Margeaux could not help but think that the figure with all the tattoos and piercings standing before her looked the least likely person to be lecturing against the evils of drug use.
“I’m sorry if I upset you,” Margeaux apologized.
“No, that’s all right. I appreciate your asking,” she replied. The student’s youthful exuberance returned to her voice. “I’m off to learn everything there is to know about black clerical collars!”
Margeaux listened to the student’s feet hit every other stair for three flights down, and then watched her through the window as she walked toward the college library. Lingering at the window a few more minutes, Margeaux considered several questions of her own.
“Money and mystery,” she summed up her thoughts out loud before grabbing her purse, locking the door to her study, and stepping carefully down the worn stairs. At the bottom, she headed for the college gate and her car.
“Miss Wood!”
Hearing her name, she turned to see the porter Gerald in his black suit and bowler waving at her. He followed the cobblestones that framed the lawn of the college court until he reached her.
“You have a couple of envelopes in your mailbox,” he informed her.
“Are they thin?” she asked.
“I’m afraid so, Miss Wood.”
Margeaux frowned.
“And it might be a bit worse,” he added. “One of the items is an invitation to have tea with the master of the college.”
“Why is that worse, Gerald?”
“Well, it’s been my experience that research fellows who are having difficulty finding funding for their research are invited at some point to discuss with the master their position at the college.”
He saw the look of concern cross Margeaux’s face.
“But then again, maybe he wants to talk about something else,” he offered to console her.
“And then again, maybe he doesn’t,” she responded in a grim voice. “Thank you, Gerald. I appreciate it.”
Driving out of Cambridge, Margeaux resisted the temptation to release her frustration by speeding down the narrow streets. She eventually reached the outskirts of town and started to relax when she was surrounded once again by the flat fields of the fens on her way to Atwelle. After a while, Margeaux turned off her car radio so she could focus her thoughts on the strange situations that seemed to arise with every visit to St. Clement’s.
What was happening at the church, she wondered. Who had tried to scare her at the church when the door slammed in her face? Why had Father Adams observed her at a distance instead of introducing himself? What did Don know that made the police interested in him enough to question her?
And what did the police think was going on, with all their questions? Should whatever happened to Father Charleton worry her now? Her project seemed to be moving along as she expected. Yet the situation was unsettling.
Then there were the gargoyles. A fascinating opportunity. Demonic figures placed inside the church. Hovering over figures that seem both protected and threatened.
“Well, we’ll see the third gargoyle today,” she concluded with anticipation as she pulled up to the church and climbed out of her car.
“Good morning, Miss Wood.”
Margeaux looked up to see Nigel Green finishing a conversation with some of his workmen.
“Good morning. And please, call me Margeaux,” she told him.
“Then call me Nigel,” he answered as he shook her hand.
“And how is the new baby coming along?”
“Little Nicky is doing well, thank you. It’s his father who could do with a little more sleep,” Nigel said with a weary smile.
“The scaffold has been moved to the next roof beam, and you have another surprise in store today,” he confirmed.
“Can’t wait,” she replied. “Is Don inside?”
“Yes, and you’d better go right in. I think he could use a bit of help at the moment.”
Walking through the open church door, Margeaux saw Don talking with Miss Daunting and another woman. As she drew closer, Margeaux was surprised to see the woman arm-in-arm with Don, leaning against him. Her hair was big, teased and bleached blonde. Large eyelashes were glued to her eyelids that were heavy with mascara. Her red high-heeled shoes, tight red jeans, and bright pink top that revealed a great length of cleavage seemed grossly out of place in the church.
Miss Daunting noticed Margeaux approaching.
“Miss Wood, I’d like to introduce you to—”
“Hi! I’m Brandi, with one ‘i.’” The woman held out her hand to Margeaux. Margeaux could not help but notice her long fake fingernails painted with polish that looked like it would glow in the dark.
“I’m Margeaux,” she said, shaking Brandi’s hand. “And I have two eyes.”
Puzzling over the spelling of Margeaux’s name, Brandi gave her a confused look. Don, who had managed to extract himself from Brandi, pretended to cough to keep from laughing. Miss Daunting resumed her introduction.
“Brandi is working with us doing odd jobs in the church and the fund-raising campaign.”
“Been on holiday in Brighton,” Brandi announced. “Working on my tan,” she said as she reached again for Don’s arm.
Don deftly avoided her grasp by pointing at the ceiling.
“There it is,” he said to Margeaux. “All reassembled and ready for our ascent. Shall we head over?”
Margeaux nodded.
“Where’s Squeaky by the way?” Don asked. “I have to offer my traditional invitation to join us. I love the way he refuses it.”
“That horrid man? He drinks too much,” declared Brandi.
“I haven’t seen him about today,” Miss Daunting answered.
“Too bad for him, then. We’ll miss him,” replied Don as he turned and started walking toward the maze of pipes and wood planks running up the church wall to the roof beam in the dark ceiling.
“Isn’t he just luscious?” Brandi whispered with a wink to Margeaux as she walked by to follow Don.
“Friend of yours?” Margeaux asked Don a few seconds later as he started slowly up the ladder.
“You never know,” he answered with a smile down at her before continuing his climb.
Margeaux was surprised at feeling a slight twinge of jealousy. They climbed steadily to the top. Don was careful once more not to look down. When they were both standing on the platform at the top, they clicked on their flashlights together.
There he was with the same evil grin as if he had been expecting them. This gargoyle was similar to the first two, but with slight variations from the hand carving. Also the point of one ear was missing—Margeaux couldn’t decide whether that was by design or that it had come off over time—and the cape over his shoulders was a different design.
The biggest difference, as before, was the figure over which the gargoyle was leaning. The gargoyle’s familiar gnarled claws were resting on the shoulders of a man dressed in plain clothes.
“A tradesman?” Don offered the question that was in both their minds.
“I’m not sure,” Margeaux answered. “I’d say yes if he were holding some kind of tool. But that appears to be a cup or goblet.”
They stepped nearer and examined the figure more closely with their flashlights.
“And his face has sort of a dull look about him,” said Margeaux. “Look at his expressionless features and slack open mouth. I don’t get the impression that the wood-carver was trying to suggest a man of any intellect.”
The two of them puzzled in silence over the figure for a few more minutes until Margeaux started reaching into her coat pockets.
“I’ve come a bit more prepared this time,” she said as she pulled out a tape measure, a pad of sketch paper, and a camera with a flash attached.
“That’s a pretty fancy contraption. It looks expensive.” Don eyed the camera.
“It is,” she answered as she began measuring the gargoyle. “It’s great for taking pictures in
very low levels of light. I borrowed it from Gerald. He’s a friend at college.”
“Some sort of professional photographer?” asked Don.
She noticed he tried too hard to make his question sound casual.
“He’s the head porter at college.”
“The head porter is a professional photographer?” asked Don.
“No. But he’s a man of many surprising talents.” With respect to jealousy, Margeaux knew how to give as well as get.
After taking more measurements of both figures, Margeaux grabbed the camera and started shooting.
“Come on, let’s have a little smile from you two,” Don said to the carvings as if they were posing.
“That’s spooky,” said Margeaux after the camera flashed. “I could swear that gargoyle gave me a bigger smile. All right, now you go on over there and let me have a shot of the three of you with a big smile.”
She looked over at him. The grin was gone from his face. He did not move or say anything. He just stared at the gargoyle and the figure of the man in front. After an uncomfortable moment, Margeaux picked up the sketch pad where she had written down the dimensions of the figures.
“Could you hold the flashlights so I can make some notes and sketches?” she asked.
Don was uncharacteristically quiet as Margeaux worked. Eventually he asked a question.
“Have you spoken to Detective Steele again?”
When she glanced over at him, his eyes were fixed on the gargoyle and the figure of the man.
“No.”
When he said nothing more, she went on.
“He didn’t ask anything particularly alarming or incriminating. I assume it was just routine to talk to me about Father Charleton’s disappearance.”
“But after all the time since Charleton disappeared, there must be some reason why the police are asking you questions now.”
“Indeed,” thought Margeaux. But she just shrugged in response.
After a while, Don started looking about at the ceiling and the church below.
“It’s a funny thing about churches,” he said. “A church is the house of God—consecrated ground, a holy place for His worship.
“Yet this sanctified place exists not because of God’s holiness; it really exists because of the evil that people do. People are compelled to go to church because of sin. So this holy place is actually about evil people and their evil deeds. Ironic isn’t it?”
She looked over at him. He was staring once again at the gargoyle.
“Well with all the evil people and evil deeds in the world, you could also conclude that the church is not irrelevant in today’s society. There’s nothing ironic about that,” she responded.
Their heads jerked up at the sudden sound of a chorus of sirens pulling up outside the church. Margeaux and Don gathered their things quickly and hastily descended. By the time they reached the floor of the church, it was empty. Following the sound of commotion outside, they hurried through the open door where they were partially blinded by the flashing lights of two police cars and an ambulance.
Around the corner of the church, Margeaux and Don saw Miss Daunting and Father Lanham standing together with grim looks on their faces. Brandi was holding onto Father Lanham’s arm, her other hand covering her eyes.
As they approached the group, Margeaux and Don saw two constables roping off an area around the tall grass against the wall of the church where Detective Steele was kneeling. When Detective Steele stood up, they could see a body lying next to the old wooden ladder leaning on its side against the wall in the grass.
“I found him lying out here,” Father Lanham said to them. “It’s Squeaky.”
Margeaux saw Don’s face go pale.
“Where’s Father Adams?” she asked. No one answered or seemed to know.
Detective Steele looked toward where they were standing. Walking over, he blocked the group’s view of the crime scene until he neared them and the two constables moved to the side. Margeaux looked past the detective. When she could make out the body in the tall grass, a sick look came over her. She saw Squeaky’s arm slung over the side rail of the old wooden ladder. The arm was skeletal. No flesh, no muscle.
Margeaux stumbled over to the church where she placed her forearm and head against the cold hard stone of the wall to steady herself and erase the horrifying scene. She felt someone’s hand on her shoulder.
“Are you okay?”
Margeaux heard Don’s voice next to her. She reached over and pushed his hand away.
TEN
1532 DuBois sat hunched over the account book on his desk. His wife walked over and stroked his thick head of hair. In the sunlight streaming through the window, she noticed even more gray among his auburn waves.
“It cannot be as bad as all that,” she tried to calm him.
“I am afraid it is, my dear,” he declared. He frantically scanned the columns of numbers before him, unable to see any answers to his problems.
“But the workers in the fields have been bringing in so much grain and wool,” she replied.
“And with the prices they are fetching, it is all worth a quarter of what we took in last year.”
He slammed the ledger shut and leaned back, holding his head in his hands.
“And Lanham is up to his old tricks,” he growled. “I learned today that he is corresponding with the king’s chancellor with respect to establishing the port and controlling its revenues. Evidently he is trying to convince the king that if he is not given control over the port, he might not be able to give a return on the king’s investments in Lanham’s salt mine.”
“Will that work?” she asked.
“It is a bold move if it does not ultimately anger the king as an extortionist threat.”
“But if it does anger the king, it would put you in a good position to take control of income from the port, would it not?” his wife asked.
“That depends on the pope,” muttered DuBois.
“The pope? How is that?”
“If His Holiness refuses to annul the king’s marriage, or if a Peter’s pence tax is imposed on all of us while the king is lacking funds for his treasury, we loyal Catholics will be in no position to expect anything favorable from the king. There is talk of the king strongly enforcing the Statute of Praemunire, which outlaws a religious tax to be collected and those monies sent out of the country. If there comes a Peter’s pence upon us, it would be an offence under this statute that could result in the Crown taking our lands and chattels.”
DuBois let out a scornful laugh.
“But if I don’t come up with a solution to paying our debts coming due, we will have nothing to worry about. We will all be in debtor’s prison without anything for the king to seize.” DuBois slammed his fist on the writing table. “What can I do?” He stood up in frustration and stomped over to the window.
“Husband,” his wife addressed him in a quiet voice as if to remind him of something.
He looked out into the sunlight before he turned to face her.
“I know,” he said with a heavy sigh. DuBois walked over to the door of his study and glanced out in both directions.
“Where is Margaret?” he asked.
“I have not seen her,” his wife answered.
DuBois closed the door firmly and returned to the window.
“All right. We will marry off our daughter for a handsome payment to us for the privilege.”
His wife nodded with firm agreement. DuBois stared out as if hoping to find a solution to his dilemma in the landscape outside the window. “We need someone with significant wealth who is sympathetic to our position and has need of a young beautiful wife,” he mused. “And we must find such a person quickly.”
They both puzzled over the situation in silence. After a few moments, DuBois’s face lit up with surprise followed by a satisfied smile. “It will take some doing,” he said hesitantly. “But I think I have the unlikely answer.”
His wife walked over to him an
d with a proud look, gave him a triumphant kiss.
“I knew I could count on you.”
While DuBois was making a plan to save his family, Margaret was on her way to do what she thought was necessary to do the same. She walked up to the door of Molly’s house in the alley, swallowed hard to summon her courage, and knocked loudly.
A look of surprise came over Molly’s face as she opened the door. From the girl’s distinctive features and auburn hair, Molly knew immediately who stood before her.
“May I help you?” Molly asked with a cautious look up and down the alley.
“Stop seeing my father,” Margaret ordered.
Molly studied her up and down, from her crescent-shaped cap to the puffed sleeves attached to the bodice on top of her gathered petticoat and skirt.
“Won’t you come in?” Molly invited as she stepped back to open the door wide.
Margaret hesitated, but, not wanting to look weak, nodded and stepped in. Molly closed the door and turned to her.
“If you do not want me to see your father, maybe it is him you should be talking to, not me.”
Margaret was at a loss for words. She never expected such a response; nor had she planned what to say beyond her command at the door. Her face turned red with embarrassment.
“You are a shameless harlot who is seeking to destroy my family,” she finally blurted out.
Molly took a deep breath.
“Do you know why your father comes to see me?”
Margaret gave no answer.
“It is not because he does not love your mother—or you,” said Molly.
The tears in Margaret’s eyes now ran down her cheeks.
“Won’t you please sit down?” Molly gestured to the chair in which DuBois liked to sit.
Margaret moved to the chair where she dabbed at her face with a kerchief. Molly gave her a moment while she looked at the floor to avoid sobbing.
“People visit me for a great number of different reasons,” Molly said finally in a soft voice as she seated herself where she could look directly at Margaret.
The Atwelle Confession Page 11
