Lady Haysham guided them down a hall beyond the stairs. She opened a door on the right and they entered a modest room that, unlike the first he’d seen, looked as if it had been stolen from the front of a semi-detached house in a middle-class part of town. The walls contained family photos and the tables were overrun with the real clutter from the people who really lived there. The only reminder of the room’s true location was the massive marble fireplace that took up a quarter of the opposite wall.
Lord Haysham stood with Chief Constable Macaulay in front of the fireplace. The charred remains of the logs and ashes of past fires were piled high and spilled onto the hearth at their feet. Both men had glasses in their hands.
Bill Drake sat in a wing-backed chair near double French windows leading out to a patio. He was sipping something red in a small glass. He lifted the glass in a salute. “Gilbert.”
“This is so much better than that ghastly morgue,” Lord Haysham said. He offered them drinks from a wide assortment of bottles on a table on the opposite side of the room.
“We have Evensong in an hour,” Father Gilbert said. “A cup of tea for me, please.”
“The same for me,” said Benson.
Haysham looked at his wife, raising an eyebrow. Rosalyn took the signal, smiled at him, and left. He waved at the two priests to sit down.
Books and magazines were randomly stacked around the chairs and sofa. Father Gilbert stepped carefully to avoid kicking them over. More magazines and empty mugs littered the coffee table. The Oriental rug, which covered the central section of the hardwood floor, was worn and faded.
Once they were seated, Lord Haysham said, “Well, what do we make of it all? Speak candidly.”
“I hope Professor Braddock won’t allow speed to affect his work,” Father Gilbert said.
“One can work fast, but still be thorough,” Macaulay stated. “Especially someone with Professor Braddock’s experience.”
“And DI Wilton? Is he experienced enough to handle this case?” Father Gilbert asked.
“Without question. I have every confidence in him.” End of discussion.
Drake fished in his pocket, presumably for his pipe. “Tell me about the medallion. Any prevailing theories about how it wound up at the church?”
“None at the moment.” Macaulay took a sip of his drink. “Any light from you, Father Gilbert?”
“Only Colin Doyle can answer that question,” Father Gilbert said.
“May he rest in peace,” Drake said and lifted his glass.
“His family background certainly puts a question on his motives,” said Haysham.
“Let’s put his family background aside for a moment,” Drake said. “Take me through the possible scenarios.”
“Well, in any scenario, Doyle finds the body,” Macaulay began slowly.
Drake toyed with his pipe. “We assume that Doyle couldn’t have expected such a find. Is that correct?”
“There’s no evidence he was a treasure hunter, if that’s what you mean,” Macaulay replied. “That is to say, we don’t think he took the job here because he believed they’d unearth anything valuable.”
Drake nodded.
Macaulay continued, “Doyle sees the medallion. Perhaps he picks it up for a closer look. In one scenario, he sees that it’s valuable, so he steals it and runs off.”
“But why run off?” Father Gilbert asked. “He could have pocketed the medallion – or hid it somewhere. He must’ve known that running off would draw suspicion to him.”
“He left to phone his estranged father,” Benson said. He was sitting on the edge of the chair, his body tense with repressed energy.
“Why leave to do that?” Drake asked. “He could have used his mobile phone anywhere on the site and had privacy.”
“Is there an adequate signal here?” To answer his own question, Benson took out his mobile phone and held it up to check the connection. “It’s pretty good inside the house. Is it the same down by the bridge?”
“I’ve had no problems,” Haysham said. “But why call his father? They were estranged.”
Any answer was delayed as Lord Haysham’s wife arrived with the tray of tea. She poured for the two priests, even remembering that Father Gilbert took his with milk and sugar.
After she left again, Macaulay said, “Maybe he felt compelled to tell his father about the medallion because of its potential value on the black market.”
“Or perhaps the medallion had a special significance for his father.” Drake lit his pipe.
Sipping his tea, Father Gilbert thought about Colin Doyle’s actions between leaving the site and hanging himself. “Maybe he left because he was panicked.”
“Panicked?” asked Drake.
“Discovering that body and the medallion caused Doyle to panic.”
Drake puffed at the pipe, tamped the tobacco, and puffed again. “Is that what you saw in your vision? He was panicked?” That twinkle was in his eye.
“I’d say he was dealing with panic that had turned to despair,” Father Gilbert said. “What if that’s why he called his father?”
“Or he knew then he was going to kill himself and wanted to have a few last words with his father,” Haysham offered.
“Or his father said something to drive him to suicide,” Benson said.
Drake laughed. “Good God. It’s like playing Cluedo.”
“His suicide note was specific about the medallion,” Father Gilbert said, trying to keep them on track. “Finding it may have been a surprise, but his knowledge of it wasn’t. He knew what it was when he found it. And he panicked.”
“That’s your version,” Drake said. “You’re merging the facts with your vision.”
Father Gilbert shrugged.
“We have to stay with the material evidence,” Macaulay said.
“Besides, how could he possibly know anything about such an obscure medallion – or be panicked enough to kill himself over it?” Haysham asked.
“Mentally unstable,” Macaulay said. “Didn’t he say the medallion was cursed?”
“Whatever Doyle felt, it was enough for him to contact his father,” Benson said. He got to his feet and began to pace. “It was also enough for him to drive to the church. It’s possible he made it up to the church tower through the door one of us had left open or had unlocked. Maybe he thought about killing himself there and decided against it.”
Drake examined his pipe. “Suicides don’t usually run from place to place. To the church – then home to his garage. His behaviour was more helter-skelter than one would expect.”
“Which would also suggest panic rather than premeditated action.” Father Gilbert took a gulp of his tea. Not enough sugar.
“Why leave the medallion at the church?” Haysham asked. “Surely he couldn’t have assumed that anyone would find it there – not quickly, at least. How often does anyone go up to the tower?”
“Not often,” Father Gilbert said.
“Perhaps he didn’t want it to be found,” Drake suggested. “He left it there believing no one would find it for a long time. And, if someone did, there’d be no reason to connect it to the body – or to him.”
“There are a lot of easier places to hide a medallion,” Haysham countered. “He wouldn’t have had to go to the top of the tower.”
Macaulay frowned. “This is endless. There are any number of reasons why he behaved as he did.”
Benson stopped pacing. He looked disappointed. “Isn’t this the fun part of an investigation?”
“With some cases, perhaps.” Macaulay upended his drink into his mouth. “This one annoys me.”
“Here’s what I think,” Bill Drake announced. “Colin Doyle found the medallion, thought it was worth a lot of money as a religious artefact, and raced over to Father Gilbert to find out how much he could get for it. Father Gilbert saw its value and schemed to murder Colin Doyle to get the medallion. Thinking fast, Gilbert followed Doyle back to his house, coerced him to write a fake suicide note, an
d then strung him up in the garage. He then took the medallion back to the church where he hoped to sell it for a small fortune.”
“Very funny, Bill,” Father Gilbert said. “I’m sure you’re a laugh-riot at will-readings.”
Macaulay eyed his empty glass and said with no hint of humour, “We considered that scenario. But his secretary and sexton have given him alibis.”
“They’re in on it,” Drake said.
Father Gilbert could hardly believe what he was hearing. “You considered that scenario!” he said to Macaulay.
Macaulay looked impassive. “Didn’t you say not to exclude any possibilities?”
“But why would Father Gilbert tell the police about the medallion?” Benson asked.
“Because Gilbert knew he might get caught when he tried to sell it on the black market,” Drake said. “So he made up the whole ludicrous story about having a vision of Colin Doyle and finding the medallion on the church tower. As a former detective, he knew it would throw the police a wobbly.”
“You’re a big help, Bill,” said Father Gilbert.
“Does the medallion have any religious significance?” Haysham asked.
“The symbols suggest that it might. But I can’t say for certain,” Father Gilbert replied.
Macaulay placed his glass on the coffee table. “I’d like you to stay close to this investigation, Father Gilbert. As a former detective, you’ll have helpful insights.”
“But I’m a suspect.”
“I don’t consider you a suspect,” Macaulay said. “But I can’t deny that your connection to the bog body, the medallion, and Colin Doyle’s death is curious. Though visions won’t hold up as evidence in a court of law.”
Father Gilbert drained the last of his tea from the cup. “Evensong,” he said to Benson. “Thank you for the hospitality, Lord Haysham.”
Following Father Gilbert to the door, Benson said to Macaulay in a stage whisper, “Don’t worry, Sheriff. I’ll make sure the varmint doesn’t skip town.”
CHAPTER 11
Father Gilbert had hoped the Evensong celebration would give him a sense of calm – of peace. The aesthetic beauty of St Mark’s often took the priest out of the world and into the dominion of God. The stone columns rose up to the vaulted roof, pointing to heaven. The stained-glass representations of the miracles of Christ reminded him of the healing God offered. The marble altar and ornate screen, filled with statues of St Peter, St Paul, St John, and St Mary, told him that he wasn’t alone; the Spirit and the people of God were with him. The polished brown pews and the ever-present fragrance of flowers and candles took him away from the concrete and car exhaust outside. The words of the Book of Common Prayer, with all the elegance and poetry of Shakespeare’s time, whispered to him that not all of life was raw flesh and bone.
However, this mystery of the medallion made it difficult to shake off the temporal world for the spiritual one – because it involved both. One encroached on the other. Rather than hoping for peace, he prayed for wisdom.
Father Gilbert and Father Benson had dinner at The Mill House, a charming old pub on the outskirts of Stonebridge. Father Gilbert enjoyed the roast lamb. Benson opted for the shepherd’s pie. The younger priest must have sensed Father Gilbert’s mood and did not press him about the subject that was on both their minds. Their conversation wandered from a comparison of local restaurants to the ongoing conflicts in the Church of England between progressive and traditional forces.
At one point Benson lamented the number of Anglo-Catholics who had given up their allegiance to the Archbishop of Canterbury for the Bishop of Rome. “No matter how bad it gets, it can’t be that bad,” he said. “It’s abandonment.”
“Have they abandoned the Church of England or has the Church of England abandoned them?”
“Touch not the unclean thing,” said Benson with a smile. “I’m the sixth generation of Anglican ministers in my family. I was raised to be loyal to our church, no matter what.”
Father Gilbert wasn’t sure if he admired that kind of loyalty or found it alarming. There were no ministers of any denomination in his family background. He knew of only one relative, his grandmother – his mother’s mother – who had been devout about her faith. All of his other relatives subscribed to the traditional English practice of attending church for weddings, baptisms, funerals, and maybe Easter and Christmas. Later in life his mother had embraced an evangelical form of Christianity. They had rarely discussed it, which was also in keeping with English tradition. After she passed away, he often wished they had.
The two priests left The Mill House and parted company. Benson was staying in a small flat the church had purchased years ago above a newsagent’s shop. Father Gilbert returned to the vicarage, a free-standing house nestled between rows of semi-detached houses that had been built on the property later. He put on the kettle for a cup of tea, checked his phone messages, then opted for a hot bath. There were few things better than a good soak in a bath the size of a canoe.
Sinking into the steaming water, he thought about Colin Doyle on the tower, recalling the adrenal surge he had felt when Doyle had slashed his throat and pushed himself over the side. As appalled as Father Gilbert was by the evil he saw as a detective, he couldn’t deny the addictive nature of the work. Any crime, no matter how bad, was a mystery to be solved. There were times when he actually forgot to react the way a normal human should when faced with the horror of a violent death.
The tap dripped. He pushed his big toe into the mouth. The water was cold. The metal of the tap reminded him of the Stanley knife Colin Doyle had suddenly produced from nowhere.
Why did Doyle cut his throat? If the encounter had been real, it was easy to assume Doyle wanted to guarantee his death, in case the fall didn’t kill him. Or, in the land of visions, it represented the ritualistic killing of a sacrificial lamb, the shedding of innocent blood. A criminal profiler could argue that cutting a victim’s throat was a means to ensure silence, much like cutting out the tongue.
He shuddered. There was every chance the encounter said more about his own psychological state than Doyle’s.
What about the body hanging from the distant tree? Was it a precognition of Doyle’s death by hanging in his garage? And then there was the vivid scene of the two men on the stone bridge. Was it a speculative imagining of what might have happened? But then, how did he know about the boot being tucked under the coat? It couldn’t be coincidence.
It was unusual for so many encounters to come to him in rapid succession. He couldn’t escape a feeling of dread, that worse things were about to happen, that a formidable evil was at work.
He climbed out of the bath and paced as he said his nightly prayers. Crawling into bed, he picked up a novel from the nightstand. He put it down again and turned off the light. The darkness was definitive. He lay back and listened to the ticking clock. It took him back to the hours he had spent sitting at his wife’s bedside as she lay dying of cancer – the contradictory feelings about the passing of time and how he dreaded losing her, yet yearned for her to be free of her pain.
“You’re more impatient for my suffering to end than I am,” she’d said. “Do you want it to end for my sake or yours?”
Mine, he realized.
“But God is more real to me in my pain than at any other time in my life,” she’d said.
“That’s not much of a testimony about God.”
“Don’t be such a baby,” she’d said to him. “It always gets worse before it gets better.”
One night as he sat next to her and listened to the clock, she suddenly opened her eyes and said, “You know, when it gets better, it’ll be the best it can ever be.”
He yearned to believe her. It was a long time later that he began to understand what she meant. Her grace while dealing with cancer was an initial nudge towards a faith that had eluded him. Ironically, it was death, his great nemesis, that pointed him to life.
Now, as he fell asleep, he saw the shrivelled face of his
dying wife transformed into the healthy and vibrant face of the woman he had first married.
It’ll get worse before it gets better, he thought before plunging into a dreamless sleep.
CHAPTER 12
“Mary Aston is here,” Mrs Mayhew half-whispered in the phone.
It was a little after eight in the morning. Father Gilbert had taken the 7 a.m. service at the church again and, afterwards, had slipped away to a nearby café for breakfast.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes, if she doesn’t mind waiting,” he said. He hadn’t ordered yet and threw money on the table to cover the cost of the tea.
Mary Aston was sitting in the small reception area next to Mrs Mayhew’s desk. She stood up when Father Gilbert walked in and extended a hand. “Father Gilbert,” she said.
She shook his hand with the confidence of a woman who knew exactly what she wanted and how to get it. He instantly understood why Lord Haysham had spoken about her as he had. She was stunningly beautiful. She had a slender face with ivory skin and wide brown eyes that pinned him with intense interest, as if nothing else could possibly be more interesting to her than what he might say. She had an aquiline nose perfectly placed over a set of full lips that spread easily into a smile. Her brown hair was loosely pulled back at her nape, in a way that set off an elegant neck. She wore a pale-blue blouse under a fitted navy-blue suit that set off her slender but shapely figure. She exuded professionalism and sensuality at the same time. Father Gilbert’s collar suddenly seemed rather tight. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d met a woman as beautiful.
“Miss Aston.” He greeted her with what he hoped was priestly politeness.
“Mary,” she corrected him.
He guessed that she was in her early to mid thirties. She didn’t wear a wedding ring.
“Would you like some tea?” he asked.
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