Underbelly

Underbelly

G JOHANSON

Kharon Publishing

Copyright © 2010 G Johanson

All rights reserved.

Cover illustration by Douglas Mullen

Chapter 1 – Cold Case

Reverend Craig Stuart swore to himself as he mistyped yet again and pulled the sheet of paper from the new typewriter (a thoughtful present from a parishioner, which he was determined to master) and crumpled it up and threw it across the room, aiming for the bin, his shot as poor as his typing and causing him to swear again, a little louder this time.

“
Bugger.”

“
Language, Reverend,” Mary Gillies said through the door, her erratic hearing exceptional when he didn’t want it to be, and he was pleased she had not heard his earlier expletive. She opened the door to his small sanctum, smiling benignly at him, and he gave up typing for the day. His brother would have to wait a little longer for his letter – from the sound of things he would be out in India a while longer, his brother furious that they wouldn’t let him return home as soon as the war was won, comparing himself to a slave in his polemic letters home. Reverend Stuart knew that his reply, encouraging forbearance, would be unwelcome whenever it arrived.

Mary Gillies was his housekeeper, a friendly Cumbrian who had wanted to help at the church to feel more a part of her community, an elderly Englishwoman living alone in the far north of Scotland. Reverend Stuart held her in high regard, even if he did feel that she spent a little too much time at the church, which was very noticeable due to the small size of the village church. He had wanted her to be relaxed around him and had told her she didn’t need to knock whenever she wanted to see him in his private room – a mistake in retrospect.

“
You’ve got two gentlemen visitors, Reverend,” Mary said loudly.

“
Are they from the parish?”

“
No, no, no, no,” she said animatedly. “Do you want me to send them through?”

“
Yes, yes,” he said, curious as to what amused her about the question but unable to ask her for fear of her answering in a booming voice. He found out the answer soon enough, quickly standing as the pair of priests entered, the elder clad in fine red robes, seeming to be the epitome of a Vatican cardinal. He looked to be around sixty and was bald with a dark grey beard and moustache. The other priest looked half of his age and he looked more the ethnic Roman, though his clothes were more standard, black garb with collar, and his build belonged more to a circus strongman than a priest. The elder priest shook Reverend’s Stuart’s hand, introducing himself as Father Alberto Rossi and then introduced Father Umberto Sciali whose handshake, surprisingly, was weaker than Father Rossi’s. Reverend Stuart introduced himself and welcomed them to Ravensbeck and offered them seats and asked them if they wanted anything to eat and drink, Father Rossi declining for them both. He took off his outer robes to make himself more comfortable, revealing humbler black attire, a sharp contrast to the ostentatious coat. Reverend Stuart and Father Rossi took turns at taking the lead in the conversation, with Father Sciali happy to stay quiet, occasionally drawn into the conversation by Father Rossi. His Italian accent was much stronger than Father Rossi’s was and almost indecipherable to Reverend Stuart who had to keep asking him to repeat himself and he still couldn’t understand him, Father Rossi translating for him in the end. Reverend Stuart apologised at his inability to understand him.

“
There’s no need for apologies,” Father Rossi said. “This is Umberto’s first time abroad and he’s only had a year to learn English. He’ll improve. I wasn’t as good as him after a year.”

“
No, he’s good, it’s just the accent I find hard to understand. You’re probably finding it hard to understand my Scottish accent,” he said to Father Sciali, whose stupefied expression proved him correct (though in truth his Scottish accent was very slight).

“
I can understand you fine, Reverend,” Father Rossi said.

After forty minutes of relaxed talk, during which the conversation flowed, very little had been said. Father Rossi had talked about the challenges that faced the Christian churches as a whole, whatever the denomination, about how the world and its people needed to be healed, about the state of Rome now and how things had been during the war. Reverend Stuart talked a little of himself, how Ravensbeck was his first appointment and perfect for him, only an hour’s travelling time from his home city of Aberdeen. Reverend Stuart was interested as to the purpose of their visit, two Catholic priests from Rome visiting his small church seemingly just to see him, a Protestant minister. Feeling that they were now reasonably acquainted, Father Rossi asked him about his parishioners, and when Reverend Stuart described them collectively he stopped him and asked him for details about everyone in the community. Reverend Stuart told him that there were over 150 people living in the village and on nearby farms, a large figure that he felt would put off Father Rossi from hearing about them. He was undeterred and asked for details of them all and Reverend Stuart obliged, giving basic descriptions of each (whether they were churchgoers, their profession and relationship to others in the community). The name Father Rossi was looking for was not on the list and he decided it was time to reveal more of his quest, still taking things slowly so as not to disturb the poor young minister.

“
What about Laura Spencer?”

“
Yes, she lives a couple of miles out of the village. I’ve probably missed a lot of others out too, Father. I didn’t mention the Egberts either. They’re just down the road from her, two brothers in their 60s, Thomas and Ross.”

“
And what do the three of them do?”

“
They were farmers and beekeepers too. They still keep hens and sell eggs. Laura – I don’t think she works. She’s not part of my congregation and I’ve hardly met her to be honest. You could probably tell me more about her than I could tell you,” Reverend Stuart said, realising that Father Rossi was likely an acquaintance of hers as he had supplied her name. It made sense to him – Laura had been away from her home for most of the war and it explained her non-attendance at the church if she was a Catholic. Then he thought about Father Rossi’s second question about her – if he knew her why was he asking what her profession was?

“
You don’t know how right you are. I could tell you a lot about Laura Spencer, but I don’t want to trouble you,” he said, his words ominous but Reverend Stuart could tell that he was trying to protect him.

“
Please tell me. The same rules apply in my church – whatever you tell me will be confidential.”

Father Rossi shook his head and said, “Not yet. We may be staying a while and in time I will tell you more. Whereabouts is the guest house located?”

“
I’ll show you. I have a cottage next door you can use, if you wish,” he offered, trying to be charitable. He hated the divisions that existed between all of the different Christian factions and wanted to make them welcome, generosity more of a motivation than curiosity, though he was certainly intrigued by the little that Father Rossi had said about their reason for being there.

“
If it would be no imposition.”

“
Not at all.”

Father Rossi had Father Sciali move their bags into the cottage and thanked Reverend Stuart for making their quest easier; Reverend Stuart told him that it was the least that he could do.

“
Sheltering us is a risk and we appreciate it. It could earn you her displeasure.”

“
Laura? We’ve only met properly once and she seemed pleasant. Did she do something in Italy?”

Father Rossi shook his head. “Not in Italy,” he replied pointedly, still unwilling to share everything that he knew with him. “Please tell me everything you know about her, no matter how small.”

Reverend Stuart’s imagination was now going wild with possibilities about Laura Spencer, making it hard for him to think of what facts he knew about her. He told Father Rossi that she owned a large manor, inherited from her mother, who she was named after and, according to the older villagers, closely resembled, and that she had left the area shortly before the war and returned before Christmas in ‘44. She had had two lodgers staying with her who Reverend Stuart knew well and he offered to tell him more about them.

“
Please do. Their names are James Grey and Germaine Cremont, I believe,” he said, knowing he was correct.

“
That’s right. They’ve left now, and they’re married. That was the one time I met Laura, at the wedding. I conducted the service. It would be a month ago now.”

“
How is his health?”

“
Much better. He was in a wheelchair for a long time. She used to wheel him into the village, Germaine, and we all saw a lot of them, but not Laura. He used to…” Reverend Stuart paused, wondering whether he should be revealing so much of the Greys, about to tell him more of his medical condition and stopping himself. “I’m not sure it’s my place to say anything about his health.”

“
We have no quarrel with Mr Grey or Miss Cremont – Mrs Grey, I mean; we weren’t aware of that,” he said persuasively.

“
All right, Father. He used to spend a lot of time in hospital, with problems from recurring infections in his wound.”

Father Rossi repressed a smile. While he derived no joy from Grey’s suffering, it gladdened his heart a little to hear how fallible the dark arts were. “When did they leave?”

“
Last Wednesday, I think. He’s back on his feet now and he’s taking her back to America. They wanted to go straight after the wedding as a honeymoon but it is still very hard to get passage. He’s taking her to somewhere that started with K in Iowa – he did talk about it a great deal, but it was a strange name. It was named after an Indian chief, he said.”

“
Keokuk.”

“
That’s right. That’s where they’ll be. They’re not your concern though, are they?” he said, remembering that it was Laura Spencer he was there to see.