Coda: The Third Albert Mystery (The Albert Mysteries Book 3)

by David Crossman

  “You know what I think?” she said, misreading the language of his eyes, as she had misread it so long, “I think you mock me. And so, I’ll prove myself.”

  “Margaret, really, honestly, you needn’t . . .”

  “You leave for Nottingham tomorrow?”

  “Yes, a meeting of the deaneries to deal with the Cathars.” He looked at her tentatively, “I still have your permission to go?”

  Margaret’s thoughts had been elsewhere. “What? Oh, oh yes. Yes, of course you must go. We shall miss you.” She paused and looked at him, and he had a familiar feeling of falling into a well. “I shall miss you,” she said, laying her fingers on his forearm.

  “What are you contemplating, Margaret?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I have the feeling I’ll return in two weeks to find the entire parish plastered. Plaster of parish, you might say.”

  She pretended to ignore him. “Deacon Menard will conduct services?”

  “Yes.”

  “I believe I shall be sick in bed those days. Most unfortunate.”

  “Margaret . . .”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Well, where is he?”

  Huffy was even more agitated than usual, and Jeremy sensed that he wouldn’t be receptive to teasing. “Your guess is as good as ours. He never came down to breakfast, so Brigit went up to see if he was all right . . .”

  “Brigit? Who the hell is Brigit? First you, then Mrs. Gibson, then that fiddler; he’s not building himself an entourage, is he?”

  “Brigit’s the maid.”

  “Oh, well, that’s all right then. So, you’re going to tell me he wasn’t in his room.”

  “You’re a mind reader.”

  “And he didn’t tell anyone where he was going?”

  “Right again. That makes twice. Want to try for a record?”

  “Maybe he just went out for a walk.”

  Angela walked into the room, ringing her hands. “He’s taken a bicycle, apparently. There’s one missing, at any rate. The man at the stables said it was gone when he got here at half-five or so this morning.”

  “So much for walking,” said Jeremy.

  “Half-five! Where would he off to that time of day?”

  “Speaking of that time of day,” said Jeremy, “you’re not exactly the early bird yourself. It takes, what, two, two and a-half hours to get here from London?” He looked at the ornate clock on the wall. “It’s just after eleven. What bringsyou here this time of day?”

  “There’s not even any place for him to go around this godforsaken little patch of nowhere, is there?” asked Huffy, ignoring the question.

  “There’s the library,” said Brigit, who was feeling it was somehow her fault for not finding the piano-player in his room, but she had looked very carefully, even in the wardrobe and the chest of drawers. “But it don’t open ‘til ten. And the pub,” she said, brightening somewhat as all eyes turned toward her. “But that’s closed ‘til noon.”

  “And the post office,” said Deirdre Ponsenby–Blythe–Hamilton, whose turn it was to make her entrance. “I’ve called the police. I do hope they’ll be discreet.”

  “Wait a second,” said Jeremy. “The Post Office is also the bus stop, ain’t it?”

  “Isn’tit,” said Angela, unable to help herself.

  Deirdre Ponsenby–Blythe–Hamilton verified that was the case.

  “He’s gone back to Langar,” Jeremy pronounced with conviction. He held up two fingers, and folded them in succession with each of the following points. “He’s interested in something there . . .” Down went one finger. “And it’s the only place he knows how to get to from here.” Down went finger number two.

  Huffy was put out. “What does he want at Langar. That place is even more a pimple on a sow’s backside than this.”

  “Let’s just say he has grave considerations,” said Jeremy, knowing Huffy wouldn’t get the clue. “Now, what’s the big news that brings you here?”

  Huffy sank to the hassock between the chairs in which Angela and the housekeeper had stationed themselves. “This is just between us, you understand?”

  Nods all ‘round, with the exception of Brigit who, bathing in the glory of her brief turn in the spotlight, left the room mumbling about having to clean Balfour’s loo.

  Jeremy watched her go; a pleasant prospect and one not lost on Huffy whose appreciation of the maid’s assets was not diminished by the crushing burden of the news he bore. Sensing a silence he was meant to fill, he cleared his mind with a shake of the head. “It’s this brain business.”

  “The little island?” said Angela.

  “Little island, right. Whatever,” said Huffy. “There’ve been about a thousand doctors pouring over those x-rays they took of him the other day. Some say it’s nothing important, some say they want more tests, some say it’s bad film, and some say he could go . . .” he snapped his finger, “before teatime.”

  “Go? Go where?” said Jeremy, suddenly concerned.

  “That great odeum in the sky, my young friend,” said Huffy, adding, in order to avoid confusion, “dead as a doorpost.” He produced a piece of crumpled paper from his pocket and read a word he’d scribbled there. “‘Aneurism’, is what they call it. Like a little volcano of blood in his brain, gettin’ bigger and bigger ‘til . . .” The sudden splaying of fingers on both hands that illustrated the diagnosis was accompanied by his making the sound of a popping cork with his tongue.

  Angela was confused. “But, an aneurism is in the blood vessels. That island or whatever it was that showed up on the scan is embedded in the brain.”

  Huffy shrugged. Something about his demeanor brought to Jeremy’s mind the image of a defeated prize-fighter, slouching in his corner as the winner of the match was announced center ring. “All I know is what they tell me,” said Huffy. “And they all tell me something different.

  “Anyway, the School’s on it now. They’ve sent a specialist from Brigham and Women’s in Boston. He’s in London and wants to see his nibs as soon as possible.”

  “Why didn’t he come with you?” Jeremy wanted to know.

  “He wants to run tests, I guess. All the equipment is there, in town.”

  Jeremy looked at Angela. “That doesn’t sound good.”

  Angela turned to Huffy. “You came in your car?”

  “Yes, it’s . . .”

  “Let’s you and I go to Langar. If he’s on the bus, we might even be able to intercept him on the way.”

  The earliest bus that morning had departed from Oxburgh Library at 6:10, and Albert had been on it. Which could not be said of everyone else in the world, who weren’t, with the exception of the driver, who was.

  Albert was on his own. A rare sensation of late. He was on a bus and, because he knew where he was going, was able to purchase a ticket to Langar from the driver. When the driver asked, “Return?” Albert, having a choice of either ‘yes’ or ‘no’, had said yes. Then the driver pushed a button on the console that separated them and a ticket popped out.

  Albert took it from the little slot and read aloud it in fascination, “Langar-Oxburgh Return. One Fare, 14 October, 1986.’ He looked at the driver, who had listened with interest, and held out his hand, which Albert shook. “Thank you.”

  “You’re most welcome, I’m sure,” said the driver good-naturedly, retrieving his hand. “And will be even more welcome if you cross my palm with three pound forty as it’s not now otherwise occupied.”

  Albert suddenly remembered something important about the world. “You want money.”

  “Well, I’d be more than happy to give you a lift for free, if it was up to me. But we live in a capitalist nation, sir, don’t we? For which you may either praise or curse Maggie T. I’m sure you get the weekly packet for whatever it is you do and so, curse Adam, must I. The kiddies require fuel. The Mrs. her little luxuries.”

  Albert took this speech to mean, ‘yes’. He put his hands in his pocket and began to make
searching motions, but he knew that, while they may turn up several interesting things, money was not likely to be among them.

  “Jeremy Ash has money,” he said.

  “And you, I take it, are not he?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I’m happy for him. But we, despite Mr. Ash’s good fortune, are still at an impasse, as they say.”

  Albert had never heard them say that, but he got the idea that his prospects for a ride to Langar were dimming. He’d have to go back to Oxburgh Hall, wait for Jeremy to get up, and ask him for the money, and then answer all the questions.

  “He’s not awake yet.”

  The bus driver took the measure of his fare. “This Jeremy fellow, he’s a kind of care-giver, is he?”

  “You know him?”

  “I know the type. Does he know you’re out-and-about this time of day?”

  Albert sincerely hoped not, but you could never be sure with Jeremy Ash. Best to prevaricate. “I don’t know.”

  “I see,” said the driver. “Well, I’ll tell you what, why don’t you go and find him and see if he’ll let you go on a bus ride. How does that sound?”

  Albert bridled. It was a new sensation. “I don’t need his permission to go on a bus ride. I just need money. He has my money, and I forgot to get some from him.”

  Just when he’d thought he’d had him pegged as an imbecile, this sudden assertiveness on the part of his prospective fare took the driver by the short hairs.

  “Well, I’m sure I don’t mean to give offense . . .”

  “Then you’re not doing it right,” said Albert, something very like umbrage swelling his chest. “If you take me to Langar, and bring me back, I’ll call and have Jeremy meet us and he’ll pay you then.”

  “Well, that’s highly irregular, but as we’re not what you’d call over-crowded this morning, I think I’ll take the risk.” The driver gestured to the vacant passenger compartment. “Any seat you like, sir. There are crisps, biscuits, and water in that little blue box by the handicap door. Help yourself, and I’ll add ‘em to your tab, shall I? What shall I call you?”

  “Professor,” said Albert, who thought anybody who might try to follow him would be thwarted by a pseudonym.

  He made his way to the seat nearest the little box and, by the time the bus arrived in Langar, had eaten all the shortbread and drank so much water that he had to relieve himself very badly. It was his good fortune to find a restroom at the bus stop.

  “Be here by 15:28, Professor. That’ll be your last chance of getting back to Oxburgh tonight.”

  “Okay,” said Albert, who was already striding rapidly toward the toilet.

  According to the clock on the bank across the street, it was 9:17 by the time Albert emerged from the building. He counted to 15:28; a little over six hours. That would be 3:28 in real time. That’s when he needed to be back.

  He wished he had a watch.

  The town was alive with early-morning activity, especially in the vicinity of the Post-Office which, as in many English villages, doubled as a general store. He smelled fresh bread as he walked by on his way to the chapel.

  Before the door, there was the little porch-type entry that Albert remembered vaguely from previous visits. Upon closer inspection, he observed that it was made of wood and stone, some of which was carved in various shapes that reminded him of plants.

  The door itself was of wood with iron latch and hinges, and looked very old and was about three inches shorter than he. He knocked, expecting a sepulchral echo from within, but there was none. It was like knocking on a tree. He knocked again, harder, but with no greater results, except that his knuckles hurt. He rubbed them and wondered what to do next. Kicking the door didn’t seem appropriate. Then he noticed a little rectangle of lined paper, like those his mother used to write recipes on, affixed to the door at about nose-level by four thumbtacks, one in each corner.

  The thumbtacks were brass and rusted, they had wept onto the paper around them in little sepia halos that suggested they’d been there a while.

  The ink on the note card was faded. Albert leaned closer, and adjusted his glasses. “‘Welcome to historic Langar Chapel. If the door is not open it is still unlocked, the parishioners invite you to worship or explore, but request that you respect the property and artifacts herein, and please maintain silence when worshippers are present. A box for offerings is located inside the door inviting but not obliging you to contribute to the upkeep of this fine old building. Rector Simon’.”

  Albert, being as respectful as possible, put his fingers on the latch and lifted; he pushed on the door, and it swung open, squeaking an ancient alarm into the sleepy precincts.‘Wake up! Somebody’s here!’

  The church was cold, and Albert’s breath billowed into the air, drifting slowly up to warm and animate the faces of cherubs and gargoyles carved in clusters at the junction of arches in the shadows above. He clutched at his collar and stood for a moment, either absorbing or being absorbed by presences that his collective senses could only dimly grasp.

  The atmosphere enveloped him like a cloak, so thick with history that he could almost feel nudges from elbows long past, hear the echoes of echoes of echoes of hymns swelling from throats long stilled, smell incense and candlewax wafting from sconces long cold; all set in a stale meringue of whispers.

  He’d expected to be alone. In fact, the reason he had risen so early and taken the bus was, specifically, to be alone in Langar chapel. But, now that he was here, he felt crowded, having to compete for air to breathe.

  Only with mighty effort was he able to sufficiently quiet the flow of music the atmosphere dumped into him that he could concentrate on the silence.

  Eventually, it distilled to a type of chant—a lone woman’s voice—embroidering the silence with plainsong that gathered up all the prayers ever prayed within those walls and carried them in whispers, wails, cries, and murmured thanksgivings, to heaven.

  Unconsciously, as it accompanied him toward his destination, over the graves and past the monuments of local luminaries, Chaworths, Howes, and Scroopes predominant among them—Albert’s fingers played the music on the air.

  At last he arrived at the Foss Wall, face-to-face with the little cartouche bearing the once-enigmatic word. “Foss,” said Albert, his words severing the ribbon of music like scissors.

  He turned his back to the wall, positioning himself so the plaque was just over his right shoulder, as it was over Tiptoft/Lossburgh’s in the painting. This time he turned toward the right, and looked to the left.

  Nothing.

  At least, nothing between him and the outer wall of the chapel and a little set of steps leading to a ledge or shelf.

  That ledge bothered Albert. Why?

  He went to the middle aisle and stood in front of an eight-sided stone alter of some kind and studied the chapel.

  The realization wasn’t long in coming. The chapel was symmetrical, like a Celtic folk song: verse, chorus, verse, chorus; Every thing on one side of the chapel had its counterpart on the other.

  Everything except that little ledge.

  Why was it there?

  Threading his way through the forest of empty chairs—he wouldn’t have to worry about disturbing worshippers—he crossed to the steps.

  All the walls in the chapel had been freshly plastered and painted. He ran his hand over the half wall to the right of the steps, atop which squatted a tall, leaded window. It was perfectly smooth. He walked up the steps, brushing the walls with this fingertips. All were smooth. No doors. Nothing that seemed to allow for a hiding place of any kind. Nothing special on the walls themselves. No sign proclaiming ‘The Secret Herein Lies!’ That would have been helpful.

  What had Lossburgh been looking at? Rather, what had Annabella Howe had himimagine himself to be looking at?

  He rattled around the little plateau atop the ledge for a minute or two, to no avail, apart from a bookcase contraption, clearly of modern construction, burdened with musty brochures
and booklets, there was nothing of interest. He descended the steps and began to inspect the ledge itself.

  The structure was about chest-high and had been built around one of the stone piers, meaning it had probably been built after the chapel itself. But why? Try as he might, Albert couldn’t see any purpose for it. In fact, it seemed in the way. Surely it seemed an awful lot of trouble to go to just ro raise the bookcase out of reach. Wouldn’t it have been more accessible on the floor?

  He traced the walls. All smooth. All flawless.

  “That’s theHonor Charles.”

  The fact that Albert recognized the voice at once as belonging to James Simon did not diminish its startling impact. He choked back his Adam’s apple and tried to say something, but was unable to produce a sound, which was just as well since he couldn’t think of anything to say.

  “I wondered who was in here this time of day,” the Rector said amiably as he crossed the chapel. “You’re about the last person I expected.”

  “Charles?”

  “TheHonor Charles. That’s what this pointless little corner is called.” Simon slapped the top of the ledge with the flat of his hand. “Another of the chapel’s mysteries. Nobody knows why it’s called that,” he continued, pre-empting the query in Albert’s eyes. “Legend has it there’s a curse on it, which has kept it in place all these years. I’d’ve had it torn out long ago if I’d had my way. It’s a nuisance.”

  “Curse?”

  “Mm. Like Shakespeare’s; ‘cursed be he who moves these bones. . .’ It was supposedly written in plaster hereabouts.” The rector brushed the wall immediately to the left of the steps with his palm. “Covered over long since, of course.” He looked up and smiled. “Plaster doesn’t last forever. Needs re-doing every few millenia.” He laughed.

  Albert smiled. “It’s not part of the original building, is it?”

  “No. In fact, there are copies of the original drawings for the church in the local historical society archives. It’s not there.”