Murder at the Monastery, page 18
part #3 of A Canon Clement Mystery Series
She said this with a hint of vehemence, which checked Bernard’s angrier impulse, and he breathed heavily a couple of times before collecting himself.
‘Sunday service, Holy Communion and Choral Evensong here at St Mary’s. Two bottles of Latour ’78,’ he said.
‘Half a case,’ said Dolben.
‘If you do Matins as well.’
‘I will do Holy Communion and Evensong. And only for half a case.’
Bernard was so annoyed he could only nod.
‘And I shall look forward to seeing you there, my lord. Pour encourager les autres?’
Daniel knocked on the door of the guest master, Father Dominic. Like every other monk he had two jobs, succentor to Father Paulinus’s precentor and this – not one of the most sought-after jobs in the monastery, for it obliged the holder to engage with strangers.
Father Dominic did not wish to engage with strangers at all, for he was unusually shy, even for a monk. It was shyness that had made him a schoolmaster, for he was least uncomfortable when he was in the society of people junior to him, and the part he played in their life was not negotiated but given. Prep-school master had been an ideal choice, especially because he had taught at his old school and so there was an additional benefit of familiarity. Had it not been for the nervous breakdown – or, rather, the unfortunate events that led to his nervous breakdown – he would have stayed, but he could not stay, and so he sought a safer refuge in the cloistered silence of a monastery.
That had not worked out as he’d expected either, or not entirely, because Aelred’s belief was that it is the duty of an abbot to do the opposite of what the brethren wanted him to do. Better to test them beyond endurance for the benefit of their immortal souls than merely accommodate the obvious for reasons of convenience. And so the congenitally untidy were made sacristans, the physically idle gardeners, the dyspraxic masters of ceremony. ‘It’s not about what you want, but what God wants,’ Aelred would say to disappointed brethren who were hoping to get the library but got the chickens instead.
It was the ‘firm expectation’ that any job would be accepted without demur, complaint or refusal, for it stated in chapter sixty-eight of the Rule, in a phrase Aelred had long ago committed to memory, ‘If a brother be assigned a burdensome task or something he cannot do, he should, with complete gentleness and obedience, accept the order given him.’ ‘It is not about us,’ Aelred would add. ‘It is never about us.’
The cleverer monks, seeing this coming, would sometimes try to manoeuvre themselves into the job they wanted by pretending it was the last thing they wanted – ‘Oh, Father Aelred,’ they would say, ‘I’ve made a terrible mess of printing the Advent booklets, I just can’t get the hang of the photocopier . . .’ to enhance their chances of being appointed liturgical publisher, which meant a nice warm office, as much tea as you wanted, and playing around with layout.
Aelred was not stupid, however, and he knew his powers, and his rights under the Rule. When one particularly wily senior monk saw the position of prior – perhaps the most onerous in the monastery – coming his way and attempted to dodge it not by saying how much he would dislike the job, but by saying he was actually incapable of doing it, Aelred reminded him that if the weight of the burden was altogether too much for his strength, then the brother should ‘choose the appropriate moment and explain patiently to his superior the reasons why he cannot perform the task without pride, obstinacy or refusal. And if after the explanation the superior is still determined to hold to his original order, then the junior must recognise that this is best for him. Trusting in God’s help, he must in love obey.’
You could often tell those who were in love obeying Aelred’s decision by their gritted teeth, but the Rule was the Rule and the abbot’s decision was final.
Which was why Father Dominic, who would have found the incessant socialising of a desert island a trial, was guest master.
He did his best to be out when people needed him, and his best never to answer a ring on the bell at the gate, and some guests arriving had waited there so long they had eventually lost heart and gone home. The more persistent would track him down, sooner or later, as Daniel had that afternoon, to arrange accommodation for Neil, who was waiting in the bookshop at the main door.
Daniel did not wait for Father Dominic to invite him in but knocked and entered, which rather startled him.
‘Crispin! I hope everything is satisfactory. Only Father Aelred put you in without consulting me due to the very late hour of your arrival. Fortunately, there was a room available, but I did not have time to air it or put one of those little milks on your tray . . .’
‘It’s fine, Father. It’s Daniel now, by the way.’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘And I want to book in a guest, if I may?’
Father Dominic opened his desk diary and tilted it towards him as if the contents needed to be protected from another’s scrutiny.
‘Who and when? Only we have the Companions’ Retreat coming soon and then we’re always busy with retreatants in Advent . . .’
‘Mr Neil Vanloo. And he’s waiting outside.’
‘That’s rather . . . instantaneous?’
‘A spiritual crisis, Father. I would not ask, only Mr Vanloo is known to me and I can vouch for him.’
‘But we have you here, and Bede’s poor parents . . .’
‘There is room, Father. And the abbot was—’
‘Yes, the abbot, the abbot . . .’ Dominic shrugged in a very Aelred way and said, ‘I should so very much dislike to cause you any inconvenience, Father, but as the ark was obliged to find room on board for every living thing of all flesh, two of every sort, so we are obliged to accommodate the ladies of the Batley Mothers’ Union on their Advent retreat . . .’
Dominic’s imitation was so well observed that the pleasure it gave was immediately tempered by the thought that what he could do for Aelred he might do for you.
Dominic closed the desk diary. ‘Can he pay?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is he a student or a pensioner or on benefits?’
‘None of those.’
The guest master sighed. ‘Well, I suppose he had better have Room 12. It’s the same floor as you. Vanloo, you say?’
‘Neil Vanloo.’
‘Is he a Dutchman?’
‘No, from over the Pennines actually – Oldham.’
‘Oh dear. Does he need me to explain things to him?’
‘No, I can do all that.’
‘I hope I can get him on the list for supper tonight. Only I noticed you were not at lunch today, although you were signed in, which caused some inconvenience.’
‘My apologies, Father, but Mr Vanloo arrived unexpectedly and . . . well, pastoral necessity, you know?’
‘Only we’re having salmon, it being a feast day, and I don’t know if there’s enough to stretch. Such short notice. But I shall try. Help yourself to the key.’ Dominic pointed at a board with rows of hooks, from which dangled keys on wooden fobs marked with numbers in marker pen. ‘It is an awkward time, Crisp— Father. That poor novice dead in an awful accident. I have half a mind to ask Father Aelred that we close to guests. It’s very disruptive when something like this happens.’
‘I know it is, Father,’ said Daniel. ‘I have had more than my share of disruption in the past little while.’
Father Dominic frowned. ‘Well, yes, you would know. I hope this doesn’t follow you around.’
‘What?’
‘Murder, mayhem, mishap.’
‘I don’t think it works like that,’ said Daniel.
‘Don’t you?’ said Dominic. ‘I’ve known clergy who were like lightning conductors for evil. Wherever they went, awful things happened. It’s as if the devil was following them around waiting to pounce.’
Daniel took the key for Room 12 from the board. ‘Do you think the devil has pounced here?’
‘Wouldn’t be the first time,’ said Dominic.
‘In what way?’
‘In what way what?’
‘Murder, mayhem, mishap?’ said Daniel.
Father Dominic suddenly looked even more deflated than usual. ‘Oh, mishap, mishap, mishap.’
Daniel said nothing. A few seconds ticked past.
‘Mishap,’ said Father Dominic finally, but he sounded slightly hesitant.
Daniel went to leave, but then stopped. ‘Do you think, Father, that there may be more to Bede’s death than a simple verdict of death by misadventure?’
‘Nothing is ever simple, is it, Father?’ said Dominic.
‘But do you have any suspicions about Bede’s death?’
‘I thought you were here on retreat?’ Dominic stood up and smiled. ‘Good day, Father. I hope Mr Van Dyke—’
‘Vanloo.’
‘—has a peaceful and fulfilling stay with us.’
Daniel nodded, and left.
Neil was browsing the community’s publications in the little bookshop. There was a history of the abbey of Ravenspurn, books of plainsong chants, Spiritual Exercises for Single Persons, and one that had caught Neil’s attention, Keeping Hens.
‘Something for everyone?’
‘The monastery has always kept hens. We used to keep sheep and cattle too, though not any more, but the hens stayed. We all had to take a turn looking after them. One of my more hated duties.’
‘Why hated?’
‘Have you ever kept hens?’ Daniel asked.
‘No. It was more pigeons when I was a lad.’ Daniel could never be sure if Neil was joking when he spoke about his northern roots. ‘Are they difficult to keep, then?’
‘No, not really, quite easy, but like everything here, it’s a question of balance. Some of us got quite involved with the hens. More involved than we should. They became more like pets. And singular attachments are frowned on in a monastery.’
‘Singular attachments?’
‘Getting too fond of someone.’ Daniel blushed. ‘That’s the hardest balance to keep. It upsets everything if two of the brethren become particularly close.’
‘Brethren, yes, but chickens?’
‘Lonely people form attachments. Spinsters and cats. Widowers and terriers.’
Neil frowned. ‘I just don’t understand why anyone would come here.’
‘Love to the loveless shown, that they might lovely be.’
‘I know that. What’s it from?’
‘A hymn.’
Neil half sang, half muttered, ‘My song is love unknown . . . my Saviour’s love to me . . . love to the loveless shown, that they might lovely be.’
‘Yes, different tune from ours, that’s “Rhosymedre”, a lovely old Welsh tune. Ours is more recent, by John Ireland. He lived at Deal—’
‘We sang it at church,’ Neil interrupted. ‘It was in our hymn book. Number 145. Good Friday?’
‘Passiontide.’
‘I’ve never thought of it like that,’ Neil said.
‘How do you mean?’
‘So . . . wretched.’
‘I don’t think it’s wretched,’ said Daniel.
Neil nodded. ‘Hens? People getting too close to hens?’
‘It wasn’t the hens; it was undermining the detachment we need to function. Because we ate them as well as their eggs and that was too upsetting for the younger novices who had looked after them and given them names. It caused one of the worst rows we ever had.’
‘A poultry matter.’
It was one of those jokes Daniel did not at first recognise. ‘To an outsider, that’s . . . oh, Neil.’ He produced the key. ‘Let me show you the guest house.’
They left through the side door that led from the car park to the bookshop and the offices, and beyond them the monastic buildings. It was secured with a coded push-button lock.
‘The code is C1841X. Press each button till it clicks. Then the handle will turn and the door will open. Try it – it’s a bit difficult at first.’
Neil jabbed at the buttons with fingers that looked too big for the job, but he got it and the handle turned.
‘That’s it,’ said Daniel, ‘and you’ll remember 1841 because it was the year Tract 90 came out, which caused all the fuss.’
‘I’m not going to remember that.’
‘I’ll write it down for you. Same code to open the door to the guest house.’
The guest house stood at the other side of the car park, made from the same grey stone as the monastery with windows made of diamond panes set in black painted iron. Inside the floor was laid with red-brown lino and a plain flight of stairs led to a plain landing. A door, painted in institutional cream, opened onto a lino-floored corridor with doors on either side.
‘It’s not quite the Hilton,’ said Daniel.
‘It’s just like the place where I trained,’ said Neil. ‘Which one are you?’
‘I’m eight,’ said Daniel. ‘You’re twelve. Here’s the key. The bathrooms and loos are through the doors opposite. Do you want a minute to settle?’
‘It won’t take a minute.’
‘No, you don’t have anything with you.’
‘I do actually, a bag in the car.’
‘You thought you might be staying?’ Daniel asked.
‘I didn’t know. But I came prepared. Clean shirt and a razor. I can get them later.’
‘Don’t you have to be in Braunstonbury?’
‘I took some leave. I’m owed weeks,’ said Neil.
‘But what about the Biddle murder?’
‘Man arrested and charged. Full confession. He’ll plead guilty. There’s not much to do. You did it all.’
‘What about Honoria?’
‘She made me come.’
‘Out of pity?’ said Daniel.
‘For me,’ said Neil.
‘Why you?’
‘Dan . . .’
Daniel nodded eventually, then said, ‘Let’s concentrate on what we’re going to do.’
It was a drizzly afternoon in Champton. After Honoria returned from Pitcote and reversed the delicate handover of Canon Dolben – Aubrey to the nursing staff – she decided on a walk in the park. There was something stuffy, with the awful suggestion of incontinence, about an old folks’ home that she wanted to dispel, so she took the wet, wind-tousled Holly Walk from the north side of the house through the garden to the park and the lake beyond,
She took Cosmo for company, and he raced ahead of her through the ragged avenue of holly and ivy – how Christmassy, she thought – towards the badgers’ setts that lay along the banked sides of the path, irresistible temptations to dachshunds, bred to hunt these creatures, an aptitude of which Honoria was unaware.
She wanted not only to clear her head of the clinging atmosphere of the old folks’ home, but also to think through what she was going to do about Neil Vanloo, or PC Bod as Alex had started calling him. While she quite liked having a sexy cop for a lover, she had no more interest in the Police and Criminal Evidence Act than Lady Chatterley in the husbandry of grouse.
In her friendships and family relationships Honoria was not incapable of kindness or empathy or generosity, but there was a manageable distance to them, a distance she did not want to surrender to Neil as lovers are supposed to do.
She sometimes wondered if this meant there was something wrong with her. So many of her romantic attachments were malformed in comparison with those of most of her friends, but if this ever worried her, it was not enough for her to do anything about it, apart from bail out when irritation overtook desire.
A rush of wind came funnelling up from the lake as Honoria reached the end of the Holly Walk. She sat on one of the uneven stone steps that led down to a field, blue or yellow in spring with linseed or oilseed, but now ploughed, and the iron-rich deep-red earth lay in shiny furrows like thick corduroy. Then she realised she was more alone than she wanted to be, for Cosmo had not reappeared from the bushes.
‘Cosmo! Cosmo!’ she called, but nothing came scampering towards her through the holly and the ivy.
Daniel was showing Neil round the monastery grounds. The turbine house was still out of bounds, but he took Neil to the perimeter as far as he could, then reapproached the monastery through the Calvary, where departed brethren lay in lines under their wooden crosses, awaiting the Resurrection. Each cross was carved with their name – just the name they were known by in the community – the date of their death and the simplest prayer:
WILFRED
1934
Jesu Mercy
ODO
1949
Jesu Mercy
WALTER
1922
Jesu Mercy
BRUNO
1970
Jesu Mercy
DOMINIC
1906
Jesu Mercy
‘Didn’t we just talk to Dominic?’ said Neil.
‘A different Dominic,’ said Daniel. ‘The name gets reused when a monk dies. Or leaves. I replaced a Crispin and a Crispin replaced me. Everything is reused when a monk dies; we don’t waste anything. When we clear their cells all their possessions, pens, socks, toothbrushes even, are left out in the hall and we help ourselves to anything we need.’
‘Toothbrushes?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s disgusting.’
‘I think it was more of a gesture than an effort at oral hygiene,’ said Daniel. ‘We own nothing, we have no possessions, everything is the community’s. When we go someone else picks up where we leave off. My cloak – you know the black one I wear for funerals?’
‘The big Dracula cloak?’
‘It’s a Melton actually, but yes. That came from Boniface.’ He pointed at a grave.
‘Did you know many of them?’ asked Neil.
‘Most of this row. Hugh, Benedict, Ambrose . . . I thought I would take my place in the middle of the next row or the next row. I would have liked that.’
‘Why?’
‘Belonging,’ Daniel said simply.
