The Atwelle Confession

by Joel Gordonson

  “Of course not, Detective. But I’ve told you everything I know about Father Charleton and Don Whitby and Squeaky. I really don’t think I have any more information that would be helpful.”

  “Miss Wood, how well do you know Brandi Knowleton?”

  “Is that Brandi with one ‘i’?” she asked.

  Detective Steele gave her a look after the odd comment.

  “She is the young woman who assisted at the church,” Margeaux answered. “I met her only once, at the church when she had just returned from her holiday.”

  “Do you know if she had any enemies or was particularly afraid of anybody?”

  “No, not really. We never really talked beyond our introduction. That was the night they found Squeaky in the churchyard.”

  As he wrote her answer down in a notepad, Margeaux asked, “Detective Steele, why are you asking me questions about Brandi?”

  “We’re questioning anyone who came into contact with her recently,” he responded.

  “But why ask questions at all? Is she suspected of some sort of wrongdoing?”

  “Miss Wood, Brandi Knowleton is dead.”

  Margueax’s face went pale. “How did she die?”

  “I’d rather not say, Miss Wood.”

  Margeaux looked down at the floor for a moment and then back up at the detective.

  “Was she decapitated?”

  Detective Steele immediately stood. His notepad fell to the floor as he reached hastily into his pocket.

  “Miss Wood, I must tell you that you do not have to say anything.” He went on reciting in a rote cadence. “But it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”

  “Detective, you don’t have to give me a statement of my legal rights—”

  He pulled a set of handcuffs out of his coat. “Miss Wood, please stand up very slowly, turn around, and place your hands behind your back. Do not make any sudden moves or try to flee.”

  “Detective, let me just explain.”

  “Do as I say—Now!” he commanded in a loud voice.

  As she stood to turn, the door burst open. Gerald, complete with bowler hat, stepped between Detective Steele and Margeaux.

  “I don’t think you’ll be doing that to Miss Wood while she’s on these premises,” the porter growled defiantly at the detective.

  Detective Steele brought his mobile phone up to his mouth.

  “Dispatch, this is Steele.”

  “Detective, Gerald, just hold on a minute!” Margeaux interrupted. “There’s no need for any of this. Detective, may I just explain something to you?”

  Steele looked at Gerald and brought the mobile phone to his mouth again.

  “Gerald,” Margeaux addressed him as calmly as she could. “Thank you, but there’s no need for you to intercede here. I should talk to Detective Steele alone. Would you mind leaving the room please?”

  Gerald hesitated.

  “Everything’s quite all right, Gerald. Please . . .” she pointed at the door.

  “I’ll be right outside the door, Miss Wood,” he assured her.

  “There’s no need for that. Thank you.”

  She waited for him to close the door.

  “Detective, may we please sit down so I can explain something?”

  “I don’t believe so, Miss Wood. There’s no one outside the Norfolk police who knows Miss Knowleton was beheaded, except you apparently. You’re in deep trouble, Miss Wood.”

  “I did not know that the poor woman was decapitated, Detective. I was surmising, and I believe you should know how it is that I could suggest that this happened to Brandi.”

  She sat back down in her chair.

  “Please, Detective, sit down. And I think you’ll need that notepad.”

  Steele sat down cautiously and without taking his eyes off her, picked the notepad up from the floor.

  “I don’t know anything about Brandi’s death, Detective. But here’s what I do know.”

  Margeaux proceeded to tell him about the discovery of the gargoyles. She described how they had found the gargoyle and the carving of the man with the skeletal arm soon after the death of Squeaky, whose arm she had seen was also skeletal.

  Ignoring Steele’s suspicious looks, Margeaux then told him about the discovery of the gargoyle with its claws around the neck of a young woman, followed by the gargoyle paired with the carving of the young woman with no head.

  “It was troubling to see that, Detective,” she went on, “but it had no meaning until you told me that Brandi was dead. I just guessed at how it happened. I’m sorry my guess turned out to be right,” she concluded with a disbelieving shake of her head.

  Detective Steele still looked at her skeptically. “What possible connection could there be between recently discovered gargoyles carved centuries ago and murders in Atwelle?”

  “I don’t know, Detective. But don’t you think it’s too remarkable to be coincidence?” she asked.

  “Who knows about these gargoyles?”

  “Well, Don Whitby and I discovered them.”

  She looked to see if the detective had a reaction, but saw none.

  “Anyone else?”

  “The church staff—Father Adams and Father Lanham. Miss Daunting.”

  “Anyone else?” he asked again.

  “Well, Squeaky and Brandi knew that we had found the gargoyles, but I am not sure how much they knew about the details of the carvings. And I suppose anyone else those people might have told or anyone who might have climbed up for a look on their own. But I don’t know who that might be.”

  “Have you told anyone else, Miss Wood?”

  “No.”

  He looked at his notes and flipped over the pages.

  “Not much of a lead, really. I can’t move forward with this information.”

  He stood up.

  “And I don’t suppose I can interview the gargoyles, can I?”

  The detective saw Margeaux was not amused.

  “Miss Wood, I’m not going to take any action against you at this time. But let’s just keep this discussion between you and me for the time being. Will you do that?”

  “Yes,” she agreed. “But what about the other gargoyles?”

  “Which ones are those?” He flipped open his notepad once again.

  “We think there might be others on the roof beams farther down the nave.”

  Detective Steele closed the notepad and slipped it into his coat pocket. “Why don’t you just let me know if you find anything important when you get there, all right?”

  Margeaux was trying to think of a response to make him take her seriously when the detective’s phone rang loudly.

  “Hello.” He stood completely still as he listened intently for a moment. “I’m leaving Cambridge now. I’ll be there in an hour.”

  Detective Steele quickly moved to the door. “I have to go. Thank you for your interesting observations, Miss Wood, and let me know if you see or hear anything suspicious.”

  Margeaux listened to Steele’s heavy steps thumping quickly down the stairs. She threw herself into a chair and leaned forward with her hands covering her face. When her phone rang unexpectedly, she answered it quickly.

  “Margeaux, this is Don.”

  From the sound of his voice, she knew he was upset.

  “Brandi’s dead!” he said. “They think she was murdered.” Don paused. She could tell he was gathering himself. “And I just talked to Nigel Green. He’s frantic. His baby boy has disappeared. The police think he may have been abducted.”

  There was no hesitation before her response.

  “We have to look at the next gargoyle—now!”

  “That’s why I called,” he replied. “Hurry!”

  FOURTEEN

  1532 A quick kiss on the cheek was the usual greeting for the sergeant.

  “It hurts,” he thought, “for what it is not.”

  Molly closed the do
or behind him and invited him to sit. He maneuvered the sword in its scabbard belted around his waist so he could lower himself into the chair. Unsure of his words, he tugged on one end of his great red mustache until Molly finally broke the silence.

  “You are looking well, John.”

  The sergeant cringed at the formality of the conversation.

  “Molly, may I speak plainly?”

  “Of course, John. You are always free to speak your mind to me. I hope you know that.”

  “I would rather speak my heart, Molly.”

  Molly closed her eyes and sighed.

  “John, you know that can lead to nowhere good. The desires of our hearts were forbidden long ago.”

  “That is my point, Molly. What happened to us—what was done to us—was long ago.”

  “And never to be undone,” she said.

  “And why not?”

  “Because, John, nothing has changed. You came from a family of privilege. I came from a humble family, and my father often crossed the law. Now you are a man of consequence, respected and relied upon by all who live in Atwelle.

  And I am,” she paused, “let us just say that I am like my father.”

  “Yet we deeply loved each other when we were young,” he said with a plea in his eyes, “and as to that, nothing has changed either.”

  “John, your feelings and your logic cannot prevail. You know that what you want simply cannot be.”

  “Molly, do you no longer love me?”

  The sergeant could see that his question caused her pain.

  “I will not answer, John, for even if I do love you—as deeply as I certainly did and as long as I am able—it could change nothing.”

  “My feelings, my words, they mean nothing to you?”

  Standing, she walked over to the sergeant, placed a lingering kiss on his cheek, and stepped back to look into his eyes.

  “No, John. They mean everything to me.”

  She watched the big man’s eyes fill with tears. He stood and quickly wiped them away with a gloved hand.

  “John, you must go now,” she ordered in a soft voice.

  He didn’t move. She touched his cheek with her fingertips before going to the door, which she opened. She bent her head to indicate there was nothing more to be said.

  The sergeant walked to the door and stopped beside her, staring straight ahead without moving. Her eyes stayed fixed on the floor. The two of them remained still, as if standing close without a touch or a look was all the pleasure they could share. A long moment later, he walked out into the dark alleyway without a word.

  Molly moved to the stairs, but instead of going up she stood there a few moments dabbing her face with a kerchief. There came another knock on the door. She squeezed her eyes shut, wishing she were not there to answer it.

  The door opened abruptly. DuBois stood scowling.

  “You are to stop seeing my daughter,” he declared in an angry voice.

  She shook her head at the irony that his daughter had said the same to her about him. Molly decided to answer him as she had answered his daughter.

  “If you do not wish me to see your daughter, maybe it is her to whom you should be speaking and not me.”

  She watched his face grow red and jumped as he slammed the door shut.

  “You have met with her repeatedly,” he accused. “Why have you done so?”

  “It is she who has come to me,” answered Molly. “The reasons were hers.”

  “I forbid you to see her again!” he shouted at her.

  Molly turned her back to him. “I am afraid it is your daughter you will have to forbid, for they are her visits. And why do you assume that she visits for a reason that calls for them to be forbidden?”

  “If she is coming to see you, it can be for no good.”

  She wheeled around with a hurt look.

  “Is that why you come to see me—for no good?”

  DuBois looked flustered at the question until the anger in his face softened.

  “Look, Molly,” he tried to reason with her. “I simply cannot have my daughter in your company.”

  Now it was Molly’s face that turned angry. Her fists went to her hips in a defiant stance.

  “And why is that, good sir? How can I be good enough for the company of the father but not good enough for the company of the daughter?”

  He was at a loss for words and conceded the loss of momentum.

  “Molly.” His voice now tried to sound friendly. “You know what I am trying to say. I do not mean to insult you.”

  “Well you are doing a fair job of it.”

  She gave him the hurt look once again, this time with a pout.

  “I guess what I am asking for is your help,” he said. “Whatever it is you talk about with her, I ask you to let her be taught such things by another.”

  “If your daughter visits me to be taught something, it is likely something someone should have taught her before. Perhaps she is asking for my help, just as you are now.”

  DuBois realized he was continuing to lose ground in the battle he had started.

  “I am sorry to have spoken so harshly. You can understand a father will sometimes go too far to protect his daughter.”

  Molly thought of her drunken father throwing a mug of ale at her when she was a young girl. When she said nothing, DuBois dug a small purse of coins out of his doublet.

  “Look, I am sorry if I offended you.” He handed her the purse as a conditional surrender. “Take this, and please have nothing to do with my daughter again. Would you please do that, my dear?”

  Molly accepted the purse, then took his arm and steered him over to the door.

  “You have nothing to worry about, my dear DuBois. Her visits to me are very different from yours.”

  “I am sure,” he said with a smile of relief. “But how is it that they are different?”

  Molly gave him a smile in return that vanished as quickly as it appeared.

  “She does not have to pay for me to see her.”

  The door slammed in his face.

  DuBois stood there in stunned silence. Wondering if he had been successful in his task and whether he could ever see Molly again, he headed down to the tavern at the bottom of the lane, hoping that a mug of strong ale would help him make sense of his encounter.

  Hearing the door slam, Peter leaned out of his favorite seat in the dark doorway up the alley. He watched with curiosity as DuBois stood before Molly’s house for a moment before walking down to the tavern. Then a smile came to his face as he realized that he could please Father Regis by recounting what he had just seen.

  Peter turned quickly at the sound of a footstep in the lane right behind him. Too late, he threw his hands up in a futile attempt to protect himself. A long-handled spade swung full force into his face, followed immediately by another blow.

  2017 Margeaux pulled her car up as close to the church as she could park. The building was completely dark. The wind howled out of low black clouds that made the whole town seem like it sat in a shadow of the season’s early nightfall.

  She sat there nervously for a few minutes looking for any movement or lights that she hoped would indicate Don was already there. The only movement came from the trees bending violently in the turbulent wind. Finally, the headlights of a car swept across her as Don wheeled in and skidded to a stop next to her.

  As they got out of their cars, they looked at each other without speaking before moving to the main entrance to the church. There the cold gusting wind buffeted them while Don fumbled to find the key that unlocked the door. He cursed when none of the keys worked to open it.

  “Do you have your flashlight?” he finally asked her in exasperation. He blew on his hands to warm them as Margeaux fished the flashlight out of her rucksack.

  As she pointed the light toward the key ring, he struggled uncertainly from key to key until he held up an oversized iron key.

  “Follow me,” he shouted at Margeaux over the wind rushing through
the large oak trees. “This will get us in.”

  With her skirt whipping about her knees, she trailed Don around the corner of the church past the tombstones leaning in the untrimmed grass. When they reached a low door at the side of the church, Don jammed the large key into an ancient rusty lock, twisted it hard, and jammed his shoulder into the heavy wood to push the door open.

  Once inside the church, the two of them searched along the wall to find a light switch. Margeaux’s flashlight finally focused on a single switch. But when she flipped it, the only light that came on was a single light bulb off to the side in the DuBois chapel.

  She and Don hurried back to the wall across from the scaffold on the opposite side of the church from where they had viewed the gargoyle holding the baby. Margeaux pointed her flashlight at the roof beam above. They strained their eyes to see up into the black ceiling.

  “This is hopeless,” declared Don in frustration. He turned on his heel and ran over to the low door where he ducked his head to exit without slowing down.

  Margeaux stood there not knowing what to do until she saw Don awkwardly steering a long weather-beaten ladder through the low door. As he took it off his shoulder and placed it against the wall under the roof beam, Margeaux wondered if it was the ladder from the side of the church where Squeaky’s body had been found.

  “Give me your flashlight,” he instructed.

  He grabbed the side rails of the ladder firmly, placed one foot on the highest step he could reach, and then stood motionless.

  “Are you okay?” Margeaux asked a moment later when Don, looking up into the darkness, still had not moved.

  “I’m not sure I can do this,” he said. “Perhaps we should wait for the scaffold.”

  “Don, we’ve got to see what’s up there.”

  He stayed frozen to the floor.

  “Is it the height?” she asked.

  Don bit his lip and said nothing. Margeaux took the flashlight from his hand and moved him aside with a firm push.

  Centered in front of the ladder, Margeaux put her foot on the first rung and gingerly tested it before she pulled herself up with her hands. The ladder creaked loudly as if it were protesting her weight. Standing still until nothing more happened, she stepped to the next rung, then the next, and continued climbing cautiously higher and higher. Don tried to steady the ladder at the bottom, listening apprehensively to its occasional groans.