Noel

by A J Griffiths-Jones

  Finally, an hour after his arrival, Brother Alberon was joined by Francis, a monk in his thirties whose conscientious nature caused Alberon to hold him in high regard. The two worked together well, remaking beds, tending to the bright red rashes of the patients with bowls of calamine lotion, and finally restoring order to the shelving.

  “Pourquoi est-ce ici?” Brother Francis asked during the course of his meticulous housekeeping, down on his hands and knees under a cabinet.

  Alberon stepped over to where his colleague was retrieving a wooden bowl and shrugged, his face showing that he was completely perplexed by the find.

  Both monks peered down at the sticky black residue that stained the bottom of the moulded basin and looked at one another.

  “Ne le toucher pas,” Alberon ordered sternly. Do not touch it.

  Brother Francis nodded. He was not one to question his peers and the look of shock on the senior monk’s face told him that something was definitely wrong; this was no ordinary discovery.

  Brother Alberon deftly lifted the bowl from Francis’ fingers and disappeared.

  “I tell you, it wasn’t there last weekend. I cleaned that storeroom from top to bottom,” the infirmary attendant huffed in French, pointing at the item on Abbot Arnaud’s desk, “and look at the stain! It could be what made Monsieur Van Beek so sick.”

  Brother Bénédict breathed deeply, casting a sideward glance at the man who now sat in their Holy Father’s leather chair.

  “Brother Cédric, you are the most senior here in the abbot’s absence. What do you think?”

  The elderly monk raised his eyes to the domed ceiling of the inner office and considered the question carefully before responding.

  “Brothers, I feel that the detectives have already intruded enough upon our simple lives here. Daily schedules have been unavoidably upset, the Infirmary – I’m sure you will agree, Brother Alberon – has been unnecessarily rifled through and accusations have been insinuated, if not yet voiced out loud. For these reasons, may I suggest that we say nothing for now, and go about our business as normally as we can.”

  Alberon shuffled his sandaled feet and looked distraught. “But Brother Cédric, if this were to come to light at a later date… that we did nothing… and if the young Dutchman was poisoned…?”

  Bénédict was about to voice his opinion, but Cédric put up a hand to stop him.

  “This is mere conjecture, brothers. We do not yet know the cause of death and until we do, let us not make our lives any more complicated than need be.”

  Brother Alberon returned to the infirmary somewhat disgruntled. In part, he agreed with Cédric’s point of view. The two detectives that had descended upon the ward yesterday had indeed caused a lot of extra toil, but on the other hand, if there was foul play involved in the death of a patient in his, Alberon’s, care, then he certainly wanted to get to the bottom of it.

  However, finding that the medical facility was now gleaming, its shelves looking orderly and the patients quite peaceful in their beds, he conceded that it might be a blessing to be allowed to perform his duties in peace for a while. Brother Alberon also wondered if Francis might become a more permanent fixture in the infirmary; his natural aptitude for tidiness and interest in herbal remedies was much appreciated.

  After a frugal lunch of bread, olives and goat’s cheese, Brother Bénédict stood at the door of Saint Augustin’s watching as Brother Ernest, the youngest monk and the only driver amongst the Order, revved the engine of the battered old minibus.

  “Au revoir.” He smiled at Brother Cédric, who stood clutching a hessian bag with the abbot’s clean pyjamas and a bottle of fresh juice inside. “Prends soin de toi.”

  Bénédict turned towards the noisy vehicle, clattering as the foot-pedal was pressed to the boards, and wondered whether Cédric might be fearing for his life with the novice monk at the wheel.

  “Au revoir.”

  Heaving himself up into the passenger’s seat for the second time that week, Brother Cédric pulled the seatbelt tight and gave a warning look to the driver. There was no need to speed, he told him severely, they were in no rush.

  “Oui, Frère Cédric,” Ernest muttered, crunching the gears and pulling at the steering-wheel as tyres skidded upon gravel, and they were off.

  Abbot Arnaud had managed to eat his first slice of brown buttered toast since being taken ill, washing it down with milky tea and several prescription tablets as ordered by the cardiologist. He was feeling exhausted, an emotion that was only to be expected in his current condition, and yet worried about the Brothers back at Saint Augustin’s and how they were faring. He was also concerned about the welfare of Noel Van Beek, being completely oblivious to the Dutchman’s fate, and hoped that they would soon be able to resume their conversation.

  In the stark, whitewashed corridor of the Hospital Saint-André, Brother Cédric was standing in front of a vending-machine looking rather perplexed. His eyes scanned the array of different chocolate bars and a pink tongue licked at his lips as he looked down at the coins in his hand. The monk couldn’t remember the last time he had held a creamy milk chocolate bar in his hand, let alone tasted one, and he closed his eyes, wondering if the temptation might pass if he could no longer see the confectionary. Blinking, he sighed. It was no good, the bars were still there, and his yearning had failed to abate. Dropping a one euro coin into the slot, he pressed his selection and commended himself on the ability to navigate a new-fangled piece of modern technology, before ripping at the wrapper and gorging on the sweet treat.

  “Abbé Arnaud,” Brother Cédric whispered, a few minutes later.

  The abbot opened his heavy lids and gave a wan smile.

  “Ah, Cédric, bonjour.”

  The elderly man frowned slightly as he focussed, noticing brown marks at the corners of Cédric’s mouth. “Chocolat?”

  The slightly younger monk blushed, red hot blood pumping into his cheeks as he realised that he’d been caught and nodded without speaking.

  Abbot Arnaud turned his head towards the sunlight streaming in through the closed window. He hadn’t the energy to reprimand Cédric, especially as the man had brought clean sleepwear and freshly pressed elderflower juice.

  “Everything at the monastery is fine,” Brother Cédric assured his senior in French, as he fussed with putting the items in the abbot’s bedside cabinet.

  “Noel Van Beek?” a cracked voice questioned, as the old man pushed himself into a sitting position.

  Cédric was a little too slow in his response, but eventually managed a nod. “Oui, bien.”

  There was no point in the old man worrying about the traveller’s demise, at least not yet, he considered. As soon as the abbot was looking and feeling better, then all would be explained, Cédric told himself. In the meantime, he needed to ensure that the abbot remained oblivious to the goings-on at Saint Augustin’s.

  Pouring a small amount of elderflower juice into a plastic cup and filling it with water from the jug, Brother Cédric beckoned to the Holy Father to drink. Wasn’t it so kind of the hospital to give the abbot a room to himself? the monk pointed out; so very considerate in such busy times. But no doubt he would be up and about in no time at all, Cédric commented.

  Abbot Arnaud listened to the monk’s incessant wittering with closed eyes. Was Cédric purposely talking nonsense, or had he always been so uninteresting in his conversational skills, he wondered, falling back to sleep; who knew?

  Watching Abbot Arnaud flitting in and out of consciousness, Brother Cédric sat in the padded chair at the side of the patient’s bed, wondering what would happen if the old man failed to recover. Truly it was unthinkable, at least to him, but there would surely have to be a named successor in the event of Arnaud dying, Cédric mused. Then he remembered the third item concealed in the hessian sack.

  With nimble fingers, Brother Cédric lifted Noel Van Beek’s old leather Bible out of the hessian bag and placed it on the bed underneath the abbot’s withered hand. The e
lderly man moved slightly, his palm shifting on top of the heavy book, and then relaxed to resume his dreamless sleep. Cédric hoped that the Holy Bible might bring some comfort to the abbot during his illness; after all, it was a much-coveted item, and far superior to the New Testament books that they used for daily prayer. Besides, it was of no use to Noel Van Beek now.

  Brother Cédric leaned back in his seat, twisting rosary beads between his fingers to repent for his greedy indiscretion only half an hour before, and considered the old monk’s words.

  “Search the Dutchman’s belongings.” Cédric could clearly remember Abbot Arnaud’s words as he’d lain in the back of the ambulance. “Find his family.”

  As the monk considered his superior’s insistence, he sighed. The Bible had held no clue to the young man’s background – no address, nothing. And from the inscription, it was doubtful that it even belonged to the traveller. Cédric had promised himself that, should he find the slightest clue, he would have written to the man’s family and told them of his illness, just as Abbot Arnaud had requested. Still, it was pointless now. Noel lay on the mortuary slab and the police would find the young man’s parents in no time at all.

  Jack Hobbs was just taking his first bite of a crusty cheese baguette when his lunch break was interrupted by the sound of Max Mallery slamming the Incident Room door.

  “What’s up?” the red-headed detective enquired, jumping slightly and almost choking on the mouthful of fresh bread. “Sir?”

  “Nothing, nothing,” Max tutted, “just an issue with him upstairs.”

  Mallery raised his eyes to the ceiling, indicating the office directly above, where Commissaire Ozanne sat presiding over the force.

  The inspector took a deep breath and looked around the room, hands deep in the pockets of his smart navy trousers.

  “So, I think it’s time we spoke to Abbot Arnaud, don’t you?” he asked casually, fixing his dark eyes on nobody in particular. “Who’s coming?

  “I don’t think the monks are comfortable with me,” Gabriella admitted. “They weren’t very friendly yesterday.”

  “That’s only to be expected,” Max sighed, “these men live very secluded lives. I don’t suppose they interact with young women, or old ones, very often.”

  Hobbs snorted, sending speckles of breadcrumbs spraying out across the computer screen.

  “Something funny, Jacques?” the inspector huffed.

  “So sorry, sir. I just had visions of the monks keeping a bunch of old women locked up over at Saint Augustin’s.”

  Mallery rolled his eyes and shook his head. “You surprise me every day, Hobbs, and for that, you’ve just volunteered yourself to join me at the hospital.”

  “Give me ten minutes?” came the response, as the Yorkshireman gestured to his hot mug of tea and unfinished lunch.

  “Five,” Max agreed. “I’ll wait for you downstairs. And if I were you, Jacques, I wouldn’t eat too much.”

  “Oh, why’s that, sir?”

  “Because later this afternoon we’re meeting Paul Theron at the morgue.” His boss grinned, turning on his heel and leaving the room with a dramatic exit that matched his recent entry.

  Gabriella, Luc and Thierry burst out laughing as Jack Hobbs sat open-mouthed, the cheese baguette now abandoned in the waste-paper basket.

  The air outside was chilly, with the late morning sunshine now turning to an icy haze, causing Jack Hobbs to shudder as he stepped out of the police station. He paused, considering whether to go back upstairs to retrieve his winter coat, but the look on Max Mallery’s face told him that now wasn’t a good time to keep the inspector waiting.

  “Is everything alright, sir?” Jack asked tentatively, as he unlocked the Mondeo.

  “Oui, yes, nothing I can’t sort out.”

  Mallery sat silently as they set off in the direction of Saint-André’s, his lips tightly shut and eyes fixed straight ahead. He’d been a fool to think that his new boss here in Bordeaux was unfamiliar with Commissaire Chirac in Paris. Naturally, the men would have some mutual connections, he’d expected that, but not the news that had awaited him.

  On presenting himself to Ozanne’s office, intent upon sorting out his speeding fine from the previous weekend, Max had been faced with a stern warning. Not only was his new boss aware of Vanessa Chirac’s affair with Parisian commissioner on the Saturday of their romantic tryst. Mallery had been offered a word of warning. He was a good detective, Ozanne recognised that, but he wouldn’t tolerate Max bringing his dirty laundry to the door of these headquarters.

  Mallery hadn’t known what to expect… perhaps a reprimand about his careless driving? Certainly not interference on a personal level. Still, the speeding fine had been hefty and Ozanne had made it disappear. What he hadn’t expected was for the Commissioner to head down to traffic CCTV to look at the video footage. That had been brutal and Mallery knew it meant trouble. Ozanne had even grinned when he’d revealed that he knew about Vanessa’s visit. In return for what, though? Max had pressed for an answer, but the superior officer had simply made a grand show of tearing up the paperwork pertaining to his ticket and had smiled widely.

  “Faire la bonne chose, Inspecteur Mallery.” Do the right thing.

  Now, sitting perplexed as Jack Hobbs navigated the one-way system around Bordeaux city, Max knew that his luck had finally run out. Either he finished this business with Chirac’s wife once and for all, or his career would be over. For Mallery, there was simply no decision to be made. From the age of six or seven he’d dreamt of being a detective and he wouldn’t give it up, even for the love of his life.

  As the two detectives approached the comfortable side room where Abbot Arnaud was being taken care of, a tall doctor in a white coat and red chinos exited, a slim folder tucked into the crook of one arm.

  “Bonjour,” he smiled, looking the men up and down. “Famille?”

  Max shook his head and opened the identity wallet. “Police.”

  “Ah, oui,” the medic replied, holding the door ajar, “S’il vous plaît, entrez.”

  The elderly and very fragile-looking monk was sitting up in bed, holding a glass of water between trembling fingers. His eyes had lost their glimmer and the old man’s heavy lids now drooped over watery orbs.

  Max quickly made the introductions, asking if the abbot remembered them and if it were possible to speak English, to which the patient nodded and smiled.

  “I am out of practice,” Arnaud said, his frail voice wavering, “but I am happy to try. It is nice to see you both again, although this is a surprise visit.”

  Jack Hobbs walked over to the window and looked out to where visitors and nursing staff rushed in and out of the entrance like busy bees.

  “Abbot Arnaud,” Max began, speaking slowly, “we have come to ask you about the young man that arrived at Saint Augustin’s late on Saturday night, Noel Van Beek.”

  There was a flicker of recognition behind the old man’s eyes before he licked his cracked lips and responded, “Yes, I remember. Is he fully recovered from the chill now?”

  Mallery shot a glance at Jack who gave a slight shrug. Neither had any idea if one of the monks had spoken to the abbot about the young man’s death.

  Max coughed and stepped towards the bed, laying a hand on Arnaud’s bare arm.

  “Monsieur, I’m afraid that the young man died yesterday.”

  The abbot lifted his free hand up to his throat, unable to fully comprehend the severity of the detective’s words. “Died? Mort?”

  Looking over at the younger of the two policemen for confirmation, Abbot Arnaud’s eyes fell upon Jack, who nodded solemnly. “Yes, I’m afraid so.”

  The monk looked so distressed that Hobbs wondered if he might need to call for medical assistance, but the abbot recovered himself and whispered for Max to come closer. “How?”

  “Monsieur, we are still waiting for confirmation from the Coroner, but it looks as though the young man who stayed with you was poisoned.”

  L
ong, thin fingers grasped at the Holy Bible that lay on top of the patient’s bedcovers, the man’s pale white nails subconsciously tracing the pattern of the battered antique leather.

  “It is impossible,” he replied weakly. “Such a fit and healthy boy.”

  “We have to ask,” Hobbs pressed. “Did you happen to notice anything

  unusual, or if the stranger was given anything to eat?”

  “No, I… I’m not really sure. Soup perhaps.”

  Mallery nodded and gestured to Jack. “I can see this has been a shock to you Abbot Arnaud, Detective Hobbs and I will leave you now. We’ll come back when you’re feeling up to answering a few more questions.”

  The monk had already closed his eyes and placed his head back on the pillow, unable to comprehend that a traveller seeking shelter at Saint Augustin’s could encounter such a terrible fate.

  Brother Cédric gave the two detectives a courtesy nod as they passed him on the way out of Saint-André’s. Naturally he recognised them both, but was keen to return to Abbot Arnaud’s bedside after his brief visit to the hospital chapel.

  “Brother Cédric?” Jack was quick to call out. “Do you have a moment?”

  The Benedictine monk cursed silently under his breath. “Yes, what is it, detectives?”

  Hobbs straightened his spine and stood eye to eye with the elderly gent.

  “We were wondering if you could tell us anything about Noel Van Beek.”

  “I’m sorry, who?”

  Mallery took a step forward and tilted his head. “The young man who died at Saint Augustin’s. Surely you haven’t forgotten already?”