The vicar turned to Don with a smile.
“And, I’m happy to say, there should be a sizable sum left over at the end of it.”
“That is gratifying to hear, Father,” said Don. “You’ll have to forgive me if I ask about this subject again. I’ve heard that before when working on churches.”
“Yes, of course,” replied Father Adams with a sigh. “I understand.”
Don paused when they reached the point where the length of the nave intersected with the transept to create the form of a cross in the church’s architecture. He pointed to the side chapel on the left.
“Father Lanham, if you don’t mind my asking an obvious question, does the Lanham Chapel have any connection to your name?”
The young man smiled patiently as if it was not the first time the question had been asked.
“Yes, it does.”
Don and Father Lanham wandered over to the side chapel while Father Adams continued walking down the length of the church, looking up frequently at the roof beams in the dark ceiling.
“Did you grow up in Atwelle?” Don asked him as they paused to inspect the Lanham chapel.
“No, I did not. The family name goes back centuries here, but we have not been in Atwelle or Norfolk for quite some time.”
“How did you come to be the curate here?”
“My religious obligations were not planned,” he answered. “In fact, they were rather unforeseen.”
“What led you to become a man of the cloth?”
“It was the unexpected influence of a person in my life.”
“Who was that?” Don was intrigued.
“I’d rather not say. It’s a private matter. But she has defined my life to come.”
Don saw Margeaux marching toward them and then glanced down the church at Father Adams. He lowered his voice, “Father Lanham, I’m interested in a curious thing about the attire of the clergy here. I’ve noticed that Father Adams wears a black clerical collar and black vestments. Can you tell me their significance?”
Margeaux walked up to them before Father Lanham could respond to Don’s question. “Father Lanham—Don,” she greeted them. “Can we head up the ladder now, Don?”
“Good morning,” Don responded more formally than his usual manner. He turned back to the curate. “Excuse me, Father, but Miss Wood is keen to get on with business. Would you like to join us?”
“Thank you, no,” Father Lanham responded as he moved off. “I should be joining Father Adams.”
Don walked quickly to keep up with Margeaux. “As promised, we were able to move the platform as soon as possible to take a look at our next discovery. After you,” he offered with a sweeping gesture.
Margeaux started to climb with her small rucksack filled with the flashlight, camera, binoculars, and notebook slung over her shoulder. Don followed dutifully.
At the top of the scaffold, they were greeted once again by the demon carved into the roof beam. There was the same evil grin with the exposed fangs and crooked teeth, the sunken eyes, the pointed ears, and the clawed hands reaching out to the smaller figure before him.
“I certainly recognize our old friend,” said Don as he and Margeaux peered closely at the carving. “But the wood preservative and moisture have caused more deterioration to these carvings than the others. What do you think the smaller figure is?”
Despite its badly disfigured head, Margeaux thought she knew what the figure was. She instinctively reached out and stroked its unclothed body with her fingertips.
“I believe it’s an infant,” she said with a slight quaver in her voice. Her fingers moved from the carving’s small plump belly up to its disfigured head where her touch lingered for a moment. “How soon can you move the scaffolding to the next carving across the way?” she asked as she pulled her camera out of the rucksack and started snapping photos.
“I don’t know for sure,” Don answered. “We’re not really done with inspection and repairs on the ceiling where it is now.”
He picked up Margeaux’s binoculars and began examining the ceiling. Margeaux lowered the camera and looked directly at Don.
“Please hurry and move the scaffolding as soon as possible,” she urged. Her request sounded almost like a plea. She looked once again at the carving of the baby and across the church to the opposite roof beam.
“I’ll do what I can,” he mumbled.
Margeaux gazed across the church to the roof beam at the other side. If there were similar carvings on that beam like the others, they were hidden in the darkness of the ceiling.
“Promise me you’ll move the structure over there right away,” she ordered.
“All right. All right. I said I’ll do what I can,” he responded as he placed his foot on the ladder for the first of his cautious steps down.
Margeaux placed her things back in the rucksack and walked over to the ladder. She paused and pointed her flashlight one more time at the small figure in the gargoyle’s grasp. After a worried look, she quickly followed.
THIRTEEN
1532 Peter grinned with pleasure as Father Regis unexpectedly offered to refill his mug of ale from the cask in the priest’s small cell.
“It is all quite remarkable, Peter. Unbelievable, actually,” Father Regis exclaimed with uncharacteristic exuberance. He hummed the ballad he had heard from Margaret DuBois as he also drew himself a rare second mug of ale. Peter drank his ale in one long gulp and belched with another grin as he listened to Father Regis. He had never heard the priest hum before or seen him so happy. With monotone grunts, he tried to imitate the tune coming from Father Regis. The odd sounding combination of their voices filled Father Regis’s room, where they had shared a humble dinner earlier than usual that day.
“You have no idea of my predicament. The workmen were demanding their wages with the threat of stopping their work on the church. And I promised their entire wages for the coming year by All Hallows’ Day though I have not even a farthing to pay them.”
The priest laughed out loud. “Then the good Lord provides for me like an unforgotten sparrow and a lily of the field who does not toil or reap.”
Father Regis clapped his hands in sheer joy.
“First, Richard Lanham to my utter surprise instructs me to see that his son Christopher marries and marries soon. Then, to my amazement, Francis DuBois tells me that I am to propose to Richard that his daughter marry Lanham’s son.
“And if I do, I shall be rewarded with the money to finish the church. I have that from both Lanham and DuBois.”
Father Regis could not suppress another gleeful giggle. He had been talking so quickly that Peter did not even have the chance to repeat any words to please him. Sensing an opportunity, Peter held out his mug hopefully. The priest took the mug, distractedly refilled it, and handed it back without thinking.
“But how to convince Christopher not to take his vows, you might be asking.” He looked at Peter with a conspiratorial expression. Peter wiped the ale from his chin.
“I know exactly how, Peter. Because I myself once faced the decision of whether to take my vows. I know the best tool to change Christopher’s mind.”
Father Regis turned to Peter as if he expected his grinning friend to venture a guess on what that tool was. Peter’s smile grew tentative as he looked around uncertainly, thinking that Father Regis expected him to say something.
‘“It is Margaret, Peter. The girl herself. What better persuasion to give up the vow of chastity than placing before him for the taking all the apparent and enticing advantages of foregoing that vow? And all with the encouragement of his priest and her family.”
Father Regis gave Peter a look of pleased satisfaction before turning serious. “You will have to leave soon. No need to sweep today, my friend. Christopher Lanham will be arriving shortly, and then DuBois is dropping off his daughter so I can discuss with both of them my thoughts for the side chapels for their families.”
The priest gave Peter a confident look. “Clever, eh?”
Peter watched Father Regis pacing about the small room and kept smiling though he had no idea about what the priest was talking. Father Regis eventually settled back onto his cot and fell into deep thought. Peter’s eyes glanced around nervously as he did not know what to do in the unexpected silence.
“But I can only do so much,” Father Regis muttered. “How can I . . .” his thought trailed off unfinished.
“Father Regis.”
At the sound of a young man’s voice, the priest leaped up from his cot and took Peter’s arm.
“Go now, Peter. Go!” Father Regis all but pushed him out the door and down the narrow spiral stairs.
“Hello, Christopher,” Father Regis greeted him with a brotherly embrace.
Christopher and Peter glanced at one another as Peter scurried through the door in the unfinished walls before Christopher stepped back and spoke to Father Regis.
“Father, it is good to see you. Bless me in this holy place.”
The young man kneeled before him.
“Yes, yes,” he said with a distracted look as he placed one hand on Christopher’s bowed head and made the sign of the cross with the other.
“Thank you for inviting me here to discuss the designs for the family chapel,” Christopher said as he rose from his feet.
“Of course,” answered Father Regis. “We happily are approaching the time when such matters must be considered.”
He smiled at the young man.
“I’ve also asked that someone from the DuBois family be here as well. I thought it made sense for both families to be present to discuss the plans for their chapels so that they can complement one another and the church without duplication.”
“Yes, of course, Father. As you deem fit,” said Christopher.
“Father Regis,” another voice called out.
“I believe that is Francis DuBois,” said Father Regis with a nervous smile as he turned to go to the door in the wall.
“Welcome, Francis,” the priest greeted him. “And who do we have here?” Father Regis asked when he saw Margaret standing next to her father. Against her dress of deep green velvet, Margaret’s cascading auburn hair was breathtaking.
“My apologies, Father. I cannot stay because of unexpected business,” announced DuBois. “So I have asked Margaret to speak with you about the family’s chapel. I expect she will be using it much longer than I,” he said with a laugh.
“Oh, Christopher—I did not see you there. Greetings to you,” said DuBois as he walked over to shake the young man’s hand. DuBois looked up and down at Christopher’s cowl. “You have become a man since I last saw you. How is your father?”
“Yes, it has been a while,” answered Christopher. “My father is well, thank you.”
“Christopher, this is my daughter Margaret.” DuBois led her over by the hand to him where she gave a curtsy.
“Good day, Father Lanham,” she said.
“Good day, Margaret,” he said. “But I am afraid that despite my appearance, I am not yet a monk. Please, call me Christopher, just as you did when we played as children.”
Margaret nodded shyly. DuBois and Father Regis exchanged a furtive look of approval.
“I am off to my business then,” said DuBois. “Margaret, the carriage driver will come back and wait for you after I am delivered to my destination. Christopher—Father,” he gave the two men a short bow as he turned and left.
The three of them strolled along the unfinished walls as Father Regis described the construction and the plans for completion of the church.
“It is quiet now that the workmen have gone home for the day,” Father Regis observed as they walked through the blocks of stone and timbers of wood. He picked up a shovel that lay in their path and set it to the side. “It can be quite a commotion when they are at work.”
He stopped and pointed to his left and right.
“Ahead of us will be the altar, and to the right will be the DuBois family chapel dedicated to your ancestors, Margaret. The Lanham chapel, dedicated to the memory of your sainted mother, Christopher, will be to the left.”
The three of them talked for some time about the plans for the chapels. Father Regis was pleased at how the two young people seemed quite interested, and commented not only on their own family chapel, but on the other’s chapel as well. Father Regis seized the mood of the moment.
“My children, we have more to discuss I am sure, but I must excuse myself for awhile to attend to a pressing matter. May I leave it to you two to carry on alone until I can return?”
“Of course, Father, if it is all right with Margaret,” said Christopher with a deferential bow to the young lady.
“That would be fine, Father. We will have everything worked out by the time you return,” she said with a smile.
“That would be lovely,” said Father Regis from the bottom of his heart as he turned to go with a wave.
The two of them wandered on.
“Margaret, it is nice to see you again.”
“And you too, Christopher,” Margaret said, more relaxed now that it was just the two of them.
“It seems long ago that we played together as children,” he commented.
“In some ways it does,” she agreed. “But I suppose that in other ways we remain the same as we were then.”
When they reached the spot where the altar was to be built, they found a dark hole in the ground.
“What is down there?” asked Margaret.
“That is the crypt from the original church,” answered Christopher.
She peered into the darkness.
“Are there dead bodies down there?”
“I imagine so. The original church was built centuries ago. Crypts were built for burials.”
“Remember when we played among the graves in the churchyard?” she asked while circling around the hole to look in from a different angle.
“I remember getting into trouble for it,” he answered.
“We imagined there were witches and devils doing horrible things,” she giggled.
“Yes,” he replied. “And I learned later that in fact they exist and actually do those horrible things.”
Margaret looked up at him abruptly.
“How do you mean?”
“When I studied at the monastery in Bavaria, I learned that the monks there dealt with all sorts of witchcraft, sorcery, and rites of Satan committed by villagers in the region. There were even books in the library on how to recognize such evil and exorcise it from places and people.”
“Was any of it like we used to play among the graves in the churchyard?”
“Now that I think about it, it was.” He smiled at the memory.
“Tell me about it,” she insisted.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
Christopher looked around to confirm they were alone. He described the details of several satanic rites and sorcerer’s rituals that he had studied at the monastery. When he finished, he noticed that her face was quite flushed.
“Margaret, I am sorry if I upset you,” he apologized. “I should not have told you about—”
She walked over and fell to her knees before him, the velvet of her dress in the dirt at the entrance to the crypt. “Father, I want you to hear my confession.”
“Margaret, I told you, I am not yet a monk. I cannot take your confession.”
“Father,” she repeated in a firm voice. “I want you to hear my confession.”
2017 Margeaux was curled up in her favorite overstuffed chair in the corner of her college office. She smiled as she read out loud the cover page to Miss Weatherby’s essay.
“‘Satanic Rites in Bavaria in the Fifteenth Century’—more in the series by Miss Joan Weatherby,” Margeaux announced to the empty room. She turned the essay over and set it down when she heard the knock on her door.
“Come in.”
Margeaux immediately recognized her visitor by the black bowler hat that entered first.
“Good afternoon, Miss Wood. Sorry to interrupt.”
“Yes, Gerald?”
“Well, Miss, there’s a man here to see you.”
He looked slightly uncomfortable.
“You’re not jealous, are you Gerald?”
“Not at all, ma’am,” the porter replied. “He says he’s a policeman.”
Margeaux frowned. “Short dark hair and a dark blue raincoat?”
“That would be him, Miss Wood. Would you like me to show him up?”
“I suppose so,” replied Margeaux without enthusiasm.
Gerald paused at the door.
“Miss Wood?”
“Yes, Gerald?”
“Is everything all right?”
“Yes, of course.”
Gerald did not look convinced.
“If you need anything, at any time, you’ll let me know, won’t you?”
“Yes, thank you, Gerald.”
The porter turned to leave.
“Oh, Gerald,” she called to him, interrupting his departure.
“Yes, Miss Wood?”
“Have you noticed a visitor coming into the college—a white haired clergyman wearing a black clerical collar?”
“Why yes,” he answered. “Quite often lately.”
“And you let him through the gate?”
“Of course,” Gerald replied. “He comes often to visit the master of the college.”
“The master?” she asked with surprise.
“Yes, ma’am. Should I get the policeman now?”
“Oh, yes. Thank you.”
A few minutes later she heard the footsteps of the two men trodding up the narrow staircase. Gerald ushered in Margeaux’s visitor and left the door slightly ajar as he exited the room.
“Good afternoon, Detective Steele,” she greeted him as she rose to shake his hand. She noticed he wore the same dark blue rain coat and smelled of nicotine. She also thought he looked as if he was missing a few hours of sleep.
“Good afternoon, Miss Wood. I’m sorry to trouble you, but would you mind answering a few questions?”
The Atwelle Confession Page 14
