Abbot John watched Brother Leo move toward the Anna apple trees. Even now, Abbot John thought, Brother Leo should be helping the other monks set the evening refectory tables and saying his rosary while doing so. But no, here he was, enjoying the sun and the sweet smells of the garden.
Abbot John shook his head in consternation. He really should let Brother Leo wander around in the old cemetery where he could easily fall into one of the old desiccated and crumbling graves.
But, of course, he could not allow that. He was about to summon Brother Peter, always gratifyingly obedient, to carry his warning to Brother Leo when he noticed a man approaching the gate of the garden.
It was Mr. Walker, the demolition man from Tucson.
Abbot John lifted his hand from the intercom and settled back to watch.
“Brother Leo.” Allen Walker smiled his big white-toothed smile and waved to Brother Leo. He stepped delicately round the lettuces and squashes, then pulled a book from his jacket pocket. “New edition of Roger Tory Peterson’s book. I looked at some others, but Peterson’s is still the best birding book on the market. Don’t you think so?”
“Indeed I do,” Brother Leo said. “I would love to have one myself, just for browsing. The one in the monastery’s library is not always available.”
“You are very welcome to borrow mine,” Walker said.
Brother Leo shook his head. “Perhaps someday, if I leave the monastery for a trip north. Here I know my birds well, as they know me.” He chuckled. “Here is a good friend of mine now.” He gestured to a bluebird hovering low over the desert ground.
“Ah, yes,” Allen Walker said. “Our bluebirds. Very common, of course, but lovely.”
Brother Leo cocked his head almost as much as the bluebird had his. “A mountain bluebird,” he said.
“Yes. But let me get your notebook for you.” Walker headed toward a low wall on which sat a black notebook. “I know you like to keep track of what kind of birds you see and how many. I do the same, of course.”
Brother Leo lifted his robe, jumped over a patch of lettuces, and reached the wall ahead of Walker. “I’ve got it,” he said.
Walker stopped in mid step, his eyes flitting from the notebook to Brother Leo’s face. “So you do. Have you seen any rare birds today? Perhaps in the cemetery?”
“Why in the cemetery?”
Walker shrugged. “I thought perhaps the insects in there would have attracted some shyer species.” He turned toward the cemetery. “But perhaps they too skirt the cemetery. A sad and dangerous place. One does well to keep away from it while Abbot John has the old coffins removed and reburied.”
Brother Leo said nothing. He slid his notebook into the deep pocket of his robe.
“As a matter of fact,” Walker said, “I want to talk to Abbot John about having a few men out to guard the cemetery while my men are working on it. I don’t want anyone wandering around at night and coming to harm. The coffins are very near the surface and with the wood thin and dry, any weight could break through the layer of our desert soil, even as hard as it is.”
Brother Leo smiled. “Yes, our hard caliche, as it is called.” He turned to a bag of potting soil and reached for the pick lying next to it. “I often wonder why the old natives took such pains to dig the caliche to bury their dead.” He looked toward the cemetery. “The old way, taking the bodies out to lie on a hill, seems to me to have been so much more sensible. I wonder what prompted them to change the ritual?”
Walker glanced toward the cemetery. “Fervor for their new religious ways, no doubt. A new reverence for the dead. And now we have to disturb them to give them a new burial place. But I’ve instructed my men to disturb the coffins themselves as little as possible. So we put them immediately into the new coffins so that Abbot John can bless them and we can lay them to rest in the new cemetery.”
“Yes, I know,” Brother Leo said. “Abbot John has ordered us all to assemble in the crypt and pray when the coffins are being moved.”
“A good man, Abbot John.”
Brother Leo turned to his pick and potting soil.
Walker watched him for a few seconds, then walked toward the monastery door.
Brother Leo continued working the caliche until he heard the rustle of a robe behind him.
“I have been sent, Brother Leo,” Brother Peter said, his hands clutched together as always, “to bid you come in to help with the evening meal. Abbot John has requested it.” Brother Peter stood anxiously leaning forward as if frightened that Brother Leo would disobey, leaving Brother Peter to face the abbot.
“Very well, Brother Peter, I will come immediately.”
Brother Peter looked relieved.
Checking that the notebook was still safely tucked in his robe, Brother Leo followed Brother Peter. He paused, as he often did, outside the monastery to admire its pure white adobe walls, red tiled roof, and solid square towers where the mission bells hung.
At the monastery door, Brother Peter turned and frowned.
Brother Leo hurried to catch up.
In his own small cell, Brother Leo opened his notebook, extracted a paper, and stood studying it. Then he removed a loose, mudbrick from a corner, folded the drawing, tucked it into the hole, and replaced the brick.
He sat for a moment, writing in his notebook.
A bell rang out, its deep tone reverberating throughout the monastery. Brother Leo jumped, shook his head, looked round his cell, then removed another page from his notebook and tucked it into his robe. He placed his notebook on his small desk, setting it carefully on top of a small golden crystal. Then he hurried out into the corridor.
He arrived at the refectory, mumbling apologies.
One of the monks laughed. “We’ll forgive you as long as you continue to provide us with your tomatoes and squashes. Remember, however, that Abbot John does not like squash.”
Brother Leo rolled his eyes. “Yes, Brother Joseph. He believes that I grow squash deliberately to annoy him.”
“Do you?” Brother Joseph grinned.
Brother Leo smiled back, but declined to answer.
“Perhaps,” Brother Joseph said, a smile still playing on his lips, “you should grow an award-winning rose. I could record the achievement in the monastery’s archives, and Abbot John might forgive you your squashes as well as your Mexican bird-of-paradise flowers.”
“Ah,” Brother Leo said, “perhaps then I could grow a record number of Mexican bird-of-paradise plants. Brother Luke once said he would record such an accomplishment.”
Brother Joseph looked down and frowned. “Indeed, he would have. He was a superb archivist, and he loved what was native to this land and to the monastery’s heritage.” Brother Joseph looked up at Brother Leo. “He loved the old cemetery. He loved to wander in it. That is, of course, before Abbot John began to have the old coffins removed.” Brother Joseph bent to his meal.
Abbot John fingered the small ivory cross, tracing, almost unconsciously as he had so many times, the intricate Gothic curves that covered its surfaces. “So he spoke of the cemetery, did he?”
Walker nodded. “Said he wondered why the natives chose to bury their dead in the caliche instead of following the usual practice.”
Abbot John set the cross down on the leather missal. “He has no business being interested in the cemetery. He’s never shown any sharp interest before. Too preoccupied with his damn squashes and lettuces and flower pots. Why the interest now?”
Walker shrugged. “You worry too much. Very likely just idle talk.”
“I’m not so sure of that. Brother Leo nursed Brother Luke in the last few weeks before his death.”
“Well, there’s your answer. Sick people, natives, birds. It’s his bailiwick. Some people are like that.”
Abbot John stared out at the garden of delicate white and red roses outside his window, a small garden with six columns whose capitals were carved into delicate acanthus vines that spread over the arches connecting the columns. Abbot John loved
his little private cloister, so like the cloisters of the medieval monasteries of Europe. He turned to Walker. “You couldn’t get hold of that notebook. I saw you reach for it.”
Walker grunted. “He almost sprinted to get it before me.”
“I noticed. Shame you weren’t a bit quicker or more subtle.”
“Probably nothing but notes on lettuces and birds.”
Abbot John turned sharp eyes toward Walker. “Most valuable notes. Discovered new species, no doubt. That would account for his clutching that notebook to himself, or have you another theory?”
Walker said nothing.
“I want to see that notebook. And in the meantime, post men around that cemetery as soon as possible.”
Walker nodded. “Should I have them continue the digging?”
“Not until I give you the word.” Abbot John waved his hand.
Walker understood the gesture and left.
Abbot John reached for the marble pestle on his desk and stroked it. A beautiful old piece.
The monks ate their supper in silence, but as they filed out of the refectory, Brother Joseph bent slightly toward Brother Leo. “The squash was delicious,” he said.
“Careful,” Brother Leo said. “You are risking a charge of heresy.”
In the crypt church, Brother Peter led the evening’s prayers, hands clutched together and eyes lifted piously upward.
Brother Leo’s eyes were cast down. He stared at the spot where Brother Luke’s coffin had been placed on the cold stone floor.
A cough disturbed his thoughts. He looked up to see Brother Peter staring at him, as if in shock. Brother Leo glanced round, half expecting to see the ghost of Brother Luke gliding stealthily toward them.
A hand reached out and touched Brother Leo’s prayer book. Brother Joseph’s finger pointed to the response Brother Leo had missed.
Quickly, too quickly, Brother Leo murmured the response.
Brother Peter looked heavenward again, a sigh lifting his shoulders up and down at this break in the flow of the prayers.
Brother Leo forced his thoughts back to the prayers.
Abbot John opened the door of Brother Leo’s cell, entered, and closed the door behind him. He did not fear anyone’s seeing him. All of the monks were at supper, and even if one of the monks saw him, it was no matter. As abbot, he had the right to enter the cells when he wished.
He went straight to Brother Leo’s desk. The cell held little else to examine. He glanced at the terra-cotta cross, wincing at its gaudy red ceramic surface, decorated with squares and triangles in equally gaudy yellow. A native design.
Abbot John pushed the cross aside, reached for the notebook that sat on the desk, and caught the little rock that rolled down toward the edge of the desk. Startled, he picked it up and fingered it. What was Brother Leo doing with gold?
Abbot John examined the little rock more closely. “Pyrite,” he muttered. “Fool’s gold.” He chuckled. A fitting rock for Brother Leo. Abbot John put the rock down and looked at the few books lying to the side, and smirked. Thomas Merton. A little too sentimental for his tastes, the abbot thought, but acceptable. One could excuse the two gardening books, but the flower book was frivolous stuff, and The Canterbury Tales hardly proper reading for a pious monk. But then, Brother Leo was not pious, at least not in Abbot John’s understanding of piety.
Abbot John opened the notebook. He leafed through for an overview: notes on soil, on plants, on weather conditions, and on birds. Little of interest.
He turned to the last page of writing. Again, a recording about a bird. Silly, useless stuff, the abbot thought. “Mountain bluebird,” the notation read. Abbot John frowned. Beside the notation of the type of bird, Brother Leo had penciled in the word “wrong.” What was wrong, Abbot John thought. He pondered a moment, then noticed something more. He ran his finger down the center spine. A page had been removed. Recently. The tear looked new. No discoloration, no fraying of the paper.
Abbot John looked around and spotted a small wastebasket to the right of the desk. It was empty. Whatever Brother Leo had torn out, he hadn’t thrown it away, at least not here.
Abbot John closed the notebook and placed it back on the desk, just as he had found it. His eye caught the piece of pyrite again. He picked it up and twisted it around. A bit of green glinted out from the calcite and pyrite. Abbot John twisted the pyrite round again. He walked to the window, held it up to the light and examined it closely. This piece of fool’s gold had some significance. Brother Leo was up to something. He bore watching. Abbot John turned to leave, hesitated, then lay the pyrite back onto the book. He left the room, closing the door softly behind himself.
Back in his own cell, he took from a shelf Brother Luke’s notebooks and a book on the history of the Spanish conquistadors in South America and their forays into what was now Arizona. He settled into his Gothic-designed wooden chair and opened the notebook.
Evensong finished, Brother Leo was free to confront the ghost of Brother Luke again. He returned to his cell. He turned on the overhead light, then lit two candles, calmed as always by their soft flickering light.
He walked to his desk and stared down at his notebook. It was tilted slightly to the right and the pyrite sat on top. He had set the notebook squarely on the pyrite. He knew now that someone had entered his cell and examined his notebook. Either Abbot John or Allen Walker.
It was time to take action. He would go into Ajo tomorrow. He would need Abbot John’s permission. It was not yet time to buy cooking supplies for the monastery, but Abbot John would not know that. Brother Leo felt sure that the abbot would give him permission to go into town. In fact, the abbot might well be glad to see him go. It would allow for a more thorough examination of his cell. Brother Leo went over to the loose mud brick, knelt down, and extracted the sheet he had hidden there. He would not allow it out of his grasp until he showed it to Jim Cheetal. Jim would know if it meant anything, and if so, what Brother Leo would have to do.
Abbot John waited impatiently for Brother Peter to return. Even what he most enjoyed contented him little today. He fingered his leather-covered books, rubbed the ivory cross, and stared at the colors of the stained-glass window he had had installed in his office. The crowns and fleurs-de-lis shown a deep gold in the surrounding blue. But nothing helped the time hurry. He turned to the shelf on which sat a wooden statue of a bishop holding in his hands, in the tradition of European sculpture, a small replica of the fourteenth-century church he had had built in Italy. The statue gave him some comfort and not a little envy.
The monastery bell rang.
Reluctantly, Abbot John rose. He recited the prayers before lunch each day, and he would have to do so today. Outside his cell, the monks fell into line behind him and padded softly over the stone floor to the refectory. It took all of Abbot John’s patience to lead them silently and slowly. They entered the refectory and filed into their seats.
Abbot John began the prayer. “In nomine Dei,” he intoned, in the Latin he loved. So much more elegant. So much more suited to the position of an abbot than English. Abbot John had often regretted that he had not ruled as abbot in the thirteenth or fourteenth century, when monasteries, like Glastonbury in England, drew thousands of pilgrims, many contributing to the wealth of the order.
“Spiritus Sanctus . . .” He was about to intone the “Amen” when Brother Peter entered the refectory, hands clutched to his chest. He stopped in the doorway, his eyes darting from the monks in their places to Abbot John, standing at the head of the refectory table. His mouth opened and closed; his eyes blinked.
Abbot John dearly wanted to fling a loaf of bread or a dish of squash at Brother Peter. Just like Brother Peter, Abbot John thought, to be just late enough so that his report would have to wait until lunch had been eaten and final prayers said. Impatiently, Abbot John motioned Brother Peter to a chair. Brother Peter scurried to his place and sat, his mouth still opening and closing.
The meal dragged on. Abbot John fou
nd the bread stale, the squash abominably soft, the cheese too hard, and the wine too sharp.
Unable to bear more, Abbot John threw down his napkin and rose, directing Brother Joseph to lead the final prayers.
Brother Peter rose halfway from his chair, then fell back into it at Abbot John’s motion of a hand.
Abbot John swept from the room, his white cowl swaying behind his back.
Back in his office, he sat, looked over the monastery expenses for the month, pushed them aside, rose, and stood by a window. He looked out at the old cemetery. So dangerous a place. For everyone. Abbot John knew that he had to do what was necessary to avert the danger.
A timid knock on the door announced Brother Peter’s arrival.
“Enter,” Abbot John said.
The door opened slowly, and Brother Peter entered, his head strained forward and down, like a chicken’s pecking at scattered corn.
“Sit down,” Abbot John said. “Tell me what you saw.”
Brother Peter slid into the chair in front of Abbot John’s desk. Abbot John remained standing.
“As you asked,” Brother Peter began, “I did follow Brother Leo. He drove the monastery’s truck, and, as you instructed me, I took your car.”
“Yes, those were my instructions. My interest lies not in what I instructed, but in where Brother Leo went.”
“Of course, Abbot John.” Brother Peter clutched his hands a bit tighter. “He drove to Oro Valley, near Tucson, and stopped at the Indian trading store. I did manage to park and go up to the porch in time to look into the window. I was able to see Brother Leo go into a back room with Jim Cheetal.” Brother Peter paused expectantly.
Abbot John said nothing. He twisted his garnet ring on his finger, then turned to look out upon the cloister.
Brother Peter hesitated, then continued. “Brother Leo did not stay long with Jim Cheetal. When he left, he returned along the highway—” Abbot John turned and waved a hand. “No matter. He did not go anyplace else?”
“No. He went to Jim only, and as I said—“
Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine 12/01/10 Page 9
