CHAPTER 2
T
he cellâfor that was how the priest had referred to itâwas small, sparse, windowless, and scrupulously clean. The very sight of it was both astonishing and disheartening. I could not believe how austere a place it wasâthough I could not now recollect what else I had expected to find in a monasteryâand as I scanned my eyes around the pristine little space I appreciated Colin's distress at discovering that the monks had taken it upon themselves to obliterate all signs of the horrendous murder that had taken place here only sixty hours before. The harsh tang of lemon and lye was the sole remnant of something gone awry, though for all I knew this was the standard by which this monastery maintained itself, assuming the brotherhood believed the old adage of cleanliness and godliness.
“The only crime that I can see,” Colin said, his voice taut with displeasure as the three of us stared into the cell, “is that you have allowed the scene of this assassination to be so completely eradicated. And this when you say you have kept the room locked since the morning of the murder. I am . . .” He shook his head and did not bother to finish his thought, which seemed the best course of action given that we were speaking to a cleric.
“Oh no, Mr. Pendragon.” Father Nolan Demetris quickly spoke up. “It was not me. I wasn't here on Tuesday. I live in Chichester and serve under Bishop Fencourt at the cathedral there. I only arrived myself this morning once we had gotten word that you and Mr. Pruitt were coming. The bishop sent me to ensure that the two of you get acclimated and access to everything you require.” He hesitated before clearing his throat. “Most of the brothers here are not used to dealing with people from outside, you understand.”
Colin turned to the dark-haired priest with a scowl. “Then who was it who purged this cell, and whyever was it done?”
“It had to have been one of the senior monks. Probably either Brother Clayworth, Brother Morrison, or Brother Silsbury.” Father Demetris scrunched up his doughy face with evident embarrassment. He looked to be a man in his later middle years who was cursed with soft, rounded features. His frame appeared to be lithe from what I could detect of the way his black cassock hung from his curved shoulders, and he moved with a hesitancy that made me suspect he had lived the bulk of his life in deference to others. This was clearly not the type of man who aspired to anything more than he had long ago achieved. “As to why it was done . . . ?” He tilted his head sideways like a pup listening for the sound of its master's voice. “I'm afraid you will need to ask those senior-most monks at supper. I can only surmise that such a scene left unattended was too much for their sensibilities. The only reason you will have the opportunity to view the abbot's remains tomorrow is because Bishop Fencourt forbade the brothers from laying the poor man to rest. He knew an examination of the body . . .” Father Demetris left the rest of his statement unsaid, making it clear how uncomfortable he felt at the thought of Colin and me examining the remains.
“An examination of the corpse is crucial if there is no autopsy performed,” Colin bothered to explain, though neither of us relished the thought of having to do such a thing.
“An autopsy . . . ?” The priest paled with a stern shake of his head. “Oh no, an autopsy would never be allowed.”
“So I was informed,” Colin muttered flatly as he turned back and gazed into the cell.
The diminutive space was lit solely by two oil sconces hanging one on each side wall and a single oil lamp on a small, square table shoved into the far corner of the room. The room stretched back no more than twelve feet at the very most and looked only half again as wide. Other than the little table and the homemade-looking wooden chair pushed up beneath it, there was only a single-sized bedâreally nothing more than a wood-sided cotâa tall, round stand across from it upon which sat a white porcelain bowl, though its matching pitcher was conspicuously absent, and a square cutout bit of plain rug made of some sort of reed or fiber at the bedside. There were no windows, no adornments of any kind, and nothing to suggest any but the most rudimentary levels of comfort.
“This is where Abbot Tufton slept for the last ten years of his life,” Father Demetris said with obvious pride.
The very thought of it astounded me. There were years I lived in meager surroundings myself, but they had been transitory at best and nothing that matched the severity of what I was now looking at. Still, to Colin's point, other than the curious absence of the pitcher atop the stand, it was impossible to tell that anything untoward had ever taken place here.
“The asceticism of these monks is startling,” Colin muttered as he slowly entered the space.
“These men are Benedictine monks,” Father Demetris explained. “Their devotion to God is absolute.”
“So it would appear,” Colin said as he gently ran a hand across the tabletop, his eyes continuously roving throughout the room.
“Once a novitiate accepts the Benedictine vows, he enters his community and, for the greater part, leaves the outside world behind. It is a profound and admirable dedication.”
Colin knelt down and began studying the plank flooring in an ever-expanding arc, curling the small prayer rug back as he did so. “It is certainly bleak,” he mumbled.
Father Demetris looked momentarily taken aback before finally letting a thin smile touch his lips. “This way of life is not for everyone. Even a man of faith can have his doubts now and then.” He released a small sigh. “I suppose that's a part of the human condition.”
“A condition, is it?” Colin said as he stood up and glanced around one last time, his eyes raking across every inch of the space as though determined to find the one speck that had been overlooked upon which the entirety of this case might turn.
“More of a curse, I sometimes think,” Father Demetris responded solemnly.
His grim answer surprised me, but I kept quiet as I watched Colin snuff out the three lights before backing out of the cell, his gaze remaining intensely focused inside despite the immediate and utter blackness. The priest pulled the door shut, oblivious to Colin's vacant stare, yanking out his key and swiftly re-bolting it.
“You say this door has been locked since the morning of the murder?” Colin asked again, his brow well furrowed and his deep blue eyes marred with obvious displeasure.
“Yes,” the priest answered, turning and leading us back through the stark, narrow hallway with its low ceiling pressing down upon my head. “As soon as the bishop received word of what had happened he ordered the room locked and the abbot's body preserved.” He flicked his gaze sideways at Colin. “I believe his second wire was to your father.”
“I only wish he had ordered the cell left untouched,” Colin grumbled. “An investigation is infinitely more difficult when all signs of it have been so thoroughly wiped away.”
“I am sorry for that.” Father Demetris cringed ever so slightly. “You can imagine we have no protocol for such a thing. Even a locked door is entirely out of character for a monastery.” He tipped a small shrug. “It feels enough that these men have not been allowed to bury their abbot. . . .”
“It is not enough when it comes to the solving of their abbot's murder,” Colin fired back impolitely. I tossed him a scowl and he clamped his mouth shut even as he returned my harsh gaze.
We remained silent as we followed the priest back toward the front of the monastery. Each hallway we traversed was punctuated by only the minimum amount of light from smoke-stained glass sconces interspersed too infrequently along the way. Their thick, oily scent permeated the claustrophobic passageways and stifled the air, putting me in mind of the opium clubs I had spent too much of my youth inside. I wondered why they had yet to convert the monastery to gas. It was eminently safer than these oil lamps that continuously needed their wicks trimmed and oil pots refilled, and all I could surmise was that perhaps it had to do with their austere way of life.
We passed a small door off a side entry and, though it was closed, I could hear the low, sonorous cadence of male voices chanting some indecipherable litany from behind it. It was clear we had come abreast of the chapel. I found the tone mystical, almost otherworldly, and yet it also seemed to contain an edge of something darker, something vaguely foreboding.
“Here we are, then,” Father Demetris announced in his quiet manner as we rounded the end of the hallway, turning into a slightly wider passage where the brooding ceiling thankfully lifted several feet above my head. “We shall talk here in Abbot Tufton's office until called for supper.”
He swung the door wide onto the first vaguely pleasant-looking space I had seen since our arrival almost an hour before. The room was a suitable size, big enough to hold a large desk of dark, almost black wood ornately carved in a bacchanalian fashion with cherubic faces, a tendril of vines, and small bunches of grapes. A huge, overstuffed chair sat behind it covered in a deep burgundy fabric with a nap that appeared to be velvet. Facing the desk were two plain, straight-backed chairs that I was certain would be as uncomfortable as the abbot's looked inviting, and behind those sat a plaster-fronted fireplace painted dove gray that held the faces of eleven men in relief, five on one side, six on the other, that I decided must be meant to represent the apostles, sans Judas. The best feature of the office, however, were the two narrow leaded-glass cathedral windows that rose up along the opposite wall from where we stood, letting in a veritable ocean of colorful, prismatic light.
Father Demetris gestured us to the harsh-looking chairs as he settled himself behind the desk. “It doesn't seem right to be sitting here,” Father Demetris said, and indeed, he did look ill at ease. “Abbot Tufton was only the second man to lead this pious brotherhood since Whitmore Abbey was consecrated thirteen years ago. His predecessor served just eight months before he was called home by the Heavenly Father, so it was Abbot Tufton who formed the community you see here today.”
“Where did the abbot serve before coming to Whitmore Abbey?” Colin asked.
“Mostly Ireland. John Tufton spent time in several dioceses under several different bishops. He was highly regarded, even as a young man. He was invited to spend time in the Papal States studying under His Holiness Pius the Ninth right out of seminary. A remarkable feat for one as young as he was.” A wistful sort of grin flitted across his lips. “He could have risen much higher in the church, but this was his calling. This is where he knew he belonged. Bishop Fencourt considered Abbot Tufton his monastic blessing.” Father Demetris looked infinitely sad as he said the words.
“How many monks live here?” Colin pressed ahead, and I knew he had no intention of getting caught in such sentimentality.
“Thirty-three, not counting the abbot. It is a small order, but then the town of Dalwich cannot claim more than five thousand residents itself. I don't think the whole of Sussex County is even half a million.”
“Still . . .” Colin gave a slight smile. “That's a fair amount of souls to save for such a small band of men.”
Father Demetris shook his head. “I'm afraid you confuse these monks with missionaries, deacons, and vicars. The brothers of Whitmore Abbey do not conduct services for the public, nor do most of them have much contact with any laypeople beyond these walls. They are monks, Mr. Pendragon. They are here solely to dedicate themselves to prayer, divine contemplation, and devotion to God. They are a rare and august breed of acolyte, you see. Very few receive such a calling or are up to the challenge of accepting it if they do.”
“Of course,” Colin muttered with a note of irritation, and I suspected he was annoyed at having made such a fundamental error. “Have all the men who live here now been here from the beginning?”
“A good many, but not all. The church built an additional dormitory about three years ago. It can house ten additional monks, but for now there are only three brothers living there. As I said before, this is not a life for everyone.”
“Quite so.” Colin nodded curtly. “And are those three monks the last to join the monastery?”
“Precisely.”
“How long did you know Abbot Tufton?”
“I knew John almost forty years. We spent quite a bit of time together in seminary back in Dublin. I considered him a dear friend.” He released a labored sigh. “He will be sorely missed.”
“Your fond memories do him fine honor.” I spoke up even though I found the priest's sorrow keenly distressing. While I understood how he would miss his friend, I had thought he would be held fast by his surety of the afterlife.
“When did you and Bishop Fencourt learn of Abbot Tufton's murder?” Colin cast me an arched eyebrow as he prodded the conversation right back on point.
“We received a telegram on Tuesday, not an hour after the abbot's body was discovered. We were told that Abbot Tufton had failed to appear for morning prayers so one of the brothers had been sent to check on him.” He shook his head and turned his gaze to the windows, the pained look on his face in marked contrast to the warm hues of the setting sun filtering back through. “They tell me it was a terrible scene.”
“Who told you?” Colin pushed.
Father Demetris glanced back at him. “Brother Morrison and Brother Silsbury. And poor Brother Hollings, of course, the young monk who found him.”
“Of course,” Colin repeated perfunctorily before pressing the matter as I knew he would. “What exactly did Brother Hollings find?”
“They said the abbot was collapsed across the floor of his cell with one arm stretched out as though he were reaching for something while the very life force drained out of him. A horror,” he tutted as his eyes drifted back to the leaded-glass windows. He remained transfixed for several moments before finally continuing. “There was no mistaking what had happened. Brother Hollings said the walls were so streaked with blood that he didn't even enter the cell to check on John but just turned and ran to fetch Brothers Morrison and Silsbury.”