The Cin Fin-Lathen Mysteries 1-3 (13 page)

I got off the ground and dusted off my behind.  “That’s it!
If you want to know what happened, read Cayne’s report.”  I turned around and
headed for the stream.  I was so mad that I wouldn’t be surprised if when my
feet hit the water, steam would rise up.  I thought, “Where did he get off.  He
was a priest, and, hey, there are a lot of things one has to take on faith.”  Then
my little voice inside me reasoned, “It’s because he’s a priest that he can’t
believe in things thought pagan.”

“Come on, Cin. I’m sorry,” he said as he walked over to me. 
“It’s a lot to take in.”

“Trolls...”

“Sorry about that. Please continue.  I want to hear.”

“I think, no proof mind you, it was this man who was on the
plane with us...dressed all in tan.  I was hit on the head, drugged and left to
die in the bog.  When I regained consciousness I thought I was dreaming because
it was just like the dream I had on the first night here.  But this time it was
real.”

“Must have been pretty scary.”

“I don’t know if I was scared or just worried about how I
was going to explain this one to my family.  Anyway, Noelle was with me.  And
now this is the part you’re going have to try to understand. I wasn’t alone.”

“Cin, we are never alone. God...”

“Hold on preacher boy, my story.  Your uncle was with me...I
know his body was entwined with mine, but it was more than that.” I struggled
to explain but ended up just giving him the facts.

“So you stayed with him till they could pull him out.”

“I didn’t want him to be alone.  He had too much time alone
already.”

“That was very courageous of you.”

“There’s that word ‘courageous’ again.  I swear it will be
my undoing.”  I looked at Michael.  My gaze took in his cassock and his strong
jaw line before it settled on his eyes. “Have you seen him yet?”

“The coroner and the FSS want to send him to London to be properly
processed.  The dog tags are a strong clue to his identity, but they want the
dental records and or DNA to give my uncle his name.  Why?”

“Noelle and I noticed something about Donald’s remains last
night.”

“I can imagine the putrefaction of his flesh was pretty
nasty to be around.”

“No, Donald’s remains smelled like well, peat but it was the
anguish left on his features.  I think he was alive when he hit the bog.  Another
thing is, I don’t think it was an accident that he ended up there.”

I saw his body go rigid.  I walked over to him and tried to
lay a comforting hand on his arm.  He flinched. I backed away and found some
dry ground to sit on.  I didn’t understand why I was upset by Father Michael’s
small rejection.  What was I to him?  Just the barer of bad news.  I wanted to
make it all better, but dealing with grief was way out of my league.  It was
like trying to play an impossible piece of music.  I was frustrated, but my
inner child insisted I wait a while before leaving.  I gazed back over to the
water and willed it to do something magical.  Something wonderful, something to
back up my story, it just burbled.   

“Murder?”

“All I have is conjecture, but I know he was murdered.  I
just don’t know why.”

He took a deep breath.  “I don’t know, Cin.  I just don’t
know. I was prepared for an accident of some kind but murder.  No one disliked
my uncle.”

“Wrong place, wrong time?” I suggested.

He drew in a long breath and his eyes welled a bit.  There
must have been a hundred thoughts going through his head, but he remained
composed.

“Have you been there yet?”

“The bog? No, I was hoping you would take me.”

“Well, help me up, old man, and I will do better than that. 
I will give you an account of what I think happened to your uncle.  At least
what I know now with the present information.”

Father Michael helped me up.  We walked back to the house. 
I stopped and let Angie know what we were up to.  She had left the buildings
open after her tour with Father Michael so I wouldn’t need the keys.  She gave
me her Wellingtons, and I jammed my bare feet into the too small boots.  I
asked Michael if he wanted to change into something more rugged, but he declined. 
I picked up a walking stick, and we headed off to the school.

“I understand after Angie received news that Michael, your
namesake, was dead, she was so ill with her grief that they had
institutionalized her in a mental hospital.  The farm was empty when Donald
arrived with whoever had come with him.  I don’t think he came alone.  Bobby
was in New York making a name for himself in the jazz circuit, and his father
was at the university.  Angie’s mother would have been the only one here if she
were not away visiting her ill daughter.”

“I think he traveled here and was in the company of someone
who still had a set of keys to the music school, maybe someone who had been a
student or even an advisor.  Donald either angered the person he was with or
made some kind of discovery that made his existence a danger to his companion. 
I think there was a fight in the music storage room.  In the scuffle the
contents of Donald’s pockets went flying.  Maybe he was hit that hard.  His
body had to be disposed of.  Maybe the killer knew about the quicksand effect
of the bog out back.”

“Couldn’t he have just gotten turned around and was
succumbed by the bog?”

“Then why did I find his wallet and coach pass in here?”

Father Michael walked around the room slowly, examining the
shelves.  He stopped and thought for a moment and said, “Show me the bog.”

I led him down the hill and walked the new path that the
emergency people and the tractor had cut into the overgrowth.  As we neared the
bog, the peat smell started to tickle my nostrils.  I used the stick to probe
the ground before we went any closer.  We stood just to the side of the bog
where I had been found.

“I was thrown in.  In my brief flight my necklace had
twisted around and caught on the branches of that dead tree limb.  My
unconscious body sunk, but my head was held out of the water by the strong
chain around my neck.”  I pointed out the bruising under my chin.

“You see there was no way Donald could have just walked off
and landed below me.  There is no current to move him.  He stood with his hand
outstretched swallowing the peat and bog water that drug his body to the
bottom.  He was alive and conscious when he died.  He fought Michael.  He
suffered.”

Michael sunk to his knees.  I know I had been harsh, and I
don’t know why my compassion didn’t edit my words.  I turned to give Michael
privacy, but he grabbed my leg.  “Stay.  Please stay.”

I sat down and let the quiet envelop us.  After a little
while Father Michael started praying.  I caught some of the Latin words and the
rhythm of his cadence evoked memories of mine from the Lutheran church of my
youth.  I started crying.  My tears were silent drops that drained from my
eyes, tracked their way downward until they had dropped to the ground before
me. I started to hum the music that filled my head.

“What is that tune?” Michael’s hoarse voice asked.

“I don’t know, but I heard it in my head right now.”

“Maybe you’re composing?”

“Nah, this is far too ethereal to have come from me.  I’m
more the Irish drinking song type of composer.”  I smiled and wiped an errant
tear off the end of my nose.  “What are you feeling right now?”

“That’s an unusual question.  A normal one would be: how are
you feeling right now?”

“But I didn’t ask that did I?  Again, what are you feeling
right now?”

“Sadness and anger.  I’m trying to be separate from the
grief, but I want to cry and beat the ground.”

“Is there anything wrong with that?  Isn’t that normal
grieving?”

“After all this time.  We knew he was dead.  I was born
knowing he was dead.”

“But you didn’t know how or where.  So this is all fresh.  I
can’t stop crying, and I didn’t know him.  I keep thinking about something Paz
said to us the first night she was here. If all the music in Donald never had a
chance to be played or sung, is it decomposing down there?”

“Maybe it lives on but through another source,” Michael said
thoughtfully.

“That would fall under faith.”

“I would like to find out who killed him.”

“So would I.  I think Donald is a vital clue to what has
been happening out here.”  I got up and held out my hand.  “Angie, the girls
and I are heading into town in search of more information and,” I pointed to
the worn Wellies, “to buy me some shoes.”

“Would a male escort be unwelcome?”

“No, besides you’ll get to meet my son Alex via the
wonderful world of the Internet.  Alex is setting up a powwow and a camera at
Bobby Bathgate’s home.  I have to pick his brain over who was in the last class
of students here.  I know Donald, Maurice and Michael Sherborn were in the same
class.  There’s no other physical evidence to tell me who else resided here. 
Or what happened to the manuscripts that they had worked on. I have a
suspicion, but I need further information to support it.”

“You’re fully involved in this Bathgate mystery now, aren’t
you?”

“Before it was just a mystery, but after my swim last night
it has become very personal.”  I raced him back to the house.  I even managed
not to cuss when he breezed past me and sent a branch flying back into my face.

~

The Internet café was quiet except for our group that had
assembled at the door.  Paz, Noelle and Billy drove over in Paz’s little car. 
The Father and I braced ourselves on each narrow lane and turn that Angie’s old
lorry sped through on our way to Penzance.  Penzance like many other towns in
England had a High Street where most of the stores did business.  In Penzance’s
case, High Street was indeed high up on the rise of land that circles the
harbor.

It took a while for Noelle to connect with Alex.  Paz in the
meantime had received an email from her friend at the Royal Conservatory of
Music.  I walked over to her and with her help was able to gather my email. 
There were several messages from Alex.  He confirmed he would be online at the
appointed hour at Bobby’s house. 

“Everyone, I have Alex,” Noelle called to us as she waved us
over to her.  She adjusted the web camera so it would take in two or three of
us if we stood close together.  I looked at the screen and was amazed to see my
son.  He was mugging for the camera.

“Hello, Mom, you haven’t said how handsome I am yet?  Huh
huh?”  His voice sounded a bit odd and the picture was jerky, but this still
was amazing to me.

“You are so very handsome, Alex.  You’re lucky you came from
a good gene pool.  Is everything set up?”

“I am going to adjust the camera so you can see Mr.
Bathgate.  Can you see him yet?”  The focus wavered and there was Bobby
Bathgate sitting with his cast up on a couch next to his wife Elizabeth.  She
was patting her hair.

“I can see.  Can you see me?”

“I can see you, my over-the-hill sister, and is that a
priest?  Did Noelle finally decide to give up on dating and join a convent?”

I groaned and didn’t stop Noelle in time.  Yes, she flicked
off her brother in front of a Jesuit priest.  I stepped back and pushed Angie
into my place.

“Angie, is that you?”  Bobby leaned forward.  “You have
gotten so old!”

“That would make you much older.”  Angie shook her head.

I guess some things never change.  Some brothers and sisters
will antagonize each other all their lives.

“You better stop drinking that whisky.  I thought that the
picture was blurring, but I see it’s just you!”

A couple of more loud exchanges of sibling sniping went on
until Noelle put her hand up.  “Listen, you guys don’t have to shout! 
Honestly.  Okay, let’s get the business out of the way.”

Alex walked back into the picture and handed something to
Bobby.

“Angie, I looked at the copy of the manuscript that you sent
to this young man.  It’s Michael’s work, but Maurice published it around 1948
under the title, ‘Sunlight on Water Music.’  I remember the tune.  It was very
big in Europe.  I think parts of it are still being used by some BBC news
show.  I didn’t remember it was Michael's until I saw the manuscript with all
your kissy kissy on it.”

“Stop it.  You’re embarrassing me in front of the Father
here.”

“We meet again, Father.  Did you find any trace of Donald?”

I stepped into the camera range.  “Father Michael’s Uncle
Donald was found in the bog behind the music school last night.”

Bobby’s hand went to his chest.  He shook his head in
disbelief.  “But how?  When?”

“We’re working on that, but we have hit a snag and could use
your help.  Here’s Angie.”

“Bobby, do you remember who was in Daddy’s last class, the
one that Donald, Maurice and Michael were in?  I can see their faces in the fog
but no names.”