by Scott Hunter
“We do. Put that on your list, Sergeant. But for now, the lab, then back to Charnford. And while we’re there, you can nip into the kitchens and find out what knife polish they use.” Moran settled back and shut his eyes. “In the meantime, there’s just one thing bugging me.”
“Sir?”
“What in God’s name was John Vernon doing in Charnford chapel at five o’clock in the morning?”
Chapter 8
Snow was beginning to float from the overcast sky above Charnford Abbey as Neads swung the car into the car park. Moran dispatched his new sergeant to the school kitchens while he made a swift call to Kay. He frowned as he listened to her cultured voice dispensing the news he didn’t want to hear.
“The problem is, Brendan, the squatters have to actually force entry for us to serve an eviction order. But in this case they didn’t.”
“I know, but they weren’t exactly invited, either. Doesn’t that count for anything?” Moran said in exasperation.
Kay paused. “Well, they were and they weren’t. It just makes things a little more complicated.” Moran could hear the clink of cutlery in the background. Patrick, presumably, making a good breakfast. That was something to be grateful for, he supposed.
“Your best bet, in my view, is to go and talk to them. Try and persuade them to leave.”
“They’re not going to respond to persuasion, Kay. Take it from me.”
Kay sighed. “No, probably not, from what you’ve told me. Or you could maybe offer to help them with alternative accommodation – lend them a deposit?”
“I’m not offering them anything.”
“That’s what I thought you’d say.”
“Can you blame me?”
“No, of course not. I’d feel the same. Oh, hang on a mo–”
Moran heard Patrick commenting in the background. No doubt he was the epitome of charm today. Until the pubs opened.
Kay’s voice returned. “Patrick is offering to speak to them. He said he got on with one of them very well.”
Moran gritted his teeth. “Absolutely not. Put him on.”
“I’ll do no such thing while you’re in that mood, Brendan,” Kay said sweetly. “I’ll pass the message on, okay?”
Moran harrumphed. “Is he giving you any trouble?”
“Not a bit. We’re getting along fine.”
“Right. Well, that’s great.”
“Don’t be such a stick in the mud. He’s very charming,” Kay cajoled.
“Of course he is,” Moran said. “When he wants to be.”
“Just leave him to me, Brendan, all right? Now, I’m going to try and obtain an IPO for you–”
“A what?”
“An interim possession order. But it may be difficult due to the squatters’ means of entry.”
“I know you’ll do your best, Kay. I’m very grateful. I just haven’t got time for this.”
“I know. Once I’ve got it sorted I’ll call you, okay?”
“Thanks again, Kay. See you later.”
Moran checked his watch. Time for assembly. He went into main reception and along the monks’ cloister, joining the press of boys as they made their way to the study hall.
Hayward Hall was a lofty-ceilinged, high-windowed room presided over by two enormous plaster statues of the martyr Hugh Faringdon and the Virgin Mary. Double desks were set out facing these stern adjudicators, while in the centre of the hall a tall wooden dais gave a lofty, bird’s eye view of any misdemeanours taking place during study periods. Moran took a self-conscious seat on this scaffold-like platform beside the headmaster. The hubbub was worse than some of the press conferences Moran had been obliged to chair over his long career. And, in contrast to these encounters with his least favourite profession, where he habitually relished the opportunity to clash swords with representatives from national or local rags, on this occasion he had to admit to feeling unusually nervous.
Father Aloysius began with an ineffective plea for silence and attention, which was roundly ignored by the school until reinforcements arrived in the person of Father Oswald, wielding a quarter-length cane, which he rapped sharply on the dais leg in support of the head’s request.
“Good – thank you Oswald. Now then–” Aloysius began, his plea still making little impression over the barely subdued corporate murmur.
“Silence!” Oswald yelled in a voice that would have done a Covent Garden market trader proud. The cane swished and hit the dais again with a sharp crack that made Moran’s behind smart at the memory of his own Blackrock beatings. He wondered if the national prohibition on corporal punishment didn’t apply within Charnford’s walls, or whether the cane was just a useful prop. Either way, the effect was dramatic. A hush fell as though someone had thrown a switch.
Aloysius seized the moment. “As you are all doubtless aware, we have experienced a sad loss. I have with me Chief Inspector Moran of the Thames Valley Police who will be speaking to you in a moment. I must add that I expect you to give the Inspector and his colleagues your fullest co-operation and support.”
A few hands were up. Aloysius waved them away as though swatting a clutch of irritating flies. “You’ll have an opportunity to ask questions later. Now then, let us bow our heads in prayer and remember Father Horgan.”
During the devotions Moran allowed his eyes to rove around the assembled school, checking out the faces, the winks and nudges. Oswald, he noticed, kept an equally vigilant eye on the proceedings as Aloysius offered up his prayers.
“And now, boys, please give Inspector – Chief Inspector Moran your closest attention.”
Moran got to his feet and surveyed the upturned faces. “Morning, gentlemen. My name is Chief Inspector Moran. You’ve probably seen me snooping around over the last few days. First of all, I want to quash any rumours by being absolutely straight with you. Father Horgan was found in the chapel in the early hours of Wednesday morning by Father Benedict and one of your peers. And yes, he died in what we would term suspicious circumstances.”
A ripple of interest swept through the hall. Oswald raised the cane and silence fell. Moran moistened his lips. “Now, there is absolutely no reason for you to be fearful for your own safety. We are following a number of leads, but I am satisfied that the perpetrator means no harm to any of you or your peers. It is likely that Father Horgan’s death was precipitated by some personal disagreement.” Moran cleared his throat. “It may even have been a terrible accident. At this stage I have to be honest with you and say that I can’t be certain. However, I can assure you that school life will continue as usual for the last few days of term. Father Aloysius and I would be most appreciative if you would attend to your work, duties and relaxation in the normal way until then.”
Moran paused to allow the school to digest his words. As he mentally prepared his next point he looked beyond the open hall doors and the scrum of jostling boys crowding the entrance. A still, observant figure was standing by the notice board of the main cloister. His blood-red habit gave away his identity; Cardinal Vagnoli was evidently intending to keep abreast of developments. Father Aloysius coughed and Oswald looked up at the dais enquiringly. Moran took a breath and plunged on.
“Now, you probably have a thousand questions, and I will endeavour to address these in the time we have available. Anyone want to start us off?” Moran surveyed the anxious faces beneath him. A hand was up at the back. “Yes?”
“Has this got anything to do with Montgomery and Mason, sir? Do you know where they are? Are they in trouble?”
Moran waved his arm to silence the catcalls and name calling – the boy was clearly used to acting as spokesman, and Moran recalled that Charnford was proud of its thriving debating society. It had produced outstanding orators in its time – John Vernon for one. Moran tried to inject a note of optimism into his reply. “We’re not certain. At the moment they are still classed as missing.”
Another hand, a younger boy this time. “Sir, are we going to miss Christmas?”
&nb
sp; More catcalls, this time interspersed with genuine expressions of support for the fourth former, were quashed once again by Oswald’s swishing baton. When the noise had died down Moran said, “I sincerely hope not, son. I may well be asking some of you to spend a little time with my sergeant or myself to give us a clearer picture of the life of the school over the last few weeks, but I doubt whether I’ll need to keep you here after the end of term. Christmas is safe, all right?”
There was a loud cheer in response. Moran felt a sudden rush of empathy as he watched the raised arms and relieved expressions. With this came a fresh determination to cut through the thinly-disguised veneer of apparent yet ineffective co-operation that had plagued him since the start of the investigation.
As the boys dispersed for their morning lessons he reflected that, in all his years investigating unexpected deaths, this had to be the strangest case by far. The parameters were of a different order. Was he dealing with a crime of passion? Unlikely; the monks were dead to any worldly passion. Greed, then? No. Each had taken a vow of poverty. Pride, perhaps? Doubtful; the Benedictine’s pride was, if anywhere, in his compassion to his fellow man. But they still have sinful hearts, Moran. Don’t forget that. You can wear a habit and profess to reject worldly things, but does the soul comply with that request? Or is it still subject to the desires of the flesh?
Moran watched the snowflakes settle on the windscreen. He could hear plainsong echoing around the vault of the abbey church, carried on the wind to the surrounding playing fields. He levered himself out of the car before sleep caught him unawares and followed the path to the church door. Where better to ambush the good monks of Charnford than on their way out of Benediction?
The church interior was a vast, lofty space brightened by the lightness of the stone from which it had been built. It felt airy and welcoming, quite unlike the sombre, wood-panelled Anglican churches Moran had visited for sundry weddings and funerals over the years. The monks’ voices rose and fell with a hypnotic quality, filling the void with an insistent and seductive charm.
The monks were seated at the far end of the nave, facing each other in carved chorister stalls. A scattering of laity sat at respectful distances from each other on the simple wooden seating. The nearest of these attentive souls was Holly Whitbread, her hair gathered into a neat bun at the base of her shapely neck. Moran deliberated for a moment, and then slid into the seat at the end of her row. She acknowledged him with a smile and a downward tilt of her eyelids and he felt his heartbeat quicken. Come on, Moran, concentrate on the job . . .
It took a few minutes to identify the gathered community. The abbot was instantly recognisable, even from this distance, and the headmaster equally so. Who else did he need to talk to? The bursar, that was it. Moran wanted updates on the finances; he also wanted to probe deeper into the headmaster’s reluctance to act concerning the missing boys. Moran tucked his notebook away. It was going to be a busy afternoon.
The ritual concluded twenty minutes later and the monks fell silent. No one moved. Holly glanced over and motioned that she wanted to join him on the adjacent seat. Moran concurred, trying not to feel absurdly pleased that she had granted even this small intimacy. He grudgingly admitted to himself that the prime subject matter demanding his attention was neither the late Father Horgan nor John Vernon, nor the posse of migrants who had stolen his home, nor even Patrick’s rehabilitation, but a teacher of English Literature named Holly Whitbread.
“Hi,” she whispered. “I hope you don’t think me rude for not joining you earlier. I didn’t want to break the spell.” She smiled, her clear eyes alert for his response.
“I know what you mean,” Moran agreed. “There’s something captivating about plainchant. Hypnotic.”
“Isn’t it?” Holly agreed. “Takes you out of yourself.”
“That wouldn’t be a bad thing in my case,” Moran conceded.
“Oh dear. That doesn’t sound good.” She inclined her head to one side and Moran caught some subtle fragrance in the small movement of air. He wanted to touch her, to take her hand and lead her away into some idyllic future where murders and monasteries were things of the past, but as the monks began to file towards the cloister that led to the school buildings he made himself stand up. “Please excuse me.” He nodded towards the black figures. “I have to catch one or two of the community.”
“Oh, well, don’t let me hold you up,” Holly said. “If you fancy a break later, I’ll be doing some marking in the cottage. You could drop in for a coffee?”
“I’d like that very much.” Moran tried not to let his exultation show. “See you later, then.”
He walked briskly up the aisle and reached the cloister just before the abbot. The procession stopped in its tracks.
“Inspector. Was it myself you were after, or one of the brethren?”
Moran returned a businesslike smile. A thought had occurred to him, an appealing thought which meant an end to the cat-and-mouse games of the last few days. “I’d like to speak to all of you actually, Father Abbot. Each in turn, in the chapel sacristy, starting at four o’clock, at fifteen minute intervals. I’d be obliged if you would draw up a timetable for the brothers. Save a lot of time and bother. We’ll start with you, if you have no objection?”
The abbot hesitated. The eyes of the community were upon him. His parchment-like skin gave away no emotion. “Very well, Inspector. I look forward to speaking with you at four.”
Moran stepped aside to let them pass.
The abbot closed his study door and stepped into familiar, comforting shadows. He freed his head from its enclosing black cowl and swept a gnarled hand over what remained of his chalk-grey hair. Who had disturbed Fergus? And why? It was an outrage. There’d be trouble for sure, a great deal of trouble.
Boniface moved slowly across the room and sank into his padded leather chair. His back pained him; the choir stalls were not designed for comfort. But comfort had been an elusive companion for a long time. His skin itched and irritated with every movement of clothing; his starched bedclothes rubbed and chafed whichever position he assumed. One got used to it, of course, in a way, but there were days when he longed for the sensation of silk against cool flesh, nights when he dreamed he had sloughed off his seared skin like a snake. And yet he endured – indeed, it was fitting that he did so. The community must be led by example. The Bible decreed that sin must be ruthlessly expunged, and his ruined body was a living example of the mortification of the flesh; that’s how he had always dealt with his failings – even before he had taken the cloth. He was grateful that God had shown him the need to burn away the chaff so that atonement could be made, because his sins had been many. One in particular – a sin of omission, not commission – a time when he should have acted, should have done something. And yet he had not. How different life might have been if during that instant he had acted.
Boniface poured a glass of water and sipped it thoughtfully. He had to take care, great care. The contents of the blessed chamber must be restored and the Titulus reconsecrated to the community when all this was over. He licked his scarred lips. Yes, that was the right approach. The secret was out, so a little damage control was going to be necessary. But perhaps the knowledge of the presence of the Titulus would act as a spiritual incentive to the lives of the brothers.
A problem remained, however: who had removed the Titulus? He had an inkling, the ghost of a notion, and if he were to be proved correct it wouldn’t be too much trouble to retrieve it – after due punishment had been inflicted, naturally. No, the Titulus hadn’t gone far, he was sure, so that was one little worry to put aside.
The main issue was poor Fergus. How often he had tended him, quietly, lovingly, sharing fellowship in the quietness of the chamber – like father and son. The abbot smiled, savouring the memories. Such communion over so many years, and not even that interfering so-and-so Horgan had suspected.
Boniface ground his fist into the polished wood of his desk. That dictator had paid for
his presumption, although the fruit of that presumption had yet to be ejected from the orchard like the rotten apple it was. Yes, Vagnoli was another priority, that meddler from Rome, hovering in the cloisters like some disease waiting to spread poison amongst the brotherhood. How dare he contemplate the idea of returning to the Holy See with Charnford’s most precious relic under his arm? No, it was not going to happen. The sacred Titulus would find its way back to its rightful home. He would make sure of that.
The abbot folded his arms in his lap, rocking back and forth to the rhythmic creak of his chair. And Fergus, the dear boy – what monster had disturbed his rest? It had to be put right. The boy would be feeling disoriented, perhaps even angry . . . Boniface quickly downed his water, this last panicky thought spurring him into action. It’s all right, Fergus, I’m coming. I’m coming to find you . . .
Moran consulted his watch. Seven minutes past four. He hadn’t expected the abbot to be late. Should he call Kay while he was waiting? No point; she’d be in touch as soon as she had something. And where the hell was Neads? He hadn’t reappeared from his kitchen mission. How hard was it to interview a few kitchen maids? Moran blew out his cheeks and rubbed his hands to get his circulation going. The sacristy was like a fridge. Phelps had been right: there was something about Charnford that seemed to hold the temperature down, as if the abbey were under some kind of Narnian spell. Moran rapped his knuckles on the desk. Give it a rest, Moran. You’ll be seeing ghosts next . . .
A sharp tap on the door made him jump. “Come in!” His voice thundered in the enclosed space.
The abbot appeared, a quizzical expression stretched across his puckered features. “There’s no need to bellow, Chief Inspector. I apologise for my lateness – I had something urgent to attend to.”
“Please, have a seat,” Moran gestured.
Boniface inspected the skeletal chair Moran had provided for his interviewees with distaste. That was fine; Moran wanted to meet Boniface on his terms this time, out of the comfort zone of his curtained office. It might unsettle the man enough for him to slip up – provided he was withholding information, of course. But Moran was sure of his ground here. He knew when someone was holding back.
