CHAPTER SEVEN

THE MEMORIAL

To say that I was feeling self-conscious as I walked the cobbles of Bristol’s financial district was something of an understatement. This was preposterous. While Holmes would have taken the theatrical world by storm, I would have been booed off the stage. Who in their right mind would believe that I was a man of the cloth?

No sooner had the thought crossed my mind, than a passing gentleman touched the brim of his hat.

“Good afternoon, Father,” he said, before continuing on his way.

I was amazed. Perhaps I could carry this off, even with the ridiculous limp Holmes had insisted I adopt. The maniac had gone so far as to place a small pebble in my right boot to remind me which was supposed to be my weak leg.

Before long I had reached the Church of St Nicole. It was a curious building, far smaller than I had expected, and nestled between the quarters of financial institutions on both sides. It was as though the neighbouring buildings were trying to bully the diminutive house of worship for daring to remind the faithful that the love of money is the root of all evil. It certainly looked far from grand enough to house the remains of such an influential figure as Edwyn Warwick. I placed a shaking hand on the ornate wooden door and, fighting the urge to cross myself, pushed it open.

While it had been cold on the street, the temperature in the church itself was positively glacial. My breath misted as I called out, ignoring Holmes’s advice to adopt an Irish accent. Enough, after all, was enough. I was having sufficient trouble remembering my nom de plume. Surviving a conversation without a slip of my accent would be next to impossible.

“Hello, is anyone there?”

My call echoed around the church and was immediately greeted by the sound of hurried footsteps. A fresh-faced young priest appeared at a door in the north transept. He saw me and a flicker of confusion and surprise crossed his features.

“I’m sorry, I did not hear you come in,” he said, striding across the nave to greet me. While consternation was still written across his face, his handshake was considerably warmer than the frosty atmosphere of his church. I felt a twinge of guilt over my deception.

“Father Ebberston,” he said. “And you are…?”

I stammered for a minute, hoping that young Ebberston would put it down to the cold.

“Father James Morell, of the Catholic Herald.”

Ebberston’s smile faltered. “The Herald? From London?”

“The very same,” I replied, appalled to realise that I had subconsciously adopted the Irish accent after all. “It’s a pleasure to be here. A pleasure indeed.”

Ebberston continued to look unsure. “Well, I enjoy reading your periodical of course, but I’m mystified to know what would bring you to our little church, especially during such inclement weather.”

Before I could answer, the door crashed open behind us. We turned to see a man in threadbare clothes stumble into the vestibule. His body was twisted, and what little we could see of his dirty face beneath a matted white beard, was cadaverous and pinched. The old tramp was wheezing like a grampus, his rheumy eyes wild and staring.

The man took but two steps before his arthritic knees gave way and he collapsed to the floor, striking his head on the cold flagstones.

“Good heavens,” exclaimed Ebberston, rushing to the newcomer’s aide.

I am ashamed to say that my first reaction was not one of concern for the stranger’s health, but annoyance that my investigation had stalled before it even had begun.

However, my training soon kicked in as Ebberston attempted to roll the fellow onto his back. “No, don’t move him,” I advised, somehow remembering my false brogue. “If he has hit his head…”

The tramp let out a phlegm-filled cough and pushed himself up on shaking arms. “Don’t worry about I,” he said in a broad West Country accent. “Old Pete’s survived worse than a knock on me ’ead.” He groaned, and looked as though he was about to pitch forward again before Ebberston grabbed the fellow’s arm.

“Help me with him, Father,” the young man asked, and I reluctantly deferred to the priest’s request, helping the surprisingly heavy man to a nearby pew. The stink from the chap was intense, a heady mix of sweat, gin and other aromas designed to turn a civilised man’s stomach. I went to examine Pete’s head, but he jerked away as if afraid to be touched.

“Please,” Ebberston pleaded with the man, “we only want to help.”

“Bless you, Father,” the man wheezed. “All I asks is to warm these old bones for a moment, like.”

Ebberston placed a kindly hand on Pete’s shoulder, and this time the tramp flinched not at all. “Well, I am not sure I can help with the temperature. St Nicole’s is an ice box all year round, but at least we can shelter you from the wind. Jack Frost won’t be able to find you in here. Father Morell will stay with you while I find you some blankets.”

Before I could stop the earnest young man, Ebberston was striding back to the north transept, and had disappeared through the door again. I was left alone with the vagrant. He stared at me with suspicion.

“Ain’t seen thee around ’ere before…”

“Er no, I’m… I’m just visiting.” I looked around, trying to make conversation. “It’s a lovely old church.”

“That it is,” old Pete agreed. “Visiting, eh? From Scotlan’, by the sounds of it.”

I was momentarily confused. “Scotland? Oh, you mean my accent. No, um, Ireland. Yes, definitely Ireland.”

The old man was not about to let me off the hook. “Ireland, you say. S’funny. I’s travelled the length and breadth of Ireland…”

My heart sank. “You have? Well, they say that travel broadens the mind…”

“And I’s never ’eard an accent like thee’s.”

I wondered if Pete could see my face blanching beneath the make-up. Fortunately, the sound of the transept door halted the interrogation.

“Father Morell, could you lend a hand?”

“Gladly,” said I, and meant it. I rushed over to the door where Ebberston handed me a blanket.

“If you could give that to our guest,” said he before disappearing again.

“Of course,” I said, walking back to the vagrant, who was still peering at me in a worryingly sceptical manner. Yet he seemed grateful enough as he took the proffered blanket.

“Thank ’ee kindly,” he said, wrapping it around his narrow shoulders. “Lovely bit of wool that.”

“A gift from the League of Merchants,” Ebberston announced as he reappeared once again. “You must take it with you. But before you go…”

A glorious aroma filled the church, old Pete eyeing the soup in Ebberston’s hands greedily.

“That smells delicious,” I commented as the priest passed it over.

“My own take on Scotch broth,” the priest explained, smiling benevolently as Pete tucked noisily into his meal. “My father was from Aberdeen.”

“You cooked it yourself?”

An embarrassed smile passed over the young priest’s face. “It helps me relax. Somehow preparing food brings me closer to the Lord. After all, did he not provide for his flock?”

I fished a notebook and pencil from my pocket. “The cooking curate, eh? My readers will find that fascinating, to be sure.”

“Ah yes,” Ebberston said, with a hint of a sigh. “Your newspaper.”

“A few questions, Father, that’s all.”

Beside me, old Pete gave a prodigious belch.

“’Scuse me!”

“I’m glad to see you are enjoying it,” Ebberston said, smiling benevolently.

I manoeuvred myself so I was standing between the priest and the gauche diner. “It’s about the miracle, you see?”

That gained Ebberston’s attention. “I beg your pardon?”

“You were visited by Monsignor Ermacora recently, from the Holy City.”

The name had a startling effect on the young man. He immediately retreated to the pews on the other side of the nave and busied himself with a pile of already perfectly stacked hymnals.

“I don’t think so,” he said, examining the spine of the topmost book. “No one has been here for weeks, I’m afraid.”

“Are you sure?”

He let out a sharp laugh. “I think I would remember a monsignor walking through those doors.”

I felt a pang of disappointment. Perhaps Holmes’s hunch had been wrong. Perhaps the reference to St Nicole in Ermacora’s notebook had not referred to this church at all.

Behind me, Pete decided to butt his way into the conversation. “This Monsignor of yours. Was ’ee a gurt big fellow, with more chins than ’er Majesty?”

I turned, trying to make sense of the vagrant’s peculiar vernacular. “The Monsignor is certainly… rotund, yes.”

“And ’ee had a mark ’ere, on the side of ’is face?” Pete tapped his cheek, in the exact location of Ermacora’s birthmark.

“That’s the man,” I said. “Did you see him?”

“See ’im? An angel, that’s what ’ee is. Gave me a sovereign, right out there on the street.”

“So he was here.” I turned to Ebberston, my eyebrows raised. The young priest was clutching his crucifix so hard that his knuckles were as white as his ashen face.

“Yes,” he admitted, nodding sharply. “He was here. I’m sorry.” I took a step towards the agitated priest. “Then why say he was not?”

“The Monsignor asked me to keep his visit a secret,” Ebberston said quickly. “I don’t think it was entirely official.”

“Official?” I said. “He was carrying a papal decree.”

“Was he?” the priest replied, sweat glistening on his brow despite the low temperature. “I’m not sure. I mean, he wasn’t here long. An hour at the most. Probably not even that. I’m afraid I couldn’t help him.”

“About Edwyn Warwick?” I prompted.

“Edwyn Warwick?” Pete parroted behind me, rising from his pew, his blanket still clutched tight. “Buried in this very church, ’ee is. Ain’t natural, if you ask I…”

“What isn’t?”

“How they found ’im; in ’is grave, see.”

“How do you mean?” I asked, intrigued, as Ebberston rushed to bundle the old man back towards the door.

“I pray that the broth will fortify you, but now I must ask you to leave.”

“Leave?”

“I’m afraid so. I am about to lock up for the night. But the blanket is yours. As I said, it is a gift from the Worshipful League of Merchants.”

“Wait,” I said, stepping forward. “What do you mean? How did they find him?”

“You mean you don’t know?” Pete asked, stopping short. “You ’aven’t ’eard the story of old Ed Warwick? Ain’t a miracle if you asks I; it’s a curse!”

“Now then,” Ebberston said, doubling his efforts to expel the tramp from the church. “Father Morell doesn’t want to hear all that stuff and nonsense.”

“I assure you I do,” I insisted. “Please, we can give Pete a moment, can’t we? To tell his tale?”

Ebberston hesitated, looking as if he were about to throw both of us out onto the street. Finally he relented. “Very well, but as I said to the Monsignor, there is no truth in the stories. They are legends, nothing more.”

“Legends,” I echoed, becoming more intrigued by the second.

“You should show ’im,” said Pete. “Show ’im where old Warwick lays in eternal sleep.”

Ebberston shook his head. “Very well, but then I must be getting on. I have an appointment with the bishop.”

“Of course,” I said, eager to continue.

His hands clasped firmly together, Ebberston led us towards a remarkable monument. At its base lay a tomb, on which a marble effigy rested on one elbow, as if lounging at a Roman feast. The statue depicted a man dressed in the garb and wig of the last century, a benign expression etched on its noble face.

“And this is Warwick?” I asked.

“That’s ’im,” confirmed Pete. “I don’t likes ’is eyes. Gives I the creeps, they does.”

“Please,” snapped Ebberston, his patience clearly wearing thin. “This is a house of worship.”

“Then why you got that devil ’ere then?”

“Edwyn Warwick was a pillar of this community,” Ebberston insisted, indicating the impressive stone reredos that rose up behind the figure.

“And these are the charitable causes he supported?” I asked, staring up at the list.

“In both Bristol and London,” Ebberston confirmed.

“He never married?” I said, remembering Holmes’s words.

“So I believe. This memorial was donated by the League of Merchants, one of the many organisations he supported within the City.”

“The same body that donated the blanket?”

“They give great support to our work here. Why, only recently, they donated a large sum to assist in the building of a shelter.”

“To help poor unfortunates like Pete?” I suggested, drawing a sharp nod from Ebberston.

“Aye, but they do more than just donates money, ain’t that right, Father,” Pete prompted. “Tell ’im about the body!”

The tramp’s words brought back Monsignor Ermacora’s chilling epitaph. “No,” I said to the old man, “why don’t you?”

The vagrant grabbed my arm with a bony hand. “It’s the work of the devil, I tells thee; Ol’ Scratch ’imself.”

And with that, Pete began his macabre tale.