The Atwelle Confession

by Joel Gordonson

  “Yes?”

  “Could it be like the ‘O’ in ‘OBE’?

  “Order of the British Empire,” nodded Margeaux. “Very clever, Miss Weatherby. That might be it: Order of the Black Vestments.”

  “I’ll search for it,” declared Miss Weatherby as she stepped through the door.

  “Oh, and Miss Weatherby,” Margeaux called her back into the room. “Please go to sleep at bedtime, won’t you?”

  Miss Weatherby pondered the instruction for a moment.

  “Bedtime? What time is that?”

  Margeaux smiled as she heard the footsteps once again hitting every other step down the narrow staircase. She was glad for the opportunity to smile about something before returning to St. Clement’s to look at the sixth gargoyle and the next figure of another young woman.

  An hour later, Margeaux pulled her car up to the church and parked next to Sally. Don was standing before the large door to the church where he was speaking with Nigel Green. Margeaux took a nervous breath and walked up to greet them.

  Nigel gave her a friendly smile, while Don nodded an uncertain hello.

  “Miss Wood—I mean, Margeaux—the scaffolding is done and there’s another mystery for you,” Nigel said with a smile.

  Thank you, Nigel,” she said curtly as she walked past them into the church and directly toward the repositioned scaffold.

  “Did I say something wrong?” Nigel turned to Don.

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ll see what’s going on.”

  Nigel shrugged his shoulders and headed to his truck while Don hurried after Margeaux. He found her waiting at the scaffold’s ladder.

  “Aren’t you going up?” he asked,

  But then Don saw why she was waiting. Looking up, he saw a man descending the ladder. It was Father Lanham, who soon stepped down and brushed off his hands.

  “Quite interesting,” he said to them. “You should have a look.”

  Margeaux immediately started climbing. Don looked at the young vicar and thought how the unblinking eyes over the smile on his lips didn’t fit together. Cautiously following Margeaux up to the top, Don found her standing back from the next gargoyle, keeping very still with her flashlight on the carving.

  He walked up to the carving and shook his head at the appearance of the sixth gargoyle. “This guy is turning into one nasty piece of work. Look what became of that poor young lady in front of him. What do you suppose that means?”

  Don leaned into the gargoyle and studied its claws closely. They circled the neck of the delicate female figure. But inside the gargoyle’s grasp there was nothing.

  The head of the young woman was missing.

  “Shame,” he said as he blew the dust off the spot where the figure’s head should rest. “She had that pretty gable hat thing too.”

  Don turned around to see Margeaux’s reaction. She had disappeared. He heard the sound of her feet descending rapidly on the metal ladder.

  “Margeaux—wait!” he called out as he followed her down more slowly. She was walking briskly away. At the bottom, he ran to catch up with her.

  “What’s wrong, Margeaux?”

  She turned away from him. He grabbed her by the shoulders and spun her back to face him.

  “I don’t know what’s happened to you or whether I’ve done something to upset you. But I don’t like seeing you agitated and not knowing what to do about it.”

  “There’s nothing wrong,” she said, turning away.

  “That’s not true, and you know it.”

  He tightened his grip on her shoulders to make her look back at him.

  “You and I made an unusual discovery here that’s intriguing and intellectually interesting. I thought we were enjoying discovering these mysteries together. I thought I could help you explain them and make something of your project beyond some grimy windows overlooking odds and ends.

  “C’est tres bien, n’est pas?” He was even willing to try his French to sort things out. “Then all of a sudden you won’t even talk to me. So don’t tell me nothing’s wrong.”

  Don slid his hands down her arms and took her hands in his.

  “Now tell me what I can do to make things better.”

  “There’s nothing you can do,” she answered, trying to take her hands out of his grasp. He would not let go.

  “Is it Squeaky’s death?”

  “That’s part of it.”

  “What’s the other part?”

  “Will you please let go of my hands?”

  He dropped her hands and tried to hold her attention with a look of concern.

  “Don’t you think there’s something unusual going on, between what’s happened and the gargoyles?” she asked.

  “The gargoyles?” He looked at her first with surprise and then up at the dark ceiling. “How do you mean?”

  “Well, after they found Squeaky, we saw the fourth gargoyle that suggested the death of the man in the carving with the gargoyle on the opposite side.”

  Don gave her a skeptical look.

  “Look, Margeaux. Squeaky’s death was tragic, but don’t you think it’s a little farfetched to tie it to the gargoyles? What possible connection could they have? The gargoyles are almost five hundred years old, and Squeaky was found before you and I saw the fourth gargoyle that suggested to you the death of the man in the third carving. You’ve got to be logical about this.”

  He saw Margeaux thinking about his argument.

  “Now tell me,” he gently ordered. “There must be something I can do to make you feel better?”

  Margeaux looked up into the dark ceiling at the roof beams where the scaffolding would go next.

  “There is. Could you have Nigel move the scaffolding to the next roof beam right away?”

  “Of course,” replied Don. “I’ll finish the inspection of the beam with the first carving of the young lady and her gargoyle tomorrow morning and have Nigel start dismantling and moving the structure tomorrow afternoon. Will that help?”

  “To be honest, I don’t know,” Margeaux answered.

  TWELVE

  1532 “You are spending too lavishly on this dinner,” DuBois’ wife had scolded him. “He’s only a priest.”

  “Yes, but he is the one person in a position, unlikely as it is, to do what is necessary to save our fortune and secure our power. It is money necessarily well spent,” he had replied.

  Now, as they watched Father Regis happily holding out his wine goblet for the servant to refill, they were thinking that they both had been right.

  A fire roared high in the large hearth of the dining hall in the DuBois manor house. Its golden light reflected off the family silver that adorned the long dining table loaded with sumptuous food.

  “What a fine collection of beautiful silver, Francis,” Father Regis observed with admiration.

  “Acquired over the centuries,” responded DuBois, “since one of my ancestors first crossed the English Sea as an officer of William the Conqueror.”

  The servant filled the priest’s wine goblet to the rim from an ornate claret jug.

  “More venison, Father?” DuBois urged.

  Father Regis nodded his thanks as he finished drinking and set down his already half-empty goblet. DuBois gestured to his servant to serve the guest more meat.

  “And possibly some of the lampreys in that delicious sauce?” Father Regis asked as the sweat beaded up on his flushed brow.

  “Of course, of course,” DuBois answered as he himself handed the silver bowl of eels to the servant to serve. His wife rose and took the claret jug to top up the priest’s wine goblet immediately. When she finished, DuBois gave her a nod.

  “Father Regis,” she smiled at him sweetly, “may we offer you some humble entertainment while we dine?”

  “And how is that?” he gave her a pleased look in return.

  With a gesture from DuBois’ wife, the servant opened the door at the end of the dining hall.

  “You of course know our daughter, Margaret?”
/>
  “Know her? Do not jest, madam. I baptized her!” he replied. He stood up as Margaret entered the room holding her harp.

  “My dear, how nice to see you,” he smiled at her.

  Margaret came up to him and curtsied.

  “Father Regis, welcome to our home.”

  “Thank you, my dear. I did not know you played the harp.”

  Her auburn hair glowed as she sat before the fire on a stool placed under her by the servant. Father Regis looked over at DuBois.

  “She not only looks like an angel, but she can sound like one too?”

  They all laughed as Margaret blushed.

  “Margaret, play us a ballad whilst we dine,” her father ordered with an affectionate look.

  Father Regis took another bite of venison and washed it down hastily with an indelicate quaff of wine before turning his full attention to Margaret. DuBois and his wife exchanged a knowing glance before she filled the priest’s goblet once again.

  Margaret strummed the harp in her lap for a few opening chords and started singing an enchanting tune in a delicate voice.

  All in a pleasant morning

  in the Merrie Month of May;

  Among the fragrant meadowes

  a younge man took his way:

  And gazing rounde about him

  for pleasures he could see

  At length he spied a proper Maid

  under an oaken tree.

  So cheerful was her countenance

  and lovely to behold

  She seemed as if that Venus faire

  was of the selfsame Mold

  And many a smirk and smile she gave

  all in the Meadows greene;

  I could compare her unto none

  but unto Love’s faire Queene.

  At length she turned her smiling

  into a sighing songe

  Bewailing her bad fortune

  that she was a maide so longe;

  There’s many that are younger

  than I, that have been wed;

  Yet still I fear that I shall dye,

  and keep my Maiden-head.

  My father’s rich and welthie

  and hath no daughter but me;

  Yet want I still a husband

  to keepe me companie.

  My yeares are younge and tender;

  and I am fair withall;

  Yet is there nere a youngman

  will comfort me at all?

  The blossoms of my beautie,

  I think, may well invite

  Some batchelor of fortune goode

  to take me for his right:

  For why I dare presume it,

  there’s few doth me excelle,

  As it is manifest and plain

  to all that know me welle.

  At this point, the chords from Margaret’s harp turned sad and her voice lost its cheery tone.

  The God of love that sits above,

  Who knows me,

  Who knows me,

  How sorrowful I do serve:

  Grant my request that at the least

  He shows me,

  He shows me,

  Some pity when I deserve.

  That every brawl may turn to blisse,

  To joy with all that joyfull is.

  Do this my dear and binde me

  For ever and ever your owne,

  And as you here do finde me,

  So let your love be showne:

  For till I knowe this unytie,

  I languish in extremytie.

  As if with a hand made heavy by sadness, Margaret strummed on her harp the last mournful chord of her song.

  Father Regis sat motionless with his mouthful of venison half chewed and tears filling his eyes. DuBois and his wife could barely conceal their pleasure as they watched him and then looked at each other.

  “That was lovely, my sweet girl,” said DuBois as he rose and kissed his daughter fondly on the top of her head. “Now say goodnight to Father Regis and it is off to bed with you.”

  “Goodnight, Father,” said Margaret with a curtsy.

  Father Regis could only nod as the tears were running down his cheeks. As she turned to leave, he reached over and took another long drink from his wine goblet.

  “I must say, Francis, she is a remarkable young woman,” he said when finally able to speak.

  “Yes, Father. We have been blessed. She will make a wonderful wife to someone, hopefully in the near future, as she would be such a beautiful bride.

  “But I fear for her prospects, nevertheless,” added DuBois with a worried look.

  “How can you doubt that she will marry well?” Father Regis replied.

  “Because she, like her family, is a devout Catholic. And I fear what may become of us if the king takes retribution on Catholics after the Holy See stands in the way of his divorce.”

  Father Regis frowned as he reached again for his wine.

  “Just as I fear for the rebuilding of our church,” DuBois went on. “With such a threat, who can feel unfettered to give handsomely to the work on a church whose obedience continues to lie with the Holy Church in Rome.”

  DuBois paused to let his statement of Father Regis’s principal problem weigh on the priest’s mind.

  “I myself would give you all the money you need for the church, but I alone cannot reach the sums you need.”

  DuBois paused.

  “Nor can Richard Lanham,” he added before taking a thoughtful sip of wine.

  “The king’s grant of rights to create and control the inland port in Atwelle languishes as His Majesty takes no action on any issue while he is distracted by his conflict with the pope and his desire for an heir. In the meantime, Lanham is not making sufficient revenue from his salt mines because without the port he cannot transport his salt to foreign markets.

  “And Lanham has his own problem with having an heir. He cannot convince the king’s chancellor to grant him rights for the port if he has no suitable heir of his own to carry on with the right to revenues from the port.”

  “But Lanham has his son Christopher,” replied Father Regis.

  “Let me ask you, Father Regis,” said DuBois. “How do you think the king, who is fighting the pope for the right to bear a son, would take the advice of a chancellor who recommends giving royal rights to revenue that will end up in the hands of a monk?”

  Father Regis said nothing.

  “These are our circumstances, Father. Neither Lanham nor I as rivals can move the king. I cannot obtain the grant of rights to the port because of my family’s long and loyal affiliation with the church, and I am running out of money. Lanham cannot obtain the grant of rights to the port because his son is about to take his vows as a monk, and Lanham is about to run short of money when he must make payments to the king on His Majesty’s investment in the salt mines.”

  DuBois waited a moment before delivering his next point.

  “And as a result, there is nowhere for you to go for sufficient sums to complete the construction of your church.”

  The priest sat there looking dejected.

  “There’s only one solution to all these problems,” DuBois stated.

  Father Regis still could only stare at the eels congealing in the sauce cooling on his plate.

  “Though he will not speak to me, Lanham and I must combine our causes if we are to secure the king’s grant of rights to the port and if you are to secure the funds you need for the church. And we must combine our causes by joining our families in a way that I obtain the funds I need to avoid losing everything I now own and in a manner that Lanham obtains a son who is an heir acceptable to the chancellor.

  “Father Regis, look at me,” directed DuBois. He took a deep breath. His wife eyed the priest intently.

  “I want you to approach Richard Lanham to propose that my daughter become betrothed to his son with an ample payment to me for the privilege. Obtain his agreement to meet with me. And you must convince Christopher Lanham that he should not become a monk and
should marry my daughter. If you are successful, there is a chance that there will be money to complete your church.”

  Father Regis laughed out loud.

  “This is not a laughing matter, Father. I am deadly serious about making this happen.”

  “So am I, my son,” replied Father Regis raising up his wine goblet as if to toast his good fortune. “I assure you—so am I.”

  2017 At a slow, measured, rhythmic pace, Father Adams and Father Lanham walked with Don down the aisle of the church, moving gradually toward the altar. Don observed how they both kept their hands folded before them as if they were prepared to start praying at any moment. He also noticed that each also kept his voice low as if practicing for prayer. Father Adams paused and looked up at the scaffolding that rose like a great blemish on the smooth wall of the church.

  “So your discovery of the gargoyles on the roof beams continues today, Mr. Whitby?”

  “Yes,” Don replied. “Margeaux and I are going up the scaffold that has been moved down to the next roof beam. We expect to see a seventh wood carving there.”

  “Tell me more about what you’ve found.”

  Don described the order and detail of their discoveries and concluded that they were quite unique.

  “Most unusual,” Father Adams commented after listening closely. “Do you have a theory about these carvings? What they mean and why they were put here?”

  “Not really.” He decided not to mention Margeaux’s suspicions about the gargoyles suggesting Squeaky’s murder.

  “And Miss Wood’s project—studying the church?”

  “She really hasn’t been able to do much with the stained glass. I expect she’ll see more soon when the scaffolding moves closer to the altar. She seems focused on the gargoyles at the moment.”

  After a few more of their rhythmic steps, Don turned to Father Adams. “Father, I don’t mean to appear to be overreaching my responsibilities, but can you tell me how the fund-raising for the restoration project is going? Some of the companies and men working on the church have approached me. We will have some more pretty hefty bills coming soon, and I don’t wish to be in the uncomfortable position of asking people to continue working when payment for past work continues to be in arrears.”

  Father Adams cleared his throat.

  “I’ll be honest with you, Mr. Whitby. At the moment, the amount of funding is not where we had anticipated it would be. However, I can report that I am close to arranging a substantial source of funding that alone will cover all the remaining costs of the project.”