by Simon Parke
‘The monk fellow?’
‘He knows this place apparently.’
‘The Mind Gains thingummy?’
‘He’s a trustee.’
‘Well, it’s your call of course, Tamsin -.’
‘I know,’ she said, before he made it to the ‘but’.
‘But whether a monk can seriously be of assistance to a modern police force - .’
‘He can.’
‘Not sure he was much of a help last time.’
‘He helped.’
He did more than help, but the Chief Inspector needn’t know that.
‘Well, if you say so - .’
‘I do.’
‘It’s your case, your reputation.’
Tamsin Shah was aware of the fact, as the Chief well knew and he saw the fear. He could still frighten her a little, so he hadn’t completely lost it.
‘Just keep me informed,’ he said as the car pulled into HQ.
Twelve
The brick through the window was a surprise - they’re always a bit of a shock. But the most surprising fact was that no one had thrown one before. The Sussex Silt, a popular but demonised local paper, was not short of enemies. And neither was the demon who ran it.
Martin Channing, editor, was a pink-shirted demon today and sitting with his deputy editor, Rupert Brooke... not the poet, though perhaps he’d like to have been. Rupert had always possessed a turn of phrase and won endless essay competitions in his teens, when the world lay at his feet. But that was a long time ago, and things had changed. Suffice to say that for Rupert Brooke, the Silt was not how he wanted to be remembered, not at all; while the man opposite him - an old friend from Fleet Street - seemed quite uninterested in legacy.
As Channing once said: ‘I’ve never understood how being remembered could possibly interest the dead!’
Martin Channing wanted only to be busy with something, preferably five things - juggling, shocking and earning in equal measure... like a child terrified of being bored and of his pocket money being late.
‘You’re a literary snob,’ he’d once said to Rupert, when he’d turned his nose up at a tasteless story.
‘I’ll take that as a compliment in this particular office.’
Even a demon can be kind, however, for Martin had rescued Rupert from the financial oblivion of publishers’ small advances, for one last and moderately well-paid hurrah in the newspaper trade; and Rupert had been briefly grateful. There were newspapers and newspapers, however, and then there was the Silt.
‘I’d sooner read toilet paper than the Silt,’ groaned Rupert’s new lady friend, president of the Chaucer Society in Lewes.
‘The sport isn’t so good,’ replied Rupert.
If you didn’t laugh, you cried, because something died in him every day of his working life at the Silt... while something also paid the mortgage. Rupert was taking self-hate to new heights.
‘You were keen to run something on the Feast of Fools at the Mind Gains place,’ says Rupert. ‘This weekend, wasn’t it?’ Martin nods but looks mysterious. Rupert says:
‘You did go, I presume?’
And then the brick, smashing through the office glass, a shattering rudeness, narrowly missing Cheryl the receptionist, who screams loudly while Martin and Rupert make for the savaged window.
No one out there... or no one they could see. There must be someone in the shadows, someone who doesn’t like them. Who cares, though? You give the people a local paper they actually read, and this is how they repay you! Martin, at least is thinking this.
‘Oh yes, I went to the Feast of Fools,’ he says, as they return to their desks, hoping Cheryl will pull herself together and ease up on the hysterics. ‘Unusual evening... really, very unusual.’
‘In what way?’
Thirteen
Tamsin and Peter drove in silence through the lashing rain of this Monday afternoon, 3 November, no words muddying the air until Tamsin had to speak:
‘I can’t believe a murder investigation has been held up by a baby’s sleep routine.’
Huge frustration.
‘There was her lunch as well,’ said Peter calmly. ‘Where would you be without sleep and food?’
Trees bent and swayed in the whipping wind, leaves ripped from their grasp and sent swirling in the sodden air. Their destination was Henry House, a fine Elizabethan manor on the edge of Stormhaven. It had recently become the home of Mind Gains, a new venture in the well-being of the mind: ‘Mental wealth is the best investment of all,’ as their slogan reminded everyone.
And Peter’s presence in the car was quite straightforward and not in any way a mystery: he sat here because he’d said ‘Maybe’. That’s how it had started nearly a year ago, and he’d said it again today. Tamsin had knocked on his door, asked him to take the role of Special Witness in a police murder investigation and he’d said ‘Maybe’.
‘It’s like last time,’ she said.
‘Remind me about last time.’
He remembered the case, but not the exact nature of his employment.
‘It’s an idea being trialled by the Sussex police.’
‘That bit I remember. You were ground-breakers, I seem to recall bringing the community into the enquiry.’
‘Well, nothing’s changed. An individual with special knowledge of the murder scene is co-opted onto the investigation. They sign a confidentiality agreement, receive a small allowance and effectively become a detective, under the leadership of the DI handling the case.’
‘Which is you?’
‘Which is me, yes - who else is there?’ It was a joke... just.
‘I’m responsible for finding the murderer of Barnabus Hope and I want you to help me.’
‘Well I’m certainly with you in spirit. He was a good man.’
‘I’m not interested in that side of things.’
‘You mean the good?’
‘And I need a little more than your best wishes.’
‘You want my very best wishes?’
‘Uncle, you know the set-up at Mind Gains, you know the deceased and you know your way around the sick world of psychology.’
‘The glorious flag of prejudice run boldly up the mast!’
They were driving past wet sheep, seeking shelter in a crowd of soggy wool.
‘And you know people,’ she added.
‘I know no one. My list of contacts is shorter than a rhino’s temper.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘A rhino’s temper - it’s very short.’
‘Really?’ said Tamsin with mock interest - but she wanted this man on her side. ‘What I mean is, you know people, you sense their inner... whatever. Most people see from the outside, but you see from the inside. My God, I’m beginning to believe your own publicity.’
‘It’s a gift I’ve accepted with great reluctance,’ said Peter.
‘So will you do it?’
‘Do what?’
‘Join the investigation as Special Witness?’
‘I did enjoy the allowance.’
Peter had happy memories of the brief income.
‘It’s only small.’
‘Not to me.’
‘I’m glad you enjoyed it,’ said Tamsin, though remembering his home, it was hard to see what he’d spent it on.
‘I’ve never really earned money, you see,’ said the Abbot. ‘Strange, isn’t it? Sixty-one years old and I’ve never earned a wage. I’ve been looked after by the money of others, but never earned it myself. So to be handed some bank notes of my very own...’
‘I thought in your world everything belonged to God?’
‘I now take a cut.’
But would he take the case? Peter was thinking it would be nice to buy Poppy a
Christmas treat, he could ask Sarah’s advice in the matter, as he wouldn’t know where to begin. And something had awakened in him during the last investigation. He’d become a hunter in pursuit of justice and enjoyed the chase. And he’d find pleasure in cornering the killer of Barnabus, who a long time ago, when his brief marriage ended, came to the desert for six months to ponder the emptiness of life - and where better for that than St James-the-Less? Not that Peter had seen much of him while he was there; that wasn’t how it worked in the sand. Apart from meal times and work in the monastery garden, Barnabus had spent most of his time in the library reading ancient texts. He’d returned to England with a deep tan, stronger arms and a fresh sense of purpose; but, while he had been happy for the young man’s soul, Peter had thought no more about him until six months ago, when a letter arrived out of the blue:
‘Remember me, Abbot Peter?’ it said. ‘Barnabus Hope here, brief refugee with you in the desert all those years ago. But would you believe I’m in Stormhaven now? And I’m a shrink!’
He’d given Peter a number to ring.
‘Well, will you?’ said Tamsin once again, returning him to the present. ‘We don’t have much time.’
Fourteen
It was true, they didn’t have much time. They were approaching Henry House and, if this was the parting of ways, the time was now. Tamsin had promised him an immediate lift home in another, less comfortable, police car if he decided this wasn’t for him.
‘You never have much time, Tamsin.’
‘So?’
‘Time harasses you unduly.’
‘It’s because I have a job. You should try it one day.’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes, what?’
‘Yes, I will be Special Witness.’
‘Good. I knew you would.’
‘I proved rather effective last time, as I remember.’ He’d practically solved the case single-handed.
‘Last time doesn’t exist in my book,’ said Tamsin.
‘Selective amnesia.’
‘There’s only now.’
The Abbot was impressed.
‘A profound thought, Tamsin.’
‘I wouldn’t be asking you, though, unless you were some use.’ Some use? Praise indeed from Tamsin. Truly this was the age of miracles and perhaps they’d need them.
For Henry House then came into view.
Fifteen
Henry House seemed unmoved by murder.
‘It does spook me a little,’ said Tamsin, as she turned the car through the large stone gateway and proceeded slowly up the drive. Dark windows were Tamsin’s first thought as the house came into view, a grey-stone silhouette against the cold sky, chimney stacks in threes, classical columns on high. There was something of the Italian renaissance on display; but something else as well, something resistant, a place old enough to make its own rules and not care.
Tamsin continued: ‘As one obsessed with the origin of things, I suppose you know its history?’
‘I know a little,’ said Peter.
This was usually a sign that he knew a great deal.
‘Built in the reign of Henry VIII? Or is that too obvious?’
‘The obvious is sometimes right.’
And Tamsin liked getting things right.
‘Though not on this occasion,’ added Peter. ‘A little later, around 1590.’
‘Elizabeth?’
‘Indeed. Henry House is Elizabethan.’
‘The one with the ginger hair and white face?’
‘Lead-based paint and highly toxic - a fashion accessory for rich women, one which sometimes killed.’
‘Everyone has to die of something.’
‘But not of make-up, perhaps.’
Henry House sat in four acres of lawn, rhododendron bush and scattered clumps of trees. Beyond such domestication of nature lay the flat lands of sodden field, static cows and horses in muddy coats... and the ravens, of course, hopping awkwardly on the wet lawn, sitting like sentries on the chimney stacks, big winged, black beaks, famous residents of Henry House and recently in the news for killing a lamb in a nearby field. The farmer had told his story to the Sussex Silt, and Stormhaven was appalled by the fact that a bird had got to the lamb before they did. The Silt had stirred disgust, posting an online petition in favour of a cull of the killer ravens.
‘How do ravens kill a lamb?’ asked Tamsin.
‘They attack the face.’
‘They’re carnivores?’
‘Omnivores.’
‘A bird for all seasons?’
‘Carrion, insects, berries, mice, food waste, they’re survivors. Maybe that’s why they were the first animal to be released from Noah’s Ark.’
‘Or maybe Noah just didn’t like them very much,’ said Tamsin. ‘I don’t like them.’
‘You’ll have to get used to them while here.’ And they would be here a while.
Sixteen
‘So we’re looking at posh Elizabethan?’ said Tamsin, gazing again at the house.
‘Very posh, yes. In the sixteenth century a stone house, rather than beam and plaster, spoke of significant wealth. There was in fact very little building towards the end of Henry’s reign, for the simple reason he’d bankrupted the country. The once wonderful wool trade was no longer delivering, which left little money for architects’ fine schemes.’
‘Every cloud and all that.’
‘But under Elizabeth, the country’s economy began to revive.’
‘It takes a woman.’
‘Wealth created mainly around farming, certainly in the Stormhaven area, and once again there was cash for building projects like Henry House, named in memory of the dear queen’s father.’
‘Why would anyone want to remember him?’
‘I’m not rushing to his defence.’
‘Misogynist pig.’
‘Ruling a misogynist nation.’
‘Don’t we each have to take responsibility for our actions, whatever the era?’
Peter enjoyed Tamsin’s rare excursion into moral certitude.
‘I always knew it, there’s a priest in you!’
‘No, there’s a judge in me, patrolling the borders of anarchy and order.’
That shut Peter up.
‘A very striking image,’ he said.
‘And that’s the trouble with therapy, you see.’
‘Oh?’
‘No lines - no lines clearly drawn. And you have to have lines.’ Tamsin parked the car alongside two police vehicles. Peter returned to the ‘Henry’ in the House.
‘It was probably a pitch for royal patronage. Perhaps the Rowse family, who built the place, thought the queen would like to see her father honoured and thereby look upon them favourably in some way.’
‘Burn the farmer next door for heresy and grant the arse-licking Rowse family his lands?’
‘No, that wasn’t Elizabeth’s style.’
‘So what was her style?’
‘ “I see, and say nothing”,’ was her motto.’
I see, and say nothing. As Tamsin contemplated the merits of this approach, strengths and weaknesses, the Abbot continued:
‘So after 274 burnings under Mary Tudor, when simply being a Protestant was a crime, there were just two burnings in the very long reign of Elizabeth - two Flemish Anabaptists.’
‘That is quite a change.’
‘There were eleven of them sentenced to death, but she commuted the sentences of the other nine.’
‘Not much help to the two who died.’
‘Mercy grows slowly.’
‘And particularly in Henry House.’ Suddenly they were back with the present.
The entrance to Henry House was its most ornate aspect, all heraldry and
ornamentation, and there, beneath the large carving of a Tudor rose, the tasteful bronze of the Mind Gains sign. It declared this place a centre for life and health; but not today... today Henry House was a tomb and a keeper of death. Inside, stashed away in a cupboard, dragged there and dumped, lay the body of Barnabus Hope.
‘There’s something Dutch about it,’ said Tamsin, sighing as she looked through the car window, safe from the rain. With the engine quiet, they both knew this small moment was the calm before the storm.
‘It’s the curved gables, isn’t it? Elizabethan architects clearly holidayed in Amsterdam.’
There was a pause. Tamsin looked at the edifice and felt its resistance again. Near the drain, a raven was picking at the carcass of a rat.
‘They deserve each other.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Nothing. Shall we get to work?’
Act Two
Neurosis is the inability to tolerate ambiguity.
Sigmund Freud
Seventeen
A week before the Feast of Fools
Late October
Barnabus Hope pondered the list of clients given to him by Bella Amal, the new administrator for Mind Gains. She’d been appointed in his absence, against his wishes and had been busy ever since, with her straight black hair and slightly flirty skirts for a woman in her late thirties. And then there were the clickety shoes on the marble floor in the hall... though her dress code was not the issue for Barnabus.
The big news, big in these parts at least, was that the Feast of Fools, grand publicity stunt for the struggling Mind Gains clinic, was finally going to happen. The brainchild of co-director Frances Pole and organised by Bella Amal, it was now the moment of truth. Four people had signed up to take part - not quite the numbers they’d hoped for, and not quite the public interest they’d craved. But it was workable and better than had looked likely at one point. After all, there’d been no takers at first, a bleak silence that echoed daily through the dark-wooded rooms and tilting floors of Henry House. Bella, however, had remained a bundle of energy and optimism.
