Noel

by A J Griffiths-Jones

  “Any more Eccles cakes?” Luc asked, turning to look at Jack Hobbs.

  “Sorry mate,” came the response. “This time, you’ll have to make do with a flask of Yorkshire tea!”

  Annalise Van Beek stood outside the grey stone church wondering whether she should go inside. Morning service had finished, but the arched door stood open like a subtle invitation. She took a few steps forward, clutching her handbag to her chest, and gathered herself sufficiently to make the journey forward.

  Benoît, forgive me for spilling your secrets, the elegant woman thought silently, her court shoes clicking on the flagstones underfoot as she entered, but it’s time we were honest, with ourselves and to each other.

  Finding a pew halfway down the deserted aisle, the Dutchwoman slid in and knelt in prayer, the first time she had done so for decades, the words of the Lord’s Prayer falling effortlessly from her lips as though she’d last recited them only yesterday. A flicker in the corner of the church indicated that Annalise was not alone, but the priest let his lone congregation member be, attributing her visit to a lateness in arriving for morning service, or a desire to be uninterrupted by the hoard of worshippers that had been seated here less than an hour ago. He was curious, as all caring religious men are, but the woman’s stooped position and intense focus forced him to turn away, allowing the moment of grief to remain private, for he hadn’t missed the woman’s falling tears.

  Arriving at the hospital a little after noon, Max tapped at the door of the side room before entering. The abbot was sitting up in bed with a lukewarm cup of tea in his hands, taking a tentative sip as he lifted his eyes to the visitor.

  “Bonjour, Abbot Arnaud.” Mallery smiled. “I think we need to talk.”

  “Benoît,” the old man croaked. “Je m’appelle Benoît.”

  Silently, Max lifted a plastic chair from the side wall and pulled it close to the abbot’s bedside, feeling as though he might be there for the long haul.

  Arnaud pushed the cup onto a side table with shaking hands, his face filled with fear and expectation as he prepared to share half a century of turmoil.

  “Monsieur?” the inspector prompted, noticing the abbot’s faraway gaze.

  “Oui, oui,” came the reply, but, as Max sat in anticipation of the whole story, Abbot Arnaud gasped for breath and said only one word: “Bianca.”

  Within twenty minutes, and having smoked several cigarettes on the way, Mallery was back at the police station.

  “What’s up, sir?” Jack asked, noting his boss’s pale complexion.

  “Abbot Arnaud, he’s taken a turn for the worse. Where’s everyone else?”

  “Luc’s gone off to locate the powers-that-be so we can get a search warrant. Thierry and Gabriella are in Saint Margaux, keeping an eye on the comings and goings at Saint Augustin’s.”

  Max nodded in approval and flung himself into the nearest swivel chair.

  “Arnaud gave me a name,” he confided, “but I haven’t a clue what it means.”

  Hobbs lifted an eyebrow and waited.

  “He said ‘Bianca’.”

  “Bianca… Hmm, not a very common name. Do you think that’s the name of the person buried in the grave?”

  “It could be, but how do we find out, and why would this person be buried in an unmarked grave if it contains gold?” Max sighed.

  “Any French queens named Bianca?”

  The inspector rubbed his hands over his face, shaking his head. “Not that I’m aware of, but to be honest, Jacques, history wasn’t exactly my favourite subject.”

  “Leave it with me.” Hobbs grinned happily. “I love digging into stuff like this. If there’s owt to find, I’ll find it.”

  “Anything I can do to help?” Max asked, for once in his life feeling inexplicably useless as the rest of the team carried out their respective tasks.

  “You could search pauper graves in the local parish records, sir, see if the name Bianca pops up anywhere.”

  Mallery shrugged off his jacket and logged in to the communal computer.

  “And I,” Jack continued, rubbing his hands together, “am going to take my very first foray into French history.”

  Thierry and Gabriella were parked on the grassy verge just outside Saint Margaux in the female detective’s Mini. The afternoon had brightened considerably, leaving the two colleagues feeling hopeful that something might transpire at the monastery. They took it in turns to train the field binoculars on Saint Augustin’s doors, the windows being far too high and inaccessible for anyone to climb through. They could just see the rear end of the monk’s old van parked at the side of the great building but nothing of significance stirred.

  As they were driving through the village, the pair had observed the local congregation spilling out from the church after service, Father Claude standing jubilantly at the doors shaking hands with his flock as they departed.

  “I see Telo Fabron has changed a bit,” Thierry noted as they passed. “He’s looking far more grown-up these days, quite unlike the sullen youngster that we were dealing with a few months ago.”

  “This village is getting its fair share of murders,” Gabriella quipped, keeping her eyes on the road. “Two in one year, that’s a lot of bad luck. Such a pleasant community, too, so friendly.”

  Thierry’s stomach gave an involuntary rumble.

  Gabriella laughed. “The boulangerie is closed today,” she said as she parked up at the side of the country lane, leaving just enough room for other vehicles to get by. “There’s a chocolate bar in the side pocket if you’re that hungry.”

  Brother Cécil replaced the telephone handset and put a hand over his mouth. He waited, letting the emotions pass before getting up and seeking one of the other senior monks. Brother Bénédict was nowhere to be found, so he raced to the infirmary in search of Alberon.

  “Frère Alberon,” he cried, “Aidez-moi!”

  It took only a few seconds for Cédric to repeat the conversation that he’d just had with the hospital. Abbot Arnaud’s health had suddenly deteriorated and it was suggested that someone go to his bedside as doctors feared the worst. Brother Alberon listened silently, immediately understanding that there was another dilemma that needed to be considered. With Cécil having put Brother Ernest in solitary confinement after his midnight activities, they lacked a driver.

  Thierry watched closely as two very plump monks raced towards the battered old minivan. Both were dressed in brown woollen cassocks and had a faint line of hair around the base of their crowns. He nudged Gabriella, who was watching the road at the rear of them.

  “Psst, ici.”

  One of the men climbed precariously up into the driver’s seat, taking a few minutes to familiarise himself with the interior of the van. He appeared to be looking intently at the foot pedals and it was several more moments before the engine sprang to life. Thierry urged Gabriella to reverse a short way up the road to avoid being seen as the men approached the end of the monastery driveway.

  The van lurched forward, stalled and came to a shuddering halt. Brother Alberon was undeterred and turned the ignition again, firing up the old banger once more, his confidence waning somewhat.

  “Qu’est-ce que c’est?” Brother Cédric implored, flapping his pudgy hands at the steering wheel.

  Alberon ignored his tetchy passenger and focussed on the steps that he’d been taught as a learner driver over four decades before. Handbrake, gears, clutch, accelerator, he told himself, feeling certain that he was applying pressure to each in completely the wrong order. Eventually though, with pure determination, the van was once more set in motion, and the two monks sallied forth.

  Mallery’s team watched in awe as the ageing van trundled down to the bottom of the steep drive and swung erratically to the left towards Salbec.

  “They must be avoiding the highway,” Gabriella observed, her eyes following the white roof of the monk’s transport. “Call the boss, see if he wants us to stop them.”

  Thierry explained quick
ly to Max and then turned to face the blonde.

  “He’s going to have a patrol car pick them up in Salbec. There’s no way that monk’s got a driving licence. I’d be surprised if they don’t crash before they get to the next village. We should stay here.”

  “Merde,” the female detective cursed, watching the racing duo get away. “We get all the best jobs, Thierry.”

  Annalise Van Beek sat at the dressing-table in her hotel suite attempting to patch up the smudged mascara and streaky rouge that had become so blotchy during her confession in church. Somehow, it had been easy telling Inspector Mallery about her past. She wondered whether it was because the team had already researched her background and the circumstances surrounding her pregnancy hadn’t come as a shock to him. Although, Annalise told herself, Max reminded her very much of her own son with his rugged good looks and passive manner. She wondered what would happen now. Surely the detectives would want to locate and dig up the grave? But they seemed to be losing focus, insisting upon finding clues to the map rather than bringing Noel’s killer to justice.

  It was a tragedy that Benoît would never get to meet his grandson, she thought. If only her son had sought out his father years ago, all of these events would have been prevented. There would have been no need for Noel to come to France. He shouldn’t have been anywhere near the monastery.

  Annalise closed her eyes and dug deeply into the recesses of her mind. Was there in fact some clue that she unwittingly was aware of? Had Benoît told her something during their time in the Gambia, a factor that might be relevant now? All she could recall was the Holy Bible, a pressed yellow rose which he knew was her favourite flower, and the paper pocket containing a segment of the map.

  Rising from the stool and gathering her wits, Annalise knew that she must return to the abbot’s bedside. No matter who was there or what they discovered, her place was with him. Perhaps together, she and Benoît could figure out who had murdered Noel, as it was obvious to all that the culprit resided within Saint Augustin’s. What was that single thread that Inspector Mallery and his team couldn’t quite unravel? Which part of the mystery was too complex for their modern-day forensics and analytical technology?

  Changing into a pair of soft navy jersey trousers and a pale pink cashmere sweater, the Dutchwoman checked her complexion once more in the vanity mirror before heading out to sit at the ailing abbot’s bedside, feeling confident that together, they could bring down Noel’s poisoner. Annalise felt a surge of energy pulse through her body as she waited for the lift to arrive, completely unaware that her beloved Benoît was just about to take his very last breath.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN – THE HIDDEN GRAVE

  When a marked patrol car pulled up in front of the Bordeaux police headquarters, Inspector Mallery was leaning casually against the wall smoking one of his usual brand of cigarettes. The tall policeman dipped his head to see through the tinted window of the vehicle and immediately came face to face with a very irate Brother Cédric. The monk’s neck was flushed pink, his saggy jowls jiggling as he protested to the arresting officers. Next to him on the back seat was Brother Alberon, a fidgeting figure whose hands picked nervously at the brown woollen tunic.

  “Bonjour, Messieurs.” Max waved, a slow animated movement that made the gesture look theatrical.

  After a quick word with the policemen, the inspector raced up the front steps to fetch his English colleague. He couldn’t let Hobbs miss out on the fun, after all.

  “Officer De Maze is downstairs with the Brothers, he’s charged Alberon with driving recklessly and without a valid licence. Let’s go and see where that pair were heading in such a hurry, Jacques,” Max explained, popping a mint in his mouth to mask the tobacco that tainted his breath.

  “Do you reckon they’re connected to the grave-robbing?” Jack asked, locking his computer and pushing the chair under his desk.

  “I’ll bet you a spa weekend for two that they are,” his boss returned. “Let’s see which one we can crack first, oui?”

  Downstairs, the two monks sat in separate interview rooms. Max had a gut feeling that Brother Cédric was going to be the most difficult to get information out of, so he opted to speak to Alberon first, thinking that if the slightly younger monk had anything to share, they could use it to levy the truth out of the more senior friar.

  “Frère Alberon,” Mallery called out as he opened the door wide, “un café?”

  The short man coughed and shook his head, lips compressed as he rolled excuses around in his head like croquet balls.

  Naturally, Max conducted the interview in French, while Jack Hobbs sat next to him, giving the monk an intense look that was designed to intimidate.

  Finally, after thirty minutes of conversation, Mallery stood up and beckoned for Jack to join him in the corridor outside.

  “Well, I don’t know how much of that you could understand,” he explained, “but it seems they received a telephone call from the hospital to say that Abbot Arnaud was much worse. With Brother Ernest under house arrest, it seems Alberon was the only Brother with driving experience, even though it was a good forty years ago! He says they were simply in a hurry to get to the abbot.”

  “Do you believe him? I think I heard you mention the church. Does he know anything about the graves, or the map?”

  “No, nothing. Although, he does admit to finding a pair of dirty boots outside some days ago, in the early hours.”

  “Brother Francis?”

  “Alberon says that there were sandals left out earlier, then the boots after the person returned. Both were far too big to have belonged to Brother Francis, who is quite short and has relatively small feet.”

  “What now then?” Jack asked, with raised eyebrows. “Ready to interview Cédric?”

  Mallery looked at his watch and nodded. “Give me two minutes, I’m just going to ring the hospital, to check on Abbot Arnaud.”

  As soon as Mallery and Hobbs entered the second interview room, Brother Cédric knew that there was bad news. He could read the inspector’s face quite easily and a quiver began to creep across the old man’s lips.

  Max offered his condolences, while Hobbs fetched a cup of hot, sweet tea for the shock and laid a comforting hand on the monk’s shoulder.

  “I’m very sorry,” Jack said quietly on his return, placing the mug close to Brother Cédric’s elbow, together with a box of tissues. “It must be hard for you.”

  Cédric rubbed his teary eyes and snatched up a Kleenex. “He was my best friend, Our Holy Father. I should have been with him at the end.”

  “Perhaps you would like some time to yourself,” Mallery suggested, “before we talk about the investigation and today’s unfortunate incident.”

  The monk sighed deeply. “The sooner we get this over with, the better. I need to get to the hospital to prepare Arnaud’s body and say prayers.”

  Max nodded. “Thank you.” He pulled out both of the chairs on the opposite side of the table, promising, “We’ll be as quick as possible.”

  “What do you need to know?” Cédric asked tightly. “Brother Alberon drove today at my instruction. We were desperate to get to the abbot’s bedside. If anyone is to blame, it’s me.”

  “I think we realise that now,” Hobbs offered, glancing at his boss, “but you must know something about the grave-digging, and the fact that Abbot Arnaud had given a section of an old map to Annalise Van Beek.”

  “I knew nothing about her until she arrived here last week,” Brother Cédric confessed, bunching up the tissue in his chunky fist. “Then Arnaud confessed to me that’s why he’d been… punishing himself all these years.”

  “Punishing himself?” Mallery repeated. “How?”

  “The abbot used to whip himself regularly. The doctor saw the wounds when Arnaud was admitted to Saint André’s. I suppose that Annalise, and his child, were the abbot’s guilty secret. It goes against every vow, you see.”

  Both detectives nodded before Max pressed on. “The map? Do you know whe
re it is?”

  “I found half of it in Noel Van Beek’s Bible. I wasn’t prying, just looking for some kind of identity, but it looked important, so I kept it to show the abbot. Sadly, he had a heart attack before I had a chance to show it to him. Of course, at that time, I had no idea that the traveller was Arnaud’s grandson.”

  “Where is it now?”

  Cédric rubbed his chin and looked up with watery eyes. “That’s just the thing. I put it underneath my mattress but now it’s gone. Somebody must have taken it.”

  The inspector sighed audibly. “Do you know where the other half is?”

  “No,” Brother Cédric admitted. “We searched Arnaud’s room but couldn’t find it, although Arnaud had insisted it was there.”

  “We?” the detectives both said at once, causing an echo effect in the small room.

  “Brother Alberon and Brother Bénédict. They are the most senior monks beside myself and I trust them both completely. We searched together.”

  “Do you have any idea what the map leads to, Brother Cédric?” Jack rallied.

  “No, I’m sorry, Detective Hobbs, I have no idea, that’s the absolute truth.”

  Jack Hobbs had been back at his desk for nearly quarter of an hour before Max returned to the incident room.

  “Have you let them go?” he enquired, keeping his head bent at the keyboard. “I’ve found a few things while you were downstairs releasing criminals.”

  “What do you think?” Mallery huffed. “They were driving in exceptional circumstances, desperate to get to the hospital. Nobody was hurt.”

  “It’s bad news about the abbot. He might have been able to shed some light on the map and he seemed like a really friendly bloke.”

  “A friendly bloke… that’s how you would describe him? Huh! So how would you describe me then, Jacques?”