“Abbot Arnaud,” Max ventured, gently leaning forward and speaking softly, “could you explain what you mean? Please, it’s very important.”
Jack Hobbs reached for the emergency buzzer, acutely aware that the old man was having some kind of seizure, the pulsing vein in Arnaud’s head and the rolling eyes a sign of his serious condition. Two nurses raced into the room and began tending to their patient with urgency as the heart monitor beeped loudly.
“Time for us to leave,” Jack said, already heading for the door.
Max took one last look at the ailing monk and lifted the Old Testament Bible from the top of the bedside cabinet, tucking it carefully inside his blazer as they left.
“We need to speak to Annalise Van Beek,” Jack pointed out, as he started up the Ford Mondeo. “Maybe she can shed some light on her connection to Arnaud.”
Mallery was biting his thumbnail. “I hope he recovers, otherwise we’ll have Brother Cédric and the other monks chasing after us for all eternity.”
Hobbs reversed out of the parking space, taking one last glance back at the hospital building. It was so beautifully crafted, with such detailed architecture, he noted, so vastly different to the plain concrete block that Paul Theron was used to working in. Still, that was the difference between life and death, the Yorkshireman reckoned; a very thin line separated the two.
“Do you want to head back to the Grand Hotel now?” he suggested.
Mallery checked his watch. It was nearly five and there was still lots to do. “No, not now. I think Madame Van Beek has had enough stress for one day.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN – BROTHERS UP IN ARMS
Brother Alberon had slept fitfully, waking every hour in a cold sweat and panicking that Abbot Arnaud had passed away. He didn’t believe in premonitions, but so vivid were the images that, lying in his state of semi-consciousness, it seemed as real as day. The chapel clock tower struck four, the great bell echoing around the lonely countryside as distinct as a fog horn at sea, and he finally gave up on trying to rest, instead sipping at the water on his nightstand before swinging his tired old legs out from under the bedcovers.
Most days, Alberon was grateful that his more senior position within the Order meant he was entitled to a room of his own, instead of sharing in bunks as the novices and middle brothers did. But then sometimes he felt the need of companionship in the dark hours as he lay awake, listening to the hoot of an owl or the chiming of the monastery bell every hour. Theirs was a life of solitude and meagre living, having little contact with the outside world except for the rare trip into the village or the occasional train ride on market day.
The sixty-five-year-old monk put a hand to the base of his spine, feeling a sharp twinge as he sat up. He’d been lucky with his health over the years but, having cared for the infirmary patients for nearly four decades, Alberon knew the signs of arthritis and decided to mix himself a brew of herbs from the walled garden before preparing himself for morning prayers. Making a mental list of the ingredients he would need, such as aloe vera, rosemary and willow bark, the monk had a quick strip-wash and slipped on his brown woollen cassock before preparing to venture outside.
There was a back porch leading out to the garden area, a place where the monks could put on outer clothing in the cold winter weather, or leave their rubber boots after digging the vegetable plot. Abbot Arnaud had always been very strict about keeping this area meticulously tidy, so it was with a great deal of surprise that Brother Alberon now observed a pair of open-toed sandals sitting under the eaves of the little shelter. He looked more closely and noted that they were larger than average size, but the most interesting point of their being there was that each monk was issued with only one pair of sturdy sandals per year, which meant that somebody inside was walking around barefoot.
Alberon pottered over to the low herb bushes, gathering the fresh ingredients for his infusion, all the time wondering who on earth had left their footwear outside. Such slovenly behaviour was a sure sign that the abbot was currently in hospital, he told himself, for the old man would never tolerate such untidiness.
The ageing monk shuffled his way back indoors, shivering from the easterly wind and chiding himself for not having put on an extra layer. It wouldn’t be long before he was lying in bed with a chill alongside the other patients in the infirmary, Alberon thought crossly. How foolish of him not have taken more care.
By now, it was four-thirty, yet Saint-Augustin’s monastery still sat in eerie silence, every step of Alberon’s squeaking shoes resounding on the polished floor as he made his way to the hospital wing, his slight cough echoing around the high ceilings like a whisper in a cavern. It would be another half hour before the rest of the brotherhood began to stir, just enough time for the monk to prepare and drink his potion before the movement of dozens of male bodies would signify the beginning of another long and arduous day.
Brother Alberon ground up the herbs with his stone pestle and mortar, ensuring that the mixture was both smooth and palatable, before a niggling feeling hinted that he may have absent-mindedly left the porch door open. The monk could well imagine Brother Cédric cursing him for letting in the freezing wind, making the stone-walled building even colder than usual. With a brief hesitation, Alberon abandoned his task and reluctantly returned to the porch. He was relieved to see that the latch was securely fastened, but a gut instinct caused the old man to open the wooden door and take a look outside, for what reason he was unsure.
Peering into the darkness, Brother Alberon could see no further than the small, leafy bushes from where he’d picked his herbs. All was still except for the occasional gust of ice-cold wind that nearly blew him off his feet, so forceful was the breeze. He stood for no longer than a few seconds, eager to get back inside, yet something made the monk look down to the red flagstones beneath him. Now, where there had previously been a pair of worn old leather sandals, a pair of black rubber boots leaned against the inner wall. The bottom of the footwear was caked in mud, as though the wearer had been fishing or paddling in a particularly dirty stretch of water. He reached down and touched the sole, his fingers coming into contact with wet earth. It was clear that whoever had been out in the night had not long returned. Taking one last look around, with a feeling of great confusion, Alberon scratched his tonsured head and went back inside.
In his small square room, Brother Cédric was undressed and on his knees, one hand holding himself upright against the metal bedframe as he brought a leather whip down upon his naked body with the other. He had spent several hours in a state of meditation and prayer, struggling with his conscience after speaking with the abbot and then sharing those intimate secrets with his brethren. What the Father had asked to be kept between the two of them, was now an open book, having been repeated to Brothers Alberon and Bénedict. Cédric felt that he had cheated the Abbot, betrayed him, and now he would punish himself in the way that his senior had done for years. Inexperienced in self-flagellation, yet having witnessed the abbot’s own wounds, Cédric brought the whip down gently at first, increasing the intensity time after time until he was forced to push a corner of the coarse blanket into his mouth for fear of others hearing him cry out.
Brother Bénédict was exhausted. The previous night had been a sleepless one for him, too, his mind filled with the information shared by Brother Cédric, which had caused mixed emotions. He felt too old to be burdened with the old abbot’s confessions and wondered how things would turn out in the end. The added police presence had disturbed Bénédict as well, upsetting the routine and causing inane chatter amongst the excited novices.
Like many of the seniors of his fellow Order, the monk wished that Noel Van Beek had never set foot inside Saint Augustin’s. At least then life would have gone on without interruption, but now, with the continual questioning and turmoil of Inspector Mallery’s probing, he was distraught. It was obvious to Bénédict that neither the inspector nor his English sidekick, Detective Hobbs, were religious men, and therefore they wo
uld fail to understand the impact of their presence upon the Holy Order of Benedictine monks at Saint Augustin’s. The sooner this investigation was over, the better, in his opinion. It niggled Bénédict that there was a foreigner on the Bordeaux team, too. He felt it an intrusion that Jack Hobbs could wander in and expect the Brothers to speak to him in English. With the added burden of Cédric taking himself and Alberon into his confidence, Bénédict didn’t know how much longer he could hold things together.
And so, it had materialised that Abbot Arnaud, in his panic that he may not survive the night, had rasped out his wishes to Brother Cédric. The elderly monk had begged Cédric to search his room, in particular the bottom drawer of his wooden chest, to find a map, something that was very important to him, yet must not be shared with anyone except Noel Van Beek’s grandmother.
The very mention of the Dutchwoman had set Brother Cédric’s mind in a perpetual whirl, trying to figure out why the old abbot might want to give the deceased young man’s family a map that led to who knew where. As he’d listened, Cédric had promised not to divulge the ageing abbot’s wishes to anyone, making a vow that he wouldn’t share. However, Cédric was most perplexed that the old man had shown no sign of recognising Noel Van Beek when he had arrived at the monastery, so why on earth the sudden concern now? And why give an old map to the boy’s relative?
Yet, having returned home to Saint Augustin’s, Cédric had spent two whole hours turning Abbot Arnaud’s room upside down looking for the map, but to no avail. It was his duty to carry out the abbot’s wishes, regardless of whether he believed it to be a futile exercise. Eventually, in a moment of desperation, he had disturbed Brothers Bénédict and Alberon from their ten o’clock prayers, the two men whom he thought would be able to help, but still, even with three of them searching, they found nothing. It was then that Cédric had sat down on Arnaud’s metal cot, head bowed, a forlorn look on his face, and told his fellow Brothers of the abbot’s request. Naturally, there had been questions, yet Brother Cédric had to confess that he held nothing back and was unable to answer their inquisitive probing, causing a slight tension between them. Both men had looked at Cédric with doubt in their eyes, wondering whether he relished the thought of divulging Arnaud’s secret, but finally it had been Bénédict who suggested they forget the futile hunt and take themselves off to bed.
Now, in the cold light of day, Brother Cédric was beside himself. A phone call to the hospital had insisted that, despite Abbot Arnaud’s mild cardiac arrest the previous day, he’d slept soundly, and his strong old heart was pumping its way to recovery. The nurse had suggested they keep visitors to a minimum after the recent scare, then hinted that perhaps it had been the detectives’ presence that had agitated the abbot and brought on the weakness of his heart. Cédric felt it his duty now to keep the prying investigators at bay whilst his beloved Father recovered – or, at the very least, that his passing should be peaceful and uninterrupted by their insistent questioning.
This left Cédric with a dilemma. He could either say nothing and hope that Abbot Arnaud never found out that he’d told two of his fellow Brethren, or he could confess his oversight and risk Arnaud never trusting him again. Brother Cédric hoped that by punishing himself in the early hours, God would forgive him and guide him to make the right decision. Regardless of his fate, the mysterious map still remained hidden from his grasp and the reasoning behind Arnaud wishing to give it to Madame Van Beek was an even bigger puzzle.
Friday prayers were always a slightly more enthusiastic affair than on the other weekdays, as the younger monks knew that several of them would be on rota to take their produce to market, enabling them to talk with locals in Bordeaux and to fill their lungs with fresh air. It was also an opportunity to taste some of the other delicacies on offer, such as creamy cheeses, sweet preserves and all manner of confectioner’s treats. Despite the faithfulness of the novice monks to their religion, they still yearned for a little excitement now and again, whether it be in the form of a visitor, a day out or some one-on-one time with the old abbot. Now, with Inspector Mallery’s team a constant presence at the monastery, not to mention the uniformed officers trekking in and out, inquisitive faces peered about, and low voices whispered. The usually highly polished hallway had become tarnished with the officer’s footprints and all efforts to keep it clean had been abandoned by the housekeeping team.
By now, every single member of the Order at Saint Augustin’s knew of Noel Van Beek’s murder and the monks carried out their daily tasks with a mixture of excitement and caution, fully aware that whoever had poisoned the young traveller may very well still be within the four walls of their sacred home. It troubled the men, too, that Abbot Arnaud was not amongst them to instigate his own inquiry into the matter; the monks fervently believed that anyone who had fallen to the dark side might be saved by their Holy Father’s scholarly and forgiving ways.
After Mass, Brother Alberon waited for the congregation to make their way out of the chapel and then walked briskly to the front altar, intending to catch Brother Cédric before the plump old man made his way to the refectory.
“Frère Cédric, j’ai besoin de te montrer quelque chose.” Brother Cédric, I need to show you something.
“Qu-est-ce que c’est?” Cédric muttered, feeling overtired and currently preoccupied with putting away the heavy blue leather Book of Psalms from which he had been lecturing.
Alberon gestured to the side door of the small vestry and led the slightly older monk silently out into the walled garden. He carried on along the cobblestone path, careful to watch his step on the damp, slippery ground, until they reached the back porch. Turning to check that Cédric was following close behind, he took a deep breath and pointed down to the red flagstone floor.
“Ici,” he announced proudly, but then faltered on seeing an empty space in the porch where the muddy outdoor boots had been only an hour and a half before.
Brother Cédric put his hands on his round hips, looking all around him, bewildered. “Qu’est-ce que je regarde?” What am I looking at?
Brother Alberon pinched the bridge of his nose tightly and blinked. He’d admittedly been over-tired when he’d come out here earlier to pick the herbs, but not so sleepy that he’d imagined seeing the dirty footwear, surely? Hitching his cassock up so as not to tread on the long hem, Alberon squatted down to examine the area more closely. Traces of thick, wet earth clung to the ridges in the stone squares, brown and dark in contrast to the clean area that the two monks now stood in. Brother Cédric stooped to touch the remnants of soil and brought a fingertip of dirt to his nose, shrugging. “Someone has been out gardening early, nothing more.”
“It is strange, though,” Alberon insisted. “There was nobody out here when I came, not a soul.”
Brother Cédric scrabbled to get up, pressing the flat of his hand against the wall to support himself. “Come, Alberon, I’m sure it’s nothing. Let us go to breakfast.”
After a meal of warm oaty porridge and wholemeal toast, throughout which Brother Alberon sat in complete silence, Brother Cédric gestured for both Alberon and Bénédict to join him in the abbot’s office. He had taken the decision that they must speak in private and resolve a few issues that lingered unspoken between them. Cédric walked with a slight stoop, his skin feeling raw from the harsh whipping, and the constant rubbing of the woollen outer-garments against his wounds did nothing to ease the smarting pain. Reaching the room first, he settled himself into Arnaud’s creaky old chair behind the desk and sat with his liver-spotted fingers pressed together in a steeple shape, praying for guidance. Nothing came.
Brother Bénédict held the door open for Alberon to slip inside, both men eager to hear their Brother’s thoughts, a few sidelong glances coming their way from younger monks who gossiped about who would become abbot should Arnaud not survive. It was a question that all three elder monks had on their minds, yet only one was brave enough to broach the subject.
The monks talked earnestly in Fr
ench, their faces serious and thoughtful.
“We need to discuss our responsibilities to the abbot,” Brother Cédric began, taking in air through his nose and causing his nostrils to flare as he let it out again, “should he not survive. One of us will naturally take over the responsibility of presiding over Saint Augustin’s.”
“Naturally, as I am the oldest, the role of abbot would, of course, fall to me,” Brother Bénédict said steadily, eyeing the other two men and waiting for their nods of agreement. “What more do we need to discuss?”
Cédric made a show of folding back the cuffs of his cassock to reveal bare, fleshy wrists. “I’m afraid it’s not that simple, my dear Brother. Abbot Arnaud has already expressed his wishes and is keen for me to take up the position.”
Brother Alberon nodded his approval. “You are closest to Abbot Arnaud, so I think it a natural choice, Cédric. I, for one, am happy with the decision.”
“We should put it to a vote,” Bénédict snorted, slapping his hands on his knees, “let the Order decide. After all, it is I who have held everything together here while you sat at our Father’s bedside, Cédric. I have worked tirelessly to ensure that money has been distributed for goods, rotas upheld, and general housekeeping undertaken. All this without one word of complaint, even though the police have turned our sacred sanctuary on its head.”
Alberon’s eyes lit up and he pointed a finger. “Ah, now, on the subject of housekeeping, there was a pair of sandals outside in the porch this morning, then they disappeared, and in their place I found a pair of muddy boots. Really, we must show more discipline with the younger…”
Brother Bénédict turned his gaze from Cédric to the youngest member of the group. “Really, Alberon! We are being subjected to questioning in a murder inquiry, the abbot lies dying, and you are concerned about dirty footwear?”
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