The Body Under the Bridge by Paul McCuster

Author:Paul McCuster
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Lion Hudson
Published: 2015-10-28T16:00:00+00:00

Richard Doyle Challoner

In The Arms of His Lord

14th December, 1872 – 3rd August, 1889

“Doyle,” Father Gilbert said softly.

* * *

Father Gilbert emerged from the mausoleum and closed the gate behind him. “We can’t do anything more without the family’s permission.”

“Or without a pneumatic drill.” Mary stood a few feet away, gazing pensively at the cemetery. She puffed on a cigarette.

“You smoke?”

“Only on occasion,” she said, then added, “You would have seen one of those occasions for yourself if you weren’t such a prude.”

He looked away.

She tossed the cigarette down. It hissed in the wet grass. She stamped it out. “It was silly to hope that we could open one of the vaults like a file drawer and find the sword just lying there.”

“Clive Challoner will be buried here in a few days. We might get permission from the family then.”

She sighed. “It’s not here.”

“How do you know?”

“I can feel it.” She nudged the smashed cigarette with the toe of her shoe. “Call it intuition.”

“Did your intuition also tell you that there’s a relationship between the Challoner and Doyle families?”

She turned to him. “What relationship?”

He told her about the marker for Richard Doyle Challoner.

“Don’t all of these local families have a shared gene pool?” she asked with a smirk.

Father Gilbert shrugged. “The connection may mean nothing, or…”

Mary wrapped her arms around herself as if suppressing a shiver. “Can we go? I’m going to be late for another appointment.”

“With anyone I know?” Father Gilbert asked.

“DS Sanders. Maybe he suspects me, too.” She shot him a sharp look, then walked away.

* * *

Mrs Mayhew frowned at Father Gilbert from her desk.

“Is there something wrong?” he asked.

She opened her mouth as if to reply, then closed it again. He knew she wanted to say something about Mary Aston. She was bursting to say something.

Instead, she adjusted the pens in the cup-like holder as if they were flowers in a vase. “Father Benson would like to see you,” she eventually said.

Father Benson’s office was little more than a closet with a metal desk, chairs, and bookshelves. The bookshelves were empty. Three unpacked boxes sat against the windowless wall.

“You left with Mary Aston,” he said as he stood up behind his desk.

“That’s correct.”

“She also showed up at your house and you went to the pub together.”

Better that than my bedroom, Father Gilbert almost said, but nodded instead.

“This morning you met her in your office, whereupon you closed the door.”

“Also correct,” Father Gilbert said.

“Then you left with her for over an hour.”

“Correct again,” Father Gilbert said. Rather than feeling annoyed or defensive, he was impressed that the young priest had the courage to speak up so directly.

“Isn’t that rather reckless?”

“Is it?” He knew it was reckless, but wanted to see just how far Father Benson would go.

“She’s a beautiful woman.” Father Benson’s cheeks flushed – not from anger, but embarrassment. “You know how often priests are accused of sexual harassment. If Mary decided to make a case against you, if she showed up somewhere right now with

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