The Atwelle Confession

by Joel Gordonson

  “Did you talk to him after looking at any other gargoyles?”

  “Just when he introduced us to you after Brandi’s funeral.”

  “Why didn’t you talk with him after seeing the final gargoyle, the one with the sword?”

  “Don’t have a particular reason. Didn’t see him and didn’t really have any further particular suspicions, I guess.”

  Inspector Russell paused again with pen to paper.

  “Do you own any guns, Mr. Whitby?”

  “Good heavens, no.”

  “Do any shooting of any sort?”

  Don gave him an odd look.

  “No, Inspector.”

  Inspector Russell picked up his cup of coffee and then set it back down when he realized it was cold. He leaned back in his chair.

  “Have you ever had a previous run in with the law, Mr. Whitby?”

  “No, sir.”

  “That’s not true, is it Mr. Whitby?”

  Don gave him a blank look.

  “Isn’t it true that you’ve had six speeding offences in the last fifteen years driving a”—he flipped to another page of his pad—“a 1956 MG?”

  Don looked down at the table and took a deep breath.

  “If that makes me a suspect, Inspector, you’ve got a lot of suspects who own MGs to interview. Perhaps you’d better get on with that.”

  The Inspector stood up.

  “Thank you, Mr. Whitby. You can wait upstairs while I finish with Miss Wood. Someone will be driving you and Miss Wood back to Atwelle when I’ve finished with her. It shouldn’t be long.”

  A policewoman escorted Don upstairs and invited him to sit in the car in which she would be driving them to Atwelle. He climbed into the back seat while she went back to get Margeaux.

  “Bloody hell!” Don exhaled in exhaustion.

  He leaned back, rubbed his tired eyes and then opened them to look about. There was Father Adams walking up to the entrance of the police station, where the vicar stopped to take a long drag from a cigarette. Don watched him flick the glowing butt onto the sidewalk before pulling open the door and entering with a purposeful stride. A moment later, Margeaux walked out through the same door with the policewoman.

  “What the hell was that all about?” he asked Margeaux before she had even finished climbing into the back seat with him.

  She did not look any happier about the experience than he was.

  “And why ask me all those questions about guns?” he asked in exasperation.

  Margeaux gave him a shocked look.

  “They didn’t tell you?”

  Don shrugged and shook his head.

  “No. What?”

  “Detective Steele was found murdered—with his own gun.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  1532 Father Regis felt every nerve was on edge as he threw a handful of dirt into the grave of Martin Dankwood’s father. He gave a final prayer and benediction along with the sign of the cross as the sun started to set on All Hallows’ Eve. Then after a consoling word with the farmer, he hurried toward the spiral staircase and climbed to his room.

  The priest sat on the side of his cot and simply stared at the floor. The shock of finding the sergeant’s mutilated body right there in the church had kept him awake all night and had not left him all day. When not thinking of the sergeant, he was equally unsettled at the prospect of facing all the workmen with no wages to pay them. That mental picture kept coming to different endings, none of them good and all of them tensing his insides. It appeared to be the end of St. Clement’s. There would be inevitable embarrassment before the Bishop of Norwich. He was too despondent even to pray.

  “It matters not for there is no apparent solution for which I can pray,” he concluded without hope.

  In the distance he heard the singing of the soulers as they made their way to the church. “They will be here soon,” he thought as he looked over at the basket holding the soul cakes he had purchased in the market for their arrival. He waited numbly for the group of soulers to arrive in the All Hallows’ Eve tradition at the church after having gone around the parish asking the more affluent residents for soul cakes in exchange for praying for their souls and the souls of their families.

  Father Regis tried to prepare himself to give them cakes for their prayers on behalf of the souls of all the parishioners who had died in that year. But his mind kept returning to the final question that kept tormenting him.

  “With the sergeant gone, who will bring the murderers to justice, including his own killer? Who can stop the evil?”

  The priest felt a presence and looked up with a start. His heart was pounding as a tall dark figure stepped into the candlelight. With a wave of relief, he recognized the black cowl.

  “Father Cuthbert, welcome.”

  “Father Regis.”

  Father Cuthbert pulled back the hood covering his face to reveal a grim look. At the sound of the approaching soulers, his somber face took on a frown.

  “Praying for souls for a bite of cake. Pitiful really. If it worked, there would be no need for us.”

  Father Cuthbert walked over to the basket where he picked up a soul cake and took a bite.

  “Were it not such a tradition, I believe I would find it to be heresy. Only God has the power to enter a soul into heaven. It is heresy for people to claim they have the power to make that happen, for cakes or otherwise. Do you know who promises people that he can take care of their souls?”

  “Priests,” thought Father Regis.

  “The devil himself,” Father Cuthbert answered his own question. “That is why the prayers of the soulers are nothing but heresy. I know the devil’s ways.”

  Father Regis looked uncomfortable. He wondered what he should do with Father Cuthbert there when the soulers arrived with prayers to earn the cakes.

  “Father Regis.” He heard the soulers call out his name from the bottom of the spiral staircase. “We are here to pray for the souls of the departed from St. Clement’s.”

  Thunder rumbled in the distance. Father Regis gave a hesitant look in the direction of the black cowl.

  “Go on. Give the fools their cakes and send them on their way before the storm drenches them,” said Father Cuthbert as he stuck the rest of the cake into his mouth.

  After dispensing the cakes, Father Regis hurried up the stairs to his room. Father Cuthbert had rolled out a blanket on the stone floor.

  “May I share your roof, Father Regis?” he asked.

  “Of course, brother. But please take my bed.”

  “Thank you no. I sleep on stone every night to remind me of the suffering of our Savior for the forgiveness of our sins.”

  “Then at least let me prepare some food for you,” Father Regis offered.

  “It is not necessary. I will start my fast for All Hallows’ Day in a few hours in any event. There is no need for your trouble.”

  Father Cuthbert sat down on his blanket with his back against the wall.

  “As I am here, I should tell you about the decision to levy a tax for the church.”

  “Peter’s pence?”

  “Yes. A signal of the church’s resolve and strength is going to be sent to His Majesty in response to his pressure on the pope.”

  Father Regis felt hollow. He had now heard the final death sentence for St. Clement’s.

  “There will be other signs of the church’s power shown to the king throughout the realm. Even here in Atwelle when the new church is finished and consecrated. The Bishop of Norwich is eager for its completion and will consecrate the church himself. Are you feeling unwell, Father?”

  Father Regis sat down on his bed. His face was pale. He swallowed and sat quietly for a moment.

  “The bishop honors us. But is it wise to risk the wrath of the king in such sensitive times?”

  Father Cuthbert gave him a cross look.

  “These are matters above your station, Father Regis. Do not presume to understand them or question the Church’s decision.”

  H
is face softened as he pulled his black hood around his head and stretched out on his blanket.

  “But that is not why I am here. You will be told of these things when the decision is announced among the clergy for administration of the tax in the dioceses.”

  Father Regis gave him a questioning look.

  “Then why are you in Atwelle?”

  Father Regis stared at Father Cuthbert’s face long after he had finished the answer.

  “Father Cuthbert, come with me immediately.”

  It was more of an order than a request. Father Regis stood and headed for the door.

  “Now see here, Father,” protested Father Cuthbert. “I take my orders from the bishop—”

  Father Regis whirled around to face him.

  “Now, Father Cuthbert!”

  Stunned by the unexpected fierce look and harsh command from the humble parish priest, Father Cuthbert scrambled to his feet.

  2017 Don scowled at his phone after leaving another message for Margeaux. He had heard nothing back from her for two days.

  “That’s the best we can do I’m afraid, Mr. Whitby,” one of Nigel Green’s workmen said after climbing off the scaffolding. “I can’t keep the men any longer, and there’s a big storm comin’. Plus you know what’s on the telly in an hour,” he added with a knowing look.

  Don didn’t have a clue what was on television that evening, but knew he wouldn’t win any argument for more time from the workers. He looked up at the narrow scaffold that Nigel’s men had hastily constructed at Don’s request.

  “Is it safe to climb up?” Don asked.

  “Safe enough,” the workman responded. A long low rumble of thunder sounded outside.

  “Well, we’re off.” He turned to leave with a wave. “Good luck, Mr. Whitby.”

  “Thanks, Joe. And give my best to Nigel when you see him, will you?”

  Without turning back, the man waved in agreement as he headed past the altar down the length of the church.

  Don gave another uncertain look up the slender scaffold that snaked its way up the corner of the church next to the stained glass window.

  “Looks a bit undernourished, Joe,” he mumbled to the workman, who was no longer within earshot.

  A flash of lightning came through the window as if someone outside had quickly flipped a light switch on and off. Don pulled his phone out of his jacket pocket and tried to call Margeaux again. After a few rings, irritation filled his face once more.

  “Hello, Margeaux. This is Don again. I’ve been trying to reach you for a couple days. So if you get this message soon, give me a call. I’m at the church in Atwelle. I’ve decided to take a further look at the roof beams.”

  Following another doubtful look at the scaffold, Don dashed over to the low side door. After pushing it open, he dodged through the gravestones in the churchyard to wave down Joe in his car.

  Joe rolled down his window. “Yes, Mr. Whitby?”

  “Joe, do you have anything I can use to cut away some wood?”

  “I think I have an old hand axe in the back. That’s it.”

  “Can I borrow it?”

  “Sure.” Joe climbed out of the car, opened the boot and dug out a small axe, which he handed to Don.

  “Many thanks, Joe. I’ll get it back to you.”

  Another duet of lightning and thunder came out of the distance as random raindrops started to fall. Don hurried back to the church where he ducked through the low door.

  The church had grown dark. Don saw a light switch near the scaffold and turned it on. A small spotlight above focused its beam on the altar. The rest of the church was swallowed by one vast shadow.

  Don’s jaw was clenched as he walked up to the ladder. A clap of thunder sounded nearer. He didn’t like any of this one bit. But he hefted the hand axe in one fist and grabbed the metal ladder with the other.

  He looked up again at the ceiling before starting to climb. He could barely see the wood that enclosed the bottom of the roof beam where it met the stone wall.

  “There has to be another carving there,” he thought. “There are always twelve.”

  Pulling himself up the ladder with one hand, he forced himself to take a breath with each step. The head of the axe in his other hand often clashed clumsily against the metal pipes of the scaffold, sending an echo into the shadow that lurked beyond the altar below. His worries about Margeaux and what he might find at the top of the scaffold started to meld in his mind. When he finally reached the top, Don stayed on his knees after climbing onto the small platform.

  “Don’t look down,” he gave himself the order and closed his eyes. With the vain hope that Margeaux might call, and fearful of what he might find in the shadows, he allowed himself to remain still on the platform for a few moments. Finally, the silence, interrupted only by the thunder outside, compelled him to look at the dark wood before him.

  Carefully, Don reached out to touch the two wide planks of wood that joined to form a casing around the base of the roof beam. He felt the dry rot under the surface of the wood give slightly against the pressure of his fingers. The planks were not made of the same hard oak as the roof beam. Swallowing hard, he lifted the hand axe, took aim at the center of a plank, and struck.

  The blade of the axe sank into the soft wood with ease. Don twisted the axe to widen the cut and then yanked it out to strike again. After a few more blows, there was a split in the plank big enough for Don to reach in and start pulling at the rotting wood. He forgot where he was as he alternately hammered the axe and tore at the decaying wood with his hands. Finally, when he could grab hold of each plank with both hands, Don managed with two great pulls to wrench them away from the roof beam.

  “Margeaux!” he called out as if she were there to hear his warning in the darkness of the church.

  Don took a moment to scan one more time the carving before him. The face of the demon was like the other gargoyles except that a circle of tonsured hair wrapped around its head like a monk. Below the fangs of its open mouth, sitting in the claws of its hands, was the head and torso of a woman.

  Scrambling over to the ladder, Don descended as quickly as he could. The fragile scaffold shuddered with each hurried step. At the bottom, Don dropped the axe to the stone floor with a clatter and fumbled to pull his phone out of his jacket. Fear for Margeaux gripped him firmly when there was still no answer from her.

  Don hurried over to the low stone doorway and ran out into the rain. Another flash of lightning lit up the graveyard around him as he dashed toward his MG.

  “It’s like All Hallows’ Eve,” he shuddered as he slammed shut the door of his car. “My god, it is All Hallows’ Eve,” he realized as he started the engine and peeled out onto the slick wet road.

  With the storm raging around him, Don pushed Sally around the slippery turns and through the large puddles stretching across the low points of the wavy roads to Cambridge. The tiny beating wipers did little for his visibility through the small windscreen. He dialed Margeaux’s phone number repeatedly without success while he drove on. Fortunately the heavy rain had kept much of the rush hour traffic off the streets of Cambridge where he ran as many red lights as he could.

  Sally screeched to a stop as close as possible to the main gate of Maryhouse Hall. Don leaped from the car to run down a cobblestone passage, then through the college gate and into the Porters’ Lodge. When Don burst through the door, Gerald looked up calmly at the intruder without surprise or alarm.

  “May I help you?” His unperturbed inquiry conveyed his authority in the territorial domain over which a head porter had exerted unquestioned control for centuries.

  “I’m looking for Margeaux Wood,” Don blurted out.

  “I’m sorry, sir. The college is closed to visitors after business hours.”

  Seeing the extreme agitation in Don’s face, Gerald’s hand dropped invisibly behind the counter to the phone where the press of a button would summon the police.

  “I’m—” Don was almost franti
c. “I’m working on a project with Margeaux and haven’t been able to reach her for two days. I’m very worried about her. Can we see if she’s in her study?”

  Gerald looked over at the mail slots for the fellows and saw that Margeaux’s box was full of unretrieved mail and messages. Without hesitation, Gerald threw on his bowler and led Don out into the main court of the college where they leaned into the blowing rain. A group of students mustered around the entrance to the college bar parted for Gerald like the Red Sea before Moses. Entering the next college court, Gerald disregarded the rules by stepping off the cobblestones to cut across the grass of the court toward the stairwell to Margeaux’s study, where they bounded up the three flights of narrow stairs. At her door, Gerald knocked firmly.

  While they waited for a response, Don read the notes taped to the door. The first was dated the day before.

  “Miss Wood, I was here for our appointment and apparently missed you. I’ll check back tomorrow—Joan Weatherby.”

  “Miss Wood?” Gerald knocked again more firmly with his ear cocked for an answer. Don quickly read the next note on the door. It was dated that day at 2 p.m.

  “Miss Wood, I checked back for you. I have the answers to your final questions on the mechanics of Tudor trusts and wills. Please call me when you want to meet to discuss. Here’s my mobile number. . . .” It was again signed “Joan Weatherby.”

  Don turned to Gerald.

  “Do you know where Margeaux lives?”

  “I have her address.”

  “Can you go see if she’s there?”

  Gerald nodded and turned to head down the stairs. Returning to the main gate, the two were drenched from the heavy rain. Don handed the porter his card.

  “Here’s my mobile phone number. Call me when you know anything. Can I reach you here if necessary?”

  Gerald gave Don his personal number as well as the college number. Don dashed back to Sally and with a squeal of tires headed to Atwelle. His mind raced as he flew up the road toward Norfolk. He turned on the radio to listen to news reports, but the static from the electrical storm surrounding him rendered the old radio nearly useless.