“She said she’s going through your family archives to find the Woodrich sword.”
“Yes, she is.”
“She wasn’t with you at all last night?” Father Gilbert asked.
A groan. “As a matter of fact, we were going to meet up at my house, but she didn’t show.”
“Do you know why?”
“I haven’t spoken with her.”
Father Gilbert didn’t know where this conversation was supposed to go. Any detective could interrogate Todd better than this. Why had Todd asked for him? “All right, so you didn’t kill Lord Haysham and you spent the night at home alone.”
“That’s right.”
“Then why am I here? What’s all this nonsense about evil?”
Todd looked confused for a moment, as if he didn’t know what Father Gilbert was talking about. Then he bit his lower lip until a thin line of blood showed. He arched his fingers into a claw and scraped his nails across the table.
“David,” Father Gilbert said.
Todd pulled his hands to his lap. Sucking in his lower lip, he licked at it. “Sometime after 9:30,” he suddenly continued, “a note was shoved through the letterbox. It said, ‘Take your place.’ And I’ve been receiving telephone calls with a voice whispering that same message. ‘Take your place.’ It chills me to the very bone.”
Father Gilbert remembered Todd’s reaction to a phone call at lunch. “What does it mean?” Father Gilbert asked.
“Something terrible.”
“Be more specific.”
“I can’t!” Todd’s voice took on a childish whine. “Don’t you see? I can’t!”
Father Gilbert stayed calm. “Did you show the note to the police?”
Todd shook his head. “I didn’t get a chance. Wilton and his thugs were rather forceful when they came for me.” A glance at the mirror again.
“Where is the note now?” asked Father Gilbert.
“I left it on the kitchen table. You have my permission to go to the house to look at it. You know where the key is.”
“All right, I will,” Father Gilbert said. “Though, a note won’t prove anything.”
“I’m not telling you to prove anything to them,” Todd said as he hooked a thumb at the mirror. “They’re idiots. But you can make sense of it.”
Father Gilbert imagined Wilton’s reaction to this scene. It wouldn’t have surprised him if a chair crashed through the mirror from the other side.
“There’s something evil going on here, Father Gilbert. Even beyond Haysham’s murder.” Todd leaned forward and whispered again, “There’s more to this than they know, Father. It’s not about Haysham’s land, it’s about the Woodrich Set.”
“What do you mean?”
“The Set is evil. The medallion, the sword, the ring…” his voice trailed off. He looked down at the table.
“David, you have to be more specific. How are they evil? What makes you think so?”
“That’s all I can say.” He looked at the mirror again, then back to Father Gilbert. “I won’t say any more in front of them.”
Father Gilbert put his hands on the table. “What do you want me to do for you?”
He thought for a moment. “Call my solicitor. I left the information with Wilton,” Todd said softly.
Father Gilbert waited. “Is that all?”
Todd looked up at the priest with newly wet eyes. “Do you know what it’s like to wander so far that you think you’ll never find your way back again?”
“I know the feeling.”
Todd lowered his head. “Use your instincts, Father. Follow the evil and you’ll find out what’s really going on here.”
* * *
“Rubbish!” DI Wilton said with a few accompanying euphemisms after Father Gilbert had joined him in the observation room. “It’s a trick to distract us.”
“Or he’s playing the insanity card,” Macaulay said. “Lining up his defence.”
“Or he’s telling the truth,” Father Gilbert said.
Wilton groaned. “You’re not taking him seriously! An evil note? Evil phone calls?”
“Lord Haysham was receiving crank phone calls, too,” Father Gilbert said.
“How do you know that?” Macaulay asked.
“He got one while I was at his house.”
Macaulay was surprised. Wilton shook his head.
“He told us he’d been getting them since the body was found,” Father Gilbert continued. “He assumed they were Todd’s people trying to harass him. But David got one when we had lunch with him.”
“I’ll check the log on his mobile phone,” Wilton said. “But I still think it’s rubbish.”
Macaulay folded his arms. “Todd’s connection to the Doyle family was unexpected. It makes sense, though, if Jack Doyle wants in on any development deals.”
“Why not talk to Lord Haysham directly?” Wilton asked.
“Perhaps he did and Lord Haysham rejected his participation,” Macaulay said. “Lord Haysham was sensitive to Doyle’s reputation. He wouldn’t have knowingly crawled into bed with that sort.”
That sort, Father Gilbert thought. He thought unkindly about what sort Haysham had crawled into bed with. He repented.
Wilton pointed towards the glass. “You see? It’s all about business. Not this spiritual nonsense.”
Father Gilbert nodded towards the video equipment. “I’d like to see the video of our interview. There are a couple of things that have me puzzled.”
Wilton frowned. “Unfortunately, the video stopped working halfway through the interview. Some kind of glitch.”
Father Gilbert thought of the moment in the interrogation room when Todd’s expression had changed as he stared at the mirror. He wondered if that was when the glitch happened.
“What do you know about the car?” Macaulay asked.
“I met with Mary Aston last night and someone in a red car was watching us. It pulled away from my street when she left.”
“She was at your house?” Wilton asked. He tried to sound casual and failed.
“She stopped by my house. We walked to The George down the street.”
Wilton’s eyes narrowed.
“I’d better phone Todd’s solicitor,” Father Gilbert said. “Do you have that information handy, DI Wilton?”
Wilton scowled as he left the room.
Macaulay said to Father Gilbert, “I’m going out to visit Rosalyn after I make sure things are set here. Would you care to join me?”
“Yes, I would.” He thought about his various duties at the church. The normal routines would have to be changed because of the murder. “I need to ring the church first.”
“I’ll meet you out front.” Macaulay went to the door. His hand on the knob, he asked Father Gilbert, “What do you really make of the note at Todd’s house?”
“I assume you would want to consider everything related to this case,” Father Gilbert replied. “Are you getting a warrant to search his house?”
“That will take a few hours, all things considered.” Macaulay opened the door. “He gave you permission to look inside. But I strongly recommend that you don’t tamper with anything.”
Father Gilbert nodded. Macaulay left.
Stepping over to the video camera, Father Gilbert looked at the small monitor jutting from its side. The screen was black except for the digital counter in the upper right-hand corner. A sequence of digits and nonsensical symbols flickered randomly, as if it couldn’t fix itself on a specific point. Then the screen came to life. The now-empty interview room appeared in the viewfinder, with the table and chairs under the harsh light.
The screen jumped to an image of David Todd sitting at the table with Father Gilbert, whose back was to the camera. The digital counter indicated the time from several minutes before. Todd was speaking to Father Gilbert, then suddenly turned his head and glared directly at the camera. How he knew precisely where it was beyond the two-way mirror was an unnerving question.
Todd’s fa
ce suddenly stretched and distorted into an elongated mask with hollow black circles where his eyes had been, the nose an open wound of thick red blood, the mouth unnaturally drawn down into a jaw-breaking scream. The image seemed to move, pixilating, then broke into a pool of squirming maggots that pushed through the screen and onto the table and floor below the camera.
Father Gilbert jumped back, banging against the wall.
The maggots writhed, as if dropped onto a hot surface, then seemed to dissolve into the woodwork and carpet.
The screen went black.
CHAPTER 21
Father Gilbert and Chief Constable Macaulay drove in silence to the Haysham estate. The gun-metal grey sky threatened more rain.
Father Gilbert thought about his experience at the police station. Evil was as real as anything Good. He had no doubts about that. He had seen Evil in many forms, some truly supernatural. And just when he thought he had a grasp on how it operated, something happened to confound his conclusions. The ongoing visions – or glimpses – he’d been witnessing unnerved him. He assumed that was their purpose. Something, or someone, wanted to throw him off.
And what was he to make of David Todd’s behaviour? Was it an act to cover the murder of Haysham? Or maybe David was truly psychotic. Or was it the manifestation of demonic possession?
There was a legend that, during his murder trial, Charles Manson stared at the prosecuting attorney with his penetrating eyes and the attorney’s watch suddenly stopped. A small trick, maybe. Yet true demonic possession often involved the physical world being manipulated – furniture moved or thrown, electronic equipment working in bizarre ways, beds levitating, walls and ceilings cracking. The images in the viewfinder and the appearance of the maggots fitted the profile.
None of these things would impress the police. The facts for them were far simpler: David Todd had the opportunity and the motive to kill Lord Haysham.
He felt a twinge in his chest. Lord Haysham was dead. He’d hardly had time to think about it. A man with whom he’d had countless meetings, shared a few drinks, enjoyed or endured a variety of social events, had discussions about church doctrine and even the length of sermons, was gone from mortal perception. Lord Haysham was now simply Michael Haysham again, a man in the hands of God.
He glanced at Macaulay, who was intently watching the road. There was a mystery to be solved. A suicide and a murder. What was his role in the unfolding tragedy? He had been drawn into it – but for what purpose?
He looked out of the passenger window, the distant fields and flocks of sheep spread out under a filtered light.
That’s it, he thought. For now, I have to think as the shepherd of a member of my flock.
He had never felt less equipped for the job.
* * *
Lady Haysham knelt next to a small garden adjoining the stone patio just outside Haysham’s study. The garden was an unattended collection of jagged stalks that had once been flowers and shrubs. Lady Haysham stabbed at the muddy earth with a trowel.
“Rosalyn,” Macaulay said.
She jerked around to see who had spoken, nearly losing her balance. “You sounded like—”
She stopped herself and got to her feet, dusting at her clothes with gloved hands. The effort only spread mud on her blue jeans. Her hair was tied back in a scarf. She wore a light-blue coat and brown boots – all splattered with mud. Father Gilbert saw from the dull look in her eyes that she was indeed medicated.
She gestured apologetically. “I’ve been wanting to deal with this flower bed for, oh, I can’t remember how long. We’ve been so busy.”
“Rosalyn, we’re terribly sorry—” Macaulay began.
She held up a gloved hand. “No, don’t. I can’t abide sympathy. I want you to catch my husband’s killer.” She spoke calmly.
“Oh, you can be sure we will,” Macaulay said firmly.
“Is there anything I can do for you?” Father Gilbert asked.
“Our solicitor is taking care of everything.”
“Bill Drake,” Father Gilbert said.
She looked at him first with an expression of Do you know him? followed quickly by a Silly me, of course you do look. “The children will be here this afternoon.”
The children were a son and a daughter, both at university. Father Gilbert assumed the son, Philip, would receive the hereditary title and take charge of the Haysham estate. A daunting task for someone in his early twenties. But he remembered Philip as a sharp and intelligent young man, a version of his father before time had softened the edges.
Rosalyn frowned, as if fighting back the tears. “Telling them was so hard. Such a shock. One never expects a loved one to die this way. We were supposed to grow old together.” She waved the trowel as if shooing away her emotions. “I won’t be maudlin. I hate maudlin women.”
Father Gilbert remembered a meeting for a Southaven charity to help single mothers financially. One single mum began to complain about her dismal lot in life – a husband who’d abandoned her, leaving her with three small children. While Father Gilbert had tried to respond to the woman with comfort and encouragement, Rosalyn had stepped up and told her to stop whinging. “You’re capable of so much more than that,” she said. “Get over your husband, stop brooding about your difficulty, and let’s figure out how to sort out the mess you’re in.”
Somehow, Rosalyn got away with it. The woman wasn’t offended at all, but worked with Rosalyn on a plan of action. Had he spoken to her in that way, he’d have been summoned before the Bishop and disciplined. Apparently, brutal truth was a woman’s prerogative.
Looking at her now, he wondered if she was having a similar conversation in her head. No whinging. No self-pity. You’re capable of so much more than that. Pull yourself up by your bootstraps and get on with it.
He’d have to keep an eye on her. The strong ones often fell the hardest.
Rosalyn waved the two men towards a set of iron patio furniture. “Sit down. I’ll see about tea.”
“No thank you,” Macaulay said.
“Something stronger?” She looked from one face to the other.
“Not for me, thanks.” Father Gilbert held a chair for her to sit down. After she did, he sat next to her.
Macaulay pulled a chair out. It scraped against the stone with a loud screech. He nodded by way of apology and sat down on the other side of her. “What can you tell us about last night?” he asked.
Father Gilbert had wondered how long it would take the Chief Constable to ask. Compassion was one thing, but a murder case was getting older by the minute. And he knew how the memory would play tricks. Incidental details might be lost, or held onto and hardened into unfounded conclusions. If Rosalyn believed David Todd had murdered her husband, she might remember only those things that might prove it.
“Last night,” she said it distantly, as if it had been years ago. “Michael went out to meet with David Todd,” she said. Saying Todd’s name brought her lips into a hard line.
“Did he say why he was meeting with David?” Macaulay asked.
“David Todd killed Michael,” she said suddenly. “If he’s saying otherwise, he’s lying.”
“We’ll need more evidence to prove it in court,” Macaulay said. “Why did they meet?”
“Michael didn’t say specifically. I assume he wanted to find a solution to their problem.”
“Which problem?”
“The body under the bridge, I assume,” she said. She eyed the trowel in her hand as if she wondered how it had got there. She put it down on the patio table. “Michael was anxious about resuming work on our property.”
A cool breeze moved across the patio. Macaulay folded his arms against it. “Did you ever witness David Todd threatening your husband?”
“Apart from the usual slurs, no,” she said. “Though I wondered about the crank phone calls.”
“Did your husband say they were from David Todd?”
She shook her head. “But he knew the caller. I could tell. And he
found them distressing.”
“We’ll have all the phone records checked,” said Macaulay.
“And there was the letter,” she said.
“What letter?”
“It was on the doormat in the front hall, but he wouldn’t let me read it. Later, I found it on his desk and sneaked a peek. It was handwritten, in an old style of penmanship. Very flowery.”
“What did it say?” asked Macaulay.
“Something like ‘Take your place.’ That’s all.”
“Take his place? What does that mean?” Macaulay asked.
She shrugged. “Michael walked in and caught me reading it. He grabbed it, tore it up, and threw it in the fireplace. It burnt up.”
Father Gilbert asked, “What about your husband’s overall frame of mind?”
“He was uncharacteristically irritable,” she said. Then, more softly, “Maybe afraid.”
“Of what?”
She rubbed the back of her gloved hand across her forehead, leaving a muddy line. She didn’t notice. “I don’t know. But he told me more than once that it wouldn’t surprise him if David Todd would arrange to have him killed, or do it himself.”
* * *
Mrs Mayhew sat at her desk and dabbed her tear-filled eyes with a tissue. “It’s terrible,” she said. “I know he had his flaws, but he was a good man.”
Father Gilbert stood on the opposite side of her desk. He felt badly for not remembering how Haysham’s death would impact people like Mrs Mayhew. It was unusual to see her cry. She tended to avoid overt shows of emotion or anything else that smacked of sentimentality.
Father Benson sat in the visitor’s chair next to the desk, leaning forward on an elbow as if he might reach out to pat her hand, but thought better of it. “Did you know him well? I mean, apart from his attending church here?”
“I’ve known that family my entire life. My grandmother did the washing for his grandmother.”
“So you and Lord Haysham were friends,” Father Benson said.
“People these days are far too cavalier about the word ‘friends’,” she said sharply. “We were acquaintances, on very cordial terms. I believe that gives me the right to grieve.”
“I’m very sorry,” he said.
The Body Under the Bridge Page 15
