The Atwelle Confession

by Joel Gordonson

  Peter gave a fearful nod. After a pause, the sergeant snorted at him and squeezed through the door to leave.

  Once he heard the door close below them, Father Regis turned to Peter.

  “Sit down, Peter,” he ordered.

  “Why would the sergeant be warning you to stay away from the lane to the house of—to the house of that woman? Have you been to see her?”

  Peter was now upset as well as hungry.

  “Peter no visit Molly.” He instinctively knew he had to say something else to be believed, or he might not eat that night. “DuBois visits Molly!”

  Father Regis looked at him in surprise.

  “Lanham visits Molly!” Peter added.

  Father Regis slowly stood up over Peter and asked, “How do you know this?”

  “Peter sits by a door there. It dry. See them go into Molly’s house.”

  “And the sergeant?”

  “He saw them too. He saw me sit there. He touched his sword at me.”

  When Peter looked up, he expected Father Regis to be unhappy with him but was relieved to see the priest ladling vegetables into two bowls. Father Regis placed their bowls on the table and sat down, giving Peter a friendly smile.

  “Peter, thank you once again for your help and counsel. When it comes to raising money for the roof and windows of a church, the Lord moves in mysterious ways. And you have given me the information to make it happen.”

  “Controversy,” Peter repeated slowly with a proud smile at pronouncing the word he remembered hearing.

  2017 Don telephoned Margeaux at the end of the next day. The scaffolding in the other back corner of the nave was now fully assembled, and Nigel Green had told him that another surprise awaited them at the top. Margeaux agreed to meet Don the following morning. As she drove up to the church and parked next to Sally, Don was standing before the large door at the entrance, waving at her with a smile.

  “How’s my favorite research historian today?” he asked in a cheery voice.

  Don seemed to be his usual self. Although Margeaux gave him a pleasant smile in return, she wondered after answering Detective Steele’s questions what Don’s “usual self” really was. She had been thinking about that question all the way to Atwelle.

  “Are you ready for another great discovery?”

  She could tell he was anxious to get started.

  “I’m certainly more prepared than for the last one.” Margeaux pointed at her blue jeans and tennis shoes. “These should work much better for climbing up on a platform.”

  “Right you are,” he responded. “I, on the other hand, dressed up for the occasion.”

  He pointed to his worn and dusty coveralls, though Margeaux could see the tie and the collar of a white shirt visible under the coveralls. Don pushed open the large wooden door and stepped aside to let Margeaux enter. She felt all the usual sensory adjustments of going into an old church. The air was cool on her skin. She squinted in the darker light. A slight mustiness filled her nose. The floor felt hard beneath the soles of her shoes.

  Walking toward the scaffolding, they passed Squeaky who was idly sweeping at the floor with a large push broom.

  “Mr. Whitby—Ma’am.” He stopped to lean on the broom handle as he greeted them.

  “Squeaky, we’re going up the scaffolding again,” Don announced. “It’s another chance for you to ascend to the lofty heights of Christendom, perchance to observe with us another of its mysteries.”

  “Thankee, no,” Squeaky responded as he quickly turned back to his job.

  “Suit yourself,” said Don with a shake of his head. “Sweep on, my friend. Sweep on!”

  Don smiled at Margeaux when they heard Squeaky mutter the word “daft” as they walked away. When they reached the ladder built into the scaffold, Don held out a flashlight to Margeaux.

  “Here you are. A present. Something anyone dealing with evil spirits should have—a source of illumination.

  “Let there be light,” he announced as he stepped back with a wave of his hand to give Margeaux the chance to lead the way.

  Margeaux took the flashlight with a nod of thanks, grabbed the metal tubing of the ladder and started to climb.

  “Don’t look until I get there!” Don called to her when she stood up at the top. He paused frequently as he moved slowly upward.

  “There,” he said when he arrived at her side. “Ready?” They both pointed their flashlights at the roof beam in the ceiling before them and clicked them on.

  The beams of light revealed a face just like the one they had discovered across the way. There was the same evil grin under the eyes peering out from deep sockets over a beaked nose. The creature’s pointed ears and the cape over its shoulder framed its fangs that sat on either side of its crooked teeth.

  “He’s back!” said Don reaching out toward the carved figure.

  “Don’t touch it!” ordered Margeaux. “One bandaged finger is enough.”

  He pulled his hand back at her reminder of the throbbing in his hand. Margeaux explored the carving closely with the beam of her flashlight.

  “It’s quite remarkable how the detail is so similar to the first gargoyle. It’s almost as though they came out of a mold instead of being carved by hand,” she noted.

  “But what this one is looking at is entirely another thing,” said Don as he focused his light on the smaller carved figure resting on the platform at the base of the beam in front of and below the hovering demon. They both studied the figure on which the gargoyle’s claw-like hands were resting.

  “It’s clearly some sort of priest or monk,” said Margeaux. “His clothes could be a monk’s cowl. They’re not ornate like other Tudor dress. But the cut of the hair with the bangs and straight edges most certainly is the tonsure cut of the clergy at that time.”

  “Well, now we have a demon who likes both men and women. No gender discrimination here,” Don replied.

  They studied the carving for a few more minutes and then walked back to the ladder where Don shined his flashlight on the first rung. He took a deep breath before stepping carefully onto the top rung.

  “You really don’t like being up high, do you?” she noticed.

  “Not so much,” Don mumbled as he started the descent. Margeaux followed.

  “Good morning, you two.”

  They heard the greeting as they reached the ground. Father Lanham and Miss Daunting stood waiting for them.

  “We heard from Mr. Green about your discoveries up on the ceiling,” the curate explained, “and were curious about what you found today?”

  Don eagerly described the details of the carvings on the beams above as the young vicar and Miss Daunting listened intently.

  “And Miss Wood here, our noted authority, is going to solve the mystery of the demon gargoyles of St. Clement’s,” he announced with great theatrics.

  They smiled at her politely but looked unconvinced. “We should go tell Father Adams that we found a second gargoyle,” said Don.

  “He knows you are here and chose not to come,” said Miss Daunting in a cold voice. “So I think there’s no need to bother him with the news now.”

  Father Lanham tried to sound more pleasant. “Yes, well—nonetheless, congratulations on your interesting news.”

  The two of them smiled and turned to head toward the church office. As they walked, Don realized that the young man still may not have blinked during their entire conversation. Margeaux turned to him.

  “Don, do you know a police detective named Richard Steele?”

  Don gave Margeaux a surprised look. She could tell he had been caught off guard.

  “Yeah, he was snooping around here recently asking questions about Father Charleton. Persistent bloke. Why do you ask? Did he talk to you?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  Margeaux didn’t like that he asked this question.

  “The truth.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That I did not know F
ather Charleton very long.”

  She looked directly at Don.

  “Do you know anything about Father Charleton’s disappearance?”

  He looked off down the length of the church.

  “Maybe.”

  A look of alarm came over Margeaux’s face.

  “I mean I don’t know anything really,” he continued. “But I found a black clerical collar in the crypt that only the vicars of this parish wear. The police think it might have belonged to Father Charleton.”

  His comment rekindled his own curiosity.

  “I wondered why the vicars at St. Clement’s wear a black clerical collar?” he asked. “A black clerical collar in a small parish in Norfolk. I’d never seen such a thing anywhere else. So I asked around a bit, and the parishioners told me the vicars here have always worn black collars. Might have done so for centuries, one of them said.”

  “There’s a mystery behind that,” Margeaux commented.

  “That’s more of a puzzle for a historian than an architect, don’t you think?” he said as he turned to leave. “Now you have two puzzles in one church.”

  “Who knows?” he called over his shoulder. “There could be more.”

  NINE

  1532 In the golden glow of the candlelight, Margaret’s long hair was being brushed with lingering strokes by her handmaiden. Her mother came into her bedchamber and turned back the quilt on her bed. Margaret gave her a pout.

  “Mother, why may I not go with Papa to any more animal contests?”

  “My darling, you know why. We had such a fright with that bear, and besides, those events are no place for a lady from a prominent family.”

  “That is not true, Mother. You know as well as I that all the lords and ladies of the Royal Court view blood sports frequently. And the accident with Stone Sexton can be avoided easily. Papa would never let that happen again.”

  Her mother shook her head.

  “Please, Mother. Please! Can I go with Papa again?” she begged as she crawled under her quilt.

  “It is up to your father,” was the frustrated answer. “You will have to talk with him.”

  “I will talk to Papa immediately,” Margaret announced, putting her bare feet back on the cold floor.

  Her mother stopped Margaret with a hand on her shoulder.

  “My dear, you are in your nightclothes. You will wake the other children. And besides,” her mother added with a disapproving look, “your father is off to watch those horrid cockfights at the tavern.”

  “Very well,” she responded quickly, “first thing in the morning. I am off to sleep then,” she said. “Give me a kiss, Mother.”

  As soon as she was alone, Margaret slid from under her covers and hastily dressed in the clothes she had just taken off. She drew her shawl around her shoulders as she tiptoed silently down the stairs and across the entryway where she slipped through the door, lowered the latch with a quiet click as it closed, and began the long walk under the light of the moon from the DuBois manor house to the town.

  “A cockfight,” she thought with excitement. While she walked, she remembered vividly the exhilaration of watching Stone Sexton, and the intense experience of actually touching the bear as it died.

  When Margaret heard where her father had gone, she knew immediately what she would do. Once she reached the town she would make her way to a narrow alleyway that ran down a small rise. At the end of the alley was the back of The Greene Man tavern where the cockfights were held outside under torchlight. She could stand unobserved on the hill and watch the fights from a short distance.

  Her long walk only made her more excited as she reached the town. She had no trouble reaching the alley without being seen, but now she hesitated. It was all in dark shadows until the bottom where the torches burned at the back of the tavern. At the sound of men cheering, she turned into the alley and made her way carefully down its dark descent.

  Halfway down, Margaret started to move more quickly. She already felt a thrill from the excited shouts of the men watching the combat under the torches. Her eyes focused on the spot ahead where she knew she could see the spectacle.

  “Not a good place for a young lady this time of night.”

  Though the voice was low, it made Margaret jump with fright. Her breath stopped as a hand reached out of the darkness and held her by the arm. Then she recognized the familiar large moustache in the glow of the torchlight, as the sergeant stepped toward her.

  Before either of them could speak, a door opened across the alley. The sergeant pulled her with him into the shadows.

  They focused on the man and woman silhouetted in the light of the open doorway. The woman leaned over and kissed her companion on the cheek. In turn, he gave her a playful slap on the rump and with a laugh handed her a small purse of jingling coins.

  Margaret knew that laugh. Her eyes filled with tears as she watched her father walk jauntily down the alley toward the tavern, whistling his favorite tune.

  When the door had closed and her father was out of sight, Margaret looked up at the sergeant. The tears were now running down her cheeks. She snatched her arm out of his grasp and fled up the alley.

  As she reached the entrance to the alley, she was startled once again by someone turning into the lane. She recognized the simpleton Peter as she pushed by him and broke into a run in the direction of the DuBois manor house.

  Peter watched her with mild curiosity for a moment, and then settled down into the shadows of his favorite doorway, where he started humming and rocking back and forth. He stopped abruptly when another figure turned the corner and walked purposefully down the alley.

  The sergeant watched the tall man striding toward him in the darkness, until the man approached the door to Molly’s house.

  Molly had just reached the top of the stairs after counting the coins from DuBois. She was about to hide the small leather pouch under the floorboard when the front door was pushed wide open without a knock. Richard Lanham walked brusquely to the middle of the room

  “You saw my son?”

  “I did,” Molly answered, looking down at him.

  “But you have not seen him again.” Lanham sounded cross.

  “I have not.”

  “Is that because he did not want to see you? Were you not persuasive or persistent enough?” His voice was filled with irritation. “You were paid very well to make that happen.”

  “He very much wanted to see me again.”

  Now Lanham looked confused.

  “He did not see me again because I refused him,” she said.

  An angry look came over his face.

  “I paid you to do a job that you know how to do and do well,” he said through tight lips.

  Molly walked back down the stairs and stood in front of him.

  “My job is not to maliciously ruin the future and soul of a promising young man by intentionally destroying his sincere commitment to a higher cause,” she answered. “That may be his father’s will, but it is not mine.”

  Lanham’s jaw clenched and his face grew red. She reached into the folds of her dress and held out the small leather pouch.

  “Here—take this money. It is you who wants to prostitute your son.”

  He stepped over to Molly, his flushed face in hers.

  “You cheap, worthless whore!” he seethed. His hand raised to strike her.

  At that moment, a large gloved hand grabbed his wrist from behind and held it firmly. Lanham’s fist froze, suspended in the air.

  “You will not be hitting a helpless woman,” the sergeant said in a low growl, “no matter who she is.”

  The sergeant all but lifted Lanham off the ground as he led the man by his wrist over to the open door. With a threatening look, Lanham stomped out the door when the sergeant released his arm. The sergeant closed the door firmly and turned back to Molly. Her face was still pale from fright.

  “Thank you, John. I am most grateful,” she said to him, with relief in her voice. “But you know you shoul
d not be here.”

  The large man looked down at her.

  “Molly, you know I love you.”

  His thick moustache moved slightly as his lip quivered underneath.

  “You know I always have, and I always will.”

  2017 “So, Miss Weatherby, that’s the essay subject I’d like you to research for your next tutorial,” Margeaux concluded while trying not to look at the new piercing in her student’s eyebrow.

  Miss Weatherby lowered that eyebrow in thoughtful concentration.

  “A black clerical collar . . . used for centuries by clergy in Norfolk. . . .”

  Margeaux could tell she was intrigued. Miss Weatherby rose from her chair in Margeaux’s college study and wandered over to the window to look out over the rooftops. Margeaux smiled. That view was where Margeaux also went instinctively to ponder any new question.

  “Are you sure it’s only used in Norfolk?”

  “No,” Margeaux answered.

  “Does it predate the Reformation?”

  “I’ve told you all I know,” said Margeaux. “I confirmed its current use in Norfolk and I’ve learned that its origins go back centuries. The rest is for you to sort out.”

  “Black . . .” Miss Weatherby mumbled and mused another moment before looking over with an enthusiastic smile at Margeaux. “I’ll do it, Miss Wood.”

  Margeaux returned the smile.

  “I don’t believe you have a choice, Miss Weatherby.”

  They both laughed.

  “When we next meet, give me the preliminary results of your research up until that point, and we’ll decide on a deadline for your essay then.”

  “Right!’ exclaimed Miss Weatherby as she grabbed her bag of books and bounded toward the door.

  “Oh, Miss Weatherby,” Margeaux interrupted her departure.

  “Yes, Miss Wood?”

  “I don’t mean to intrude on your personal affairs. But how is your brother doing, if you don’t mind my asking.”

  “I don’t mind,” she answered, a slightly pained look in her face. “I heard that he was released from prison.”

  “Well that’s good news. Have you heard from him?”

  “No.” Miss Weatherby shook her head. “It’s such a shame really. He was such a good brother, as I told you. Brilliant, but troubled—a full year into seminary even and then to prison for dealing hard drugs. That’s what drugs will do to you, I guess. They’re bad business in the end.”