Doctor Singh looked across from the centrally located nurse’s station. He hadn’t expected Brother Bénédict to be quite so alert, at least not yet.
“How are you feeling?” he asked kindly, in his uniquely accented French.
The monk tried to push himself upright but lacked the strength and fell back against the pillows almost immediately.
“What happened? That terrible taste in my mouth…”
Doctor Singh soothed the monk by patting his arm, explaining that Bénédict had been poisoned but, as yet, they didn’t know by whom or with what.
“Poison?” he repeated, looking flustered. “Are you sure?”
Inderjeet Singh rubbed a hand through his dark beard. “Yes, Brother. Poison.”
At police headquarters, Max was sitting on a spare desk close to the whiteboard, with one leg crossed over the other, a black marker pen tapping the information.
“Okay, so firstly we have Abbot Arnaud’s heart attack, followed by Noel Van Beek’s death, then Brother Bénédict being taken ill.”
“With suspected poisoning,” Gabriella pointed out, now fully recharged after her vigorous stroll back to the unit.
“Well, surely we can discount the abbot’s illness as unrelated,” Hobbs commented. “He’s a man of eighty and hardly a spring chicken.”
“A chicken, poulet?” Luc laughed. “What is the meaning of that?”
“It means he’s not young, so perhaps a heart attack isn’t so unusual, right?” Mallery interjected, turning his focus to Jack.
“Exactly, whereas Noel’s death looks like foul play and Brother Bénédict unfortunately got caught up in it by trying to save the young man’s life.”
Thierry gestured to the coffee machine and all but Inspector Mallery nodded.
“So,” the dark-skinned detective asked, as he prepared beverages for the team, “if nobody was expecting Noel Van Beek to arrive at the monastery, who would want him dead? Could it have been some slow-acting type of poison?”
“Good point,” Max added, circling the young Dutchman’s arrival time with the pen. “And who, besides his grandmother, knew that he was in France?”
Gabriella looked down at her manicured hands and then bit down on a thumbnail. “Maybe Abbot Arnaud is the key.”
Four heads turned to look at the young blonde woman.
“Go on,” Mallery urged, rotating his wrist in a circular motion.
“Well, he is head of the monastery, after all. Arnaud was the one who decided not to contact the police when Van Beek turned up there, and he was also responsible for the wellbeing of the men under his roof, including the stranger. He also was conveniently taken ill.”
Jack weighed up the statement before shaking his head. “If Noel Van Beek was intentionally poisoned, it was by someone a lot smarter than the old abbot, who had a heart attack, by the way. The biggest question is why. A traveller arriving late at night is hardly intrusive on the monks’ way of life and, as Brother Alberon told us, Van Beek was making a good recovery up until this morning.”
The team fell silent, trying to put together the pieces of this complex puzzle.
Annalise Van Beek looked at her red-rimmed eyes in the ornate vanity mirror. Only an hour since the dreaded knock on the door of her city townhouse to tell her that her beloved grandson was dead, and she’d aged almost ten years, as defined by the worry lines on her face. The officers must have the wrong person, she told herself. It couldn’t be Noel. A trip to Bordeaux would confirm her suspicions. Perhaps it was some homeless person who had stolen her grandson’s passport. Yes, a much more likely story.
Annalise brushed back a tendril of wispy white hair, biting her bottom lip as she tucked it back into the tight chignon at the nape of her neck. Still attractive despite her seventy years, the slender grandmother fought to hold herself together. The local Amsterdam police officers had been adamant that it was her dear Noel who had died that morning, making the woman sweet tea in her own pristine kitchen, yet she still didn’t believe it. Surely there was some mistake?
Madame Van Beek had naturally reached immediately for her telephone, calling Noel’s mobile over and over, waiting for him to pick up and laugh at the ridiculous error that the French police had made. The line buzzed, again and again, over and over. Exhausted, she left a brief message. Dare she believe that her boy was gone? Annalise had asked for the address of where Noel was taken ill and now stared at the scrap of lined white paper with incredulous eyes:
Le Monastère du Saint Augustin, Saint Margaux.
There now, see? It was just as she had pointed out to the patient young uniformed policemen. Noel hadn’t been planning to go anywhere near this little village, he was somewhere much further south in the Midi-Pyrenees.
Paul Theron hooked a disposable face mask over his large ears and bent to look at the young man’s prostrate body. Externally, he saw nothing remarkable, except for a dark tinge around the swollen lips, and he recorded that the man in front of him had been physically very fit. Lifting Noel Van Beek’s eyelids, he noticed dilated pupils and a slight purple hue of the skin underneath the eye sockets as though the man had difficulty sleeping. Not something he would need to worry about any longer, Paul told himself.
Taking the largest scalpel from a stainless-steel tray at his side, Coroner Theron drew the sharp blade down the corpse’s torso in a perfectly straight line. Now for the real detective work, he mused. His job was to find out what had caused the sudden death of Noel Van Beek, so that Max Mallery and his team could try to work out who was responsible.
A slight ooze of blood exited the wound and Paul spoke into his dictaphone in a low voice. Each organ was weighed and examined, with nothing being left unturned as the tall doctor searched for clues. The man noted red, fleshy textures of the stomach and probed further to examine the contents. A dark liquid oozed from the large intestine, giving off the same acrid odour as that in the young man’s throat. Coroner Theron quickly transferred the sample to a glass jar and stood back, looking at his find. This, he was sure, was the cause of poor Noel’s death.
Having stitched up the corpse, Paul Theron ripped off the blue plastic surgical gown that covered his scrubs and called for his assistant to take the twenty-three-year-old’s body back to the refrigerated unit. It could be hours before he got confirmed results from the laboratory and in the meantime, the Coroner needed to speak to the officer in charge of the murder case.
Inspector Mallery stood outside the elegant Côte-Rue restaurant, puffing on a filtered cigarette whilst perusing the menu. Jack Hobbs was standing a little to one side, eager to avoid the stale odour of his boss’s tobacco habit on his new suit. He already felt uncomfortable in the dark blue, slim-fitting trousers and jacket and the last thing he needed was to be reprimanded by Angélique for the need to dry-clean it after the first few days of wear,
Wind rushed down the side street, gathering dried leaves in its path, and both men shuddered at the cold gusts that penetrated their outer clothing.
“Sorry, sorry,” Paul Theron called, his hair wild and fluffy as though he were the weather God himself riding in on a late November storm.
Max shook the Coroner’s hand and then kissed him on both cheeks, standing back for Jack to do the same before ushering both men inside.
“I am starving,” Theron laughed, announcing their arrival to the waiter. “I think you have a table for me, Monsieur Theron, oui?”
Moving past the front tables to a large brown leather sofa and Scandinavian-style chairs, the men were soon seated underneath a brightly coloured painting. Jack turned his head to the side, trying to figure out what the collection of abstract squares and blocks were supposed to represent, but failed miserably.
“The food in here is exquisite,” Paul Theron enthused, kissing his fingers in a rather exaggerated gesture. “Absolutely delicious!”
Hobbs scanned the menu, thankful that most of it was also translated into English. “So, what do you recommend?”
Theron d
idn’t hesitate, but closed his eyes as though still savouring the delicacies from his last visit to the restaurant. “The smoked goat cheese ravioli, it is… how to say… fantastic?”
Jack was still getting to grips with what he considered to be the unusual French palate and wondered whether the chef could rustle up a cheese and pickle sandwich for him instead. The temptation to ask was overpowering.
“Sounds great,” he said eventually, giving in to manners rather than desires. “Ravioli it is then.”
As conversation turned from their appetites to business, lines appeared on Paul Theron’s brow as he explained his recent findings.
“I won’t go into too much detail over lunch, for obvious reasons,” he grimaced, “but you were right, Noel Van Beek was definitely poisoned. I should have results by tomorrow at the latest, but you’re looking at foul play, I’m afraid.”
Max leaned back in his chair, letting his gaze fall to the dramatic painting in front of him as he gathered his thoughts. “There’s no way it could have been accidental?”
“Accidental?” Paul repeated slowly, looking incredulous. “How?”
“Well,” he explained, “I’ve been thinking… these Benedictine monks live a very simple life and most of what they eat is grown in their own garden. Could it have been a mistake? Such as picking poisonous mushrooms?”
Theron considered the possibility but then laid both hands on the table and sighed. “I know you think it could happen, Max, but let’s be honest, if the monks are capable of self-sufficiency, they must also know which fungi are not to be eaten. Besides, the odour in the victim’s mouth, it was sharp, very different.”
Jack, who had been listening intently to the exchange, jumped in. “Is it something you’ve ever encountered before, Monsieur Theron?”
“Please, call me Paul,” the Coroner smiled, “and to answer your question, no, I’ve never come across anything quite like it. Whatever it was, acted quickly, tightening the man’s chest and causing the flow of blood to the heart to become blocked. He would have been semi-conscious when the toxin took hold.”
Jack let out a long, shallow breath. “That must have been absolute agony.”
“Indeed, but thankfully it would have been all over in a matter of minutes.”
Back at the station, Max relayed the Coroner’s information to the rest of the team and then called Gabriella over to the whiteboard. “Do you have those photos of the young man’s bed?”
The female detective pulled out her mobile phone and flicked to the pictures of the stained infirmary bedsheets. The images were crystal clear.
“Perhaps we should have made a thorough search of the place this morning.” She winced. “Maybe whatever this liquid is, is still there somewhere.”
Inspector Mallery considered the suggestion and nodded bleakly.
“Would you go back over there, take another look?” he asked. “Maybe there are traces of it elsewhere. Take one of the guys with you.”
Gabriella turned to face the rest of the team. “Who’s up for a trip out?”
Luc was on his feet before either of the other two could respond. “Me. It’s about time I got out of the office for a few hours. Okay with you, sir?”
Max threw his head back in jest. “Go on then, I guess you deserve a break.”
Down in the basement of the police headquarters, Mallery, Jack and Thierry stood with gloved hands, ready to examine the contents of Noel Van Beek’s nylon rucksack. Careful to record each item as it was removed, Jack stood with a notepad in his hand as Thierry pulled out the first piece of clothing. The Inspector stood with his hands in his pockets, silent as a church mouse.
“Jeans, two jumpers, socks, underwear,” Thierry commented, “three hundred euros cash, a paperback book in Dutch, body spray, shower gel and a shaving kit.”
“What about the side pockets?” Hobbs asked, pointing his pen.
“Ah, yes.” the younger detective smiled. “Toothbrush, some chocolate, a woollen hat.”
Mallery stepped closer. “Is that large compartment empty?”
Thierry slid his hand inside the widest pocket and shrugged. “Nothing.”
“That’s a bit odd,” Jack commented. “Seeing as the rest of the rucksack was stuffed full, it’s almost as if something were missing from there.”
Max let out a loud guffaw, raising his eyes to the ceiling. “Ah, Poirot, you have returned!”
“What? Don’t you think it’s a bit odd?”
The inspector shook his head, still smirking at his English colleague. “Not really. Maybe the pocket had food in it and the young man ate it before he arrived at Saint Augustin’s. Isn’t that possible, Jacques?”
Hobbs remained silent, unconvinced. As far as he was concerned, the empty compartment was as much a mystery as Van Beek’s death.
As soon as Gabriella’s Mini pulled up outside the monastery, Brother Cédric stood at the threshold with both hands on his hips. The sound of tyres on gravel had alerted him to the arrival of outsiders.
“I really am too busy to answer any more questions,” he told the detectives in hurried French. “Can’t this wait until a more convenient time? Tomorrow, maybe?”
“Oh, we don’t need to bother you,” Thierry grinned, edging his way in through the double doors, “we just need to take a quick look in the infirmary.”
“Whatever for?” the monk called, struggling to keep up with the officers as they headed towards the eastern side of the building. “What do you want?”
“Just to look around.” Gabriella winked, causing Cédric to blush profusely. “We know the way, Brother Cédric, no need to worry.”
The Benedictine monk watched the youngsters as they opened the infirmary door, eager to keep an eye on their every move.
“If you need anything…” he called out, tugging nervously at the rope belt on his cassock, “maybe we can talk in the abbot’s office.”
But the detectives were oblivious to the chubby man who hovered by the row of empty beds, more concerned with finding a shred of evidence to link the Order of brothers to the death of Noel Van Beek than to listen to the elderly man’s waffling voice. Brother Cédric held his breath as the recently emptied cot was stripped of its mattress and turned on one side. If there was one thing that the prim and proper monk disliked, it was disruption of his daily routine.
CHAPTER SEVEN – STOLEN GOODS
On Wednesday morning, Brother Cédric was up before dawn. The Benedictine monk had slept fitfully, his conscience pricked, and unanswered questions kept his mind alert as his fellow Order slept soundly. The portly man sat on the edge of his metal-framed bed, holding in his hands the object that he had so deftly lifted from Noel Van Beek’s rucksack. It made sense, Abbot Arnaud requesting that he try to find something to connect with the stranger’s home and family, and Cédric would do anything for the old man, the dearest Father who had tutored and cared for him since he’d joined the Monastère du Saint Augustin many years before. Obviously, the old man intended to write to the boy’s parents and notify them of his whereabouts, Cédric mused, although it would have had to be a handwritten letter as the monastery had no technology whatsoever.
The Old Testament Bible creaked as Brother Cédric opened the leather-bound front cover, its stiff jacket worn and battered. An inscription in curled Italic lettering stood boldly in the top right corner of the yellowing parchment:
Trouve-moi. Find me.
Underneath was the date 25th December 1970 and the word, Papa.
The elderly monk looked again at the date. It didn’t match with Noel Van Beek’s own birthday but looked more likely to have been a Christmas gift from someone. Perhaps the young man had simply bought it in a second-hand shop, he pondered. Flicking carefully through the gilt-edged pages, Cédric found nothing else of note until he reached a paper pocket that had been glued inside the back page. He gently lifted the flap and slid two fingers inside.
“Qu’est-ce que c’est?” he murmured.
Inside the
pouch was a pressed yellow rose, crisp and withered with age, but the petals still intact although faded over time. Next to it was a folded square with a hand-drawn map. The details made little sense to the monk, but after no more than a second or two’s hesitation, he slid the scrap into the pocket of his brown woollen cassock.
Far away in the western wing of the monastery, the sound of the chapel bell echoed through the sandstone walls, calling the Order to morning prayers. From the next room, Brother Cédric could hear Bénédict moving from his bed, the metal springs creaking loudly as the monk’s body shifted from slumber. He had been released from the hospital the previous evening.
Lifting one corner of his own cot, Cédric pushed the Bible to the far side. Its discovery in the traveller’s belongings had taken him by surprise, as Abbot Arnaud had only suggested to his confidante that he might search the young man’s bag for something pertaining to his family. Yet, a Bible? Had Noel Van Beek perhaps been on some kind of pilgrimage?
“Bonjour, Frère Cédric.” Brother Bénédict smiled from the doorway, his eyes showing weariness as he bowed his head in greeting.
Cédric returned the nod and fell into step beside his fellow worshipper, still deep in thought about his discovery and its consequences. The only way to find out anything more, he assured himself, was to discuss the Holy Book with the abbot.
Brother Alberon had eaten breakfast rapidly after the service, wanting to return to his duties in the infirmary and to restore the chaos that the two detectives had caused the previous afternoon. Sheets had been stripped and removed from the bed occupied by Noel Van Beek before his death, and pots had been rifled through in the store cupboard with nothing returned to its rightful place.
There had been two cases of shingles overnight, too, which meant that Alberon would need an extra pair of hands to clear up the ward and care for the brothers who had recently been admitted. He had made the relevant request to Brother Cédric, but the man had seemed preoccupied with his own thoughts earlier and now the infirmary ward remained understaffed.
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