Confession at Maddleskirk Abbey

by Nicholas Rhea

  Helicopters from both military and private sources were a regular sight around the college. Even the Archbishop of Canterbury had once arrived by helicopter, sparking a rumour that he was about to convert to Catholicism and join the Benedictines.

  With the autumn foliage showing its seasonal colours, Nick was heading for the cop shop within the main building. It had formerly been the abbey and college shop, selling everything from sweets to fashionable clothes. When the shop had transferred to larger premises, the old tuck shop had found a new role as the abbey’s own dedicated police station. Inevitably, it became known as the cop shop. During opening hours it was staffed by one of the monk-constables whilst a couple of the others would be patrolling the huge site in between their monastic duties.

  With its blue light above the entrance, the cop shop had all the appearances of a small busy police station, which in fact it was. On office duty that day was Father Will Redman, a small studious man in his early fifties with thick spectacles and an amazing knowledge of monastic history and culture. His understanding of computers had been a wonderful bonus to the monkstables and through his technical knowledge the cop shop was now linked to the control room at the county police headquarters and also the local police station at Ashfordly. Under Father Will’s guidance, security cameras had been installed in selected areas of the abbey and college, both internally and externally. After each tour of duty, the monkstables entered their daily records in the cop shop computer system, an ideal means of maintaining up-to-date information about all the events and occurrences in and around Maddleskirk Abbey and College.

  ‘Ah, Nick, good morning,’ greeted Father Will. ‘Nothing much to report so far today and it’s been very quiet overnight.’

  ‘Is anything happening on the site that we should know about?’

  ‘I have to say that our systems are functioning well and the important thing is that the staff and visitors know that we’re here if we’re needed. Outside, there is the monthly corps exercise and parade by the college students but they look after themselves. Our patrols will pay visits from time to time, just to show a presence!’

  ‘That’s how it should be. So is the cop shop keeping busy?’

  ‘Surprisingly so. We’re obviously fulfilling a need. People – visitors and staff – come regularly for all sorts of reasons which is most gratifying. Now, Nick, whilst we are alone, I have something to tell you …’

  Father Will wanted to discuss Father John’s visit to hospital because he had not yet returned, but at that moment the door opened and in strode Barnaby Crabstaff accompanied by a whiff of heavy sweat and other indefinable but not very pleasant odours.

  ‘Ah, Constable Rhea,’ he panted. ‘I saw you heading this way as I was coming here so because I wanted a chat to tell you something important I came right here right away right now so as to catch you before you left and here you are …’

  ‘So I am, Barnaby. Is there something you want?’

  ‘I was coming to the cop shop to report this but when I saw you I thought you might know what to do and if you’d not been here then I would have spoken to this officer standing here but because you are here, I may as well mention it to you. Or to both of you.’

  ‘I think I know what you mean,’ Nick responded after deciphering Barnaby’s speech. ‘How can we help?’

  ‘I think there’s a body up there in Ashwell Priory woods…’ He lapsed into a whisper as he pointed vaguely to somewhere outside. ‘Or he could be just asleep.’

  ‘A body?’ asked Father Will with a clear look of horror on his face. Nick did not miss his expression – it reminded him of a child’s guilt when a personal secret has been discovered. Did Father Will know something about this? Had it already been reported?

  ‘It’s a man and he’s not moving. He’s cold and stiff but if he’s been sleeping outside on a chilly night like last night then he would be cold so perhaps he’s not very dead …’

  ‘Who is it, Barnaby? Any idea?’

  ‘Sorry, no, Mr Rhea, not a clue. Never seen him before.’

  ‘Does anyone else know about this?’

  ‘I think not, Mr Rhea, they’d never go walking where he is lying, it’s off the footpath and deep among the rocks and trees, so it is, off the beaten track as they say but I go there quite a lot, looking for rare birds which is why I was there and why I found him, if you understand. I was not poaching, Mr Rhea, or anything like that …’

  ‘All right, Barnaby, you’d better show us,’ suggested Nick. ‘Do you want to come with me, Father Will? As a monkstable of this abbey this might be our responsibility even if he’s not on abbey land, or shall I find someone else?’

  ‘Can you find someone else?’ His voice quivered slightly. ‘I’ll stay and look after the office. I might be needed here. Monkstable Dale is patrolling somewhere around the abbey, probably looking in on the corps parades, so I’ll call him on his mobile. He should go with you.’

  ‘You’re right, he should.’

  They waited as Father Will phoned Monkstable Dale. Nick attempted to coax more of the story from Barnaby whilst doing his best not to suggest in any way that he was responsible.

  Nick was well acquainted with Barnaby and knew that the poor fellow had an enormous guilt complex. However, from what he said, it seemed he’d been bird watching in Ashwell Priory woods earlier that morning when he’d stumbled across the man lying on the ground. He was among trees some distance from the footpath in an isolated location. That little-used path twisted up the hillside before arriving at St Valentine’s Well, now regarded as a wishing well but in reality a pond about the size of a tennis court. It was not usual to find such a pond or well on a hilltop but this was due to the many springs in the area, some overflowing at high altitude from the huge water-filled caverns underground. This locality was almost a mile from the abbey whilst being deep within Nick’s recently inherited Ashwell Priory woodland. The casualty was therefore on Nick’s property. But he said nothing about that at this stage.

  As Barnaby’s tale unfolded under gentle questioning, he suggested the man would be difficult to find because he was lying in thick undergrowth, adding that he was not dressed in hiking gear but wore a dark green T-shirt, blue jeans and white canvas plimsolls. He said the man had white skin, dark hair and was about thirty years old. Barnaby had not noticed a rucksack nearby, neither had he seen a tent in the woods – but as he said, he had visited only a very small part of the entire woodland, which was rather isolated. Nick wondered whether he should call a doctor or even the county police, but decided it would be wise to first establish the true situation. Barnaby’s assessment might be faulty – the fellow might have been lying asleep or hiding in the hope of spotting a rare bird. Nick did not wish to cause undue alarm or unnecessary work by rushing headlong into the situation. A cautious approach was needed.

  ‘Barnaby, can we be sure this is a body? Could it be somebody asleep?’

  ‘First I thought he was asleep, Mr Rhea, and I tried to wake him to ask if he was all right but his cheek was cold and stiff so now I think he’s dead, so I do.’

  ‘Anything else? Did you notice anything else?’

  ‘A spot or two of blood near his head. Among the leaves. I never touched that, I swear.’

  ‘Blood? Where would it have come from? Any idea?’

  ‘It was near his head, on some leaves. I saw it. I never touched it, and I never did touch him either, so help me …’

  ‘I know you didn’t, Barnaby. You’ve done the right thing by telling us about it. So will you show us where he is?’

  The shock of the discovery must have alarmed poor Barnaby so it was rather surprising that he had responded by informing the police. It reminded Nick of the help Barnaby had given when young Simon Houghton had been trapped in the ruins of Ashwell Priory. Maybe in his maturity he was mellowing and coming to trust the police? Nick hoped so – Barnaby was good-hearted, if devious to a degree, but always nervous in the presence of police officers and priests.
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br />   ‘Yes, I can take you there.’ And at that opportune moment, Father Alban Dale arrived. Tall, slim, fair-haired and in his forties, he was often called Allan after the Robin Hood character of Allan a’ Dale. One of his great ambitions was to visit every Marian shrine in the world, but this ancient pilgrimage site and its small well was dedicated to St Valentine so he hadn’t included that in his itinerary. Nonetheless, he had often visited the holy well for no other reason than it had once been the venue for pilgrimages. Equipped with portable radio sets, Father Alban, Barnaby and Nick used an abbey van to speed through the grounds towards Ashwell Priory woods.

  Father Alban parked near the old barns. They walked the final quarter of a mile and it took about twenty minutes to clamber up the steep hillside path as it snaked through the trees. Near the summit, Barnaby veered off the path to trudge through knee-deep undergrowth and bracken towards a patch of beech trees growing among very large boulders.

  ‘He’s over there,’ whispered Barnaby, pointing ahead towards the base of a very high cliff. ‘That’s where he was when I left. …’

  ‘Well, I hope he’s not there now,’ Nick commented. ‘I hope he’s alive and he’s woken up to continue his walk or whatever he came to do.’

  But the man was there; white-faced, still and deathly, just as Barnaby had described. He was lying face up beneath the canopy of beeches as if they formed his final resting place. The eight tall trees had the appearance of an ancient temple with the deceased in the centre awaiting his spiritual fate. To their immediate left was the high cliff of local limestone. Had he fallen from there? Or jumped? Or staggered here before collapsing? He seemed rather too far from the cliff face to have fallen. With white skin, he was of a fairly tall height with dark hair and he appeared to be in his thirties, just as Barnaby had said. He was wearing a dark green T-shirt, blue jeans and white canvas plimsolls. His eyes were closed and there did not seem to be any injuries on his body, or any personal belongings nearby, such as a rucksack. There was not even a watch on his wrist.

  Nick shouted a loud ‘Hello’ to test for a reaction, but there was none. Aware that one should never unnecessarily pollute a crime scene, Nick stood back from the body and from a distance surveyed the surroundings to acquire a clear mental memory of those moments. He took several photographs with his mobile phone.

  In spite of his caution, however, he must ascertain whether or not the man was dead. As the others stood at a discreet distance, Nick approached with care, noting his route for future reference so that CID would step into the same footmarks. Then he reached down and touched the man’s cheek. It was stone cold and wax-like; he was unsure whether rigor mortis had set in.

  If it had, it could have disappeared by now and there was no way of determining whether this man had been subjected to it. Nick then raised one of the man’s eyelids – the eye was dead and dull with no sign of life. There was no pulse either, and no heartbeat. From where Nick was operating he could not see any sign of blood but there was ample evidence that they now had a corpse – with no indication of how or when he had arrived, who he was or what had caused his death. The absence of the smell of death and the lack of visible signs of decomposition suggested the body had arrived fairly recently, probably within the last day or two.

  ‘Where did you see the blood? I haven’t found any,’ Nick asked Barnaby.

  ‘Below his head. You need to go over there, Mr Rhea: you can see better from that bump in the ground. Look under his head … I thought the ground looked soaked in blood under his head … or it might have been something else. You can never tell … animal blood, mebbe. Coloured leaves.’

  Nick went to the place he indicated, took a close look without moving the body and then agreed with him.

  ‘Yes, from here it looks like blood, Barnaby. From the back of his head. Maybe a head injury when he fell? Do you think he might have fallen off that high cliff while bird watching?’

  ‘He could have done that, Mr Rhea, but he has no binoculars or camera. Nothing at all by the look of things. He could have taken a nasty tumble off that cliff top but I never saw it happen, so I did not.’

  ‘Did you hear a shout? A commotion of any kind?’

  ‘Not a thing, Mr Rhea. All was quiet when I got here this morning, except those helicopters … going to the college. They scare the birds, so they do.’

  ‘What time would that be?’

  ‘Not too early, half eight or so. Nine o’clockish maybe.’

  ‘Right. So any sounds of gunshots? Shouting? Screaming? Cries for help? Indications of trouble of any kind? This morning or any other time?’

  ‘No, Mr Rhea, nothing but the sounds of birds in the trees. Singing as if it was springtime.’

  ‘Right. So in those moments just before you found him, did you notice anything that might have been out of the ordinary? Loud voices, other people in the wood, arguments, someone running away, a car or motorbike on the road below … anything at all that’s not usual? Not just today but recently.’

  ‘No, not a thing, Mr Rhea, it’s been as silent as the grave for weeks.’

  ‘And just to confirm things, we don’t know who he is or where he’s come from.’

  ‘To be sure we don’t, Mr Rhea. I don’t know him. I’ve never seen him before, so I have not. It’s all very puzzling.’

  Nick decided not to search the victim’s pockets and the nearby ground for anything that might lead to his identification – almost certainly he would have credit cards, cash, handkerchief and probably some means of identification but it was not the job of this small team or any of the monkstables.

  That was the task of the incoming detectives, as Nick explained to Barnaby and Father Alban.

  ‘Well, whatever’s happened, it’s a suspicious death,’ Nick confirmed. ‘It needs to be investigated but not by us. We must call in CID. I’ll get Father Will to contact the control room at police headquarters to set things in motion. We need a doctor to certify death but not the cause of death, then we’ll have to bring in a forensic pathologist. Scenes of Crime will examine the scene before the body is removed.’

  ‘So there’s nothing we can do for him, is there?’ asked Father Alban.

  ‘Not to save his life, no. It’s too late for that. I’m not a doctor but I know a dead body when I see one.’

  Father Alban made the sign of the cross and lowered his head to whisper some short prayers, so Barnaby and Nick lapsed into a respectful silence and stood very still with their heads bowed.

  When he had finished, Father Alban asked, ‘You think he’s been attacked, Nick? That blood …’

  ‘At this stage, Father, it looks very likely. Perhaps a blow to the head but we can’t rule out an accident of some kind. Even if he fell off that cliff, he might have been pushed. The nature of his head wound should reveal something. What we need to do – the monkstables, that is – is to find out who he is and where he’s come from.’

  ‘Could he have been at The Grange?’ asked Father Alban. ‘On one of the residential retreats? I’ve known some take long walks in the woods around here, and others have visited the former holy well up there among the trees, a sort of miniature pilgrimage. It’s on modern maps and the footpath up to it is clearly in regular use.’

  ‘I’ll make sure enquiries are made at The Grange, Father. Thanks for that.’

  ‘So do we need an ambulance, Nick? Shall I call ours from the infirmary? Or would the air ambulance be better here?’

  ‘Neither! Ambulances are for saving life, not for carrying dead people around. Besides, there’s nowhere nearby for a helicopter to land. In any case he can’t be moved until the doctor and a forensic pathologist have examined him.’

  ‘That’s the sort of thing I keep forgetting!’

  ‘Not to worry. Once we hand responsibility to the county constabulary, they will see to all the necessary follow-up action. Because the scene must be examined as a possible crime scene, we mustn’t attempt to move the body or disturb anything.’

 
‘So we’ll not be needed here any more then?’

  ‘The monkstables will be expected to help with local enquiries but this is too serious for us to deal with. We should remain here to protect the scene until the CID arrive; they’ll want to talk to us first.’

  ‘You mean me as well, Mr Rhea?’ asked Barnaby.

  ‘You especially!’ said Nick.

  ‘I didn’t realize that finding a body involved so much, so I did not.’

  Nick radioed Father Will in the cop shop and explained the situation, requesting a doctor and the county CID along with a forensic pathologist, the Scenes of Crime team, official photographer and a pair of uniform constables to take over the guarding of the scene for as long as necessary. That transferred the incident from the hands of the monkstables even though Nick, Father Alban and Barnaby remained to relate their stories to the incoming CID.

  After what seemed a long time Monkstable Dale’s mobile produced a voice asking for directions and there was an audible sense of relief that assistance was en route even though there was no urgency to save life. After a few minutes, several vehicles could be heard as they eased to a halt on the access road below the main body of woodland but it required a few more location directions to establish precisely where to find the body. Father Alban said he would go down to guide them to the scene.

  ‘You won’t need me now, Mr Rhea.’ Barnaby prepared to leave.

  ‘You’d better stay a while, Barnaby, CID will want to talk to you.’ Nick reminded him of the reasons. ‘If you leave, they’ll simply come to find you.’

  ‘What can I say to them, Mr Rhea?’ he asked with genuine concern.

  ‘Just tell them what you told me.’ Nick tried to reassure the little fellow, conscious of his fear of police officers. ‘You’ve nothing to be scared of, Barnaby. Because you found the body, you’re a very important witness.’