“What is your name?” asked Molly.
Margaret sniffed and did not answer.
“No matter,” responded Molly.
“You know,” she went on, “everyone has personal desires and needs and tastes. So why do they come to me?”
Margaret looked up at Molly.
“Some people seek someone with whom to share these desires, needs, and tastes when they cannot find a person to share them with in their lives. That is what I do. I share people’s special desires and inclinations. And I keep their secrets. Oftentimes, my dear, that keeps these people from destroying their lives—or even destroying themselves.”
Margaret’s moist eyes never left Molly as she listened attentively.
“So that is what this ‘shameless harlot’ may have done for your father and your family. Is there anything else you’d like to call me?”
After a moment of silence, Molly spoke again. “Well if you are not going to call me anything else, may I ask again what I may call you?”
“Margaret.”
Molly paused for a moment.
“Margaret, do you have someone with whom to share your secrets? Especially your special desires or needs?”
“No, not really.” Margaret’s concern had turned away from her father.
“I did not think so,” said Molly. She leaned forward and took Margaret’s hands in hers.
“Do you want to share them with me?”
“I do not know,” answered Margaret.
“Well now you know who I am and what I do. Come back again if you like.”
Margaret gave Molly an embarrassed smile of apology.
“I will.”
2017 The deep voice of Father Adams filled St. Clement’s from the pulpit.
“I had the good fortune of knowing Cecil Tremont when he was a young man during my first tenure here at the church, and then came to know him again at another time in his life during my recent return.”
Don turned to Margeaux sitting next to him. They had not seen each other since the day Squeaky’s body was found.
“Cecil?” he mouthed silently to her with a look of surprise.
“Of course,” Father Adams continued, “we all knew him as Squeaky.”
Margeaux shrugged back at Don as if to say “I guess so.”
She discreetly counted only twelve people in the church for Squeaky’s funeral three days after his body was found. Most were from the church, including Miss Daunting, Father Lanham, and Brandi with an “i.” Margeaux guessed that the few additional people mustered together in a single pew on that weekday afternoon were Squeaky’s friends from the pub. She noted the irony that everyone there represented the two contrasting focal points of Squeaky’s life, the church and the pub. And each place always brought him back to the other.
As Don listened to Father Adams moralize on how life’s temptations can drag one down if one is not attentive to the threat of evil ways, he realized that the vicar was wearing not only a black clerical collar, but all the vicar’s vestments were black, instead of the usual white surplice over a black cassock. He tried unsuccessfully to recall ever seeing black vestments before, even at a funeral, and puzzled over them for a while. The tone of the vicar’s voice sounded the end of the eulogy.
“One can never know the source of every evil. Yet, it is like a lion seeking to devour whom it may. But sleep well, Squeaky, for the lion will seek you no more. Amen.”
The organ started up a hymn, which the twelve people sprinkled throughout the pews stood to sing in the echo of Father Adams’ booming voice. Then with the vicar’s benediction, the service ended in an abrupt anticlimax. Margeaux watched Squeaky’s mates file out of the pew to head for the pub.
“That’s it,” Don said to her. “Squeaky’s life on earth is officially done.”
Margeaux was not sure whether he was trying to be flippant as usual. Then she noticed Father Adams walk over to the side of the church where Detective Steele was obviously waiting to speak with the vicar.
“Don, have you heard anything more about Squeaky’s death?” she asked.
“No,” he responded. “The news reports didn’t say much. Just the basic stats of his life. I’m guessing the police are keeping the details secret for use in interrogating suspects.”
“Do they have any suspects?”
“Don’t know,” he answered. “They’ve talked to a lot of people.”
“Did you see Squeaky’s body after they found him in the churchyard?” she asked.
“No. I really couldn’t see much of anything. But I think we’ll discover some pretty suspicious characters at the top of these two scaffolds.” Don clearly wanted to change the subject. “Are you ready to go up and question them?”
“I am,” she said, grateful for the distraction. “But I have to hurry a bit. I have an important appointment back at college.”
“Have you got your flashlight?” asked Don.
With a nod, she patted the pocket of her jacket.
“Then up you go,” he said as they reached the ladder on the first repositioned scaffold. “Let’s meet our fourth gargoyle.”
At the top, they turned on their flashlights simultaneously. Margeaux said nothing.
“Well, what do you think?” he asked.
She looked over at him and remained silent.
“We’ve got our old friend,” he said as he pointed his flashlight on the familiar pointed ears, sunken eyes, and grinning fangs. “And this other fellow looks sort of familiar.”
Don moved the beam of his flashlight to the gargoyle’s claws resting on the shoulders of the figure in front. Margeaux turned back to the figure.
“Looks like the same figure as across the way. Same simple clothes, a similar vacant look,” noted Don. “But he’s having a little trouble with his goblet. It’s tipped downward at the end of his hand.”
Don walked up for a closer examination.
“Well it’s no wonder,” said Don. “His arm is nothing but a bunch of bones like a skeleton. That’s odd. What do you make of it?”
He turned back to Margeaux and saw the pallor in her face.
“Are you all right?”
“Let’s go look at the roof beam across the way,” she said.
“Don’t you want to take some pictures or notes? This is rather interesting.”
“Later,” answered Margeaux. Her foot was already on the ladder to climb down. “Let’s look at the next gargoyle,” she insisted.
Don could barely keep up with her as she walked briskly down a row of pews across the aisle and past the remaining pews up to the other recently relocated scaffold. She started climbing without pausing. When he followed her to the top, Margeaux’s flashlight was already shining on the wood carving in front of her.
“Wow!” said Don looking over Margeaux’s shoulder. “She’s almost as pretty as you.”
Margeaux scanned the details of the gargoyle and the delicately carved female figure over which it hovered.
“What’s that on the sides of her head?” he asked. “It looks like a wing coming out of each side.”
“It’s a roughly carved rendition of a headpiece popular for fashionable women in the Tudor period,” she answered. “It was called a ‘gable hood’ because its pointed shape resembled the gable of a house. Those wings, as you called them, are decorated side panels called lappets. Gable hoods eventually became extremely ornate with a box-shaped back and two tube-shaped hanging veils that could be pinned up in a variety of fashions.”
Margeaux, having sketched the previous gargoyle on that side of the church, noticed something further that Don did not. This gargoyle’s fangs were framed by upturned lips in a slight smile, and its claws turned inward around the female figure’s neck instead of simply resting on her shoulders.
Well, she’s still not as pretty as you,” said Don. “And you don’t have a demon hovering around you, do you?” he jested lightly.
She gave him a questioning look without smiling.
; “I have to go.”
Don looked surprised.
“Are you sure you have to leave?” he asked. “This is good stuff.”
“Oui. I have a meeting with the master of the college.”
Margeaux quickly climbed down the ladder, left without saying goodbye, and drove faster than she should have on her way back to Cambridge. As soon as she arrived at the college, she looked at her watch. She had ten minutes before her appointment with the master, so she headed right to her study.
After unlocking the door, she moved directly to the window where she tried to calm her jumbled emotions and sort out all she had just experienced.
“No,” she changed her mind. “First I have to think about my meeting with the master.”
Taking a few deep breaths, she scanned the rooftops and looked down at the college court below. Her breathing suddenly stopped.
There was no mistaking the white hair and black collar of Father Adams walking on the cobblestones beneath her window.
ELEVEN
1532 All Father Regis could focus on were the rough calloused hands respectfully clasping the caps of the three men standing before him. Polite but defiant, the men had said their piece. Father Regis lowered his eyes to avoid their expectant looks.
“You and your men have done good work on the new church building. And more, you have been exceedingly patient. I only ask for a bit more of your indulgence. I can say no more good, except that you and your men will be paid.”
“But Father,” one of the men continued. Father Regis calmly endured their complaints one more time as if they could make a difference. But when he looked into their faces, he feared what he would hear next.
“Father, if our men are not paid their wages, they will no longer work on the church.”
Father Regis took on as confident an air as he could muster.
“You will receive your wages, both for past work and to finish the church, in advance of its completion,” he declared. “But you must continue your work until All Hallows’ Day. If you do, the men shall see all their wages even before the winter.”
The priest’s voice was firm.
“You will receive your entire wages at once at that time. Just work through All Hallows’ Eve. Tell your men.”
The three men looked surprised and pleased. With a chorus of thanks, they turned to leave.
“Was that a lie?” the priest worried. “I do not know how it will happen, but I must have faith.”
Struggling with his guilt, Father Regis noticed one of the men had remained standing before him.
“Is there something else, Marlowe?” the priest asked.
“Father, it’s about Bittergreen, the wood-carver.”
“I know him.” Father Regis winced.
“Well, sir, he has a newborn child, and says he has no choice but to move on.”
With obvious discomfort, Marlowe nervously twisted the cap in his hands.
“There are not many men his like—a good man, Father. And there are no men in these parts with his skill. Without him, I do not see how the construction can go forward. I will have no one, let alone a man of his skill, to fashion the roof beams or carve the screens and other fine woodwork.”
“Are not all the men valuable, Marlowe?” Father Regis asked. “And do not some of them have children also?”
“Yes sir. But Bittergreen, sir—”
Marlowe stood there saying no more, waiting uncomfortably until Father Regis reached into a small pouch tied to the belt around his waist and handed two coins to the man.
“Say nothing of this to anyone, Marlowe. These are for Bittergreen.”
“Thank you, Father,” Marlowe said with a bow as he backed away.
Father Regis sat in silence for some time, paralyzed by the predicament he had created. He felt the need to talk with Peter for guidance, but there was no time. Lanham was expecting him. The priest felt guilty that he had started his plan to force the money for the church out of Lanham with Peter’s knowledge of Lanham’s visit to the prostitute in the town.
“Now I must see it through,” he concluded.
At almost every step on his walk from the church to Lanham Manor, Father Regis changed his mind about what he should do and what he would say. He wavered between guilt and a strong conviction that he had no choice if he was to meet the trust of the workmen and complete his life’s work at the church. He was so addled by the time he walked under the great oaks to the door of the manor house that he could not even bring himself to pray for guidance from God before he knocked.
It seemed to Lanham’s servant as he led Father Regis through the dark wood paneling in the manor house to Lanham’s study that the priest was oblivious to all around him. The servant was surprised when the priest refused to be seated while he waited for Lanham.
“Father Regis, do sit down,” Lanham urged when he entered the study a few moments later.
“Richard, I feel that I must speak to you about the woman in the town named Molly,” Father Regis announced in an agitated voice without any pleasantries.
Lanham’s face hardened. “I have nothing whatsoever to say with respect to that woman,” he dismissed the comment with a threatening look.
Only then did Father Regis realize how foolish and badly played was his gambit. In the end, his plan to extort money from Lanham was based solely on a statement from Peter, which Lanham now curtly dismissed. All he had at that point, he realized, was the word of the village idiot against one of the most influential men in Atwelle. Now he desperately feared that he had managed only to damage his prospects badly.
“Father Regis, I know you need funds for the roof and windows of the church.”
The priest waited with his head lowered, expecting Lanham’s wrath.
“And I believe we can possibly reach an agreement in order to make those funds available.”
Completely surprised, Father Regis glanced up at Lanham with immense relief. “How can I help you?” he quickly asked.
“My son is not to become a monk. Is that clear?”
Father Regis looked puzzled.
“I am afraid not. I do not know what I am being asked to do.”
“It may not be entirely simple, but the result is straightforward,” replied Lanham. “You are to see that my son marries, and soon. I cannot do it. It is you who must.”
Father Regis, his mouth hanging open, stared at Lanham in disbelief.
2017 “Please slow down,” Margeaux ordered, “and take a deep breath.”
Miss Weatherby gave Margeaux a look that said “Why ever would I do that.” She shrugged her shoulders, took a perfunctory breath, and launched into a detailed report just as rapidly as before.
“Just start with a summary, if you will,” Margeaux interrupted her student again before looking out the window of her study to listen carefully.
“There is very little information to be found on the use of black vestments in the Church of England. They are not mentioned or sanctioned in the general instructions on such things. So I started again with your reference to known use of black vestments in Norfolk. I went to Church of England data bases for the dioceses of Norwich and Ely in Norfolk and did a search for ‘black vestments’ among the various data bases.” “And what did you find?”
“I found a lot of parishes in Norfolk and a helluva lot of priests and vicars in those parishes going back centuries.”
“Centuries?” asked Margeaux.
“Centuries,” Miss Weatherby confirmed with obvious pride. “And a good number of them, too.” Miss Weatherby paused for dramatic effect. “And I finally found it—a single reference to a black vestment next to the name of a priest. Almost five hundred years ago.”
“What did you do then?”
“I went to bed. I hadn’t slept in two days.”
“Yes, of course. And after that?”
“I carried on looking at the long list of clergy for the last five hundred years in the church where I found the reference.”
“Where was the church?”
“It’s the parish church of Atwelle, a village on the edge of Norfolk. I had to look at a map to locate—”
“Yes, yes. I know the place. What did you find then?”
“As I said, there were no more references to ‘black vestments.’ But after that first reference, every priest and vicar thereafter was listed as ‘OBV entrusted with the cure and protection of souls.’ That designation goes on for centuries, repeated for every one of the listed clergy in that parish. I’m guessing the ‘BV’ stands for black vestment. I don’t know what the ‘O’ stands for,” Miss Weatherby concluded.
“Did you notice any of the names of the clergy on the list?” asked Margeaux.
“I jotted down some of the recent names,” said Miss Weatherby as she sorted through pages of notes.
“The last one on the list is named Charleton. And the one before him is—” She turned over the piece of notepaper. “Adams.”
Margeaux’s stomach tightened at the sound of the name. “You’re sure the name was Adams?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Did you search any further? Are there any other parishes or dioceses with priests designated as OBV?”
“I’ve looked at Norfolk, Suffolk, Cambridgeshire, and Lincolnshire so far,” Miss Weatherby answered with a weary voice. “I found no other priests’ names with the OBV, though.”
“You’re sure? That’s an enormous number of parishes.”
“Can you see my bloodshot eyes, Miss Wood?” Miss Weatherby asked.
“I don’t think you need to carry on looking at every parish in England, Miss Weatherby,” Margeaux replied. The student looked relieved. “Now I’m afraid we’ll have to end early. I must go or I’ll be late for an appointment.”
Miss Weatherby picked up her knapsack and stood up.
“Just write up a brief summary,” Margeaux told her as she headed toward the door. “No need for a full essay quite yet.”
After opening the door, Miss Weatherby paused in thought.
“Miss Wood, the ‘O’ in ‘OBV’—”
The Atwelle Confession Page 12
