“Oh no, Mr. Pendragon.” Father Nolan Demetris quickly spoke up. “It was not me. I wasn’t here on Tuesday. I live in Chichester and serve under Bishop Fencourt at the cathedral there. I only arrived myself this morning once we had gotten word that you and Mr. Pruitt were coming. The bishop sent me to ensure that the two of you get acclimated and access to everything you require.” He hesitated before clearing his throat. “Most of the brothers here are not used to dealing with people from outside, you understand.”
Colin turned to the dark-haired priest with a scowl. “Then who was it who purged this cell, and whyever was it done?”
“It had to have been one of the senior monks. Probably either Brother Clayworth, Brother Morrison, or Brother Silsbury.” Father Demetris scrunched up his doughy face with evident embarrassment. He looked to be a man in his later middle years who was cursed with soft, rounded features. His frame appeared to be lithe from what I could detect of the way his black cassock hung from his curved shoulders, and he moved with a hesitancy that made me suspect he had lived the bulk of his life in deference to others. This was clearly not the type of man who aspired to anything more than he had long ago achieved. “As to why it was done . . . ?” He tilted his head sideways like a pup listening for the sound of its master’s voice. “I’m afraid you will need to ask those senior-most monks at supper. I can only surmise that such a scene left unattended was too much for their sensibilities. The only reason you will have the opportunity to view the abbot’s remains tomorrow is because Bishop Fencourt forbade the brothers from laying the poor man to rest. He knew an examination of the body . . .” Father Demetris left the rest of his statement unsaid, making it clear how uncomfortable he felt at the thought of Colin and me examining the remains.
“An examination of the corpse is crucial if there is no autopsy performed,” Colin bothered to explain, though neither of us relished the thought of having to do such a thing.
“An autopsy . . . ?” The priest paled with a stern shake of his head. “Oh no, an autopsy would never be allowed.”
“So I was informed,” Colin muttered flatly as he turned back and gazed into the cell.
The diminutive space was lit solely by two oil sconces hanging one on each side wall and a single oil lamp on a small, square table shoved into the far corner of the room. The room stretched back no more than twelve feet at the very most and looked only half again as wide. Other than the little table and the homemade-looking wooden chair pushed up beneath it, there was only a single-sized bed—really nothing more than a wood-sided cot—a tall, round stand across from it upon which sat a white porcelain bowl, though its matching pitcher was conspicuously absent, and a square cutout bit of plain rug made of some sort of reed or fiber at the bedside. There were no windows, no adornments of any kind, and nothing to suggest any but the most rudimentary levels of comfort.
“This is where Abbot Tufton slept for the last ten years of his life,” Father Demetris said with obvious pride.
The very thought of it astounded me. There were years I lived in meager surroundings myself, but they had been transitory at best and nothing that matched the severity of what I was now looking at. Still, to Colin’s point, other than the curious absence of the pitcher atop the stand, it was impossible to tell that anything untoward had ever taken place here.
“The asceticism of these monks is startling,” Colin muttered as he slowly entered the space.
“These men are Benedictine monks,” Father Demetris explained. “Their devotion to God is absolute.”
“So it would appear,” Colin said as he gently ran a hand across the tabletop, his eyes continuously roving throughout the room.
“Once a novitiate accepts the Benedictine vows, he enters his community and, for the greater part, leaves the outside world behind. It is a profound and admirable dedication.”
Colin knelt down and began studying the plank flooring in an ever-expanding arc, curling the small prayer rug back as he did so. “It is certainly bleak,” he mumbled.
Father Demetris looked momentarily taken aback before finally letting a thin smile touch his lips. “This way of life is not for everyone. Even a man of faith can have his doubts now and then.” He released a small sigh. “I suppose that’s a part of the human condition.”
“A condition, is it?” Colin said as he stood up and glanced around one last time, his eyes raking across every inch of the space as though determined to find the one speck that had been overlooked upon which the entirety of this case might turn.
“More of a curse, I sometimes think,” Father Demetris responded solemnly.
His grim answer surprised me, but I kept quiet as I watched Colin snuff out the three lights before backing out of the cell, his gaze remaining intensely focused inside despite the immediate and utter blackness. The priest pulled the door shut, oblivious to Colin’s vacant stare, yanking out his key and swiftly re-bolting it.
“You say this door has been locked since the morning of the murder?” Colin asked again, his brow well furrowed and his deep blue eyes marred with obvious displeasure.
“Yes,” the priest answered, turning and leading us back through the stark, narrow hallway with its low ceiling pressing down upon my head. “As soon as the bishop received word of what had happened he ordered the room locked and the abbot’s body preserved.” He flicked his gaze sideways at Colin. “I believe his second wire was to your father.”
“I only wish he had ordered the cell left untouched,” Colin grumbled. “An investigation is infinitely more difficult when all signs of it have been so thoroughly wiped away.”
“I am sorry for that.” Father Demetris cringed ever so slightly. “You can imagine we have no protocol for such a thing. Even a locked door is entirely out of character for a monastery.” He tipped a small shrug. “It feels enough that these men have not been allowed to bury their abbot. . . .”
“It is not enough when it comes to the solving of their abbot’s murder,” Colin fired back impolitely. I tossed him a scowl and he clamped his mouth shut even as he returned my harsh gaze.
We remained silent as we followed the priest back toward the front of the monastery. Each hallway we traversed was punctuated by only the minimum amount of light from smoke-stained glass sconces interspersed too infrequently along the way. Their thick, oily scent permeated the claustrophobic passageways and stifled the air, putting me in mind of the opium clubs I had spent too much of my youth inside. I wondered why they had yet to convert the monastery to gas. It was eminently safer than these oil lamps that continuously needed their wicks trimmed and oil pots refilled, and all I could surmise was that perhaps it had to do with their austere way of life.
We passed a small door off a side entry and, though it was closed, I could hear the low, sonorous cadence of male voices chanting some indecipherable litany from behind it. It was clear we had come abreast of the chapel. I found the tone mystical, almost otherworldly, and yet it also seemed to contain an edge of something darker, something vaguely foreboding.
“Here we are, then,” Father Demetris announced in his quiet manner as we rounded the end of the hallway, turning into a slightly wider passage where the brooding ceiling thankfully lifted several feet above my head. “We shall talk here in Abbot Tufton’s office until called for supper.”
He swung the door wide onto the first vaguely pleasant-looking space I had seen since our arrival almost an hour before. The room was a suitable size, big enough to hold a large desk of dark, almost black wood ornately carved in a bacchanalian fashion with cherubic faces, a tendril of vines, and small bunches of grapes. A huge, overstuffed chair sat behind it covered in a deep burgundy fabric with a nap that appeared to be velvet. Facing the desk were two plain, straight-backed chairs that I was certain would be as uncomfortable as the abbot’s looked inviting, and behind those sat a plaster-fronted fireplace painted dove gray that held the faces of eleven men in relief, five on one side, six on the other, that I decided must be meant to represent the apo
stles, sans Judas. The best feature of the office, however, were the two narrow leaded-glass cathedral windows that rose up along the opposite wall from where we stood, letting in a veritable ocean of colorful, prismatic light.
Father Demetris gestured us to the harsh-looking chairs as he settled himself behind the desk. “It doesn’t seem right to be sitting here,” Father Demetris said, and indeed, he did look ill at ease. “Abbot Tufton was only the second man to lead this pious brotherhood since Whitmore Abbey was consecrated thirteen years ago. His predecessor served just eight months before he was called home by the Heavenly Father, so it was Abbot Tufton who formed the community you see here today.”
“Where did the abbot serve before coming to Whitmore Abbey?” Colin asked.
“Mostly Ireland. John Tufton spent time in several dioceses under several different bishops. He was highly regarded, even as a young man. He was invited to spend time in the Papal States studying under His Holiness Pius the Ninth right out of seminary. A remarkable feat for one as young as he was.” A wistful sort of grin flitted across his lips. “He could have risen much higher in the church, but this was his calling. This is where he knew he belonged. Bishop Fencourt considered Abbot Tufton his monastic blessing.” Father Demetris looked infinitely sad as he said the words.
“How many monks live here?” Colin pressed ahead, and I knew he had no intention of getting caught in such sentimentality.
“Thirty-three, not counting the abbot. It is a small order, but then the town of Dalwich cannot claim more than five thousand residents itself. I don’t think the whole of Sussex County is even half a million.”
“Still . . .” Colin gave a slight smile. “That’s a fair amount of souls to save for such a small band of men.”
Father Demetris shook his head. “I’m afraid you confuse these monks with missionaries, deacons, and vicars. The brothers of Whitmore Abbey do not conduct services for the public, nor do most of them have much contact with any laypeople beyond these walls. They are monks, Mr. Pendragon. They are here solely to dedicate themselves to prayer, divine contemplation, and devotion to God. They are a rare and august breed of acolyte, you see. Very few receive such a calling or are up to the challenge of accepting it if they do.”
“Of course,” Colin muttered with a note of irritation, and I suspected he was annoyed at having made such a fundamental error. “Have all the men who live here now been here from the beginning?”
“A good many, but not all. The church built an additional dormitory about three years ago. It can house ten additional monks, but for now there are only three brothers living there. As I said before, this is not a life for everyone.”
“Quite so.” Colin nodded curtly. “And are those three monks the last to join the monastery?”
“Precisely.”
“How long did you know Abbot Tufton?”
“I knew John almost forty years. We spent quite a bit of time together in seminary back in Dublin. I considered him a dear friend.” He released a labored sigh. “He will be sorely missed.”
“Your fond memories do him fine honor.” I spoke up even though I found the priest’s sorrow keenly distressing. While I understood how he would miss his friend, I had thought he would be held fast by his surety of the afterlife.
“When did you and Bishop Fencourt learn of Abbot Tufton’s murder?” Colin cast me an arched eyebrow as he prodded the conversation right back on point.
“We received a telegram on Tuesday, not an hour after the abbot’s body was discovered. We were told that Abbot Tufton had failed to appear for morning prayers so one of the brothers had been sent to check on him.” He shook his head and turned his gaze to the windows, the pained look on his face in marked contrast to the warm hues of the setting sun filtering back through. “They tell me it was a terrible scene.”
“Who told you?” Colin pushed.
Father Demetris glanced back at him. “Brother Morrison and Brother Silsbury. And poor Brother Hollings, of course, the young monk who found him.”
“Of course,” Colin repeated perfunctorily before pressing the matter as I knew he would. “What exactly did Brother Hollings find?”
“They said the abbot was collapsed across the floor of his cell with one arm stretched out as though he were reaching for something while the very life force drained out of him. A horror,” he tutted as his eyes drifted back to the leaded-glass windows. He remained transfixed for several moments before finally continuing. “There was no mistaking what had happened. Brother Hollings said the walls were so streaked with blood that he didn’t even enter the cell to check on John but just turned and ran to fetch Brothers Morrison and Silsbury.”
“Why them?”
“They’re the senior members of the community along with Brother Clayworth. Brother Silsbury attends to the infirmary. He is not a doctor, but he is a man with some knowledge of health and healing.”
“And what did they determine when they went back?” Colin asked as I hastily scribbled down the names of each monk and the information we were being given about them.
Father Demetris sucked in a rasping breath as he quickly crossed himself before answering. “Brother Silsbury noticed bloodstains across the back of Abbot Tufton’s nightshirt and discovered slash marks all across it. So he and Brother Morrison rolled the blessed man over and . . .” His voice broke and he closed his eyes for a second time, his lips silently reciting something before he opened them and began again. “They said his face was covered with blood and that the front of his nightshirt was cut almost to shreds. There were wounds over his chest and neck . . .” He let his voice drift off as he shook his head and flicked his eyes back toward some distant place out the window. “I understand it took some time before Brother Silsbury realized that the abbot’s tongue had been removed. Perhaps it was the amount of blood on his face; I have not asked.” He abruptly looked back at Colin, his soft features heavy with his grief. “I will leave that to you, Mr. Pendragon. I simply haven’t the stomach to hear anything more.”
“There is no need for you to do so,” Colin answered at once. “Do you know whether Brother Silsbury made any determination as to when the attack may have occurred?”
Father Demetris nodded slightly and wiped a quick hand across his brow. “Given that Abbot Tufton was still in his nightshirt with no covering upon his feet, it is likely he had not yet risen when the murderer entered his cell. I know John Tufton to have been a man who arose each morning at four to begin his personal devotions, so I presume that someone must have set upon him deep in the heart of the night.”
“And what time do the brothers usually retire?”
“Most of them return to their cells shortly after supper. Some will pause to congregate for a brief time to discuss matters of the monastery or share evening prayers, but I believe every man has gone back to his cell shortly after nine at the latest. Matins . . . morning prayers . . . begin at five each day, so the men are up by four thirty to prepare. I am sure you are aware that idleness is the devil’s tool.”
“Most certainly,” Colin agreed, and that was indeed a doctrine he had embraced as long as I had known him. Only sleep stilled him and even then there were times I had been clouted by a stray arm or leg. “Do the men ever gather in small groups in their cells?”
Father Demetris allowed a thin smile. “You have seen the size of Abbot Tufton’s cell. Perhaps it would surprise you to learn that it is larger than the cells of the other monks. Most of the brothers have nothing more than a mat on the floor for sleeping and a woolen blanket in winter for warmth. There is no room for any such congregating in their cells.”
“Then it would be uncharacteristic for one monk to go to another’s cell under any circumstances?”
The priest nodded and I could tell he was puzzled by the question. “Only in the case of an emergency,” he answered after a moment, “but I am not aware of any such occurrence that night.”
Colin pursed his lips and nodded, and I was certain he was already
weighing some possibility. “Can you tell me whether there has been any word back to the bishop about any dissension within the monastery of late? Disagreements or fractures that perhaps the abbot had sought the bishop’s advice on?”
Father Demetris considered the question for only an instant before answering. “There is always the occasional harsh word or impassioned debate as with any community,” he explained, “the monks here are but human. However, I know of nothing that was causing Abbot Tufton any undue concern. And I can assure you, had it been the case, word of it would not have reached Bishop Fencourt without first coming through me.”
“So you are a secretary to the bishop?”
“It is one of the duties I perform.” Father Demetris nodded, and I could tell it was an obligation he was proud of.
“How familiar are you with the daily workings of Whitmore Abbey? Are you called here often?”
“Once or twice a year. But there are no mysteries to life here. As I have said before, these good monks lead a simple and pious existence.”
“Yes, of course.” Colin waved the priest off in a careless manner that made me wince, though I knew he was tired of being reminded of the devoutness of these men given that one of them had quite possibly committed murder. “Do any of the citizens of Dalwich have access to the monastery? Do they ever worship in your chapel or are any of them employed as cooks, service staff, or perhaps to attend the grounds?”
Father Demetris shook his head vehemently as though the very idea of it was anathema and, given the way they lived, I supposed it was. “The chapel at Whitmore Abbey is solely for the use of the brotherhood. They do not minister to the townspeople in any way nor does anyone from Dalwich work here. The brothers take care of themselves in all ways. Each monk is assigned tasks, whether that be preparing meals, scrubbing common areas, or tending the fields alongside the refectory. The care of their clothing and cells, however, is the responsibility of each individual. In fact, other than the local constable and the two men he brought with him on Tuesday, I would say that no more than a handful of the monks have ever even met anyone from Dalwich.”
The Dalwich Desecration Page 2
