by D C Macey
Helen was finishing Elaine’s first aid treatment as Francis arrived back from the meeting with his bishop. She could hear the terse account Xavier was providing without really focusing on the detail; instead, she concentrated on getting Elaine ready to move. Francis looked shocked, listened, nodded, understanding some bits, incredulous at others, and he asked only a few questions. It was clear he understood there would be a time for explanations, but that was not now.
Francis agreed to take Elaine direct to hospital in his car. A nasty fall at home while decorating the stairs, falling headfirst and a hand caught in the banister on the way down. The explanation was flimsy, would not really account for the injuries properly but when delivered by the local priest, with the patient and her daughter in full agreement, it should ensure there was no immediate link to the major on-going firearms incident. Hopefully keeping the police out of things for a while. Grace promised to phone with any news once the hospital had taken a look at Elaine.
Wounded away, Helen finally sat down and was swithering between a large glass of wine and a strong coffee just as Sam arrived; dropped at the door by an anxious DCI Wallace, who waited only long enough to check that Helen and the others had not been embroiled in the incident. Satisfied they were safe in the manse, the policeman raced away to the church. Sam guided her towards the coffee option. He sat and listened to the account delivered jointly by Xavier and Helen.
In the process of unpicking events, it finally became clear why the police had taken so long to arrive. Once gunshots had been reported the unarmed police had sealed the area and waited for the armed officers to arrive, and that could sometimes take a little while, particularly if having to travel from another firearms incident.
Helen relaxed, just a little; she lent her head on Sam’s shoulder and sighed. Sam placed his hand over hers and pressed it gently. She twisted her hand so their palms touched; pressed back, felt his warmth. Then the doorbell sounded, a klaxon tearing at their moment’s peace, quickly followed by vigorous banging on the door.
They all tensed and Angelo rose to answer the door. ‘No wait,’ said Helen. She stood up and headed for the front door. ‘This is my patch now. Whoever it is will want to speak with me.’
A police constable was at the door. ‘I’m looking for Miss Johnson, the assistant minister,’ he said.
‘You’ve found her, what can I do for you officer?’ said Helen, straining to keep her voice at what might sound a stress free tone. She did not recognise the policeman so he must have been drafted in from one of the other areas to help today.
The police constable looked a little surprised at her accent; he had not been expecting an American. ‘You’re Helen Johnson? From the church?’ he asked, waving a hand in the church’s direction.
‘That’s me, how can I help?’ said Helen.
‘We’ve been trying to phone you but it kept going to your answer phone, didn’t you hear it ringing?’ said the policeman, his voice slightly aggrieved.
Helen gave him the warmest smile she could muster. ‘Oh sorry, we’ve spent much of the morning below ground. You know, down in the basement, gathering old parish papers, parish business, that sort of thing. I must have missed your calls officer,’ said Helen, a slight hint of contrition in her voice. ‘But please, won’t you come in? Tell us what’s happening at the church. My friend arrived a little while ago and he says the street’s cordoned off and full of police. What’s all the commotion, do you think I should be going up there now?’
The constable did not want to enter, annoyed that he had been sent away from the action on a simple errand - he wanted back to the locus as soon as possible.
‘Well, we like to think explosions, theft, a gunfight and dead bodies in a church is a bit more than just a commotion,’ he said, then paused for effect. He was quietly pleased at Helen’s shocked reaction. Mellowing, he proceeded to deliver his message. ‘DCI Wallace has asked that you stay where you are. We think the immediate danger is past, but he wants you to keep inside and ensure the property is secured.’
‘Do you think we are in danger officer?’ she asked.
‘With mad stuff like this going on everyone’s at some risk. We can’t quantify it yet. Please do as he asks. And he wants to know if any of your congregation would have been in the church this morning?’
‘I can’t say exactly, off hand. Why? Is it important?’ Her tone was becoming more anxious, which the policeman attributed to her lack of information and worry about the incident.
‘There are dead bodies in the church. We need to know if they are from your congregation or outsiders.’
‘My God!’ Sam pressed forward to the front door, putting a protective arm around Helen. ‘We’ll stay here officer, but what’s happened? What can we do to help?’
The policeman switched his focus to Sam. ‘Who are you sir?’
‘Oh, yes. Sam Cameron, I’m Helen’s…urgh, Helen’s partner. What do you want us to do?’
‘Stay indoors, secure the premises. And can you start to phone around the congregation? Ensure everyone’s safe, see if anyone is unaccounted for. DCI Wallace said he or his sergeant would be along in a while. If you can get that information, it would be a big help. Is that clear?’
Sam nodded and Helen started to ask a further question but the policeman lifted a hand to cut her off. ‘Now don’t worry, just do as the DCI asks and you’ll be all right. We have it covered, and everything is under control. I have to get back. Can I tell DCI Wallace you are doing as he asks?’
Helen hardly had time to nod before the officer was running back towards his car.
‘Secure the premises now please,’ he shouted towards them as he jumped into the driver’s seat and fired up the engine. The patrol car pulled out of the drive and raced back to the church and the action.
Helen felt an overwhelming surge of relief that she had been spared revisiting what she knew to be a very messy crime scene and had also avoided having to answer any questions for now. The only worry was that the authorities now had free access to the church. While her little team had already carried away the papers from the safe, who knows what else they might find. Her stomach twisted a little, they might even find the dagger.
• • •
Evening had settled slowly over the city and with it descended some semblance of calm. DS Brogan had called round briefly. He gave little away but was happy that Helen had been able to account for all the congregation. He specifically warned her not to approach the church; it was a major crime scene. Tomorrow DCI Wallace would probably want her to accompany them through the church, to identify anything that was missing. In the meantime, could she think of anything that might have triggered the incident? Any people with a reason to be in the church today? Then he had left, content in his mind that Helen was an innocent abroad, floundering about for an explanation and as mystified as everyone else was.
Now in the twilight calm, Helen sat on one side of the new manse kitchen table, her back to the window. Everyone was there: apart from Elaine who was safely installed in the Royal Infirmary. The doctors had not yet decided what should be done about her hand. The finger was so badly damaged they had deferred any decision until the next morning.
Helen had just finished a short prayer for Elaine’s recovery, and a little wryly, added thanks that the hospital had accepted Francis’ dubious explanation of what had happened to her. Whether or not they believed the story was another matter, perhaps it had just been convenient for everyone to accept it at face value. In any event, right now, the police were far more interested in gunshots and murders and so Elaine’s unfortunate domestic decorating accident had slipped under the official radar.
On the table were piled all the papers and other items they had managed to bring away from the church that morning.
‘I think we have taken a step forward today,’ said Xavier. He raised his hands, pushing away any objections. ‘Yes, yes, I know it has been a bad day. Men dead, poor Elaine… But think, those who would hurt us,
our enemy, they have faces now. We know how they look, so we know them,’ he looked around the table, stretched his arms out to include them all in a circular sweep. ‘We don’t sit frozen in the headlights now, we know what’s coming. We know who is coming, yes?’ He looked around, seeking agreement. ‘Yes? Yes, you understand?’
After a moment, Sam responded. ‘You know, Xavier, I think you’re right. We are facing a threat, so it has to be better to know what it is and where it comes from.’
Helen nodded. ‘Well we don’t know much yet, but we do know their faces. I agree with Xavier too. It’s better to know where a threat comes from rather than to just sit and wait. And in the end they are just men.’
‘But, is this even a conflict we should be involving ourselves in?’ said Francis. ‘There must be a way of bringing this to a conclusion? Pray God there must be some way to end it all, surely?’
‘They want the parish dagger,’ said Helen. ‘Give them the dagger and they might go away. But as Xavier said before, I don’t think they will. I think that once they have the parish dagger we are all disposable. Until then maybe we have a chance, and they will be very careful around here now, that’s for sure. The authorities are on alert and we have shown we are not the pushovers they obviously thought.’
‘But we still don’t have the parish dagger anyway,’ said Sam, ‘and I’m not happy with Helen being in the firing line, nor you either, Grace.’ He paused.
Helen nodded acknowledgement of his concerns and turned to Grace. ‘A first step is to understand what cards we hold. What do you say Grace? Can you, will you bring us the dagger?’
Grace looked uncomfortable. Earlier she had assured Helen that there was nothing to fear over the police or anyone else searching the church, they would never find the dagger. Now, however, the moment had come, Grace knew it, Helen knew it, everyone knew it. Grace needed to share access to the dagger, tell them where it was. If it was the key to the mystery, it was essential they should all be focusing on it.
‘Well Grace, I guess it’s now or never,’ said Helen in an encouraging tone.
Grace looked at Helen while determinedly avoiding eye contact with the others. ‘I know you have to know where it is, Helen, but John made me promise never to tell. It was something he would only pass on to his successor; that’s you. I know he chose you, so telling you won’t really be breaking my promise, and John needs me to do it for him, and to show you the things he can’t,’ Grace paused for a moment. ‘Are you really sure you want me to tell everyone?’
‘Grace, I think this is a problem that is going to need many minds to solve,’ said Helen. ‘The people here were John’s friends, and each one of us is still in danger until we unravel the mystery. Please, now is the moment for trust, for keeping faith in one another.’ She stretched her hands across the table and pressed her palms down on to Grace’s hands, encouraging her, steadying her nerve, feeling the girl’s hands tremble beneath her own. ‘Please?’
After a long pause, Grace took a deep breath. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘If you think that’s what John would have wanted I’ll go along with you.’ She slid her hands free from under Helen’s and with an outstretched arm pulled the communion case towards her. She removed the cup, plate and cross, placing them in a row on the table. She lifted the box with its ripped lining and gently stroked the damaged cloth back into place. ‘I’ve polished this wooden box a hundred times over the years, cherished it for John, and kept it looking beautiful.’ The group began to suspect there must be a hidden compartment that Parsol had missed, but then she put it down on the floor beside her feet.
The room was in silence. They could feel Grace’s discomfort, indecision; no one wanted to be the person that distracted her or dissuaded her from revealing the secret. Grace looked at the friends gathered round the table, she reached out and gently laid a finger of her left hand on the cross, she allowed the finger to trail down, lightly caressing the stock and finally resting it on the base. She remained stationary in what seemed a moment of contemplation, perhaps even desperately holding out for some message or a sign of John’s wishes from beyond the grave. No sign came.
Helen smiled encouragement. Then in one swift movement, Grace reached her right hand out and gripped the top of the cross while her left hand pressed down on the stock and base, holding it tight to the table. With a firm twist of her right hand, Grace loosed the top of the cross from the stock and drew them apart. As her right hand rose, it drew a shining silver dagger out from the stock. There were gasps of surprise around the room. Grace handed Helen the dagger and sat back quietly while the others leapt up and crowded round to look more closely.
Now Helen understood why the other daggers had seemed so familiar. Their handles and quillons were identical to the top half of her own church’s old communion cross, something she had looked at, unseeing, so many times.
Eventually, Grace got the chance to explain that as a youngster she had been busy cleaning the communion set when she had knocked the cross onto the ground and the jolt had twisted the dagger free from the base, its scabbard. She had been horrified, thinking she had broken the cross in two. On closer inspection she realised it was meant to twist and come apart, then John Dearly had come in to see what the noise was. Finding her with the dagger and scabbard instead of a single cross, he had been obliged to swear her to secrecy, which she had kept until today.
Sam was carefully studying the dagger. It was clearly of the same ilk as the others. Where this one did differ was in the apparently random column of numerals engraved down the face of the blade instead of any engraved lines or wavy patterns. One common thread was the Roman numerals on each of the two regular blades also appeared within the parish dagger’s numeral column. But this took them no further and with the patterns on the engraved blades not matching up in any way they still faced a dead end. Whatever the symbolism was, it was quite unintelligible, meaningless: Henri de Bello had done a good job.
‘Well, I suppose that’s what makes a good code. This dagger might be the key, but you can’t decipher it unless you’re meant to,’ said Helen in pragmatic response.
Francis nodded agreement. ‘I think it is the key. We just need to recognise the lock.’
Sam was less sanguine. ‘Yes, but it’s Helen who is meant to be able to read it, isn’t it?’ he said.
‘Well, I can’t,’ said Helen, gently.
Francis nodded towards Xavier. ‘According to Xavier your parish dagger is somehow the key and the hub around which the others are employed. Wouldn’t it help if we had Xavier’s dagger too? The more information we have the easier it will be to fill in the gaps, to interpolate.’
Xavier gave a slightly mysterious grin. ‘Perhaps something can be arranged. But not today,’ he said, flashing Helen a real smile and chuckling to himself. ‘Tonight all I can say for sure is, like many people, I have always been fascinated by the use of Roman numerals. If I were pressed to pick a favourite, maybe I would like a seven.’ Xavier looked at Sam as he finished speaking.
Sam was already checking the list of numerals. ‘Seven, VII, it appears on the parish dagger too,’ he said, looking back at Xavier.
Xavier gave a little nod. ‘Yes, well, it seems a popular number. Now perhaps you will like it too, yes?’
Sam was nodding while considering what extra insight a number seven could bring them. Other than it also appeared on the parish dagger he could see none. ‘There must be a pattern to this. For God’s sake, we can put men on the moon. Surely we can break this old riddle?’
Francis leant across the table and tapped Sam’s arm. ‘You know, I wonder if we’re going about this the right way? Perhaps there’s another approach we should try, something we are missing? Let’s sleep on it, start afresh tomorrow, what do you think?’
Sam shrugged. ‘I don’t know, maybe I’ll keep at it a while longer,’ he said.
Helen stood up. ‘Well, Sam, it’s been a long day and I’m beat too. Let’s get some sleep now. Try again in the morning. Then
we can put together a proper plan; try to solve this once and for all. What do you say? Let’s all go home, take a break.’
Reluctantly Sam agreed, but made no move to rise; arguing that knowing the number on Xavier’s dagger was not enough. They needed to see the pattern on his blade to build their understanding properly.
Xavier was already standing, leaning on Angelo’s arm for support. He conceded that an arrangement might be made, but not unless they all got some sleep and he half waved half beckoned everyone towards the manse’s front door. Helen took advantage to shoo them on from behind. It was late and a long day had passed.
• • •
Jim Barnett drove his white van northwards, heading away from the city centre. This late in the evening there was little traffic and he had to force himself to stay below the speed limit, staying inconspicuous, unnoticed. He had left behind the bustling city centre, the confident inner suburbs and then passed the sprawling Western General Hospital. Beyond it, he had slowed at an arterial roundabout and carefully selected his exit route.
Five minutes and several turns later, he pulled into a council housing scheme. Poor, fierce, proud. Here people seemed to get by in spite of the system, not because of it. The law didn’t seem to help them much, so people mostly looked the other way. People were careful to mind their own business while struggling to live decent lives against the odds. Not somewhere to drop a fat wallet and expect it to be handed in, mused Barnett. He gave a little smile to himself, not somewhere to take a fat wallet in the first place.
Weaving through the housing scheme, he reached a children’s play park. A small island of green, overlooked on every side by housing; flats, mostly three storeys high. The park was empty at this late hour as he pulled to a stop. Some way behind him a saloon car came to a halt, its lights went out as he switched off his own.
He carefully checked around, confirming his first impression that there was nobody on the street and then he went into action. Stepping out of the van, he opened the back door and pulled out a can of petrol. He emptied it over the roof, doors and driver’s seat. He threw the petrol can back into the rear of the van and stepped back a little. Then pulled a cigarette packet from his pocket, took the last one, crumpled the pack and discarded it. Quietly, calmly, he pulled out a lighter and lit the cigarette. Drawing deeply he savoured the sensation of smoke scraping at the back of his throat, rushing down to fill his lungs and the little kick as the nicotine flooded into his bloodstream. He blew the smoke out, took a quick breath, and then drew again on the cigarette.