The Ornamental Hermit

by Olivier Bosman

  The following morning Billings got up early, headed into town and bought himself a piece of warm cotton-combination underwear, a blanket, a pannikin and some rope. He rolled up his blanket and strapped it to his satchel with the rope. Then he tied the pannikin to his belt. Thus packed, he took a steamer across the lake to Ambleside and, ignoring the curious looks from passers-by, he headed down Bog Lane towards the coast.

  It was clear and sunny when he started his walk at a little past two, but a couple of hours later, the sun started to set and a band of bitterly cold air slowly descended upon him. He took his blanket from the satchel and threw it over his head, blocking out the breeze and trapping his body heat. It was just his face which got cold now. The bitter air stung his cheeks and his forehead, dried his lips and frosted his eyes. But he took the discomfort and paced on determinedly, stopping only occasionally to boil some water and make himself some tea, or take a few bites of the loaf he had brought with him.

  He was conscious of being a peculiar sight with his satchel strapped to his back and his blanket over his head, but there was no one there to witness it. He was all alone in this beautiful, desolate land. Like Robinson Crusoe. All he could see around him were the dark blue peaks jutting out from the ground in the distance and the black and grey shades of grass, shrubs and rocks, all illuminated by the moon’s eerie light. The night was quiet. There were no sounds other than that of the light breeze and his own footsteps, crushing the ground beneath with a beat and rhythm which soothed him.

  He walked for hours. From two o’clock in the afternoon till four o’clock the following day, ignoring the pain in his thighs and calves, the blisters on his feet and his dry, cracking lips. He was in another realm during that walk, removed for a few hours from this physical world, from the heavy loads which kept him grounded, from his pondering, cumbersome self. Was he meditating? Could this be what Sebastian had strived for in his diaries?

  When the sun rose the following morning, he had left the behind the moors and mountains and found himself wandering through meadows and farmlands, following a path along a stream which he later found out was called Pow Beck (the very stream at the banks of which the clothes were found). At around four o’clock, he finally caught a glimpse of the village of St Bees lying in the horizon. His loaf had been fully eaten by then and his tea completely drunk. He was shattered and hungry and his body no longer had the energy to keep him warm.

  As he followed the path towards the village, he suddenly saw a small chapel on a hill. Next to it stood a large stone house. He knew that St Benedict’s rule compelled monasteries to receive all guests with reverence and kindness, whether they be travellers or pilgrims, so he crossed the shallow stream and made his way up the footpath. The priory consisted of a chapel, a house and an orchard, but on the same hill next to the priory, he could see another building. It was a strange cone-shaped structure, made of flat stones which had been piled on top of each other without the use of mortar, and which looked like some sort of giant bee hive. He kept gazing at it, wondering what it was, when suddenly he heard someone calling him.

  “Good afternoon.”

  One of the monks had stepped out of the house and was standing in the doorway, peering curiously at him. He was a big man, in his fifties, with a rough, tanned face engraved with laughter lines and a thick band of greying hair above his ears.

  “Good afternoon,” Billings replied, a little surprised by the monk’s sudden appearance. “I come from Windermere. I’ve been walking all night. I’m on my way to Whitehaven, but I was wondering if I could shelter here for the night. I’m cold and hungry and...”

  “We have just sat down for supper,” the monk said, in a quiet voice with a thick French accent. “You are welcome to join us.”

  “Thank you.” Billings rushed towards the door, relieved. “My name is Billings, by the way. John Billings.”

  “How do you do. I’m Brother Martin.”

  Billings followed the monk towards the dining room, where four other monks were sitting quietly at a long table. He nodded at them politely, but none of them reciprocated. He sat down among them while Brother Martin served him potato soup. Billings looked around the table as he ate his soup. The monks didn’t speak or look at each other during the meal. They just kept their heads bowed and slurped their soups. They were all in their forties or fifties, except for the one sitting at the head of the table. He was probably in his seventies and Billings assumed that he was the prior. The prior was the noisiest eater. Billings observed that he was unable to eat his soup without letting half the contents of his spoon trickle down his mouth and drip back into the bowl. Suddenly, as Billings was staring at him, the prior lifted his eyes and gave him a fierce, scowling look, like that of a disapproving school master. Billings quickly looked away, hung his head and continued eating his soup in silence.

  After supper, Brother Martin led Billings to his cell.

  “The Priory of The Holy Virgin was built in 1846 by four Cistercian monks who crossed the channel from France, intent on rebuilding monasteries which had once existed on ground proclaimed holy by the early Christian Celts,” the monk explained. “I came over from Nantes four years ago. This will be your cell.”

  Brother Martin opened the door to a small, bare room, furnished only with a bed, a desk and a large crucifix on the whitewashed wall.

  “We rise every morning at ten to four,” he continued, “and we retire at eight. You are welcome to join us during our meals, which, as you have seen, are done in silence. And, of course, you are welcome at community mass, but for the rest of the time we will ask you to keep yourself to yourself.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You are welcome to stay with us for as long as you like. We continue the tradition of receiving guests with reverence and kindness, but without letting this impair the monastic quiet. I remind you that this is a silent order and I would appreciate it if you would refrain from speaking needlessly to anyone before eight o’clock tomorrow evening.”

  “Thank you, but I shall continue towards Whitehaven first thing tomorrow morning. How much should I pay you for your hospitality?”

  “We do not charge our guests for their stay, but we are grateful for any offerings you may choose to convey.”

  “I shall certainly leave something before I go.”

  “I wish you good night, Mr Billings. May God be with you.”

  “May God be with you too.”

  The monk smiled at the detective then went into his own cell at the end of the corridor. Billings walked into his room, put his satchel on the bed and took out the wallet with his morphine ampoules. He looked out the window as he prepared his syringe. The strange cone-like building next to the house was clearly visible from his room. Billings could see a small opening on one side of the cone through which a man could enter and another small opening at the top which looked like a ventilation hole. The building was surrounded by a low, round wall made of the same un-mortared flat stones. He was wondering about the building’s purpose, when suddenly he saw a light being lit inside the structure. As he squinted his eyes and peered closer, he saw a man emerge from the building holding a lamp in his hand. The man was dressed differently to the other monks. He wore a brown woollen tunic with a brown cape. He looked dirty and bewildered. His head was completely shaved except for a band of hair which crossed his scalp from ear to ear. The man walked out of the building towards the edge of the stone wall, placed the lamp on the ground, then pulled up his tunic and squatted down. He remained there for a while, looking around him, oblivious to his audience, then pulled a handful of grass blades out of the ground, wiped his backside, picked up the lamp and returned to his bee hive.

  Who on earth was that? thought Billings, looking at his syringe and wondering for a fraction of a second whether or not he had already injected.

  *

  When Billings woke up the following morning, he could hear the monks already working outside in the orchard. He picked his watch up from the floor
and checked the time. It was ten minutes past eight. The walk must have tired him out more than he had anticipated, he thought. He got up and gathered his belongings into his satchel.

  His limbs were sore and stiff as he walked out into the orchard to say his goodbyes. His feet were covered in blisters and he had difficulty walking.

  The chapel bell started ringing just as he approached the monks in the orchard. The brothers all put down their tools and started marching quietly to the chapel.

  “Lauds,” Brother Martin whispered to him as he walked past him to the chapel.

  Billings felt it would be disrespectful to leave during prayers, so he waited outside the chapel for the monks to re-appear. He waited for nearly an hour, listening to the mumbled prayers and tuneless chants. When Lauds was over, the monks re-emerged from the chapel and made their way silently back to the orchard where they picked up their tools. All of them except for Brother Martin, who walked towards the waiting detective with a cheerful grin on his face.

  “You’re leaving us, then?” he said.

  “Yes. Yes, I am.”

  “Are you a Catholic, Mr Billings?”

  “No, I am a Quaker.”

  Brother Martin raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Ah, how interesting. So you do not believe in the church?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “The Pope would call you a heretic.” He said this with a smile.

  Billings smiled back. “I suppose he would.”

  “Well, in a way, we are quite similar.”

  “Are we?”

  “Like you, we try to find our own individual connection with God. At least we have that much in common.”

  Billings dug into his pockets for some coins. “I’d like to thank you for your hospitality.”

  He gave the monk a couple of shillings. Brother Martin nodded gratefully, took the coins and put them in a pocket of his scapular.

  Billings turned to leave when a thought suddenly occurred to him. “That stone building next to the priory?” he asked.

  “Ah. The Celtic cell.”

  “What is it?”

  “It is what I said. A Celtic cell. It’s what medieval Irish monks used to live in.”

  “I saw someone come out of it last night.”

  “That would be Brother Pelagius. Our hermit.”

  “Hermit?” Billings was suddenly intrigued by the occurrence of that word.

  “This priory was built on the foundations of a Celtic monastery, which was dedicated to St Bega – after whom the village of St Bees is named – but which was destroyed during the dissolution of the monasteries under Henry the Eighth . St Bega was an Irish princess who was promised in marriage to a Viking prince, but valuing her virginity, had fled across the Irish Sea to the Lancashire coast where she led a life of exemplary piety. We are particularly interested in Celtic Christianity at this priory and we like to emulate the life of the early Irish monks.”

  “Why?”

  “The early Celtic monks were quite different to us. You’ll have seen Brother Pelagius’s habit is different to ours, as is his tonsure. There was never anything like this in France. Or indeed anywhere else in Europe. Ireland was the only country in Western Europe not to have been Romanised. It was the Romans who spread Christianity in Europe, as you know, and even after the decline of the Roman Empire, Roman influence still lingered throughout Europe. But not in Ireland. Ireland remained isolated and free of any Roman influence, so when Christianity arrived there it grew and evolved in a very special manner. There is a particular book which was very influential in Ireland at the time. ‘Sayings of The Desert Fathers’.”

  Billings’s heart leapt at the mention of that title, and he instantly reached for his satchel and pulled out the book.

  “Ah, you have it. How wonderful!” The monk took the book out of his hands and started leafing through it. “The Vatican feared this book at first,” he said, “because it took power away from them. They didn’t want people to find their own connection with God. They wanted to be the bridge to heaven. That’s why we call the Pope the pontiff. But the Irish were free from Roman influence and that included the Vatican. And they took this book to heart. But they adapted it to suit their own surroundings. There were no deserts in Ireland, but there were islands, and bogs, and other inhospitable locations, so the Irish set up monasteries there. They took to the seas in their small leather boats and went to wherever God’s winds blew them. It is fascinating, Mr Billings. Truly fascinating. But tell me, why is it you carry this book around with you?”

  “It belonged to a friend of mine who went missing. I am a detective. I’m investigating his disappearance. Have you been at this priory long?”

  “Four years.”

  If Sebastian had ever stayed at this priory, Billings thought, it would have been ten years ago. “Do you get many visitors?” he asked.

  “Not many. You’re the first since I’ve been here.”

  The conversation was suddenly interrupted when the prior approached the chapel.

  “What’s all this talking?” he said grumpily.

  “Our guest was asking how many visitors we’ve had over the years.”

  The prior turned to stare suspiciously at Billings with that angry scowl of his. “Are you a reporter?” he asked suddenly.

  “A reporter?”

  “Mr Billings is a detective,” Brother Martin explained. “He’s looking for a man who went missing ten years ago.”

  The prior continued to stare at Billings intently with those fierce eyes. “We do not concern ourselves with the past, Mr Billings,” he said eventually. “We stay in the present. Forever in the present.” Then he turned his back on Billings and Brother Martin and returned to the orchard.

  *

  “Scotland Yard, eh?”

  The desk sergeant was looking cynically at Billings through his eyeglasses, holding the detective’s identification badge in his hands. They were standing at the reception desk in Whitehaven police station. Billings had asked the desk sergeant if he could speak to the chief superintendent, but the desk sergeant was being awkward. “The badge looks genuine enough,” he said, still twisting and turning the badge in his hands.

  “That’s because it is genuine.” Billings was struggling to keep his patience. “Now, please will you let me see the superintendent.”

  “The superintendent’s not here, Mr Billings. He’s down at the harbour, working on a case.”

  “When will he back?”

  “That’s hard to say. There’s never any way of telling how long these things are going to take, is there? You should’ve sent us notice. You can’t expect our superintendent to be at your beck and call, Mr Billings. Even if you are from Scotland Yard.”

  Billings ignored the hostility in his tone. “Is there someone else I can talk to?”

  “Well, that depends on what it is you want to talk about, Mr Billings.”

  “I am working on a missing persons case and I need to take a look at your records.”

  “Take a look at our records?” the desk sergeant raised his eyebrows. “We can’t allow just anyone to come in and browse through our records, Mr Billings. This isn’t a public library!”

  “I’m not just anyone, am I?” Billings replied a little tetchily.

  “No. You’re Detective Sergeant Billings from Scotland Yard,” the desk sergeant said his name in a mocking, sing-songy way. This was followed by a short pause as the desk sergeant continued to look suspiciously at Billings through his eyeglasses. “Who is this missing person you’re looking for, if I may ask?”

  “His name is Sebastian Forrester.”

  “He must be a very important man if Scotland Yard is involved.”

  “This is not an official investigation,” Billings said reluctantly.

  “Not an official investigation?”

  “This is a private investigation. I’m doing a favour for a friend.”

  “So you’re not from Scotland Yard?”

  “I am from Scotla
nd Yard. I’m on my annual leave.”

  The sergeant noticed Billings’s agitation and a small smile appeared in the corner of his mouth. “I see.”

  “Now, may I please speak to someone about this.”

  “What precisely is it you wish to speak to someone about, Mr Billings?”

  “I need some information about some clothes which were found by the Pow Beck stream.”

  “’Ere, you’re not a reporter, are you?”

  Why was everyone asking him whether he was a reporter, thought Billings.

  “You are aware that it is against the law to impersonate a police officer?” the sergeant continued.

  “I am not a reporter, Sergeant. I am a genuine police detective. You have my badge in your hands.”

  “You haven’t re-opened the case of the mutilated monks, have you?”

  “The what?”

  “The great scandal at the Priory of The Holy Virgin nine years ago? Where the clothes were found?”

  “Yes,” Billings said, quick as a flash. “I have re-opened that case.”

  “Everything there is to know about that case has already been printed in the papers. There’s nothing new to report.”

  “May I please speak to someone superior,” Billings said sternly, finally losing his patience.

  “I shall have to check with the boss. This may take a while.”

  “Please take your time.”

  The sergeant went into the office behind him, taking the detective’s badge with him, while Billings took a seat on the bench and waited.

  *

  “Scotland Yard, eh?”

  Inspector Blunt was munching a beef and oyster pie. Billings was sitting at his desk opposite him, watching the corpulent inspector having his luncheon while PC Goodthwaite was in the adjacent filing room, searching through the cabinets for the report.

  “Yes,” Billings replied.

  “And you say this is a private case?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is that allowed?”

  “I’m doing it in my own time and I’m not being paid for it.”

  Billings was still feeling a little tetchy and found it hard to look Blunt in the face. The inspector kept speaking with his mouth full and Billings could see morsels of beef and oyster being soaked in saliva and mashed up between his teeth.