got started as Helen cut back in. ‘Pop, tell us about the christening photo.’
A laugh rolled down the phone as Peter Johnson considered his daughter’s question. ‘It’s your christening, honey.’
‘But I see John and Francis there. I didn’t know they came to my christening,’ there was a thrill in Helen’s voice, a relief to be diverted from her current hell even for a few moments.
‘Oh, they all came for yours. Archie too, even Xavier.’
‘You know Xavier?’ Helen cut in, at once excited and surprised. ‘You know Xavier? Who is he? What is he? Who don’t you know? Tell us about him. He’s coming here to Edinburgh now. Who is he?’ she demanded.
Down the line, she could hear her mother’s excited chatter in the background. Clearly, she approved of Xavier. Peter Johnson’s sigh of resignation was perfectly audible down the line, cajoled by his wife on one side and his daughter on the other; it was as though there was no distance between them.
‘What can I tell you about Xavier? He’s a priest from Sardinia. I first met him years ago when John and I were still assistants. He was a bit older, had already taken on his own church, as I say, it’s in Sardinia. Clearly, John and Xavier were from different denominations, spoke different languages, normally they would never have met. I think they became friends because their respective parishes were linked somehow. Don’t ask me how; I haven’t a clue. Anyway, our paths used to cross most summers, quite a gang in our day, John, me, Francis, and of course, Xavier…’
Sam prompted him to go further. ‘What’s the man like? He seems a bit of a mystery.’
‘I haven’t seen Xavier in years, but we’ve always kept in touch: letters, more emails now. I have been expecting him to retire for y
ears. Then again, when do priests ever really retire?’ Helen could picture him rolling his eyes, half mocking his vocation.
‘When they go to meet their maker,’ said Helen, ‘which won’t be for a long time yet where you’re concerned. Now, tell me more about Xavier.’
‘There’s not much more to say. Yes, self-confident, and always seemed in control. Not just of himself, but always the things and events around him too. Warm, friendly enough. But doesn’t do much small talk even when he gets to know you.’ The line fell silent for several moments as Peter Johnson marshalled his thoughts.
Quite suddenly, he resumed, ‘What I do know is that one year, way back, your mother and I had gone over to Edinburgh for our summer holiday during the Festival. We’d been on a night out, a meal, some show or other and once we’d got back to the manse your mother had gone to bed while John and I sat up half the night sharing a drink and putting the world to rights. That summer John was a bit perturbed, excited even. Archie Buchan and he had just got back from a trip to Sardinia; they had been over for a funeral, for Xavier’s predecessor, I think.’
‘That’s right, I remember the time, it was a funeral in Sardinia,’ confirmed Joan Johnson.
‘Anyway, John went a bit mysterious on me; I put it down to the drink. He rambled on about some responsibility or a task or something and Xavier’s name cropped up more than once. I don’t remember the details now. We’d both had a fair bit to drink. All I do remember is it’s the only time I ever saw John get moody. I think I’d laughed at his idealism or dreaming or something and he didn’t like it. The evening ended and we never spoke of it again.’
Once again Peter Johnson fell silent, and for just a moment listened to his grown-up youngest daughter’s breath down the line, wondering where all the years had gone. ‘Over the years your mother and I would visit John, mostly during the Festival - she’s told you about the trips often enough and you know how much she loves a show.’