The Cin Fin-Lathen Mysteries 1-3 (6 page)

“Not knowing the terrain here - since I had just arrived an
hour before - I ran in search of an opening in the hedgerow.  I found a set of
steps here.”

“Right of way.”

“Pardon?”

“This is an entrance to a footpath, right of way.  You will
find them all over England.”

“Oh.”  I took a moment to find my place.  “I climbed over
and took off running up the hill.”

“Chief Superintendent, I see two sets of tracks,” Constable
Cayne called out.

“They’re probably both mine.  One set leading to the tractor
and the other coming back from the Comstocks,” I explained.

We followed my tracks and stopped where the tractor had cut
a circle into the earth.  The CSP held up his hand to tell me to stop walking. 
He walked a grid pattern, stopping to examine the ground from time to time.  He
directed Cayne to follow the hedgerow paying special attention to any
footprints that weren’t mine.  Mine were easy.  I was wearing one shoe.  I
waited for either gentleman to inquire about that, but they didn’t.

“Chief Superintendent!” Cayne called as he waved his hands
wildly.  “I found something.”

“Stay there and don’t touch anything.”  The CSP continued
his grid, and when he finished he walked over to where Cayne stood obediently
not touching anything.  I followed him basically because he didn’t tell me not
to.

“Well?”

“I followed a set of Wellington prints over to here.  The
shooter must have been waiting a while for he smoked three fags.”

“Fags?” I asked.

“Cigarettes.”

“Thank you.”

“The edge of the field is all trampled down.”

“Good work Cayne.”  The CSP waved him away and proceeded to
process the scene.  He drew out of his pocket some little bags into which he
put the cigarette, excuse me, fag butts.  One bag already held a metal object,
a bullet casing. I didn’t even see him pick anything up.  What a detective I
was. I was beginning to doubt my press.

We walked back to the house.  When we got there Cayne produced
a typed copy of the report for me to read and sign.  I was amazed at the
accuracy.

“This is very well done.”

Cayne colored. “Thank you.”

“Ms. Fin-Lathen, is there anything that you remembered about
the incident after you gave Cayne your report?”

“Just the music.  I heard music before I heard the tractor. 
And I heard the same music when I was on my way back to Bathgate.  That and the
light that I guided the tractor by.  The Comstocks said they didn’t have a
light on.  I didn’t mention it because I didn’t think they were real.  I had
heard and seen them but...”

“The funny thing about this area of Britain is we all have
experienced lots of things that are unexplained.  Cayne and I leave them out of
the official reports.  We sort of save them to tell at parties and to scare the
tourists.”  He smiled and nodded as he got into the car.

“Ms. Fin-Lathen, could you?”  Cayne held out a pen.

“Oh, sure.”  I signed my name and handed the pen and paper
back to Cayne.

“When we know anything, we will be back.”  Cayne squared his
shoulders and joined the Chief Superintendent in the car.  They backed out and
drove off.

I walked into the house and decided that it was too quiet in
there.  I grabbed my purse and Angie’s truck keys and set off to find the
truck.  I found it in the barn.  It was an older model but seemed road worthy. 
I would start off slowly, and if I got scared I could always come back.  I knew
basically where Land’s End was from here and where Penzance was.  I mean how
hard could it be?  I jumped in and the heap started on the first try.  I backed
it out and tested the brakes and they were a bit soft, but I could get used to
that.  I parked the truck or lorry, maybe if I use the right words for this
area then driving on the left would become easier too.  It didn’t.

After closing the barn doors I got in and after some thought
decided to turn right out of the farm and travel until I hit the A30 to
Penzance.  The lane was barely wide enough for the truck, so I didn’t have to
experience driving on the left until I turned east towards my destination. 
Holy hell, at first I did fine as there wasn’t any oncoming traffic.  I kept
singing, “left, left, drive on the left.”  The natural instinct of American
driving kept trying to take over, and when the first car past me I almost peed
myself.  The road in was hilly and I’m sure the landscape beautiful, but this
white-knuckled woman driver saw nothing, heard nothing but my driving mantra.  When
it came time for me to turn right from the left lane I almost started crying.

Why do I get myself into these pickles?  When a break in
traffic came I took a deep breath and turned on to a less traveled lane and
slowly made my way into the town.  I parked near the hotel as it was
recognizable from the day before, and I knew that I could find it again.  I
started walking towards High street where I found a bank that would exchange my
dollars for pound sterling.  Everyone I bumped into seemed nice enough and only
a few times I feigned being hard of hearing so the speaker would repeat what
they were saying as some of the accents were tough on my inexperienced ears.

Soon my commercialism kicked in and I shopped.  I mean I
went in everywhere, chatted with clerks and proudly lugged my purchases back to
the truck before finding someplace for a snack.  I spied a small news agent’s
shop where I could get a soft drink and crisps to take to the waterside and
enjoy the view.  I started walking towards it when I collided with someone tall
exiting the hotel.

“Yikes, sorry, I wasn’t…you?”  I looked at my fellow
collider and saw the familiar dancing blue eyes.  “What the he…fancy meeting
you here,” I managed.

“I’m as surprised as you are,” Father Michael said none too
convincingly.

“You’re not following me are you?  And where are your priest
duds?”  Hands on hips, eyes drinking in the big shoulders, trim waist, muscled
thighs in tight jeans…stop it, he’s a priest for gods’ sake.  Brook brothers
shirt rolled up at the elbows, open at the neck, smelling of cologne.  I’m sure
smelling good must be a sin.  

He pulled his hand through his hair, his eyes deciding
something before talking to me.  He looked behind me and then grabbed my arm
and pulled me closer.

I would be lying that my body was in confusion.  My hormones
wanted a kiss, my flight instinct tried to warn me he could be a danger, and my
Sunday school teacher was shaking me for all the lustful thoughts.  All he said
was, “Not here.”

Not here for what?  My murder, him breaking his priestly
vows, my damnation...oh I was in deep doo doo now.  He guided me across the
road to a bench facing the ocean.  It was shielded from the road but public
enough that I could scream if I wanted to.  He let go of my arm.  I knew he
left a bruise, one on my skin and another on my soul.

“I guess I need to explain a few things.”

“Well, yeah.” I said with indignation.  I supposed if I used
a more theatrical phrase, something written for Emma Thompson, I wouldn’t have
sounded so stupid.  “What are you doing here?  And sit down, you’re blocking my
view.”  Yes, and I don’t have to see how tight your jeans are.  Get a grip on
yourself.  I scolded myself.

He sat down but not before reaching into his pocket.  Was it
a gun, knife, chloroform?  It was a picture.  He handed me a black and white
photo.  I reached into my purse and fumbled around until I found a pair of
bright purple reading glasses.  I put them on to clearly see the picture before
me.  It was a shot of a family taken in front of a wraparound porch, the kind
found attached to Charleston antebellum homes.  A serviceman – an airman – was
centered with, I assumed, his parents standing on either side of him.  Two
small boys looked up adoringly, and a young girl was clutching the family dog.

“The airman is my uncle Donald.  He was lost in the war. 
The boy here,” he pointed to the smaller of the two, “was my father Edward.  He
died recently.”  Father Michael paused in memory.  “Now this boy here is Uncle
Steven, the black sheep of the family.”

“I always find black sheep intriguing,” I interrupted,
hoping for more information, but the cold stare I received in reply told me he
wasn’t going to oblige me.

“My aunt Diane,” he continued, tapping lightly on the image
of the little girl, “is the only sane one left in the family.  She’s an architect
living in Savannah now.”

“I love Savannah,” I said wondering where this conversation
was going.

“Lots to love about Savannah.  Okay, first, let me assure
you that I am indeed Father Michael Williams, and you guessed correctly I’m of
the Jesuit order.  I’m a researcher and a teacher.  Presently, I’m on an
extended leave.  My father’s death left me with many duties to perform, family
and otherwise.  My father’s family never knew what became of Donald, and my father
left me this task upon his death.  I’m to locate Donald, or his remains and
bring him home.”

“So this is why you’re here?”

“Bathgate is why I am here.”

“Bobby Bathgate?” I asked as cool as I could considering the
small heart attack I was having.

“Not exactly Bobby and not Angie but their father.”

“It’s my understanding their father is dead and has been for
some time now.”

“Yes, I think we’ll have to backtrack a bit.  Tell me how you
became involved with Bobby.”

I told him about the band, the offer, and the music school. 
He listened intently and when I told him what happened yesterday to Angie he
was surprised, unless it was an act. I told him that I really had to get this
audit done quickly.

“Why the rush?”

I told him about the fire and the estate agent’s offer, and
it looked like Angie really wanted to take it.  I explained how the music had
been left to Bobby.

Father Michael bobbed his head.  “Sounds feasible.  So
you’re just interested in the music and musical instruments.”

“Yes, well, part of me also wants to explore Cornwall.  I’ve
been wanting to ever since I read
Jamaica Inn
.  I’m a soft touch for a
good gothic.  Give me a walled up corpse, brooding hero and mysterious white
lady anytime.”

I believe Father Michael was smiling.  It faded before I could
confirm what I had caught peripherally.

“Your turn.  How do the Bathgates fit into your search?”

“Bobby and Angie’s father was a composer of some minor World
War One marches, British marches.  But he was, also, the best instructor and
mentor for many of the up-and-coming composers after the war.  He was a Royal
Conservatory man but did a lot of time touring and teaching at various
universities around the world.  He came to Julliard where my uncle Donald was
going to school and invited him to what was the cream of all musical
experiences, a summer residence at his farm out in Cornwall.  Famed composer
Aaron Copland spent a summer there in the twenties while he was studying with
Nadia Boulanger in France.  There my uncle would work shoulder to shoulder with
the best that the world had in young composers.  Bathgate was the music
experience of the twenties, thirties and forties.  I believe several of its
alumni are Knights of the Realm.  Matter of fact, Maurice Sherborn, an alumnus,
is going to be knighted for his life’s work this summer, I believe.

“My uncle was there with Maurice and his brother Michael the
summer before he enlisted.  I have some letters he sent to my aunt during that
time.  My uncle wrote that of the two Sherborn men, Michael was the talented
one and Maurice was only there because their father refused to let Michael
study at Bathgate otherwise.  My father named me Michael Donald because he
hoped the name itself would ensure I would inherit Donald’s talent and
Michael’s vision.  Didn’t work, I can barely carry a tune, which is a handicap
in my line of work.”

“I can’t sing either.  A three note range in some obscure
key is the best I can do,” I admitted.  “You said your uncle was lost during
the war, so how does his summer at Bathgate fit in?”

“My uncle’s schooling was interrupted by the war.  He
enlisted in the Army Air corps, and, although he did correspond with Professor
Bathgate, he primarily put his vocation on the back burner until after the
war.  He was on his way home as the war was waning when he decided to stop over
in England and visit the friends he had made while he was there.  He never came
home.  The last news of him that the family had was that he had arrived in
London.

“Professor Bathgate was running an ambulance in London at that
time, and he did meet with Donald.  They had a pleasant time together, and then
Donald left to visit some of the other students who were residing in England
before ending up at Bathgate.  Professor Bathgate’s wife, Anna, was away
visiting her daughter Angie who had been taken ill and was hospitalized. 
According to Anna, who returned some time later, Donald never arrived.”

“So, he went missing in England,” I thought aloud.  “Okay,
now here’s the puzzler for me: how did you know about my trip?”

“Actually, it was a coincidence.  Father Bernard from the
Chapel of the Palms heard about Bobby Bathgate’s accident.  He and I were in
the seminary together, and I had just shared with him the story of my missing
uncle.  Well, Bathgate is an unusual name, so he thought he should give me a
call.  I then drove down from Savannah and called on Bobby.  Bobby remembered
my uncle because of his red hair; he reminded him of a young Copland.”  Father
Michael smiled slightly.

“Did Donald visit Bobby?”

“No, Bobby wasn’t in the country when Donald came through. 
He asked me if Donald ever published the hymns he was working on, which I knew
nothing about.  Bobby wasn’t aware Donald had disappeared.  After the war he
and his father went their separate ways: Bobby went professional and his father
returned to teaching.  You know, Bobby played me some of my uncle’s work from
memory.  The guy’s amazing.”

“Bobby has a great memory for music, if he hears it once, he
can play it.”

“I asked Bobby if some of my uncle’s work might still be at
the farm.  He didn’t know but mentioned you had been given the task of
organizing the school’s contents, and if he received any information on
Donald’s work from you he would pass it on.”  He rubbed his hands together. 
“Patience isn’t a virtue I enjoy. Bobby told me your flight number, the rest
isn’t coincidental.  I thought while I was following Donald’s trail through
England I might as well keep tabs on you.”

“Keep tabs on me.  Hmm, I never considered myself the type
of person who had or needed a tab.”

“Cindy, I don’t think the Bathgates were completely honest
with you.  Bobby didn’t fall down the escalator; he was pushed.”

“So I hear.”

“And the fire at the farm was arson.  And Angie was
attacked.  If it wasn’t for her neighbor arriving, it could have been much
worse.”

“So, do you think the recent attacks on Bobby and Angie have
any connection with your uncle?”

“I don’t know.  Any thoughts?”

 I considered this for a minute before speaking.  “Bobby
fell, or was pushed rather, the third week of April.  His sister?”

“It was two days before when Angie found one of the music
school’s buildings on fire.  She quickly found evidence of arson, and in
following the burn trail to its source, instead of finding answers, found
herself being knocked unconscious.”

“So why attack the Bathgates now?  Does anyone know about
your investigation?”

“Just you and Aunt Diane.  She’s financing my little
enterprise.”

“Why keep Bobby from Cornwall?  What’s at this music
school?”

“I think we won’t know until you find it.”

“But what am I looking for?”  I sat back and closed my
eyes.  What happens when I find it?  Will I find it before the arsonist
destroys it or will they destroy me before I find it?