The Dalwich Desecration (3 page)

“Why them?”

“They're the senior members of the community along with Brother Clayworth. Brother Silsbury attends to the infirmary. He is not a doctor, but he is a man with some knowledge of health and healing.”

“And what did they determine when they went back?” Colin asked as I hastily scribbled down the names of each monk and the information we were being given about them.

Father Demetris sucked in a rasping breath as he quickly crossed himself before answering. “Brother Silsbury noticed bloodstains across the back of Abbot Tufton's nightshirt and discovered slash marks all across it. So he and Brother Morrison rolled the blessed man over and . . .” His voice broke and he closed his eyes for a second time, his lips silently reciting something before he opened them and began again. “They said his face was covered with blood and that the front of his nightshirt was cut almost to shreds. There were wounds over his chest and neck . . .” He let his voice drift off as he shook his head and flicked his eyes back toward some distant place out the window. “I understand it took some time before Brother Silsbury realized that the abbot's tongue had been removed. Perhaps it was the amount of blood on his face; I have not asked.” He abruptly looked back at Colin, his soft features heavy with his grief. “I will leave that to you, Mr. Pendragon. I simply haven't the stomach to hear anything more.”

“There is no need for you to do so,” Colin answered at once. “Do you know whether Brother Silsbury made any determination as to
when
the attack may have occurred?”

Father Demetris nodded slightly and wiped a quick hand across his brow. “Given that Abbot Tufton was still in his nightshirt with no covering upon his feet, it is likely he had not yet risen when the murderer entered his cell. I know John Tufton to have been a man who arose each morning at four to begin his personal devotions, so I presume that someone must have set upon him deep in the heart of the night.”

“And what time do the brothers usually retire?”

“Most of them return to their cells shortly after supper. Some will pause to congregate for a brief time to discuss matters of the monastery or share evening prayers, but I believe every man has gone back to his cell shortly after nine at the latest. Matins . . . morning prayers . . . begin at five each day, so the men are up by four thirty to prepare. I am sure you are aware that idleness is the devil's tool.”

“Most certainly,” Colin agreed, and that was indeed a doctrine he had embraced as long as I had known him. Only sleep stilled him and even then there were times I had been clouted by a stray arm or leg. “Do the men ever gather in small groups in their cells?”

Father Demetris allowed a thin smile. “You have seen the size of Abbot Tufton's cell. Perhaps it would surprise you to learn that it is larger than the cells of the other monks. Most of the brothers have nothing more than a mat on the floor for sleeping and a woolen blanket in winter for warmth. There is no room for any such congregating in their cells.”

“Then it would be uncharacteristic for one monk to go to another's cell under any circumstances?”

The priest nodded and I could tell he was puzzled by the question. “Only in the case of an emergency,” he answered after a moment, “but I am not aware of any such occurrence that night.”

Colin pursed his lips and nodded, and I was certain he was already weighing some possibility. “Can you tell me whether there has been any word back to the bishop about any dissension within the monastery of late? Disagreements or fractures that perhaps the abbot had sought the bishop's advice on?”

Father Demetris considered the question for only an instant before answering. “There is always the occasional harsh word or impassioned debate as with any community,” he explained, “the monks here are but human. However, I know of nothing that was causing Abbot Tufton any undue concern. And I can assure you, had it been the case, word of it would not have reached Bishop Fencourt without first coming through me.”

“So you are a secretary to the bishop?”

“It is one of the duties I perform.” Father Demetris nodded, and I could tell it was an obligation he was proud of.

“How familiar are you with the daily workings of Whitmore Abbey? Are you called here often?”

“Once or twice a year. But there are no mysteries to life here. As I have said before, these good monks lead a simple and pious existence.”

“Yes, of course.” Colin waved the priest off in a careless manner that made me wince, though I knew he was tired of being reminded of the devoutness of these men given that one of them had quite possibly committed murder. “Do any of the citizens of Dalwich have access to the monastery? Do they ever worship in your chapel or are any of them employed as cooks, service staff, or perhaps to attend the grounds?”

Father Demetris shook his head vehemently as though the very idea of it was anathema and, given the way they lived, I supposed it was. “The chapel at Whitmore Abbey is solely for the use of the brotherhood. They do not minister to the townspeople in any way nor does anyone from Dalwich work here. The brothers take care of themselves in all ways. Each monk is assigned tasks, whether that be preparing meals, scrubbing common areas, or tending the fields alongside the refectory. The care of their clothing and cells, however, is the responsibility of each individual. In fact, other than the local constable and the two men he brought with him on Tuesday, I would say that no more than a handful of the monks have ever even met anyone from Dalwich.”

“I see . . .” Colin rubbed his jaw with the hint of a scowl. “And this constable, did he see the abbot's cell before the monks purified it?”

The priest shook his head. “I'm afraid not. Putting the abbot's cell in order was of paramount concern. Out of respect,” he hastily added. “I trust you understand.”

“I understand,” Colin groused, “but it does not please me in the least. Has this constable been hanging about for the last two days?”

“I have not asked, though he did not come by today. I sent word to him upon my arrival this morning that the two of you were on your way to assist in the investigation at the bishop's request. He dispatched an immediate response that he would be by tomorrow to meet with both of you.”

“How very fortunate,” Colin muttered, a sarcastic smile darting across his lips. “Have there been any recent changes here?”

“Nothing at all for quite some time. It is this steadfastness of the church that is one of its most compelling attributes. God's way is neither random nor shifting. And so it has been from the moment of creation.”

“I do believe I envy you the stoutness of your convictions.”

“Faith is a mighty sword,” Father Demetris said. “And available to all.”

“Indeed . . .” Colin replied without any real fervor, and I imagined that he was feeling as out of place in this monastery as I was.

“Are you sure I cannot convince the two of you to stay here at the monastery?” Father Demetris pressed for the second time since our arrival, an idea that seemed a horror to me. “Our cells may be sparse, but they are dutifully clean and I can promise you beds rather than a mat on the floor.”

Colin shook his head with what I presumed was meant to be an appreciative grin. “You mustn't trouble these good monks by having us constantly underfoot. Our presence here can only serve as a grim reminder of what has just taken place. We will be fine at the inn in Dalwich.” He glanced at me. “What's the name of it?”

“The Pig and Pint,” I reminded.

“Yes.” Colin scrunched his face. “Not a very appealing name for an inn.”

Father Demetris gave a low chuckle, the first I had heard since our arrival. “Well, it is the only place in Dalwich with rooms to let, so I suppose they can call it what they wish. Should you change your mind there is always room for you here.”

“You're very kind,” Colin said with the ghost of a grin that assured me we would do no such thing.

A tentative knock on the door interrupted us as a young, sandy-haired man stuck his head in and beckoned us to supper. Father Demetris thanked the young monk, who maintained a solemn façade as he pulled the door shut again. “There is one thing I would ask of you,” the cleric said as the three of us got to our feet. “I would appreciate it if you would do your best to be sensitive to the routines the brothers follow in practicing their daily devotions. Those are the foundations of their lives here and the bishop is anxious for these men to return to some semblance of normalcy as quickly as possible.”

“Of course.” Colin gave an obligatory nod. “But you do understand that at some point these men, these monks, are going to be most grievously distressed.”

The priest paused at the door and looked back at us, his hand holding the knob as though it were the most delicate fixture and liable to shatter. “Whatever do you mean?”

“Someone has slain your abbot in a most unspeakable way. You have said yourself that most of these monks have no association with the people of Dalwich. I am afraid that would tend to suggest that the perpetrator is a man who dwells here.”

Father Demetris looked as though Colin had struck him, his right hand bolting from the doorknob as he quickly crossed himself. “How can you say such a thing?” he gasped, his voice coming out harsh and ragged.

“How can I not?” Colin replied. And I knew he was right. We were about to sit amongst these righteous men, one of whom had almost assuredly ravaged one of the foremost covenants of their faith.

CHAPTER 3

H
alf-a-dozen chipped porcelain platters were brimming with cut-up parts of roasted chicken, of which each monk took only a single piece. Tubs of white rice and bowls of shredded cabbage mixed with what tasted like vinegar and oil rounded out the repast, though there was also an apple alongside each monk's plate. I assumed the meager piece of fruit was to take the place of spice cake with clotted cream or fresh berry trifle, either of which I would have greatly preferred. The food was so rudimentary that I found myself pining for the slightly more exhilarating fare that Mrs. Behmoth would have rummaged up for us. While she was never going to earn herself a position in a royal kitchen, compared to the simplicity of what had been set before us this evening, our Mrs. Behmoth seemed like quite the culinary vanguard.

Colin, Father Demetris, and I were seated at the first of two long tables that looked to have room for fifty. The tables consisted of dark wood planks interlocked in an uneven pattern that stretched on for what had to be greater than twenty feet each. We were seated on benches rather than chairs, with the room's only true chair at the far end of the opposite table. While it carried no adornments or any cushion upon its seat, I was certain it had belonged to the abbot, which made the severity of its emptiness a stark and distressing reminder. It was, without doubt, contributing to the austerity of the monks' behavior this night beyond the usual solemnness we had already been encountering. For if this was truly the day's social occasion for these highly reserved gentlemen, I could see little sign of it. I had presumed at least a few of them would want to query Colin in some sort of fundamental way, but no one spoke to us and, in truth, they hardly said anything to one another, either.

Colin and I had been seated across from each other with the monks lined up to my right in their identical black tunics and cowls, free of any sort of embellishments on their clothing whatsoever. Only the differences in their hair initially set them apart until the variety of their ages and statures gradually became apparent. Still, upon first and even second glance, there was little to distinguish one from another, and it was clear this was the way it was intended to be.

Their differences became more apparent as the meal drew to a close and the monks who had finished began to stand up—plates, cups, utensils, and apples in hand—and filter out through a rear door after setting their dishes on a small table beside the exit. Though most of them left singly, those who did leave in pairs or small groups continued to maintain their silence, amplifying the oppressiveness of the meal and making me wonder if it was always thus.

When there were only five monks left at our table, Father Demetris leaned over and spoke to us in as gentle a tone as I would have expected had we been in the midst of a Sunday service. “I asked these brothers to stay behind,” he explained. “I am quite certain they are the ones you will be most interested in speaking with tonight.”

“Very good,” Colin answered in an equally hushed tone, making me realize that he was clearly feeling as awkward in the place as I was. “Then I presume these are the senior-most men”—he turned and nodded toward a pale young monk with fiery hair sitting several places down the table from us—“and he must be the unfortunate lad who discovered the abbot's body.”

“You are correct on both counts,” one of the monks answered before Father Demetris could, an older man with broad shoulders and short, tightly cropped brown hair who I could tell would prove to be an unusually tall man when he stood up. “I am Brother Silsbury,” he announced in a stolid tone. “I was one of the first beckoned to the scene Tuesday morning, as I run the infirmary, though that fact counted for naught, I'm afraid.” He released a burdened sigh.

Father Demetris turned and acknowledged the man with a tip of his head. “You did what you could, Brother Silsbury,” he said before nodding toward a rounder man with a full head of short silver hair and a pinched expression on his broad, well-lined face that either spoke of his discomfort with the topic or his dislike at Colin and me being here. I could not tell which. “Brother Morrison oversees the daily functioning of the monastery.” Father Demetris next gestured toward the ginger-haired, lanky, young monk with an oval face who had to be somewhere near the middle of his twenties, though he looked quite mired in his teens. “Young Brother Hollings you have already spotted. He attends to the upkeep of our public areas and serves as an aide to Brothers Morrison and Silsbury.” The priest gestured to the thin, older man to my immediate right with a shock of silvery-white hair atop a face that appeared ruddy from either too much sun or exertion. “Brother Clayworth runs the brewery. . . .”

“Brewery?” I blurted out without a second's thought.

“Oh yes,” Brother Clayworth chirped right up. “We make a very fine ale that we sell to the owner of the Pig and Pint,” he explained. “Mr. Chesterton carries it at his pub and distributes it to the neighboring villages on our behalf. It supplies us with what small income we require.”

“Of course,” Colin replied with a nod. “There are many monastic orders producing spirits for their livelihood.”

“It's quite good,” Father Demetris added quietly. “They call it Whitmore Ale.” He pointed to the last monk sitting with us, a slender man with an angular face almost ashen in color and a thin covering of dark brown hair that was brushed back with the severity of a spinster's. “And this is Brother Wright, who tends to the gardens along the back of the monastery. Brothers”—Father Demetris spread his arms toward Colin and me—“this is Mr. Pendragon and Mr. Pruitt of London. They are the men I told you about who have been requested by Bishop Fencourt to assist in the investigation of Abbot Tufton's murder.”

Colin winced slightly. “Assist . . .” he started to say until I caught his eye with a scowl. Now hardly seemed the time to quibble over his inevitable maltreatment of the local constable.

“What is the young Dalwich constable's name?” Father Demetris asked the assembled brothers.

“Lachlan Brendle,” Brother Morrison answered, his craggy face shifting like stones caught in the tide's onrush. “A nice enough lad, though hardly the brightest sort.”

“Now, Robert . . .” Brother Clayworth began to say, his words coming out slightly thick and leaden, making me wonder if the flush on his face might actually be the result of a touch too much of his vaunted ale.

“It is a statement of fact.” The older man cut him off with the wave of a hand. “The Lord's children come in every shape and manner.”

“I can certainly attest to that,” Colin pronounced succinctly. “I understand this constable was muddling about the morning of the murder?”

“I suppose he was trying to do his job,” Brother Silsbury answered.

“He hadn't a notion
what
to do,” Brother Morrison grumbled.

“Now, Robert . . .” Brother Clayworth started to scold for the second time before Colin cut him off.

“That's as it ever is.” Colin flashed a curt grin. “But tell me, when the constable showed up—a lad, did you say . . . ?—when he showed up, I am told he was unable to see the cell as it had been discovered by Brother Hollings. . . .”

“That's right,” Brother Silsbury answered grimly. “I gave the order to move the abbot's body to the infirmary, and Brother Morrison instructed to have the cell cleaned at once. It was unseemly.”

Colin released a tight sigh. “Murder tends to be. Unfortunately, your tidying will have obliterated vital clues.”

“I really cannot say that I was much interested in such things with Abbot Tufton's dignity and legacy at stake. Do you not imagine that poor Brother Hollings here shall forever be marked by the sight that assaulted him that morning?”

“Without question,” Brother Morrison agreed with a grumble. “I myself find it difficult to restrain such thoughts from the forefront of my mind. It is the reason Brother Silsbury and I forbade any of the others from coming near the abbot's cell that morning. It is the reason we set a lock upon it.”

“You will find your release through prayer, Brother Hollings,” Father Demetris said as he gazed down several places to where the young monk remained hunched forward, his eyes cast down.

Brother Hollings managed the slightest of nods, keeping his hands folded in front of himself and his eyes glued to his pale, interlaced fingers as though his very salvation might be found there.

“So, it was the three of you who obliterated all signs of what took place in the abbot's cell that morning?” Colin pressed much to my alarm, his gaze raking across those particular monks.

“It was Brother Hollings,” Brother Morrison responded with what I was beginning to realize was his customary disapproval. “As you can see, I am an old man and hardly agile. I guarded the cell while Brothers Silsbury and Hollings moved the abbot's body to the infirmary. When Brother Hollings returned he immediately set himself to the task at hand and did a fine job.” Brother Morrison glanced toward the young man. “You did a fine job, Rupert. The Lord is pleased.”

Brother Hollings gave a grim sort of smile, his teeth gnashed together, before immediately dropping his eyes again, and I could not help but wonder if perhaps he hadn't been more ill-suited for such an undertaking than any of these men realized.

Colin, however, seemed to take no note of it as he continued to press the young monk. “Was there anything atop the small table in the abbot's cell when you discovered him? Paperwork. . . ? Books . . . ? A
Bible . . .
?”

Brother Hollings twisted his face and shrugged uncomfortably. “I cannot remember,” he answered with some hesitation, his voice thin and strained. “I saw him . . . I saw all the blood . . . and I ran to find Brother Morrison. I didn't even stop to see whether—” He abruptly halted and in that instant I realized the spectre that was gnawing at him.

“There was nothing you could have done for him.” Brother Silsbury spoke up at once. “Abbot Tufton was deceased long before you stumbled upon his body. Your actions served you well, Brother Hollings. You must give your burden to God, for it is His to carry now.”

“Yes, sir.” But though his words were acquiescent, his tone remained burdened with regret.

“Must you continue to plague Brother Hollings tonight?” Brother Morrison turned to us, his great leaden face tight with his displeasure. “He has suffered unaccountably and I should think an evening of contemplative prayer will serve him best now.”

Colin took a moment before he finally answered. “Yes, of course. But we shall need to trouble you tomorrow or the next day. You are a vital witness, Brother, and we would be remiss to not learn everything we can from you. There may be critical things you saw that you are not yet even aware of.”

“You make it sound like witchery,” Brother Morrison snapped, shifting a surly grin between his fellow monks and Father Demetris. “Go on, Brother Hollings, there is no reason for you to listen to this babble. You go and pray for your salvation. Your words will be heard.”

“Thank you,” the young monk mumbled as he quickly got up and left the room on ghostly silent feet.

“I should think I can answer most of the questions you have,” Brother Silsbury said as he looked at us, his face grave but his hazel eyes not unkind. “I was involved in a great many of the decisions that were made when the abbot's body was discovered.”

“Nevertheless,” Colin insisted with a look that was more determined than accommodating, “because that young man discovered the body I
will
need to speak with him again. Especially given that he alone cleansed the abbot's cell after his body had been removed.”

“It will be arranged,” Father Demetris said at once, his soft voice carrying the weight of Bishop Fencourt's will.

“You are like a mongrel with a bone,” Brother Morrison hissed. “We will
not
apologize for the decision to rectify the abbot's cell. We were not about to let that bloodied scene of carnage become a thing of gawking and gossip here. It demanded to be contained. . . controlled. We may be monks, but we are also mere men. So when Brother Hollings assured me that he was up to the task, I readily agreed. In fact, I believe it helped him to avoid dwelling on what he had seen by putting his distress into physical action. It pains me to see that now that a bit of time has passed, it has allowed the scourge of guilt to begin fouling his mind.”

“He is young in his faith,” Brother Wright put in, his voice as tight as the sharpness of his pallid face.

“It is not his faith I seek to question,” Colin remarked crisply, and I felt Father Demetris stiffen beside me and knew I would need to remind Colin to tread more carefully amongst these men. “How much time do you suppose would have passed between Brother Hollings's discovery of the abbot's body and his beckoning of the two of you?”

“It would take a man of Brother Hollings's age no more than a minute or two to run from Abbot Tufton's cell to our chapel,” Brother Silsbury answered.

“Did you and Brother Morrison go back straightaway?”

“Well, of course we did,” Brother Morrison shot back, the scowl on his face thick with his offense.

“Forgive me”—Colin tossed him a curt nod, his lips forming a straight line—“I do not want to presume anything.” He slid his eyes back over to Brother Silsbury, who appeared to have remained unperturbed. “Can you please describe for me what you saw when you arrived at the cell?”

Brother Silsbury blinked as though stung and quickly crossed himself. “There was blood on the walls and a great pool of it on the floor beneath the abbot's head. He was facedown and his right arm was stretched out as though he had been reaching for something, but there was nothing in his hand.”