“Does this church keep everything?” Benson asked.
Father Gilbert chuckled. “We’ve tried. Remember, Anglicans are mostly English bureaucrats in vestments.”
The mantelpiece clock chimed midnight when they found a single piece of paper dated from 6 May 1886. It was a letter from the Reverend Francis Todd responding to the Mayor of Stonebridge. The Mayor had complained about the “disruptive” work going on at St Mark’s. The work in question, Todd explained in his reply, was to allow proper drainage from the church, to alleviate the ongoing spring flooding in the crypt.
Father Gilbert fiddled with his pen.
“Is that significant?” Benson asked.
“I’m not aware of any particular drains going out from the crypt.” Father Gilbert picked up his mobile. “I’ll ring Mr Urquhart.”
“It’s past midnight,” Benson reminded him.
“He’s a Scot. They never sleep.”
Benson pointed to Father Gilbert’s empty mug to see about a refill. Father Gilbert nodded. Benson left with the two mugs in hand. Punching the speed-dial, Father Gilbert pushed the speaker button. Mr Urquhart picked up on the second ring.
“Yes, Father?” It sounded like the television was on in the background. “Don’t tell me the pump has packed it in already.”
Father Gilbert listened. The low rumble was gone. “Oh. Now that you mention it…”
“It’s old,” Mr Urquhart said.
Father Gilbert called out, “Father Benson, will you check the pump in the crypt, please?”
“Don’t ask the poor man to do that,” Mr Urquhart said. “It’s a cantankerous machine. I’ll be right over.”
“We’ll take care of it,” Father Gilbert said and stood up. “But you can come with me.”
“Eh?”
“The wonder of mobile phones. I’ll carry you with me,” he said. He came around his desk and out of the office. He looked over at the coffee machine, expecting to see Benson. A new pot was brewing but Benson was gone.
“Tell me about the drains going out of the crypt,” Father Gilbert said as he walked down the hall. Small sconces – once gas, now electric – dotted the walls and cast a dim, pale light that didn’t so much illuminate as emphasize the shadows.
“I don’t know of any drains.”
“Built by Francis Todd in the 1880s?”
“If the drains existed, we wouldn’t be having so many water problems down there,” Mr Urquhart said.
Father Gilbert was puzzled. “But they were done. I have the documentation.”
Silence from Mr Urquhart. The sound of a television voice in the background. Finally, he said, “Unless they’re plugged up.”
“Where would they be?”
“The only place I can think is behind the old altar.”
Old altar? Father Gilbert’s heart rate quickened.
“The one from the nave,” Mr Urquhart continued. “It was moved to the crypt after the new one was put in – right before Germany invaded Poland.”
Father Gilbert reached the door to the crypt – an arched, wooden monstrosity that looked like it had come from the set of a Robin Hood movie. It was closed and locked.
The key was kept in a wooden lock-box to the left of the door. He took out his own set of keys, hoping he had the right key for the lock-box. A small skeleton key fitted perfectly. Retrieving the door key from the box, he then opened the door to the crypt. Considering its size and weight, it opened easily and quietly on greased hinges. “Well done, Mr Urquhart,” he said.
“For what?” the Scot asked.
“Easy-opening doors,” Father Gilbert said.
The first thing that hit him was the smell of damp, followed by the odour of burning candles. Then, to his surprise, he caught a hint of cool air. The damp made sense, the smell of both candles and cool air didn’t.
The stone steps angled downward, curved around a supporting pillar, and disappeared to the left. He thought he saw a dull yellow glow.
“That’s odd,” he said.
Mr Urquhart said something in response, but the call broke up. Father Gilbert looked at the screen of his phone and saw the signal was gone.
He continued downward, thinking about the altar – was it the altar Francis Todd had used? – sitting in the crypt. It should have been destroyed years ago. Why hadn’t he known it was there?
He felt the same feelings he’d had at Todd’s house: an oppression, a mocking presence. He rounded the pillar and suddenly froze. What he saw caused him to back up, to retreat behind the pillar. Then he peered around again.
At the far end of the crypt was the old altar, a marble table with heavy wooden legs and gold embellishments. A prone body, its head covered with a cloth, lay on top. There were candles burning at both ends. Lit candles were also placed on the flat tops of the various tombs. A black-robed figure with his head covered and his back to Father Gilbert stepped up to the altar. His head was bowed as if in prayer.
A subtle movement to the right produced another black-robed figure from the shadows, carrying a large open book, holding it high like an acolyte presenting the Scriptures. The book was carefully placed on the altar, propped up against the prone body. There were low murmurings and whispers that Father Gilbert couldn’t make out.
This was the black mass. And Father Gilbert wondered if this was some sort of vision – another vision like Colin Doyle on the tower, or the sword-bearer in the vicarage – of one of Francis Todd’s Society rituals.
If it was real, then how did these three figures get into the church?
The candles flickered from a flow of cool air. He squinted and his gaze crossed to a far corner at the left of the altar. Normally a vertical column of three grave markers – similar to the ones he’d seen at the mausoleums – filled the wall. But now they were swung away, like the three panels of a door on a hinge. Instead of the graves in the wall, there was a passage leading into a cavern-like darkness. A light flickered somewhere in that darkness, with the consistency of an oil lamp or a candle.
He knew then that this was the work Francis Todd had done – the drains that weren’t drains at all. And this was how the members of the Society could get into and out of the church. This was how Richard Challoner was seen going into the church but not seen coming out again.
Father Gilbert looked back at the altar. The second figure was out of his view. The one at the altar picked up a sword – it had to be the Woodrich sword – and held it up horizontally over the body on the table. An incantation was being said. A glint of candlelight caught the jewel of a ring on the forefinger of the right hand of the black-robed figure. The Woodrich ring, to be sure.
Father Gilbert saw it all clearly. The figure standing at the altar was playing the role of celebrant. The other was assisting. The body on the altar was being sacrificed.
If he was watching a scene from the past, then there was no guessing who the players were. If it was in the present, then he had to wonder whom he was looking at. Was it David Todd or Alex Wilton or Mary Aston? Or maybe it was another group of people he’d overlooked. One of the Hayshams? Macaulay? He’d seen enough double-crosses and betrayals in his life to know that the robed figures could be someone he knew – and trusted.
The robed celebrant turned the sword, grabbing it by the hilt. He lifted it high with the point directed at the body on the table.
Father Gilbert had to do something. He looked around and saw a shovel resting against the wall. He carefully picked it up and crept towards the altar.
He was only a few steps away, readying to take a swing, when he felt cold steel against the back of his neck.
“Drop it,” a woman’s voice said.
He dropped the shovel. It clanged loudly against the stone floor.
The black-robed figure at the altar turned around, the sword held up. The face under the cowl came into the light. It was David Todd. His eyes were wide, his face rigid, and Father Gilbert wondered what kind of drugs he’d been taking.
The
barrel of the gun came away from his neck. Mary Aston carefully stepped around him as she pushed the monk’s hood from her head.
“A black mass? Honestly?” Father Gilbert asked them as calmly as he could manage.
Todd said to Mary, “Make sure we’re alone.”
She turned just as Father Benson called out from the top of the stairs.
Father Gilbert opened his mouth to warn Benson. But Todd was fast, smashing the hilt of the sword against the side of Father Gilbert’s head.
He stumbled and went down hard onto the concrete floor.
CHAPTER 40
Father Gilbert felt strong hands on his arm, helping him to sit up.
He turned his head, trying to shake off the pain.
“Are you all right?” Benson asked, very close to Father Gilbert’s ear.
“This is the second time you’ve had to help me up,” he said. His voice sounded foreign to his own ears. The pain on the right side of his head was sharp. He felt a trickle of blood working down the side of his face. At least he didn’t hit me on the same side as my other wound, he thought.
David Todd stood nearby, the sword held up, ready to stab. He looked at Mary, who had the gun trained on them. It was a .22 calibre pistol. Small but effective at this range.
Father Gilbert pressed his hand against a nearby pillar to stand up.
“It’s better if you stay down,” Todd said.
“I’d rather stand,” Father Gilbert said, wondering if Todd would force him to his knees. He struggled to his feet with Benson’s help. A raw ache worked through his hip. As he rose up, his eyes went to a pentagram scratched into the stone on the pillar.
“All right,” Benson said sternly. “You’ve had your fun.”
Father Gilbert wondered, absurdly, why people so often resorted to clichés in times of stress. Too many TV detective shows, he thought. He saw past David Todd to the body on the altar. The cloth had fallen from the head. It was DI Alex Wilton. His eyes were closed, but his chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm.
Father Gilbert turned to Mary. “So this was your plan – to get hold of the Woodrich Set.”
She didn’t answer, though her lips quivered. She shook with nervous energy.
“Did you seduce David – or was it the other way around? Who wanted what?” he asked.
“He’s trying to solve the case,” Todd said derisively. “Spare me!”
Father Gilbert kept his eyes on Mary. “You’ve been playing us all, haven’t you?” He rubbed the side of his head. He felt the slick spread of blood on his face and fingers.
“Do I let him talk?” Mary asked Todd.
“It doesn’t matter. The mass has been interrupted. We need to start again.” Todd turned away from them and busied himself at the altar. He put the cloth over Wilton’s face again. He appeared to be doing a reset of the stage.
“What was the motivation for you, David?” Father Gilbert asked. “Greed? Power? Love?”
Todd ignored him and continued his work at the altar. He flipped the pages in the book as if trying to find his place.
“What about Alex? Did you charm him specifically?” he asked Mary. “Or was it just a policeman you needed? Either Wilton or Sanders, right? Someone who could get what you needed – the medallion, access to the mausoleum to find the sword. I imagine you could have seduced either one of them.”
She watched him, the .22 poised. “Are the police coming?” she asked.
Father Gilbert shrugged. “Does it matter?”
He realized that Benson’s hand was still on his arm, holding tight. Benson was watching them all closely with a dangerous look in his eye. Father Gilbert wanted to tell him not to try anything, but didn’t know how.
“We should stop, David,” she said.
“No!” he snapped.
“I’m curious about the line between the truth and your lies,” Father Gilbert said to Mary. “That whole business about the shadow -man – the one who killed Sanders.”
She flinched. “What I told you was true.”
“Then you’re delusional,” he said. “You killed Sanders after he found the sword.”
“I didn’t.”
“It couldn’t have been Todd, because he was still locked up. Unless it was Alex. But I can’t believe he would kill a fellow police officer. Even for you.”
“You’d be surprised to learn what some men will do for me. I’m very good at what I do for men.” Her gaze was fixed on Father Gilbert. “You would have been very impressed.”
“I’m glad I missed the chance,” he said.
“Which one of you killed Haysham?” Father Gilbert asked in a “by the way” tone.
Mary frowned and her eyes went to Todd. “That wasn’t part of my plan.”
“You didn’t have the sword then. What did you use?” Father Gilbert asked Todd.
Todd didn’t answer.
“Another sword – to mimic the look of a so-called Avenging Angel?”
A grin from Todd. “One must improvise at times.”
“And one of you killed Adrian Scott to get the archives,” Father Gilbert said.
“Remember. I was with you,” Mary said, her eyes darting to Todd again.
“So we have two plans at work here,” Father Gilbert said. “Are you sure you’re both on the same page?” He tried to sound confident, even cavalier, but he recognized that the situation was more dangerous than he’d thought. Mary Aston wanted the Woodrich Set and had created an elaborate scam to get it. Todd was operating from a different motivation altogether. “Was the Society part of the ruse to keep us distracted? The clues, the pentagrams…?”
“How did you manage to give Clive Challoner a heart attack?” Benson asked Mary, his voice a harsh rasp.
“That was a coincidence,” Mary said.
“No it wasn’t,” Todd said over his shoulder.
“Challoner simply dropped in the front hall while we were talking,” Mary added.
“Talking about what? Did you scare him with a lot of chatter about the evil Society and the book?” Father Gilbert asked. “Was he still alive when you left him? Could you have saved his life and didn’t?”
She didn’t answer – and he saw her in his mind’s eye, watching Challoner die, then scratching the pentagram in the doorpost and leaving.
Father Gilbert nodded to the altar. “What about Wilton? What does he get for bringing you the medallion and the Chronicle? Or is his reward the honour of being sacrificed?”
Mary’s eyes shifted to Todd, then back again. She didn’t speak.
“We’re all going to be sacrificed,” Benson said. His grip tightened on Father Gilbert’s arm.
“That’s what they think,” Father Gilbert said. His attention went back to Mary. “That’s right, isn’t it?”
Creases gathered on her forehead. The gun trembled in her hands. “You shouldn’t have come down here,” she said softly. “Everything would have been all right if you hadn’t come down.”
“All right for who – Wilton?”
“It’s all for show,” she whispered. “David only wants to see what happens with the Set in the black mass, that’s all.”
Father Gilbert felt a veil of darkness cover them. It came with a thought, a recognition of their true situation – and whom they were dealing with. “Mary, you do know that David plans to be the only one to leave here alive?”
Her eyes widened, her mouth moved, but she didn’t speak. She shook her head.
“You don’t really believe he went along with this in order to put on some robes and do a little black mass for a few thrills, before you run off together?” Father Gilbert said. “The Woodrich Set is powerful beyond just the money. He’s taking this seriously.”
She tightened her grip on the pistol.
“I saw the look in his eyes at the police station – and at my house. I’ve seen it before. He was afraid at first, not sure of his role, but then he crossed the line.” He turned to Todd, who was now facing them. “It was a struggle for
you, wasn’t it, David? You fought hard. But not hard enough.”
Todd glared at him.
Father Gilbert pressed on. “You want to take your place in the Society. Perhaps start a new one. Is that why you recruited Colin Doyle? It wasn’t about spying on Haysham. It was to befriend Doyle so you could get your hands on the medallion. You knew it would show up on Haysham’s estate. But how?”
A slight twitch came to Todd’s lips.
Father Gilbert came to another realization. “You struck a deal with Jack Doyle under the guise of corporate espionage and found out that Colin had the Doyle family papers. Was that it? And then you found the admission somewhere that it was a Doyle who had played the Avenging Angel and killed Joshua. Did you hope that the medallion was buried under the bridge with your ancestor?”
“The Doyles were fools to lose the medallion like that,” Todd said with a sneer. “They still are.”
“So Colin was after the medallion. But what happened? Had he read the papers? Did he decide he didn’t want to take his place after all?”
“He was a coward,” Todd said. “He was glad to have the money, but not the responsibility.”
Mary exhaled sharply. “I had nothing to do with any of that,” she said.
“How embarrassing. David was playing you while you were playing everyone else.”
Todd chuckled, his face twisting. “I may cut your tongue out before we’re finished, Father.” His voice was low and seemed to come from somewhere other than his mouth.
A chill shot down Father Gilbert’s spine. It wasn’t Todd’s voice, but one he’d heard a few years ago.
Shocked, Mary snapped her head around at Todd. “David?”
Todd’s sneer twisted into a forced smile. “I’m sorry,” he said. He still held the sword, but there was blood on it. “Let’s continue.”
Benson gasped and let go of Father Gilbert’s arm.
Father Gilbert’s mind raced with the various scenarios and contingencies of how to get them out of there alive.
Mary stepped forward. “David! What are you doing?”
“We need blood for the ceremony. Alex’s will do. It’s why he’s here, after all.”
The Body Under the Bridge Page 29
