The Atwelle Confession

by Joel Gordonson

  “I hate churches at night,” he mumbled under his breath as he pried the grate up with his fingers and slid it away to the side. He heard the sound again. There was no mistaking it. It was the distinct cry of an unhappy infant.

  With a careful, halting hobble, Don made his way noiselessly down the winding staircase. Nearing the bottom, he saw the glow of candlelight at the entrance to the crypt and stopped. He could see a limp hand at the end of a black sleeve lying on the floor at the base of the stairs. After another step, Don saw the sleeve and shoulder attached to a black clerical collar. He hunched down and peered into the crypt.

  There sat Miss Daunting on the small coffin, trying to quiet the baby in her arms as she brushed back a long strand of gray hair from her face. Next to them, Margeaux stood beside Father Regis’s sarcophagus. In the steady glow from the large silver candlestick sitting on the sarcophagus, Don saw the surprised looks on their faces. He looked down at Father Adams’ lifeless body on the floor.

  “Margeaux, are you all right?” asked Don as he took the final step into the crypt. Before she could answer, he heard another voice.

  “She’s just fine, Mr. Whitby.”

  Don felt the sharp point of a knife blade on the side of his neck. The firm grasp of a hand on his arm and the pressure of the knife blade steered him over to the third coffin and pushed him to the floor. When Don looked up, he saw the long blade of a knife in the hand of Father Lanham.

  “What’s going on here, Lanham?” Don demanded.

  “It’s quite clear, Don,” Father Lanham answered with sarcastic friendliness in his voice. “I discovered you here in the crypt after you killed Father Adams and then found that you were keeping Nigel’s baby here after you abducted him. And now you’ve abducted these two ladies on All Hallows’ Eve.”

  “You found me? You’re saying I killed Father Adams and abducted the women?”

  “Yes, with this knife.”

  The curate held up the knife with a look up and down its long sharp blade. Don saw numerous needle marks on the inside of his arm.

  “Look, Lanham. I know what you’re up to. Don’t harm the women or the baby. The police are on their way.”

  “I know,” answered Lanham. “I called them. They should be here just after I—or should I say you finished your dirty work here before I discovered you, wrestled you for control of your knife, and stabbed you in self-defense.”

  He smiled down at Don on the floor.

  “I had planned to just tell the police I discovered you here doing your work of the devil before you fled. But now with a little improvisation, this new situation with you showing up should turn out quite splendidly. All very neatly tied up for the police.”

  “You don’t have to hurt the women or the child, Lanham,” urged Don. “There’s no point in doing this. You can escape now before the police come.”

  “There most certainly is a point to all this, Mr. Whitby. But don’t worry. I won’t hurt them.”

  They all looked over at the stairway suddenly as they heard footsteps thumping their way down. With a surprised look, Lanham dropped the knife in Don’s lap and stepped hastily over next to Miss Daunting, taking the baby in his arms. Don stood up with the knife in his hand just as Inspector Russell lowered his head to enter the crypt.

  “Nobody move!” he ordered as he saw the body of Father Adams and drew a gun out of his shoulder holster. Inspector Russell’s eyes scanned the crypt as he clicked off his flashlight. There was a brief look of relief in his face when he saw the baby in Father Lanham’s arms.

  “Mr. Whitby, drop the knife on the ground. Now!”

  His gun was pointed at Don’s chest. The knife clattered on the stone floor as Don immediately let go of it.

  “Now slowly turn around and place your hands behind your back,” the inspector ordered as he reached into his coat to grab his handcuffs.

  “Thank you for coming so quickly, Inspector,” said Father Lanham.

  Inspector Russell locked the handcuffs around Don’s wrists, turned him around, and firmly pushed him to the floor where he sat once again leaning against the sergeant’s coffin. The Inspector walked over to Father Adams’ body and kneeled down next to it. After feeling for a pulse briefly, the inspector stood up.

  “Now explain what’s going on here. First I receive a call from Father Adams and then I get a call from you, Father Lanham, to come to the church because of a murder threat.”

  “Inspector, I’ve had suspicions about Mr. Whitby and Father Adams for some time,” Lanham explained. “After the awful deaths in the parish, I suspected that they related to satanic rites similar to those in Haiti where Father Adams lived for thirty years. I did some research into satanic rites which suggested that tonight, on All Hallows’ Eve, something terrible might happen.

  “I followed the vicar and Mr. Whitby to the entrance to the crypt and called you. Then I heard the vicar and Mr. Whitby arguing, followed by a scuffle. When I came down, I saw Father Adams lying there and then found the women being held against their will and the baby as well.

  “It was horrible, Inspector. I was frightened to death to think of what those two men were going to do in this church to this poor baby and these women. I was doing what I could to prevent Mr. Whitby from harming them until you arrived, thank heavens.”

  “Is the baby all right?” Inspector Russell asked.

  “Yes, thank God,” answered Lanham.

  “Ladies, you okay?”

  Miss Daunting and Margeaux nodded at Inspector Russell. Margeaux started to speak, but the Inspector interrupted her with a raised hand before pulling out his phone and, with his gun still trained on Don, calling for more back up police and an ambulance.

  “Inspector,” Don addressed him, “everything you’ve just heard is a lie. I can prove it to you.”

  “Mr. Whitby, it would be best for you if you say nothing and wait to speak with a lawyer.”

  “Please Inspector, let me speak. I’ll tell you everything,” declared Don. “But first tell Father Lanham to give the baby to Miss Daunting. Please. The baby’s sleeping. It will do no harm.”

  The Inspector looked uncertain.

  “Please!” Don insisted.

  Inspector Russell heard the urgency in his voice and hesitated. “All right, Mr. Whitby. But I don’t want any trouble from you,” he warned with a gesture of his gun. He nodded at Father Lanham who handed the baby to Miss Daunting.

  “Thank you, Inspector,” Don said and then carried on.

  “Inspector, in my inside right coat pocket is a rather unusual document you need to see.”

  When the Inspector hesitated, Don twisted his body so the policeman could see there was a paper document inside his coat. The Inspector approached him guardedly.

  “No funny business, Whitby,” Inspector Russell warned with a wave of his gun as he cautiously reached into Don’s coat pocket.

  Stepping back, the Inspector held up the piece of folded aged parchment. His gun in one hand, he managed clumsily to open its several folds with the other hand. First he examined the elaborate seals on the back and then turned the document over to the first page. He looked up after a few moments.

  “I can’t read much of this,” he announced. “The language is convoluted. The spellings are a bit odd.”

  “That’s because it was written on this day, All Hallows’ Eve, in 1532, Inspector,” said Don. “The date is on the signature page at the end. It is a truly extraordinary legal document,” he continued as the Inspector, holding his gun, looked at the parchment, “drafted by the priest of this church at that time, while the church was being rebuilt.

  “I just had a chance to read it before I came down here and you arrived. Let me tell you what it says.”

  The Inspector lowered the paper and turned to listen to Don.

  “The document was signed by two men who were the heads of the two most powerful families in Atwelle at the time, the head of the DuBois family and the ancestor of the curate here, the head of the L
anham family. They signed it after the two men and the priest interrupted a cannibalistic satanic rite being conducted right here in this crypt by Lanham’s son and DuBois’ daughter.”

  A look of distaste came over Inspector Russell as he glanced uneasily around the crypt and continued to listen.

  “In this document,” said Don, “the two men agree to give public confession and pay penance for the crimes of their children and families.

  “As penance, their entire estates were combined and their ownership placed under two trusts. The first trust was to fund the rebuilding of this church, St. Clement’s, with a percentage of income from the trust to go to the families to support their living expenses.

  “As for their public confession, Inspector, it was placed in the church for the public’s viewing every time anyone stepped inside. Their crimes and confession are told by the gargoyles carved in the roof beams of the church for all to see. The gargoyles were to be carved specifically by a wood-carver named Bittergreen, for what looked to be a pretty handsome sum at that time, I’m guessing.”

  “What about the second trust?” asked Inspector Russell.

  “The second trust sets aside some money from both family estates and rights from income from the Port of Atwelle for the funding of a secret society formed under this trust agreement. The society is called the Order of Black Vestments and is comprised of priests who are tasked with vigilantly preventing the families or their children from ever committing evil acts again. The priests were to wear only black vestments to remind them and the families of their vows of vigilance.”

  “Inspector,” Father Lanham interrupted, “this history is all very interesting, but I fail to see how it has anything to do with—”

  “Just a moment, Father,” Inspector Russell stopped him. He turned back to Don. “How does this document prove that what Father Lanham has said is untrue?”

  “In my left coat pocket, Inspector, you’ll find another document that’s much more recent. It was written a few months ago by Father Charleton just before he disappeared.”

  Inspector Russell stepped over, reached into Don’s coat, and pulled out an envelope. Holding it up to the candlelight, the Inspector studied the address below a large number of stamps that filled most of the front of the envelope.

  “The envelope is postmarked the day Father Charleton was last seen,” noted Inspector Russell.

  “It’s a letter addressed to Father Adams in Haiti and signed by Father Charleton. Charleton’s salutation to Adams and his signature refer to both of them as members of the Order of Black Vestments.”

  Inspector Russell listened to Don without bothering to open the envelope.

  “The letter starts by telling Father Adams that Charleton has a solution to the problem of funding the current restoration of the church,” Don said. “It turns out that the original trust for the rebuilding of the church in 1532 has never had much money in it because it was mostly spent to complete the church back then. However, the money in the other trust for the Order of Black Vestments has been compounding for almost five centuries with very little having been spent from it.

  “According to the letter, Father Charleton’s plan as the trustee of the Black Vestment trust was to dissolve that trust and move its money into the church’s funds controlled by the church wardens for restoration of the church. Once that was done, several million pounds would become available for the restoration and operation of the church.

  “But then he also warns Father Adams, the only other member of the Order of Black Vestments, that he believes there is someone among the people he has told about his plans who is not only a threat to his plan for the trusts, but now also a threat to his safety. He asks Father Adams to return as soon as possible.”

  Don paused. “Someone killed Father Charleton to stop him from moving the money in the trust for the Order of Black Vestments to the church’s funds where the head of the Order cannot access and control it.

  “But when Father Adams unexpectedly came back as vicar of the church to head up the Order and identify the threat to Father Charleton, he could not be killed as well on the heels of Father Charleton’s disappearance without raising suspicion. So someone arranged the murders in this church to mimic the murders in the gargoyle carvings to prevent the trust for the Order of Black Vestments from being dissolved.”

  Don looked over at the others. Lanham fidgeted nervously while Daunting rocked the baby. Margueax looked at Inspector Russell to gauge his reaction.

  “How would that stop the trust from being dissolved?” asked Inspector Russell.

  “I’m no lawyer, but I know from working with church budgets that only a court can dissolve a trust, and it cannot be done if the express purposes of the trust still exist. If the trust was established to stop murders in the church and there are still murders in the church, anyone could object to the dissolution of the trust.”

  Inspector Russell concentrated closely on Don’s words.

  “And if the trust is not dissolved, then the next head of the Order of Black Vestments after Father Adams, say a young curate already in place at St. Clement’s, could have access to the millions in the trust and could disappear with the money.”

  All eyes turned to Father Lanham.

  “Inspector, this whole story has gotten out of hand,” the assistant vicar objected as he calmly took Nigel’s baby from Miss Daunting and started bouncing him playfully in his arms.

  He suddenly pulled a knife and put it to the baby’s throat. Margeaux gasped. Don scrambled to his feet.

  “Nobody move!” the man ordered.

  “Inspector, I want you to point the barrel of your gun into the palm of your free hand, and then take the gun by the barrel with your fingers and lay it slowly on the floor. And lay your phone next to it, if you don’t want the baby to get hurt.”

  Inspector Russell carefully followed the instructions. Father Lanham turned to Miss Daunting.

  “Go pick up the gun,” he told her.

  Miss Daunting walked over and gingerly lifted up the gun from the floor, her long gray hair cascading around her as she leaned over.

  “Now kick the phone away from the Inspector,” he directed.

  The phone clattered across the floor against the wall of the crypt after she did what she was told. When she walked back to Father Lanham, she promptly handed the gun to him. Don and the inspector stared at her in surprise.

  The curate laid the baby down on the sarcophagus in front of him and walked over to Margeaux with the gun pointed in her direction.

  “Now we’re all going be very calm about this,” Lanham said. But instead of calm, he was jittery. “Miss Daunting is going to leave shortly with the baby, and I am going to leave with Miss Wood,” he announced.

  He waived the gun about nervously. Margeaux looked at him uncertainly.

  “I want no interference of any kind. Do you understand?” he ordered with even more agitation. “Once we get out of the church, we’ll leave little Junior for you to come and change his diaper, but we’ll still have Miss Wood. Is that clear?”

  “No,” said Margeaux. “Just take me. Leave the baby. I’m the only hostage you need.”

  “Inspector,” Don interrupted, “I’ve just now realized something else. The mastermind for this venture isn’t Lanham.”

  Don looked over at Father Adams’s body and then at Miss Daunting.

  “There’s only one person who knew everything about this situation—one person who first knew from Father Charleton about the huge amount of money in the trust for the Order of Black Vestments. A person who was not suspected and who was clever enough to put a plan in place to have complete control of the Order and its trust money once Father Charleton had mysteriously disappeared.

  “Someone who then learned of Father Charleton’s intention to dissolve the trust for the Order of Black Vestments to combine the trusts to fund the rebuilding project at St. Clement’s—a glitch in the plan which would ruin control over access to the trust money. Th
at person figured out the trust for the Order of Black Vestments could not be dissolved if its stated legal purpose, the prevention of evil and murders in the church, was still unfulfilled.”

  Miss Daunting looked nervously at the curate holding the gun.

  “The person,” Don concluded, “who also knew from reading the trust agreements in the chest in Father Charleton’s study about the gargoyles on the roof beams that told of the confession for murders—murders that would prevent the dissolution of the trust for the Order of Black Vestments if they were repeated today.”

  With a questioning look, Inspector Russell waited for Don to reveal the person’s name.

  “If you want to know who that mastermind is, Inspector, I suggest you ask Miss Wood. Or perhaps you should address her by her real name, her family name in its original French—Miss DuBois.”

  Don turned to Margeaux. “My French is a little rusty, Margeaux. But I believe du bois is French for ‘wood,’ is it not?”

  “Whitby’s right,” the young vicar unexpectedly exclaimed. Everyone turned to look at him in surprise. There was panic in his face. His whole demeanor changed in a heartbeat as his loyalty to the conspiracy crumbled with drug-addled fear. He let go of Margeaux’s arm and stepped away from her.

  “Her name is DuBois, but I’m not a Lanham,” he said. “My name’s Weatherby.”

  “Shut up!” Margeaux ordered.

  “It was all her idea,” Weatherby accused. “She was going to make me head of the Order of Black Vestments and take the trust money when we got control of it. I just got out of prison and needed money and a break. Margeaux came to me with the whole plan.”

  “Shut up, I told you!”

  “The murders were all her idea!” the man protested as he threw the gun on the floor.

  Lunging suddenly for the gun, Margeaux knocked over the candlestick. The crypt went completely black as the candle hit the floor. A loud gunshot and a ricocheting bullet reverberated throughout the chamber. Don heard the sound of shuffling feet stumbling about as he lurched awkwardly with his hands cuffed behind him to where he thought the baby lay on the sarcophagus. An instant later, it was deadly quiet in the crypt.