NOEL
A MALLERY & HOBBS MURDER CASE
BY
A.J. GRIFFITHS-JONES
Copyright © 2020 A.J. Griffiths-Jones
Cover Image by Getty Images
Cover Design by Emmy Ellis
Edited by Lorna Read
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.
For Phil Price, fellow author & best friend
CHAPTER ONE – A GATHERING STORM
The young man stooped to peer in through the open passenger’s side window, rolled down just a fraction to prevent the pouring rain from falling onto the leather upholstery, his hood dripping with a steady stream of raindrops.
“Où allez-vous?” the driver asked, raising his voice over the steady hum of the Renault engine and the rhythmic squeak of windscreen wipers upon glass.
“Saint Margaux,” the traveller replied, praying that the man wouldn’t mind his car seat getting wet and subconsciously hauling his backpack higher onto aching shoulders. There was a pause as the driver eyed up the hitch-hiker, gauging whether he was likely to be carrying a weapon or would try to rob him. He saw nothing but a soaking wet young man with an honest face; besides, the village of Saint Margaux was on his way home and it would take the stranger the best part of thirty minutes to walk there, maybe longer if the lanes continued to fill with water. It would be an uncharitable act to leave him here, the driver thought.
A second later, he nodded and gestured to the back seat with a thumb. “Entrez.”
The young man didn’t need to be asked twice and hastily released the handle on the back door of the vehicle, pushing his bag along the seat before climbing in. This harsh weather hadn’t been on the agenda when planning the trip to France and the storm was completely unexpected. He cursed himself silently for not checking the weather reports before packing, wishing that he’d included thermals instead of flimsy t-shirts and jeans.
“Thank you. Merci.”
An eyebrow twitched as the driver’s ears picked up the English words.
“Êtes-vous un étranger?”
The passenger nodded, making eye contact with the middle-aged man in the rear-view mirror. “I’m from the Netherlands. Erm, Pays-Bas.”
The driver shrugged and put the Renault into gear, now focussing on the road ahead with its deep puddles and narrow lanes. Every now and again he stole a glance at the Dutchman, who was rubbing his hands together in a bid to get warm. The night outside was pitch black and it was difficult to make out anything beyond the beam of the headlights, making the journey much slower than if it had been daytime. Curious as to why the stranger was out here far from any village, the Frenchman glanced sideways every now and again, looking for clues, but saw nothing except a weary face and soggy fringe.
As he steered with one hand, the driver reached into the glove-box with the other, pulling out a chocolate bar and offering it to the foreigner.
“Mangez quelque chose.”
The young man lifted the confectionary with cold fingers and ravenously began tearing off the silver foil. “Merci, Monsieur.”
The driver and passenger continued their journey in silence, neither having the energy nor the inclination to attempt a conversation in a foreign tongue yet, in the warmth from the heater and silent companionship, both knew that the Frenchman’s kindness was much appreciated.
Inside the Monastère du Saint Augustin, Brother Cédric was in the chapel saying midnight prayers before turning in. As he muttered thanks whilst rubbing a length of redwood rosary beads, his tired eyes involuntarily turned upwards to the claps of thunder echoing around the vaulted ceiling. It had been a long time since this part of France had seen such a violent storm and he worried about what condition the vegetable garden would be in come morning. He imagined limp lettuces and flattened rhubarb left inedible by nature’s elements. The monks’ self-sufficiency was something that they were incredibly proud of and Brother Cédric, in particular, spent a good deal of his spare time tending the crops. He also enjoyed this time of night, being alone with his thoughts under the watchful guidance of the Lord, despite the fact that it would only be a few hours before he would be expected to rise and begin his daily chores.
Another clap of thunder caused the monk to look skywards again, casting his eyes upon the intricately carved statue of Jesus upon the cross. Brother Cédric knew that if the roof were to fall in that moment, he would hold no regret for his choice of vocation, so deeply ingrained were his beliefs.
The elderly Abbott had long since retired to bed, leaving the responsibility of checking the bolts on the doors to his two most trusted brethren. Brother Cédric and Brother Bénédict were proud to be in a senior position; after all, they had known no other way of life since joining the brotherhood in their teens and, together with the rest of the brothers, they took the vows seriously, both monks using their experience to teach the younger men the ways of the religious order. Abbot Arnaud was revered by both men, but they reluctantly had to accept that their mentor was getting older and weaker, and the day may soon come for the monastery to hail a new leader.
Rising from his kneeling pad, legs creaking with the relief, Brother Cédric crossed himself before checking that the chapel candles were all sufficiently lit, a tradition that had continued unceasingly for hundreds of years. In fact, right back to the days when the Knights Templar sought solace behind these walls, a burning light had been left in the chapel to guide them to safety. The building was just a few degrees above freezing as the monk made his way out into the wide corridor, eager to snatch a few hours’ sleep before the responsibilities of morning prayer and a dawn breakfast would have him back on duty once more. His open-toed sandals squeaked on the highly polished tiled floor, causing the monk to look down at the hand-knitted socks peeking out through the leather toe straps. His slow and methodical footsteps were the only sound to be heard within the ancient monastery walls.
Waving at the driver before hoisting his backpack up, the Dutchman stood in the pelting rain taking in the vast sandstone building perched high on a hill. A sign at the turning read Monastère du Saint Augustin and the man hoped that at last he had reached his destination. The car driver hesitated, wondering what had brought the traveller to these parts in the middle of the night, and in such severe conditions, too. He watched for a few moments, the car idling in neutral as he leaned forward to see where the Dutchman was going.
“Au revoir,” the driver called, tipping his flat cap at the traveller.
“Bye and, erm, merci,” came the response, before the red jacket disappeared into the rainstorm with no backward glance, not a glimmer of hesitation.
The trek upwards, along a wide gravel drive, would take the youngster the best part of ten minutes, his sturdy walking boots rendered useless through the weakness of tired and freezing limbs. He reached up and pulled the flimsy hood as far over his head as it would go, causing a stream of icy rain to slide down the back of his neck and saturate the thin woollen sweater underneath. With dogged determination, the young man strode on, noting the faint glimmer of light in an otherwise vast building shrouded in darkness.
Brother Francis was just turning away from securing the double oak doors, his nightly responsibility, when a frantic rapping caused him to stand still, unsure if he had imagined the noise, wondering perhaps if the storm had lifted some slates on the roof.
There it was again. Rap. Rap, rap,
rap.
The young monk took a couple of steps forward, unnerved at the sound that echoed off the high walls. He couldn’t ever remember a time when visitors had called here in the dead of night, at least not in his lifetime, anyway, and was more worried about the knocking waking up his fellow inmates than causing any harm. Placing a sleep-weary eye over the spy-hole in the heavy oak door, Brother Francis looked at the dripping figure that stood outside.
Oui?” the Benedictine monk called out cautiously.
No answer, yet he could see the visitor shivering, head down towards his feet.
“Qui est là?” a voice called out from behind the elderly man as Brother Cédric hurried down the hall, his hair tousled and face flushed. The monk had obviously thrown his cassock on in a hurry as it fell untied around his portly waist and the felt hood was askew.
Brother Francis shrugged and, beckoning Cédric closer, he directed the same question at the stranger who stood shivering under the stone porch.
“Please, could you let me in?” the young man pleaded in English. “I need help.”
The monks glanced at each other, Brother Francis nodding before sliding back the heavy steel bar that bolted the front door to their precious sanctuary.
No sooner was the young man inside the holy building than he collapsed, falling into the arms of Brother Cédric as he reached forward to assist the stranger. The monk looked down into the eyes of the traveller, ignoring the seeping wetness that was now penetrating the folds of his woollen cassock, and saw them flicker before the man lost consciousness.
“Aidez-moi.” The monk gestured to his companion as Brother Francis struggled to replace the bolt on the door. “L’infirmerie.”
The younger monk nodded, quickly rushing to help lift the stranger to a nearby chair before scuttling off to the infirmary to fetch someone stronger. He hoped that it wouldn’t take long to rouse the sleeping men.
Within a few minutes, the stranger was being attended to in the medical wing by Brother Alberon, who carefully stripped off his sodden clothes and tucked the man into bed with a hot-water bottle and numerous heavy blankets. Brother Cédric watched, wringing his hands in earnest as the newcomer failed to awaken, a dozen questions fleetingly rushing through his mind as he looked at the slender limbs and fair hair. Where had this boy come from? Why had he come here? Was he lost?
Brother Francis stepped forward, whispering to Brother Cédric and querying whether they should send someone to wake the Abbott. The elder monk scratched his chin, pondering the question before shaking his head.
“Non, laisse le dormir.” Let him sleep.
The Abbott himself had been struggling with his health recently and those in his care recognised the need for the old man to get a good night’s rest. At eighty years of age, every cough or cold had the monks closest to him wondering whether this would be their leader’s last season at Saint Augustin. Although mentally astute, the Abbott’s body seemed to weaken with each passing year.
Brother Francis watched with great interest as Brother Alberon mixed a warm poultice of herbs, the fragrances of lavender and thyme wafting through the whitewashed dormitory, before spreading it evenly across a gauze bandage and laying it across the traveller’s head. Despite the hands touching his brow, the stranger did not stir, sleeping on as though he were having a content, dreamless slumber.
Francis wondered whether he should leave now. Alberon was an expert in medicine and more than capable of purging the patient’s exhaustion. Lack of sleep would no doubt cause both his own mood and effectiveness to wreak havoc on the new day should he sit at this bedside all night.
A hand on the monk’s shoulder caused him to turn, recognising immediately the rough, calloused hands of Brother Cédric.
“Son sac,” he said in a low voice, so as not to awaken the sleeping patient.
Brother Francis glanced down to where his companion had pushed a nylon rucksack – it, too, dripping with evidence of the foul weather outside. He concluded that the other monk must have dragged it across the floor to get it to the infirmary, given the size and obvious weight of the item. Cédric should have asked for assistance, he thought, but, ever the helping hand, of course he would be the one to see to it that the young man’s belongings were brought to him.
“Identification?” Francis asked, looking his fellow monk squarely in the eye.
Brother Cédric opened his hands and puffed out his round, flabby cheeks. “Je n’ai pas regardé.” I didn’t look.
Brother Francis had no reason to question the elder when he told him that they would leave it to the Abbott to search for identification if the young man did not awaken by morning. Satisfied with the response, Francis retreated to his dormitory whilst Brother Cédric lifted a set of rosary beads and clasped his fingers together.
Leaning forward, the monk said a short prayer over the visitor, noting his pale complexion and long, fair lashes, wishing him a speedy recovery and a satisfying conclusion to whatever quest he may be on, before leaving him in the care of the medical assistants. Rest was something they both sorely needed.
It was by now close to one-thirty in the morning and by dawn, the monastery would be awake with the footsteps of seventy men rushing to their duties.
As Brother Cédric departed, the young Dutchman slept deeply, his semi-conscious state giving rise to indecipherable dreams. Images of a busy train station, crowded bus and harsh words from an elderly woman flashed through his mind at a rapid pace, the soundtrack accompanying it nothing more than the downpour of heavy rain. A car approaching, a chocolate bar, a wave goodbye, then all gone as exhaustion overcame his mind and dragged the sleeper down into a state of shivering fever.
In his chamber, Abbot Arnaud was bent over against the bed-frame, his bare back exposed to the cool temperature of the sparse sleeping quarters, as he twisted the leather whip and brought it down across his own shoulders once more. The old man flinched slightly and bit his lower lip to prevent the cry that threatened to come. A casual observer might even have missed the twitching nerves as the elderly monk fought not to shout out in pain, and prepared himself for the final six strokes of punishment, totalling twelve, one for every month of the year.
Finally, exhausted and ripped with bleeding tracks, Abbot Arnaud gripped the edge of his simple cot and took a moment to catch his breath. He felt mildly appeased that he’d been able to deliver his own chastisement, for there would no doubt come a time in the near future when he would no longer be physically capable of raising the lash upon himself, and relieved that he could withstand the searing pain without losing consciousness. It hadn’t always been this way.
The old man raised his head and whispered a prayer to the Lord, simple words, begging for forgiveness for past sins committed decades before. The burden of these secrets was the bane of the religious man’s life, hence him feeling the need to atone, yet in truth the Abbot wouldn’t have changed things for the world. He believed that for a man of God to prevent others from straying along a non-righteous path, they must experience the world outside, as he had.
After a few minutes catching his breath, Arnaud was able to make his way to the private bathroom and turn on the shower, allowing warm water to wash away the worst of the blood, swirling pools of red gathering at the man’s feet before disappearing down the drain. Finally, the Abbot felt cleansed and dressed in a simple shift to prevent his open wounds from staining the crisp white bedlinen. It would be another four weeks before Arnaud would have to endure the whip again, his ritual being to self-flagellate on the first day of each calendar month, just enough time for the scars to heal.
Brother Cédric pressed his ear against the door to the Abbot’s chamber, listening for evidence that the old man was awake. He knew the significance of the date, November 1st, and the harsh discipline being inflicted inside the privacy of his mentor’s room. A shuffle, a sigh, movement within.
Cédric knocked gently and slipped quickly inside.
Abbot Arnaud nodded silently as the door
opened, acknowledging the presence of the monk, before rolling onto his side.
“Ne bouge pas,” Brother Cédric soothed, lifting the red-stained linen shift over the old man’s head. “Laisse moi panser tes blessures.” Keep still. Let me dress your wounds.
With tender care, Cédric first bathed the wounds with warm water and then rubbed an ointment into the deep, open marks. His touch was light, yet the Abbot still flinched under each new application, his eyes tightly closed in prayer.
“Fini,” the slightly younger monk whispered ten minutes later, before clearing away the bloodied cotton cloths, urging the old man to sleep. “Dors, maintenant.”
Abbot Arnaud turned his head and placed a liver-spotted hand on the monk’s arm. “Merci.”
There was a slight hesitation as Brother Cédric weighed up whether to tell the Abbot the news of the traveller, but soon the events came pouring out in a torrent of rapid French.
Abbot Arnaud listened with interest. It was rare to receive a visit these days, let alone so late and in such harsh weather conditions. He struggled to sit up, gesturing for Brother Cédric to assist.
“Est-il réveillé?” he asked slowly. Is he awake?
The robust younger monk shook his head, flaccid jowls wobbling. “Non.”
Brother Alberon had finished checking on the sole patient in the infirmary and was on his way to the refectory to prepare a mug of cocoa. As it was not strictly allowed, he felt guilty about the treat but knew that, in light of the unexpected late-night administrations to the newly arrived stranger, it was unlikely that he would be chastised by his peers for the need of a warming drink. His co-carer, Brother Frédérique, had been swiftly sent off to bed under instructions to get some rest. Alberon was more than capable of looking after the sleeping patient, he had insisted and, after a little gentle persuasion, Frédérique had agreed.
Noel Page 1
