A Demon Summer

by G. M. Malliet

  Max asked him for directions to Nashbury Feathers.

  “Oh, you’ll be wanting to talk with the grieving widow, is that it? Do you know, Lord Lislelivet was standing just where you are now, not that long ago. Chatting up some local blokes for information about the nunnery. They worked there, you see.”

  Max hazarded a guess. “Repairwork?”

  “Precisely. Plumbing and masonry and such like. They were grousing because they and their pals had been promised a big job working on the new guesthouse for the sisters, you see. And then all that had ground to a halt. No money, the nuns said. No one really believed them. Monkbury Abbey’s always had money; since the dawn of time they’ve had money.”

  “I see. And Lord Lislelivet wanted to know more about this?” Max was having a difficult time picturing Lord Lislelivet rolling up his sleeves and tossing back a few brews with “the lads.” But then he realized, that was precisely the nature of a born politician. And that is exactly how Lord Lislelivet would have gone about collecting information.

  Lord Lislelivet’s claim of being driven to visit the nuns in a burst of religious conversion was looking even less likely than before.

  The publican hesitated, looked thoughtful, and finally said, “It wasn’t a casual conversation they were having. It was more intense, you know?”

  “Like Lord Lislelivet was demanding answers to specific questions? Sort of grilling them, do you think?”

  Rufus turned and replaced the glass he had been polishing on the shelf behind him. Max thought he knew the problem: it was bad business to badmouth the local lord and the local nunnery, when so much of the health of the village depended on both. But throwing caution to the wind, Rufus allowed, “He was. He wanted to know the layout of the place. He was asking about diagrams and plans and suchlike. And he said something like, ‘I’ve looked high and low, I tell you. There’s nothing there.’ Then they saw that I could plainly hear the conversation and took themselves elsewhere.”

  Max ordered a pint from Grant, then took himself off to a corner where he couldn’t be overheard and where he wouldn’t be a nuisance to other patrons as he chatted on the mobile. As he went, he noticed several people sitting in that prayerful posture, heads bent, that meant they were reading the screens of their mobiles. As he powered up, he saw with gratitude that he had automatically joined the Running Knight and Pilgrim network and that he had a steady three bars to work with.

  Awena answered on the second ring. They exchanged rapturous greetings, interrupting each other with questions about the other’s health and well-being and generally reveling in the sound of one another’s voices, nearly heedless of what was actually said. Max felt it as a balm to the soul to hear the lilting notes of her speech.

  “I’ve been following the news from here,” said Awena. “You may not be surprised to learn the BBC has shown an avid interest. As have all the other news outlets.”

  Max groaned. If it was news in Nether Monkslip it was news everywhere. He had passed a broadcast van with its large satellite dish on top on the way out to the village. Too much to hope it hadn’t been heading for Monkbury Abbey. At least the abbess could confine them to peering up from the bottom of the mountain to the abbey walls. It was private property, and she would be within her rights to bar them from the place. An enterprising reporter would set up shop here at the Running Knight and Pilgrim and see what news could be uncovered or invented in the face of the nuns’ silence.

  “I think the situation can be contained, media-wise. But it would help very much to wrap this up quickly—help it to go away. What we don’t want is a lingering mystery. Speaking of which: you are not going to believe this, but I want you to look up something for me in Frank’s book.”

  “Wherefore Nether Monkslip?” she asked, her voice betraying her astonishment. “Is there something in particular you’re looking for? Please don’t make me read the whole thing again.”

  “I would not be so cruel.”

  “All the Holy Grail and King Arthur legend—he makes it sound so crackpot,” said Awena. “I don’t think it is, at all. There is always some truth in a legend that just won’t die.”

  “Doesn’t he speculate that the grail was made of gold and fantastically valuable? Set with rubies and emeralds?”

  “He said the value was in the eye of the beholder. That I do remember.”

  “That may be so, but I think this current gold rush to the abbey is down to him.”

  “But he also says—I think—that it could be a holy relic. That it became an object of veneration that drew people by the hundreds.”

  “Right,” said Max. “That is how many monasteries became wealthy.”

  “But he also says whatever it was disappeared. And then along came the Reformation, and that was the end of the pilgrimages to Monkbury Abbey.”

  “You seem to remember quite a lot of it.”

  “Frank brought the book in its various stages of creation to the Writers’ Square meetings at The Onlie Begetter bookshop. I was forced to listen to it. Over and over and over. I came to believe it is possible to die of boredom.”

  Max asked a few further questions about Frank Cuthbert’s book, which had inspired the more rampant speculation about Monkbury Abbey, ending with, “I was thinking I should get hold of another copy of the thing from him. Actually read it this time.”

  “Oh!” she said. “Frank is on rather a grand book tour in the U.S. He’s been sent there by his publisher.”

  Max sighed. “Of course; I’d forgotten. Our famous author is difficult to reach these days.”

  “Yes. Lucie says he was awfully excited. Where exactly is Des Moines?”

  “It’s in Iowa.”

  “Lucie says Frank has been Skype-ing into book clubs and libraries.”

  “Is that anything like parachuting?”

  “He would if he could figure out a way, I’m sure. I hear he’s working on a sequel now.”

  Max couldn’t stop the sharp intake of breath. No. No! What more was there to be said on the subject?

  “Are you all right?” she asked him.

  “At least,” he said slowly, “it solves the problem of what to buy people for Christmas next year.”

  “I thought you liked your relatives.”

  “I do, I do. Actually, my mother claims to love Frank’s stuff. Her book club read him.” Max thought a moment. “I guess I could call him, but I’m not sure what precisely I want to ask him. I don’t suppose you could put his book in the mail to me, could you? Use one of the express services?”

  “Of course I will … if you think it will help.” Awena sounded doubtful. Max didn’t blame her.

  “Monkbury Abbey and Temple Monkslip are mentioned in his book, am I right?”

  “From what I can recall,” she said. “Along with Glastonbury, of course. Not in any coherent way, though.”

  “Yes, Frank’s style is his very own. His last performance at the St. Edworld’s Night of Prayer and Poetry will not soon be forgotten.”

  “Nor forgiven by Miss Pitchford.”

  “Please. Yes. Don’t remind me.” Max felt Frank’s “Ode on the Birth of a Hedgehog,” complete with video footage, might stay with him forever.

  “So, tell me,” said Awena. “How is convent life?”

  “Like being surrounded at all times by wise and highly competent women. Not all that different from living in Nether Monkslip, actually.”

  She laughed. “That makes me think of the old joke about the Three Wise Women following the star to Bethlehem. They didn’t get lost on the way, because they stopped at an oasis to ask for directions. They brought appropriate gifts, like casseroles. They cleaned the stable and fed the animals. And they also brought peace on earth.”

  “That sounds exactly right,” said Max, adding: “It’s the eeriest place, is Monkbury.”

  “A thin place,” said Awena. “Yes, after all these years, it would be.”

  “‘Thin place’?”

  “Mmm. There are places wh
ere the physical world and the spiritual world collide or intersect rather than running alongside each other as they normally do. It’s the thin place where we can hear the voice of the Creator. Usually it is somewhere deep within a forest or near a body of water. Someplace where we stop the incessant yammering in our heads and just listen and wait for the Goddess to speak to us.”

  “‘That’s how the light gets in,’” mused Max.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. A poem by Leonard Cohen. Lyrics.”

  “How pretty. And yes, that’s exactly it. The light gets in through the thin places,” she said in her earnest way.

  Awena. How he missed her! Awena with her eyes as clear as the waters of the Sargasso Sea. He asked a few more questions about her health and the baby’s and was told the doctor was delighted with her progress. Max scrounged a few more excuses to keep her on the phone, until finally she said in her gentle way, “I have to go and help Tara with a delivery of herbs.”

  “What’s for dinner?” Max asked idly. While the food at the abbey was splendid, it wasn’t a patch on Awena’s cooking.

  “I’m making pesto from fresh basil. Then I thought I’d stop into Lucie Cuthbert’s shop for some freshly grated parmesan and pine nuts. Will you be coming home soon? Please?”

  Would he be home soon? What an excellent question it was. He had no idea. The investigation, such as it was, was just getting started. And he had appointments and projects of his own piling up back in Nether Monkslip.

  “I will,” he told her. “I promise. Save some pesto sauce for me.”

  Awena said, “You mustn’t worry. It’s bad for your blood pressure. Have some oregano tea. Or tea made from wild rosemary. Do they have herbal teas at the nunnery?”

  Max laughed. “If there is a place on earth outside of your shop that’s bound to have herbal teas, it’s Monkbury Abbey. You would love talking with the herbalist here. Dame Petronilla. Dame Pet, they call her.” Max briefly repeated the contents of his conversation with Dame Pet, the conversation concerning berries—the toxic and the merely irritating ones. Awena, naturally, knew all about the different properties of varying plants and their uses, so Max asked a few specific questions and they chatted awhile longer. Mostly, Max wanted to confirm the time frame of growth for the berry-producing plants that had been found in the fruitcake, which time frame he had heard from Dame Pet, and Awena was able to confirm what had been said. The fall was almost certainly the time when the fruitcake had been tampered with and given to Lord Lislelivet.

  The yew tree, Awena told him, had great symbolic value to the pagans. “Because of its longevity, really. The Christians simply adopted it, as they did so many things, to get the populace to go along with the new religion. Oh, and if you’re looking at poisons, monkshood would be a very fitting one, given where you are. They call it the Queen of Poisons. If you saw it—it’s obvious how it got its name.”

  Suddenly Max felt that in coming to Monkbury Abbey he had stumbled into a veritable cauldron of poisons. A few more cheerful tips on what to watch out for (“Deadly nightshade you can easily recognize by its bell-shaped purple flowers. Also called atropine—doctors use it to dilate the eyes before surgery. It’s in bloom right about now. Fifteen berries can kill you.”) and then Awena said, “Max, I have to run. Once I’ve helped Tara I’m expected over at the church. My turn on the flower rota, you know.”

  Awena, it seemed, was always on the church flower rota because the other women claimed the flowers lasted longer when she was involved. Max, like nearly everyone else, somehow had come to accept these quasi-paranormal attributes of Awena’s as quite normal and only to be expected.

  “And then tomorrow there’s the Ra Ma Da Sa healing meditation followed by a birthing class in Monkslip-super-Mare. Don’t worry,” she rushed on, forestalling his apologies, “this particular class is not something you’d need to attend, anyway. Plenty of chances for that when you get home.”

  Max had approached each birthing class session so far with a near-debilitating dread and apprehension while the sessions only seemed to increase Awena’s otherworldly calm. The “natal facilitator,” as she liked to be called, was a sweet, grandmotherly woman given to wearing lavender twinsets and fond of using “pain management” slideshows of a stultifying dullness, alternating these with videos of a graphic carnage that held Max, used as he was to scenes of massacre and bloodbath, spellbound in hushed, bug-eyed alarm. How in God’s name was anyone brought into the world healthy and alive and whole, given what it took to get here? The fathers-only birthing class he had attended most recently had ended in a wild, boisterous, hours-long session in a nearby pub, which to all the fathers-to-be seemed the only rational response to their looming individual crises.

  “But please, do hurry home,” Awena said. “And again, don’t worry. You always get to the bottom of these mysteries. You haven’t failed yet.”

  There is always, thought Max, a first time.

  “And do take care,” she added. “Remember Robin Hood.”

  “Why should I?”

  “He was bled to death by a wicked prioress.”

  Max laughed. “I love you,” he said. He got her promise that she would drive safely to Monkslip-super-Mare and would look both ways crossing the street, having got plenty of sleep, and so on.

  And finally, having run out of excuses, he rang off.

  And called his bishop.

  * * *

  “You said it was a formal visitation,” he was telling his mobile a few minutes later. The bishop’s secretary, rather ominously, had put Max’s call right through, rather than let him cool his heels or wait for the bishop’s callback. “So it was part of a routine visit, planned well in advance?” Max asked his superior.

  “Well, it was not a surprise visit,” said the Bishop of Monkslip. “They were given a heads-up by my secretary, but it was not, say, a thrice yearly, scheduled thing. I prefer a little spontaneity so I get a sense for what is really going on. Especially…”

  “Especially?” prompted Max, as the pause went on a beat too long.

  The bishop sighed. “Especially in the case of the Handmaids of St. Lucy of Monkbury Abbey. It’s not as if I was trying to catch them red-handed at anything dishonest—nothing like that. It was just … well. As I mentioned earlier, they tend to drift toward the conservative side of things. Even, one could say, the ultra-conservative. Or there were factions wanting to lean that way. I felt it was a situation worth keeping an eye on. I would hope I’ve created an atmosphere where it is possible to come to me with any topic, however unpleasant, and I would help them get it sorted. But they were used to running their own affairs, you see. Perhaps I should have been firmer with them. Interfered more.”

  He sounded exactly like a worried parent watching his teenaged daughter rebel over her curfew.

  “I am not sure,” said Max, “how much there is to worry about. As you say, they have their own minds and very strong wills, and may just have found asking for your guidance … difficult.”

  “They take vows of obedience, Max,” the bishop reminded him.

  Max, schooled in keeping secrets as he was, wondered if the nuns didn’t have a few secrets of their own. The routine, the order—might they not chafe after awhile? That lack of variety, with every day divided into hours assigned to the sacred offices. That lack of possibility of variety, to the grave. And then, on top of it all, constantly being supervised and corrected.

  In chapter, the abbess would hold her staff of authority, and the cellaress would wear her ornamental keys, and the nuns would inform on one another for the most minor of transgressions: taking the last slice of bread without asking, not stopping work at the very second the bells rang for prayer.

  Everyone had to answer to someone at the end of the day. But this was extreme. Might it drive a person to keep a few secrets, to keep something back, to rebel?

  Might it perhaps drive someone, unstable to begin with, off the deep end into murder?

  “Was th
ere any problem in the past that could account for the current situation, do you think?” Max asked.

  “In what way do you mean?”

  “I’m not certain, really. How, for example, did the abbess come to be the abbess? Was she a popular choice?”

  “Her predecessor died. Abbess Iris.”

  “Yes. And she had suggested Abbess Justina as her successor?”

  “No, now that you mention it. The cellaress is usually next in line. Rather an unspoken thing, you know: a custom. They all vote for whomever they want, but it is generally the current cellaress who is elected. Rather like in the U.S., where it is expected their vice-president will always run for president once the president has finished two four-year terms. It’s because the cellaress knows so much about how the place operates. The only other rival for the position would be the sacrist, for similar reasons, but that was truer in the days when being in charge of altar valuables and sacred relicts and keeping jostling pilgrims in line was a much bigger job.”

  “So why didn’t they choose Dame Meredith? She would have been cellaress at the time, right?”

  “I’m not certain. I think she may have been felt to be too conservative. Dame Sibil was mentioned also, but there was a faction that felt she was too progressive, too modern. Abbess Justina was chosen as the safer, middle road. I must say I was relieved by their choice. Dame Sibil might have been a disruptive influence, pushing too hard for profits, you know, at the expense of the spiritual side.”

  “But now she is cellaress.”

  “And held in check to a large extent by Abbess Justina.”

  Max wondered fleetingly whether, if anything happened to the abbess, Dame Sibil might finally get free run of the place. Could the poisoning have been about that—about discrediting the abbess and pushing her from her throne of office?

  “The politics are rather surprising,” he said. But then, whenever two or more are gathered, there are bound to be two opinions on some things, aren’t there? And quiet, behind-the-scenes jostling for position.