The Atwelle Confession

by Joel Gordonson

  “How nice,” the master replied. “Good to see you again, Margeaux. Do keep me informed about your research.”

  After closing his study door and returning to his desk, he picked up the phone.

  “Jane, has Father Adams arrived yet?

  “Very good,” he added after a pause. “Please bring him in at once.”

  SEVENTEEN

  1532 The sergeant nodded casually to a man coming out of The Greene Man when he turned into the narrow lane behind the building and tried to appear that he had no particular purpose there. Once he drew nearer to Molly’s house, he glanced around to check that he was not being watched. His insides grew tight as he felt the usual anxious anticipation of seeing her while still steeling himself to face the inevitable disappointment of rejection.

  Upon reaching her house, the sergeant once again stopped and looked around carefully. He could see no one, and no one could see him. Nervously, he smoothed his mustache with a gloved hand before reaching out to knock on the door. His hand stopped in midair when he noticed the door was slightly ajar.

  He slowly pushed the door open. “Molly?” he called out tentatively.

  Hearing no answer, he stepped inside and called out her name once more. After a moment’s silence, he closed the door quietly and took two measured, muted steps into the room. Then he saw a few drops of blood on the floor next to the thick wooden post that supported the stairs to her bedroom.

  The sergeant slowly slid his sword from its scabbard. He stepped noiselessly over to the wooden post and studied the blood. Preparing to move guardedly up the stairs, he looked up at the door to Molly’s bedroom.

  With a jerk of his head, his eyes jolted shut as something splashed on his brow. Before his hand reached his brow, another drop hit his forehead. The sergeant stepped away and wiped at his face. When he saw the wet red smear on his fingertips, he looked up to see the drops of blood beginning to fall steadily from the top stair.

  The sergeant bounded to the top of the stairs with astonishing speed and banged open the bedroom door with the hilt of his sword.

  “My God—No!” he cried out.

  He turned his head away, his fist gripping the handle of his sword pressed against the side of his head. Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to force from his mind the sight of the pool of blood spreading from Molly’s headless corpse.

  The sergeant finally forced himself to look back on the room. His eyes searched for any sign of her beautiful blonde curls until he could stand the sight of the horror before him no longer. Stumbling back, he spun around and careened down the stairs where he blindly lurched back over to the wooden post.

  “No!” he cried out again in a voice filled with pain.

  Tears streamed from his eyes as he looked once more at the drops of her blood falling on the floor.

  “No!” he shouted once more, this time in rage.

  He raised his sword above his head with both hands and struck the thick wooden post below the stairs with a stunning blow. Chips of wood flew across the room as he raised the sword above his head a second time.

  “No!” he yelled again as the sword hacked another deep wound into the wood of the post.

  “No—no—no—no!”

  With each successive strike of the sword to the wood, his cries became fainter. Breathing hard, he paused before slowly raising the sword even higher over his shoulder and striking the post with a final great blow that made the whole house shudder. The edge of the sword buried itself into the wood so deeply that when the sergeant tried to yank it out, the sword would not budge. He tried once more without result. With a frustrated sob, he gave the sword a third, much weaker pull, that again was unsuccessful.

  Grabbing the handle of the sword with both hands, he balanced on both feet spread wide for a last effort to lurch the sword free when suddenly he stopped. His shoulders dropped. His hands fell from the sword and his arms hung limp. Slowly his legs buckled until his knees hit the floor with a thump.

  The sergeant’s head hung between his hunched shoulders. He breathed hard as he remained kneeling. Without raising his head, he lifted an arm and rested his hand on the handle of the sword stuck solidly in the wooden post.

  Surrendering to reality, his breathing turned into small sobs until his big shoulders started heaving uncontrollably with weeping.

  2017 It was as if the low threatening clouds above St. Clement’s had seeped inside its walls to brood over the people filling the church. Surrounded by Brandi’s many friends, Margeaux and Don sat next to Miss Daunting and Father Lanham to pay their respects at her funeral. Though hearts were heavy at her mysterious death, there also was unspoken anxiety weighing on every villager from the unsolved disappearance of Nigel Green’s son.

  Father Adams stepped into the pulpit slowly and opened the large Bible lying in front of him.

  “From the Book of Job,” was all he announced without raising his eyes. His deep sonorous voice made the words sound as if they were directed individually to each person sitting before him.

  And the Lord said unto Satan, From whence comest thou? And Satan answered the Lord, and said, From going to and fro in the earth, and from walking up and down in it.

  And the Lord said unto Satan, Hast thou considered my servant Job, that there is none like him in the earth, a perfect and an upright man, one that feareth God, and escheweth evil? And still he holdeth fast his integrity, although thou movedst me against him, to destroy him without cause.

  And Satan answered the Lord, and said, Skin for skin, yea, all that a man hath will he give for his life. But put forth thine hand now, and touch his bone and his flesh, and he will curse thee to thy face.

  And the Lord said unto Satan, Behold, he is in thine hand; but save his life. So went Satan forth from the presence of the Lord, and smote Job with sore boils from the sole of his foot unto his crown.

  And he took him a potsherd to scrape himself withal; and he sat down among the ashes. Then said his wife unto him, Dost thou still retain thine integrity? Curse God, and die.

  But he said unto her, Thou speakest as one of the foolish women speaketh. What? Shall we receive good at the hand of God, and shall we not receive evil?

  Father Adams slowly looked up at everyone and asked them, “And shall we not receive evil? We come here to present ourselves before the Lord, as the people of Atwelle have for centuries. Would not Satan, going to and fro in the earth and walking up and down in it, also come among us?

  “We receive good at the hand of God, but does that mean we should expect to receive only good at all times? Shall we not also receive evil?” he asked again.

  “Would not Satan and his agents commit his evil rites that touch our bone and our flesh? And just how could Satan come among us? Is it the vicious act of one deranged person who would do the Devil’s bidding? Or would he test us all on a grand scale to see whether all of us will eschew evil and hold fast our integrity?

  “Has Satan not tested us by using the foundations of our society to smite all of mankind with sore boils from the soles of our feet to the crown of our heads? For the society of mankind is a history of satanic rites.

  “In a ‘civilized society,’ slaves were tortured with the rending of their flesh and the denial of their freedom while they lived. In our ‘civilized society,’ the entire lives of serfs were given by force to feudal lords. Our ‘civilized society’ was revolutionized by the greed of industry, sickening men and women as if the Devil himself invidiously commanded that the very labor of their hands should smite them with sore boils.

  “Satan claimed to God that ‘Skin for skin, yea, all that a man hath will he give for his life.’ Does not mankind use the skin of one race to suppress another ‘for his life’ as if committing a rite directed by Satan himself?

  “And how better to curse God to His face than to destroy the great gift that He gave to sustain us by cannibalizing the planet on which we live to satisfy our human appetites for pleasure instead of meeting the needs of human suffering.
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  “The rites of Satan in our lives every day, whether through the acts of men and women or through our so-called civilized society, touch our bone and flesh with the sore boils of war, violence, crime, hunger, and suffering, from the soles of our feet unto the crowns of our heads.”

  Father Adams fell silent as his eyes met those looking up at him.

  “And shall we not receive evil?”

  He paused.

  “We know from Brandi’s death that we shall. The question is whether we will remain upright, fear God, and retain integrity in the face of such evil.”

  His voice turned ominous.

  “Or curse God and die.”

  With a concluding gesture, he bowed his white head and closed the Bible. Several minutes later, the service ended. Margeaux and Don stood in line to exit the church.

  “Not much solace there,” Margeaux commented.

  “Well, he did leave out the fire and brimstone,” offered Don.

  When they stepped outside, the fresh air, even under the gray sky, raised their spirits until they heard their names called out by a familiar voice. Detective Steele approached them, accompanied by an official-looking person.

  “Miss Wood, Mr. Whitby, this is Chief Inspector Russell. He is assisting in the investigation, in light of its increased complexity.”

  The chief inspector gave each of them a brief businesslike handshake as if the contact had successfully secured their fingerprints and DNA. With a neatly trimmed gray mustache and thinning hair combed over his bald pate, he looked old enough to be Steele’s father. Like Steele, he wore a raincoat, but his was a khaki color to Steele’s dark blue.

  “Nice of you to come to the service to pay your respects, Detective,” said Don. “Or is it part of official duty in the investigation?”

  He could tell from the look in response that Detective Steele did not appreciate the question.

  “Both,” the detective gave a clipped reply, “if that’s what you’d like to think.”

  Margeaux shifted uncomfortably as Detective Steele went on. “I mentioned to Inspector Russell your theory about there being a connection between the incidents here in Atwelle and the gargoyles you have been discovering.”

  “Yes,” Inspector Russell joined in. “It’s an original theory, I’ll give you that. But I’m afraid it’s a bit of a reach, if you know what I mean.”

  “But Inspector,” Margeaux replied, “you have to admit that the coincidence, if that’s what it in fact is, is rather extraordinary.”

  “Coincidence, extraordinary or not, doesn’t really tell us who committed the crimes and certainly will not convict the criminal,” Inspector Russell responded. “More likely a psycho serial killer who’s associated with or hangs around the church.”

  “Or maybe more than one killer,” said Detective Steele.

  Spotting Father Adams, Inspector Russell excused himself to head over to talk to the vicar.

  “What about Nigel’s missing baby?” Don asked Detective Steele.

  “Still no information on the infant’s whereabouts,” he answered. He looked around and lowered his voice.

  “But I do have a surprising lead and may be coming close to making an arrest soon.”

  “Who do you think—,” said Margeaux, but her question was interrupted by Detective Steele’s upraised palm.

  “Sorry. Police business,” he said, watching their reaction with a grim, polite smile until he turned to go join Inspector Russell.

  EIGHTEEN

  1532 “You sent for me, Father?”

  Christopher Lanham looked around the door into his father’s study. Richard Lanham stopped pacing in front of the dark wood paneling. With his arms folded, he looked up and smiled.

  “Come in, son.”

  When Christopher entered the room, he saw Francis DuBois sitting at his father’s desk.

  “Good morning, Christopher. Good to see you,” DuBois offered a pleasant greeting.

  “And you, sir,” Christopher replied with a respectful bow.

  DuBois noticed the young man was not wearing a monk’s cowl. Instead he was dressed in casual clothes and appeared to have been outside already, despite the early hour. “Have you been hunting, Christopher?” asked Lanham.

  Christopher hesitated.

  “In fact, I have Father.”

  DuBois looked pleased. “If I may say so, Christopher, I am happy that you and my daughter—”

  “I am indeed sorry to interrupt you, good sir,” Christopher addressed DuBois before turning to his father. “But I must be off to see some servants.”

  His father frowned. “Christopher, I had hoped you would join us to meet with the sergeant. We are conferring with him in a moment to address the unfortunate criminal acts that have occurred in Atwelle of late.”

  “I am afraid, Father, that I am obliged to meet with Geoffrey and his wife.”

  He looked at Lanham and then at DuBois with an apologetic explanation.

  “Geoffrey and his wife have been faithful servants at Lanham Manor as long as I have been alive. They are doing me a particular service and are expecting me just now to do my bidding. And I fear I am in need of their aid at the moment.”

  “Very well then. Go tend to your matter,” said Lanham who did not look happy at his son’s decision to go visit their servants instead of joining the conversation.

  “Gentlemen,” Christopher bid them adieu with a small bow as he backed out the door. Hurrying off in the direction of the small cluster of servants’ huts near the animal barns, Christopher did not notice the sergeant, who slipped behind a tree and watched him closely until he entered the house of the servants.

  A few moments later, the sergeant was standing before Lanham and DuBois in the study. Without his usual good humor, he stood silently before them, looking tired and drawn. Lanham, his arms still crossed, avoided looking at the sergeant by turning to stare out the window as DuBois spoke.

  “Sergeant, we have asked you here to address the regrettable incidents that have occurred recently in Atwelle. Now I know the unfortunate souls may not have been of a station that would bring concern to many, but such incidents nevertheless can have harmful consequences.”

  The sergeant’s eyes narrowed at DuBois as his expression became even grimmer. DuBois continued without noticing.

  “We are trying to promote Atwelle as a potential center for commerce, perhaps the biggest market town in Norfolk outside of Norwich if the king gives us a grant of rights for the port in Atwelle. We want nothing to raise fear in those who would otherwise be inclined to come here to buy and sell their wares.”

  DuBois looked at the sergeant for some sign of assent, but was confronted only with an unsmiling stony face. Lanham continued to avert his eyes from the conversation.

  “Moreover, if these crimes, given their horrific nature, are not solved and the perpetrator is not brought to justice, the chancellor might even use the situation as an impediment to the king’s granting our petition for the rights to the port. Even a delay of the king’s action on the petition from your failure to bring the criminal to task with dispatch could be an economic disaster for us.”

  DuBois paused, disappointed at the sergeant’s silence.

  “Sergeant, it is imperative,” DuBois said with concluding emphasis, “that you bring the criminal to speedy justice with utmost expediency and without any mercy.”

  The sergeant thought of Father Regis’s identical request. But more for Peter, it seemed, for Father Regis had barely mentioned Molly, and then had referred to her only as “that woman.” He also recalled with indignation the reaction of Molly’s father to the news of her death as if the man had merely lost a casual acquaintance.

  Uncertain of how to deal with the sergeant’s reticence, DuBois looked over at Lanham. Lanham’s arms were now crossed more in self-defense than as a gesture of authority. His gaze did not turn from the window. With no response from Lanham, DuBois struggled for something to secure the sergeant’s acknowledgement and assum
ption of the task.

  “It is reported, Sergeant, that the workmen at the church are saying that the murders are a sign of evil spirits about and that they may readily desert the construction and flee the town.”

  The sergeant still said nothing. Now DuBois began to grow angry at the man’s refusal to reply. Though Dubois started to turn red at the sergeant’s apparent insolence, his anger was nothing like the seething rage behind the sergeant’s emotionless mask. The sergeant thought nothing of their commercial risk, of the priest’s concern, of the church, or of justice. His whole being was focused solely on a single undistracted, undiluted desire.

  Revenge for Molly’s murder.

  “Have you taken any action at all to find the person responsible for these murders?” DuBois demanded.

  “I have,” the sergeant answered in a threatening tone. His fist tightened on the handle of his sword. “And I will apprehend who it is that did murder—though you gentlemen may not like it when I do.”

  Lanham’s head turned away from the window. He and DuBois looked at each other and then at the sergeant. A moment of tense silence was broken by the study door suddenly swinging open. Father Regis rushed into the room.

  “The wood-carver’s baby—has been abducted!” the winded priest managed to gasp between breaths. “He was taken during the night.”

  Father Regis looked from Lanham to DuBois and then up at the sergeant. There was a panicked plea in his eyes.

  “You must do something! The workers will leave if Bittergreen goes.”

  2017 There was a definite look of uncertainty on Miss Weatherby’s face. Her pursed lips and furrowed brow set several of her piercings pointing off at odd angles.

  “Do you really think this essay assignment would be within my expertise, Miss Wood?”

  “My dear, you’re an undergraduate studying something vaguely resembling medieval and Tudor history. You don’t have any expertise,” patronized Margeaux. “Besides, if you can sort out black clerical collars as well as you did, you should be able to sort out this subject.”