“I did not mean to suggest otherwise,” Colin said in a thin voice, looking vaguely chastised.
Brother Clayworth waved him off and gave yet another of his ready smiles. “You cannot truly believe that one of the men here had anything to do with Abbot Tufton’s death, do you? Please tell me you cannot possibly conceive of such a thing.”
Colin returned a thin smile, his lips drawn tight and his eyes blunted with something akin to sympathy, and I knew what his answer would be. “I am paid to conceive of every possibility, Brother Clayworth, including the unthinkable. Doing so is one of the reasons to which I owe my success. If I did not permit myself that freedom, then I’m afraid I would rarely solve a case.”
The monk grimaced and shook his head, his mess of silvery hair springing about like an unruly mop. “I cannot abide that thought and look forward to having any such notions dispelled with all great haste.” He crossed his fingers on his lap and looked at Colin with renewed determination. “What else can I answer for you?”
Colin nodded grimly and I felt the moral weight of this case pressing down upon my shoulders as though I were sitting in Colin’s place, the monk’s unwavering gaze boring into me, daring me to find a malignancy where none could be. “I appreciate the generosity of your assistance, most especially because of your conviction,” Colin said with remarkable ease, “so I hope you will tell me with all candor—has there been any sort of dissension amongst the brothers of late? Arguments or fervent debates that have been left unsettled and perhaps been allowed to cause a pall of discord to nestle into the monastery?”
Brother Clayworth eyed Colin closely before allowing the wisp of a pained smile to blink across his face. “We are but men here, so I would be dishonest if I tried to tell you that no such disagreements have ever taken place. But it is a very long stride from an argument to murder.”
“Arguments can get out of hand,” Colin pressed. “People in the throes of their passions can do things they never intended. And once a deed is done, after the icy strike of reality bores into the center of a man’s chest, then that is when I find they are capable of doing anything, anything, to hide their culpability.”
The monk’s eyes widened and his face went slack. “Is that what you suppose has happened? That our abbot was killed in an act of passionate disagreement?” He shook his head dourly. “Then what of his tongue? And who would have gone to his cell to have such a row in the middle of the night? It isn’t done, Mr. Pendragon. Our cells belong to each of us alone. It is the place for our solace and solitude. It simply is not done.”
“I do not suppose anything yet, Brother Clayworth.” Colin leaned back as though to move himself beyond the breathless thrust of the monk’s rapidly fired retort. “Please do not presume anything from our idle chatter. I am only trying to address your questions when, in fact, it is I who should be asking them.”
“Oh . . . !” Brother Clayworth flushed. “Of course . . .” A grin brushed his lips as he looked back at us. “I do apologize. It would seem I am the very example you were referring to getting caught up in my own zeal to the detriment of the discussion at hand. I shall behave myself.” He reached out and took another drink from his mug with a self-conscious shrug.
“You are more than fine,” Colin chuckled. “And these debates within the brotherhood,” he nudged. “The ones so emblematic of us mere mortals”—he grinned and, to my surprise, so did the monk—“what do they concern?”
“Everything from the mundane to the heretical. Exactly what one would expect when you take thirty-three distinct personalities and force them to cohabit as closely as we are.”
“Indulge me,” Colin persisted, the tight smile on his face as near to an order as I had heard him use with these men.
Brother Clayworth sighed wearily, either missing the edge in Colin’s request or simply indifferent to it. “There was something of a heated conversation a few months ago about the thin variety of options in our diet. Some of the younger men miss their dear mothers’ skills, and I can only tell you that poor Brother Green was cut nearly to the quick by the criticism. He and Brother Rodney work very hard to keep us well fed despite the paucity of selection.” He grunted and shook his head. “It can be easy to forget, when the belly growls, that we are here to feed our souls, not our stomachs.”
“And the heretical?”
He gazed off into the vastness of the barn behind us, though I could not imagine in which direction his thoughts might be turning. “If I tell you that the church is a living organism, do you have a notion of what I mean?”
“That it is not staid,” Colin replied at once. “That it is responsive both to modernity and the needs of its flock.”
The monk nodded, clearly pleased by the answer. “You are not far removed from the crux of it,” he said, “though I am sure you understand that the church cannot possibly respond to frivolous or deviant alterations to doctrine simply because it happens to be the fashion of the moment. I fear we would have moral anarchy were that to be the case.” He smiled, but there was an obvious sorrow behind his eyes. “God’s tenets have not changed since the founding of Christianity anyway. There are no new recognized Scriptures or tablets or angelic voices to inform us, leaving the church with only the precepts that have been handed down for millennia from which to cobble and instill its truths. So you see, the church must be alive in order to remain relevant and viable as one age gives way to the next.”
“You are referring to the ecumenical councils?” Colin asked.
“Precisely.” Brother Clayworth beamed, apparently not used to having a layperson understand the labyrinth of doublespeak it sounded to me that he was using. “There have been twenty such councils of cardinals led, as always, by the Pope, with the last one having been closed just twenty-five years ago.”
“Vatican Council,” Colin said as he rubbed his smooth chin awkwardly, and I could tell he was yearning to be spinning a coin between his fingers.
“It is the only context in which the church can reasonably be expected to move forward in any profound way. Yet when rumors begin to surface . . . when the spectre of unverified writings suddenly rear up like a two-headed viper . . . some men expect the church to respond with the dexterity and finesse of a graceful dancer.”
Colin’s eyebrows vaulted upward. “You are talking about the two codices, aren’t you? The ones found in that monastery in Egypt.”
Brother Clayworth flinched and averted his gaze as though Colin had roundly cursed him. “There is disagreement about them in the Holy See, there is disagreement amongst scholars, there is disagreement here. Some seek to embrace them as a whole, others question whether they have any relevance at all.” He glanced back at us and gave a pained sort of grimace. “Many of our brothers simply do not know what to think, for it takes a quiet heart to truly hear the word of God.”
Colin’s lips curled minutely and I could tell that he was well pleased. “I would be surprised if there was not some dissension amongst the group of you given the extent of it everywhere else. The Codex Sinaiticus alone revealed enormous amounts of inaccuracies and corrections made to the Scriptures in the first centuries after their initial writing, and now the Codex Syriacus would appear about to do the same thing all over again.”
Brother Clayworth looked solemn. “They are saying that verses were added to the four gospels that alter what was originally written about the Resurrection of Christ. It would appear to strike at the very heart of our faith.” He pursed his lips and let his eyes drift off. “I have not seen copies of it myself. I cannot profess to know, but I am sure of what I know in my heart.”
Colin flashed an earnest smile. “Then I envy you your assurance. But tell me, have the brothers of Whitmore Abbey reached any sort of consensus amongst themselves?”
The monk frowned. “I’m afraid one cannot resolve the disparities of faithfulness and conviction easily. There is an endless chasm of passion whenever there is discourse around the will of God. It is as it was meant to be. God
does not intend for us to follow like sheep, but rather to listen with our hearts and make our choices from there.”
“And the Bible?”
He nodded as he let a soft grin settle onto his face. “It is our roadmap. Our template for living. It gives us the answers to so many of our questions.”
“And the two codices?”
“Were I able to answer that,” Brother Clayworth began, his dark eyes sparkling with mischief, “then I do not suppose I would be living here in the humble confines of this monastery.”
Colin tipped his head smartly in an acknowledgment of the monk’s artful sentiment and pushed ahead in what I thought to be a most incongruous way. “This ale you produce, am I to understand that you distribute it to the pubs and taverns solely through Mr. Chesterton?”
“Now there is a question I can answer.” He leaned back on his stool with an affable smile. “That is correct. Mr. Chesterton comes out here once or twice a month and purchases all of our ale, then distributes it for a modest fee. We’ve been working with him from the beginning, almost thirteen years now, but it’s only the last year or so that he’s been able to provide us with proper accountings. Not that we didn’t trust him, mind you,” he quickly added, “but I don’t believe he was up to the task. I know I am not.”
“What changed?” he asked, though we knew what the answer would be.
“He’s got a bright lad working for him now. I’ve even had him review our books several times as well. I may have a head for ale, but I can’t bear staring at numbers.” He gave a chortle.
Colin joined the monk’s chuckle, but I could tell the wheels of his brain were spinning. “You are referring to Edward Honeycutt?”
Brother Clayworth nodded and I could tell he was impressed that Colin already knew that. “They told me you are a famous investigator in London, Mr. Pendragon, and now I see why.”
“You flatter me,” Colin said, but I knew it pleased him just the same. “We have been staying at the Pig and Pint and have had several occasions to speak with both Mr. Chesterton and young Mr. Honeycutt. They both seem decent sorts.” He spoke simply and I could not help but wonder if the assessment of Mr. Chesterton had not caught in his throat.
“I can certainly vouch for Mr. Chesterton. He has done well by us and even though he has his rough edges”—Brother Clayworth grinned—“he seems to be a good man.”
“Indeed,” Colin answered, and now I could see that his eyes had gone cold. “But enough idle chatter . . .” he was saying. “We would appreciate that tour you mentioned.”
“It will be my pleasure.” Brother Clayworth fairly glowed with enthusiasm as he popped right off his stool. “Permit me just a moment and I shall usher you through each step of the process.”
The monk gathered up what was left of our ales and hurried from the small room, allowing me just enough time to lean toward Colin and whisper, “It seems you are correct about those Egyptian manuscripts. Perhaps they truly have caused some friction amongst these men?”
“Perhaps”—he nodded with the slip of a shrug—“or perhaps Edward Honeycutt has his fingers in too many places in an effort to free himself from Dalwich?”
“Do you think . . . ?!” I was startled by the suggestion, but before he could answer Brother Clayworth called for us.
Colin stood up and smiled at me, his cerulean eyes sparkling warmly. “You know me, at this point there is no one above suspicion.” He started out of the small office before quickly stopping and glancing back at me. “Except . . . perhaps . . . for you,” he added with a low chuckle.
CHAPTER 20
Beer, or alcohol of any kind, has never held much interest to me. I can confess to having drunk to excess a time or two in my youth, but in matters of inebriation I must admit to having always preferred the nimble caress of opiates. At least until a dozen years ago when those same soothing opiates had finally overrun my life completely and threatened to extinguish it. Such is their ephemeral touch that I find I must remain vigilant against them to this very day. So I cannot profess to having had much interest when Brother Clayworth escorted us through the numerous stages of his brewery. Colin, however, was quite taken with the whole event.
While the monk gave ponderous explanations around the mashing, lautering, boiling, and cooling of the product, I could not get past the thick, malty smell hanging incessantly in the air. Colin peppered Brother Clayworth with innumerable questions and I pondered the importance of the two codices on this case, or whether the heart of both murders was going to be found in the only link that I could see between these two killings: Raleigh Chesterton and Edward Honeycutt. While I certainly had no consideration for Mr. Chesterton anymore, it pained me to think that Edward Honeycutt might be culpable. He had seemed so undone by Maureen O’Dowd’s death. Yet I had borne witness to such acts of duplicity before. Far too many times.
At some point during Brother Clayworth’s dissertation it all became more than I could bear, so I excused myself, having determined to pay a quick visit to Brother Bursnell in the library to see if I could ferret out anything further about the two codices. Colin could continue bantering on with this monk, but I was going to return to the matter at hand. My enthusiasm, however, turned quickly to frustration when I arrived at the library to find the doors closed and the lights extinguished.
The sound of distant chanting, a slow, tuneless sort of lament, drifted past my ears and I realized the monks had retreated to the chapel for their afternoon devotions. It made me wonder that Brother Clayworth had not joined them and I ruminated as to whether it was his passion for the brewery or simple negligence to comprehend the waning day that had caused him to be remiss. Whichever the case, I pushed through the library doors anyway and stood quite alone just inside, looking around at the mass of books, bound manuscripts, and piles of loose papers twined together with string, and knew that I would never find anything I sought without the knowledgeable aid of Brother Bursnell. For if there was any order to this place it was likely known to him alone.
Not wanting to return to the painstaking minutiae of ale brewing, I set off and began wandering the central hallway of the monastery rather aimlessly. When I could stand its utter silence and shadowy oppressiveness no more, I headed out the rear door and went around to the side of the main building to where I remembered Brother Wright oversaw the vegetable garden. Even though I knew no one would be there, I was relieved to be outside in the fresh air to catch the last of the faltering day. The only unfortunate consequence was that it abruptly reminded me of how I was to spend my night tonight—alone, in the cell of a murdered monk, the result of our own blatant foolishness at the Pig and Pint. And still, I could not imagine what we had been thinking.
The last wisps of the sun had just folded beneath the horizon when I heard Colin calling for me. I came back around the side of the monastery and found him by the back door. “And where have you been off to?” he asked as he ushered me inside.
“Nowhere useful, I’m afraid.”
He shook his head with a sigh. “Have I taught you nothing?”
Before I realized where we were going he led me to the refectory where all of the monks were assembling for supper. The two of us took the same places we’d sat in during our last visit, at the end of the second of the long tables, and as soon as everyone had settled in, the lot of us bowed our heads while a handful of monks hastily prattled off invocations, most of which were in Latin. Of the ones I could understand I heard blessings for our food, our lives, and our souls, but none of them mentioned the solving of their abbot’s murder. At least not in English. I wondered if they prayed for justice.
Brother Rodney brought in a large tureen filled with some sort of stew and set it on our table before going back and bringing out an identical tureen for the farther table. It consisted of carrots, potatoes, and shredded beef in a thick, tomato-laden sauce. To my mind the best part, however, was the half-dozen loaves of freshly baked bread that were disbursed about the tables, still warm from the oven. I
t made a perfect implement to swipe out the bottom of my bowl, which I eagerly did as there were clearly no second helpings to be had. Brother Green clearly knew precisely what was needed and made no more. I thought it rather a form of artistry.
The meal passed with little conversation, just as had been the case the first time we’d been here. There were pockets of murmuring here and there, but nothing of any consequence that I could tell and most certainly nothing that united the two tables in any singular matter.
“Brother Morrison tells me you will be staying with us now,” Brother Silsbury said as the meal drew to its conclusion. His voice was measured so that I could not discern what he might actually think of the idea, nor could I tell whether he was still angry that Colin had tried to take the abbot’s Bible. I could only imagine what he would do if he discovered that even now Colin had the abbot’s actual Bible tucked in his waistband at the small of his back.
“Indeed we shall,” Colin answered smoothly. And if he had any concerns about his subterfuge I could not see it.
“Let us pray that it will allow you to bring a swift end to this business then,” Brother Wright said. “Our dear abbot deserves such a resolution and it will do us all good to have this wound healed.”
“Come, come . . .” Brother Morrison chimed in, his voice, as always, scratchy and dour, “. . . you are being sentimental. Resolution will take place only through the judgment of the Lord. His will is righteous and final, and no man can claim such a victory over that which is evil. I should think we all must know that by now.”
The Dalwich Desecration Page 20
