“Only since last night. I’m terribly sorry, we didn’t mean to, erm, pry, but I’m afraid we had no other way to find out who you were, so I looked at your passport. But please, don’t fear, everything is back in its place in your luggage. Right there, see?”
The Abbot pointed to Noel’s rucksack that leaned against the wall by the bed.
“Now, why don’t you tell me what you were doing out there?” the old man suggested. “On such a dreadfully cold and wet night, too.”
Noel van Beek turned his head towards the pale blue eyes and, in a weak voice that barely raised above a whisper, he began to tell his story.
Brother Cédric tugged at the woollen coverlet on Abbot Arnaud’s bed and pulled it tight, tucking in the corners to create a perfect symmetry each side. He appreciated the Father’s trust in him to care for his bedroom, a task that the Abbot had insisted upon doing himself up until quite recently, when age and arthritis had caused the elderly monk to request help. Naturally, as one of their leader’s closest confidants, Brother Cédric was only too happy to oblige.
Gathering the heavily starched sheets from the floor, the monk’s gaze fell upon the specks of blood that mottled one side of the fabric. Of course, the abbot’s wounds were still weeping. Brother Cédric made a mental note to fetch an ointment from the infirmary; he would do it discreetly, as always, feeling proud that he alone knew of the old man’s self-punishment. Still, it bothered the younger monk greatly that he was to remain in the dark concerning the reason for these increasingly harsh whippings. Why wouldn’t Abbot Arnaud trust him with whatever secret was causing the flagellation? Perhaps one day, he told himself, there would be a confession. But in truth, he held out little hope.
With the sheets nestled in the crook of his arm, Brother Cédric headed out to the laundry, a cold stone extension where a trio of electric washing-machines had recently been installed. This at least was a blessing. For so many years, the Order had tirelessly scrubbed and toiled over their dirty linen, and only now had the abbot relented, realising that modern technology would actually be a metaphorical Godsend, despite his initial reluctance. It had been Brother Cédric himself who had made the suggestion, tactfully explaining that with less physical work spent doing the laundry, the monks would have more time for more productive tasks, such as tending vegetables or the transcription of ancient scrolls. Finally, only three months previously, Abbot Arnaud had conceded that the addition of these machines might perhaps be advantageous, after all.
As Noel Van Beek talked, Abbot Arnaud listened, with an expression that the young man considered to be disbelief.
“I am not lying,” he insisted, searching the pale grey eyes for a reaction. “Every word is true. If you can please help me to…”
The old man bowed his head for a few seconds, the bald circle on his crown shining under the reflection of a bedside lamp, before returning the gaze.
“I don’t think that you are,” he sighed. “Honestly, I know you tell the truth.”
As the Dutchman waited for the abbot to go on, his eyes wandered to the rucksack.
“In my bag, there’s an old Bible.”
Abbot Arnaud coughed, a racking, deep-throated noise that took a few minutes to get under control, before reaching out a hand to lift the nylon bag. As he did so, a searing pain coursed up the elderly monk’s left arm, squeezing tightly at his chest. Noel was quick to recognise the oncoming heart attack and called out.
“Help! Someone come quickly!”
Amidst the chaos of blue flashing lights and scurrying paramedics in fluorescent jackets, Abbot Arnaud was taken from the monastery in a flurry of activity, his old face confused about what was happening, yet fully aware of the vice-like grip that held his beating heart immobile. The ambulance driver bent over to reach the old man’s ears, perhaps presuming that his hearing was compromised due to age and explained that they were taking him to hospital. It was a heart attack.
As the portable trolley was hurried out through double oak doors, Brother Bénédict laid a hand upon the arm of the man at his side.
“You go,” he insisted, nudging Brother Cédric forward. “There will be paperwork to see to, and you are in charge of administration and will know more of our Father’s medical history. I can take care of matters here.”
The other monk didn’t pause to disagree, nor hesitate for one second and, moments later, his paunchy form was hefting itself into the back of the vehicle.
Abbot Arnaud blinked, his eyes adjusting to the harsh fluorescent light inside the ambulance. The pain had decreased slightly yet his hand tingled where a needle had been inserted into the liver-spotted skin. Rolling his head to the side, the old man licked dry lips and tried to speak.
The monk sitting opposite immediately leant forward, his robes brushing against the pristine white floor of the ambulance. “Qu’est qui-ce, mon Père?”
Words came, just enough to be comprehensible, before the paramedic urged Brother Cédric to sit back and let him see to the deathly white patient.
In the infirmary, Brother Alberon was standing gravely at the Dutchman’s bedside whilst Brother Bénédict struggled to form questions in English.
“What is happening?” he pressed. “Erm, happen?”
Frustration crossed the monk’s face as he crinkled his brow and searched for the most suitable term. English had been his weakest study period in college.
Noel Van Beek shook his head, still exhausted from his lengthy talk with the abbot. “I’m sorry, I don’t know. We were talking and he just collapsed.”
The two monks looked at one another, silently pondering what had caused their beloved Father to be struck so suddenly. Yet, both had seen the exhaustion on Abbot Arnaud’s face that morning and Brother Bénédict himself had even offered to conduct the morning service. Satisfied that the stranger had nothing further to add, they bid him rest before retreating to gather their brethren.
Having been rushed through the emergency department of Bordeaux City Hospital, Brother Cédric stood filling in forms while the abbot was tended to by a cardiologist. He knew most details like the back of his hand, Abbot Arnaud’s date of birth and recent medical history for instance, but there were grey areas that he was unable to supply information for, such as place of birth and prior illnesses. Despite the close relationship of the two, it now felt as though there were vast chunks missing from the abbot’s past and Brother Cédric chided himself that he hadn’t asked more from his mentor.
A curtain swished back and an Indian doctor gestured to the monk, who now sat with the clipboard of information gripped between his fingers. There was evident hope upon the cardiologist’s face as he explained that, although the abbot was weak, the prognosis was encouraging, and the eighty-year-old man might well make a reasonable recovery.
Brother Cédric let out his breath, suddenly realising that he’d been holding it in while the medic spoke. Thank goodness, he sighed. “Merci, Dieu. Merci beaucoup.”
It was only after imparting the news of his patient that the doctor lowered his voice and spoke in heavily Indian-accented French.
“There is something else,” he whispered, leading the monk away from where Abbot Arnaud lay behind the curtain in a consultation bay. “Terrible wounds.”
Brother Cédric closed his eyes for a second, the monk’s facial expression telling the medic that he was fully aware of what had just been discovered.
“Our Father is in the habit of self-punishment. It is something that, as a very private Order of Brothers, we keep to ourselves. A very common practice amongst the brethren, you see.”
The cardiologist looked unconvinced, pushing his glasses up onto his head. “But for a man of eighty to be whipping himself so, so violently… I have never seen anything like it in my life. The marks are open and still weeping.”
Brother Cédric gathered his words and proceeded with the utmost care.
“Doctor, I can assure you that it is completely normal within our Order. Please let the matter lie, fo
r Abbot Arnaud’s sake, if for no other reason.”
There was a silence, deep and penetrating, as the medic mulled over the consequences. “Very well, for now. I will still need to write this up in the abbot’s medical records, but at this time I see no reason to report it.”
Panic reached into the pit of Brother Cédric’s stomach like a giant hand wrenching at his gut. Report it? He had never even considered that what the abbot had done was something for concern. It was a deeply private matter and must stay so.
“Thank you,” he finally managed, “I appreciate it.”
Later that afternoon, Brother Cédric was on his way back to the Monastère du Saint Augustin to collect some personal belongings for the abbot. He made a mental list as the car swung onto the main highway back towards Saint Margaux. Having left in such a hurry, it hadn’t occurred to the elderly monk that he might require cash for a return journey and now, at the mercy of a kind porter who was just finishing his shift, Brother Cédric sat back against the leather seat taking in the rain-drenched French countryside. He couldn’t remember the last time that he’d actually ridden in a car. Surely it must be over a decade, he mused.
However, there were far more intriguing thoughts to contend with now, the monk told himself, gripping the seatbelt between sweaty fingers, such as the words that Abbot Arnaud had imparted to him on the journey to Bordeaux. Ramblings of a fuddled and sick old man, perhaps?
“Frère?” the driver prompted, stirring the monk from his thoughts.
Brother Cédric smiled, realising that the porter was checking if he was alright.
“Oui, je suis bien.”
“I will just check on our patient before returning to the abbot’s bedside,” Brother Cédric told the dozen or so monks that had gathered in the main corridor on his return. “I can catch the train back into town.”
Brother Alberon frowned. “There is absolutely no need to concern yourself with the Dutchman. Brother Bénédict and I have tended to him and now the young man sleeps. Don’t worry unnecessarily.”
“Did he mention Abbot Arnaud at all?”
The question was clumsy and slipped out unintentionally, although Brother Cédric was bursting to find out whether Noel Van Beek might have caused the abbot to become stressed or overexcited.
“He was unable to give us any information, only that our Father collapsed.”
Brother Bénédict cleared his throat. “I fear that the abbot has been rather tired lately. Why, only this morning I noticed how pale he looked. Perhaps this is what caused the heart attack. He’s a very good age, after all.”
Brother Cédric nodded. “Yes, you’re right, of course. Our Father is quite frail and has been taking on far too much. Let us keep him in our prayers and, God willing, a full recovery can be made.”
Noel Van Beek woke groggily after a heavy sleep, beads of sweat gathering between the wispy blonde fringe and his temples, yet the patient’s body temperature was not as severely raised as the previous night.
Brother Alberon was immediately at his side, offering sips of fresh water and a cool, wet flannel to wipe the young man’s perspiring brow.
“Voulez-vous un thé?”
Noel flicked his eyes to the side, giving the monk a quizzical look as he tried to figure out what was being asked or offered to him.
“Thé?”
Realisation dawned as the Dutchman grasped the similarity between the word the monk was pronouncing and the English word for tea.
“Oui, merci,” he replied, using the few French words at his disposal.
As Brother Alberon retreated to make the beverage, Noel shook his head in despair. How had he ever thought it possible to come to rural France without at least a fair amount of French? Had he expected everyone here to understand him in English, or the occasional mimed gesture? Perhaps coming here had been a mistake after all, the youngster told himself. Yet his grandmother had encouraged the trip and even given Noel extra money to help pay his way.
And what now? He’d come to a dead end in the Midi-Pyrenees, the purpose of his journey elusive and unforthcoming, and then again in Salbec he had been told that the man he sought hadn’t resided there for years. The Monastery of Saint Augustin was his last hope, and this too was now proving futile.
Brother Alberon returned with a cup of tea in a patterned china mug, carefully setting it down on the bedside table before fussing over the bedclothes that had become untucked. Noel nodded his appreciation.
“Abbot Arnaud?” he ventured softly, concerned for the kindly old man.
The monk lifted both hands and tilted his fingers gently from side to side to illustrate that the old man was considered to be gravely ill.
“His heart?” the Dutchman asked, tapping at his chest with a clenched fist.
“Oui, c’est faible.”
No translation was forthcoming, and the young man simply shook his head.
Noel lifted the mug carefully, bringing it to his parched lips and blowing at the steaming tea. He would drink this and then sleep some more, then tomorrow, perhaps he would be well enough to continue his quest.
Brother Cédric opened drawers in the abbot’s private quarters, lifting out clean underpants, vests and pyjamas. Hospitalization was such a rare occurrence amongst the brotherhood that he was unsure quite what to pack for the patient.
He’d briefly stopped by the infirmary before coming here to collect the old man’s belongings and, despite both Brothers’ insistence that all was taken care of, he’d stood watching Noel Van Beek sleeping for several minutes before Brother Alberon had come to stand by his side.
“Demain, il ira beaucoup mieux,” the younger monk had stated confidently. By tomorrow, he will be much better.
Brother Cedric had nodded, shifting his bodyweight to turn away slightly as his fellow comrade reached to turn out the overhead light.
“Laisse le dormir,” the infirmary worker smiled. Let him sleep.
The elder monk hadn’t waited to be told twice and turned on his heel, determined to return to the abbot’s side as soon as possible.
Minutes later, Brother Ernest was starting up the battered old minibus, revving the engine as he pressed his foot to the pedal.
“Es-tu prêt?” he asked, as Brother Cédric hauled his overweight and unfit frame up into the passenger’s seat, causing an audible thud.
“Oui.” The elder man shrugged slightly, a canvas holdall with the abbot’s necessary clothing and toiletries clutched in his meaty arms. “Allons-y.” Let’s go.
The van rattled out of the courtyard and down the long driveway towards the quaint village of Saint Margaux, its two silent occupants full of dismay at the reason for their short road trip. As Brother Ernest turned right onto the lane towards the small community, he noticed Brother Cédric giving a backwards glance to the sandstone building they’d just left behind. Abbot Arnaud’s collapse really must be taking its toll on the elder monk, he conceded; the two were so close. With gentle acceleration, the minibus gathered speed as it made its solemn journey to Bordeaux.
CHAPTER FOUR – A SUSPICIOUS WIFE
Anyone standing in the vicinity of Bordeaux Quartier Générale de la Police on that Monday morning would be forgiven for assuming that suave Inspector Max Mallery had won the EuroMillions, so sprightly was his step as he strolled into work. An air of sheepishness surrounded the handsome detective and even his attire looked more immaculate than usual. Fresh-faced, clean-shaven and smiling broadly, he took the stairs two at a time and swung the office door wide to allow Friday’s stale cigarette-tinged air to circulate. By five past seven, the coffee machine was brewing up a double espresso and everything in the world seemed bright, at least through Max’s proverbial rose-tinted spectacles.
It was a full hour until the rest of the team were due to arrive, giving Mallery a chance to reflect upon his two nights with Vanessa and then cast a casual eye over the weekend’s reports.
“Bouchon, Michelle,” he read, “ivre et désordonné.”
&nbs
p; It was no surprise to the inspector that there had been an arrest for a citizen being drunk and disorderly, but two things stood out above all else. First, the person was female, not exactly a rare occurrence but certainly unusual in these parts. Second, the arrest took place in the picture-perfect village of Saint Margaux, a sleepy community where day-to-day life ambled by without so much as a parking ticket. Well, apart from the murder of vineyard owner Cecile Vidal a few months earlier, he mused, but that had been something quite extraordinary. Max rolled a finger down the page, noting the violent argument and consequent stabbing of the woman’s husband, Leo. At the bottom of the neatly typed report were the words, Aucune autre action. No further action.
Mallery sipped at the strong, dark coffee and sighed, allowing the heady, aromatic beans to fill his nostrils. A domestic dispute, there was no doubt about it, but putting a kitchen fork through your spouse’s hand was pretty drastic. Still, it seemed that Michelle Bouchon had been released without charge on Sunday morning, free to return home to the wounded, and possibly terrified, Leo.
Inspector Mallery pressed his fingers together into a steeple, a faint grin spreading across his lips. Perhaps a trip out into the countryside was on the cards, with a natural detour to the village’s excellent boulangerie.
Pausing to check himself in the vanity mirror placed strategically inside his desk drawer, Mallery smoothed down his soft, dark hair and then headed for the door.
Click, clickety click, click.
Max stood still, casting his eyes around the room. Luc, the IT specialist, was poised at his computer, head bent, long fringe hanging in his eyes. A takeaway polystyrene cup sat on the edge of the desk, the logo advertising a cheap café near the train station, and the police inspector wondered how the young man could even contemplate drinking such sub-standard coffee.
Noel Page 4
