“That’s Father Pierre Pelletier,” Hobbs said quietly. “He’s probably mad at us for brushing this off as vandalism.”
“Let’s hope we don’t have to look at any bodies.” Thierry shuddered, keeping pace with the English detective. “I have just eaten.”
“Do you see?” the priest cried, pointing at three unearthed coffins. “This is terrible. Who would do such a thing?”
The two police officers peered down into the first hole. A blackened skeleton stared back at them from vacant eye sockets, its frame almost void of any scraps of clothing. The next two were in no better shape and gave off a putrid smell that lingered in the cold air. Great mounds of wet earth were piled up alongside each grave and a trail of deep footprints littered the area.
“This looks like it’s somebody quite heavy,” Hobbs observed, measuring the depth of the print with his thumb. “See how deep that boot has sunken into the mud.”
“Boot?” Father Pelletier repeated.
“Yes, sir, you can tell it’s some kind of outdoor boot by the patterns on the sole, kind of zig-zagged.”
“Zig-zag?”
Thierry quickly translated and squatted down next to his colleague.
“Do you think there is relevance to the person in the grave?”
Hobbs rubbed at the ginger stubble on his chin. “The last one was a pauper… you know, a poor person, so it’s hard to say. Could be just random.”
“Would you know if anything was missing from the body?” Thierry asked the priest, who was desperately trying to stop his hat from flying off in the wind.
“I don’t think so. People with wealth are usually buried in family tombs or in the crypt underneath the church, and these graves are so very old.”
“May we see the crypt?” Jack asked. “Just to check nothing has been disturbed.”
“Of course,” agreed the priest, “follow me.”
The underbelly of Saint Magdalena’s was accessed by a set of narrow stone steps that led to an ancient wooden door, so weathered that the external panels were grey. The old priest waited on the grassy verge while the other two men descended into the gloomy depths, making excuses that it would be too tight for three of them, but in truth he looked uncomfortable with the thought of being in such a tightly enclosed space full of corpses.
Hobbs turned the handle, using two hands to compensate for the stiffness.
“This hasn’t been opened for a long time,” he commented.
“So, no need to look inside,” Thierry whispered over his shoulder. “Let’s just go.”
Jack shook his head. “Sorry my friend, we’ve got a job to do.”
With one last shove the door creaked open and a musty, damp odour hit them. Row upon row of deep, carved stone shelves came into view as Jack shone the light from his mobile phone across the dusty walls. Cobwebs hung loosely from their invisible tethers, brushing against the men’s heads as they ventured forward.
“Well?” Thierry panted, putting a hand on his colleague’s arm. “Anything?”
Hobbs shone the beam up and down, catching glimpses of caskets and their sacred remains. “Nothing, I don’t think anyone’s been down here in years.”
“Then let’s get out of here.”
Back outside in the blustery graveyard, Father Pierre stood clutching at his long cloak, resembling a warlock rather than a parish priest, Jack thought.
“Detectives?” he ventured. “How does it look?”
“I don’t think anything’s been touched down there,” the Yorkshireman admitted, gesturing back towards the crypt, “but I think we’d better arrange for surveillance to keep an eye on the church tonight.”
“All night?”
“Yes. Don’t worry, if anyone comes digging tonight, we’ll catch them.”
“Thank you, Detective Hobbs,” the clergyman nodded. “I have some information for you inside the church.”
THEOBOLD RAINIER 1602 – 1672
MARIANNE LEK 1733 – 1789
CLAUDE PAQUET 1650 – 1678
“These are the names of the people buried in those graves?” Thierry queried, looking closely at the list. “Were they all paupers?”
Pierre Pelletier dipped his chin, the lines on his wrinkled neck disappearing into his dog-collar. “Yes, all buried by the parish, with church money.”
“So, these… how to say, Jack, grave diggers?... they are looking for poor people? Men and women buried with no possessions?”
“Grave robbers. Seems that way.” Hobbs sighed, feeling confused. “It’s a mystery to me. Hopefully, the lucky officers on duty tonight will catch them.”
Back in the car, the two detectives looked at one another and then at the clock on the dashboard. It was almost one o’clock.
“Fabron’s boulangerie?” Jack winked, anticipating the excellent pâtisserie and crusty French bread that he knew the baker would have freshly prepared.
Thierry sat back in the passenger’s seat and rubbed his stomach. “Oh, yes!”
“Perhaps we can ask Monsieur Fabron if he knows anything about the monks at Saint Augustin’s while we’re there.”
“Good thinking, my friend.”
As the detectives approached Saint Margaux through winding lanes and high hedgerows, Hobbs pointed out the abundance of foxgloves growing in the area, their pretty, multi-coloured blooms swaying in the November breeze.
“See, there,” he pointed, lifting a hand from the steering-wheel, “with the monastery just over there, it wouldn’t take much for one of the monks to walk down the driveway and pick a handful of those.”
“And from that, the poison can be extracted?”
Thierry looked incredulous, imagining the great science behind the creation of a potent drug strong enough to kill.
“Yes, from that you get digitalis. It would take someone with a great deal of knowledge to know exactly how much was required and how to disguise it, though. I believe the taste is fairly bitter,” Jack explained.
“Amazing. Even more amazing that a man of God would commit murder.”
“You’re not wrong there, Thierry.”
“Want to bet?”
“On what? The guilty suspect?” Hobbs laughed.
“Yes,” Thierry shrugged, “why not? Twenty euros says it was the old abbot.”
“You’re on,” Jack shot back, churning the possible culprits over in his mind. “Okay, I’m going for Brother Cécil, he seems a right dodgy character.”
Thierry broke out in a fit of giggles at the analogy. “Dodgy character… oh, man!”
Maurice Fabron was reaching the end of his customer queue when the two police officers arrived. He greeted them with a wave of the hand as he finished wrapping a warm, foot-long baguette.
“Merci, Madame,” he smiled as the woman shifted away from the counter, allowing his attention to turn to the unlikely duo now making their way to a table in the corner, “au revoir.”
“Hi there, Maurice,” Jack greeted the boulangerie owner familiarly. “This is my colleague, Thierry. You might remember him from the arrest of Simone and Gaston. Thought we’d treat ourselves to lunch.”
“Ah, yes. I remember you well. Bonjour, Détective….”
“Everyone just calls me Thierry,” the dark-skinned young man joked. “So, what’s on the menu today, Monsieur Fabron?”
“Maurice,” the baker told him cheerily. “Well, we have French onion tart, or some sage and Gruyère palmiers. Both warm from the oven.”
“Are those the flaky, whirly ones?” Hobbs enquired, pointing to the heated glass display cabinet.
“Indeed!” Maurice grinned. “One of each, perhaps? And coffee?”
The detectives made enthusiastic noises as the Frenchman moved to serve them and then Jack recalled his ulterior motive for calling in at the bakery.
“Well, I don’t know if I can be of any help,” Maurice began, as the men tucked into their lunch. “We see very little of the monks here in the village, except for Brother Cédric.”
The detective’s eyes lifted, and Thierry wiped his mouth with a paper serviette. “Cédric? Why him in particular?”
“Well, he often comes in for a chocolate pastry or éclair. It’s strange really, I suppose. None of the others come. It’s almost as though he’s eating secretly.”
Jack and Thierry looked at one another, Hobbs feeling as though he might just be lifting the twenty euro bet from his colleague’s fingers very soon. Although greed alone didn’t make Brother Cédric a murderer, Jack was pretty sure that the Benedictine monk’s sweet tooth was breaking a few Holy vows.
Not to be outdone, Thierry turned an inquisitive eye. “And Abbot Arnaud?”
“Well naturally, if we hold festivities or summer markets the abbot comes to the village, but generally we don’t see him. It’s the younger ones, the novices, that we see at these events mostly.”
Both police officers nodded, lost in their own thoughts for a second.
“Have you still not found the murderer?” Maurice went on. “It’s very, erm, disturbing for the people of Saint Margaux. The second murder in just a few months… it’s unthinkable! We are all very concerned.”
Jack swallowed the last bite of his palmier and shook his head. “Don’t you worry, we’ll have someone behind bars very soon.”
The baker fixed him with a keen eye and acquiesced. “Do you know, Detective Hobbs, I believe you will.”
“Right, we’d best get a few cakes to take back with us and settle the bill please, Maurice. Oh, and a little something for you…”
Hobbs dashed out to the Ford Mondeo and returned with a bar of Kendall Mint Cake. “There you go, compliments of my mum.”
Monsieur Fabron slid the block of peppermint towards him and grinned before shouting into the back kitchen. “Telo, es-tu libre maintenant?”
A head of dark hair with a floppy fringe peered around the interior door, smiling at the detectives, the young man’s frame mostly covered by a white chef’s apron. Telo Fabron had grown more mature in both his appearance and demeanour, Hobbs thought, and it was great to see father and son working side by side so amicably.
“Au revoir,” Jack and Thierry called as they left, Hobbs juggling his car keys while the other detective clung tightly to a box of pâtisserie. “Merci beaucoup.”
Arriving back at police headquarters just minutes before the designated time, Thierry placed the box of cakes on a table next to the whiteboard and headed for the coffee machine.
Inspector Mallery was deep in conversation with Luc and Gabriella but raised an eyebrow inquisitively. “Fabron’s?”
“Oui, bien sur,” the dark detective grinned, whilst his red-headed,
freckled counterpart flopped into a desk chair, “pâtisseries delicieuses.”
“Excellent. What’s the situation at Saint Magdalena’s?” Max pressed, eager to catch up with their secondary inquiry.
“Somebody…” Thierry called across the room, pointing both index fingers at Jack, “has promised Father Pierre that there will be overnight surveillance.”
“Okay,” the senior officer considered, rubbing his smooth chin. “Who’s going to volunteer?”
Hobbs immediately pretended to look at some notes on his desk, whilst Thierry fiddled frantically with the coffee machine.
“Come on, somebody’s got to go.”
Gabriella flicked her long blonde ponytail and smiled sweetly. “Okay, me. I’m not scared of staking out a church in the middle of the night.”
Thierry swung around, clattering cups as he did so. “Hey, who said I’m scared?”
“That’s settled then. Thierry and Gabriella, you’ll be spending the night at Saint Magdalena’s. I’m going to be at the hospital, checking who’s coming and going at the abbot’s bedside, so that leaves you two…” he swung around to face Jack and Luc, “to keep watch on the monastery.”
Hobbs sat open-mouthed for a moment. “Hang on, sir. You think these events, the murder and the grave-robbing, are connected somehow, don’t you?”
Max clicked his fingers. “Very good, Jacques.You see, we have a Bible which connects us to the abbot and Noel Van Beek, but most importantly, there is a missing map, which I think could be a location in the graveyard at Salbec.”
“Seriously?” Luc added, looking incredulously at his boss.
“Yes, indeed. The grave-digging only began when the Bible appeared, and Annalise Van Beek seems very distraught that the map is missing, non?”
Four heads nodded in agreement.
“This is either a genius bit of detective work,” Jack sighed, pushing a hand through his thick, fiery red hair, “or we’re being stitched up.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN – UNLUCKY FOR SOME
Jack Hobbs crouched down in the long, damp grass, his binoculars trained with precision on Saint Augustin’s monastery. It had been three hours since their arrival and the young detective’s watch showed that it was nearing midnight, yet there was still no sign of movement in the great sandstone building.
“These remind me of mouse shit,” Luc whispered in his colleague’s ear, “but they taste pretty good.”
Hobbs shifted himself and turned to look at the man beside him, who was tucking into his second Eccles cake with great fervour. “Don’t let my mum catch you saying that, they’re a local speciality at home.”
The computer whizz grinned, polishing off the crumbly pastry filled with dried fruit. “As I said, it’s good, but different.”
Hobbs lifted the binoculars back up to his tired eyes and sighed. “Still nothing. All the lights are off now, too.”
“Wait.” Luc held up a hand. “What was that?”
Both men strained their ears, tuning in to the faint rumble of an engine as it was started up, but the sound was almost immediately drowned out by the chiming of the clock-tower bell striking twelve.
“Let’s get down to the hedge,” Jack suggested, beckoning quickly. “If we hide behind the brambles, we might get a glimpse of whoever’s in the van.”
Luc was only two steps behind as, camouflaged well in dark waterproof jackets and jeans, the two young detectives raced from the lone oak tree in the middle of the field to the bordering hedge.
Brother Ernest sat waiting in the monastery-owned minivan, only turning on the engine once his passenger had arrived, and then doing so quickly in order to keep the noise to a minimum. He’d timed their departure perfectly to coincide with the chiming of the great bell.
The man beside him shifted his bulky frame to get comfortable, padded out even more than usual by the woollen winter layers underneath his cassock, thick socks and rubber boots completing his unusual ensemble.
“Let’s go,” the man muttered gruffly, his gaze focussing on the rear of the vehicle where a couple of spades and some heavy-duty gloves lay, “before anyone hears us. Take the usual road.”
The young novice nodded, thinking not only of the arduous task ahead, but of the promised money that the elderly monk had assured him would be forthcoming once the hidden treasure was found. Brother Ernest wasn’t privy to the details, he only knew that they were searching for buried gold and jewels, quite literally hidden beneath the ground within the owner’s casket.
The two detectives crouched low, leaning in against sharp brambles as the van rumbled towards them, gears grating as it slowed to a halt at the gate before turning left towards Salbec.
Luc tentatively lifted his head.
“Did you recognise him?” Jack gasped, as soon as the van had sped away.
“Oui,” Luc nodded. “He’s one of the young novices, Ernest or Claude. I’ll have to check the database to find out exactly which one, but I’ve seen him before.”
“What about the passenger?”
“Non, the driver’s head was in the way.”
“Come on,” Jack said hurriedly, “let’s get back to the car and radio the others to look out for them. It seems Mallery was right about a connection, after all.”
With muddy boots and tired limbs, the detectives qu
ickly made their way back to the Mondeo which was parked further up the lane towards the village of Saint Margaux, where a hot flask of tea and more Eccles cakes awaited them.
Cosy inside Gabriella’s Mini, Thierry clicked on the radio and listened intently.
The message from Hobbs was short and sweet: two monks from Saint Augustin’s were heading towards Salbec in a van, possibly to the church.
“Okay, got that, Jack,” the pair answered in unison, watching the road ahead intently, which at that current moment was dark and deserted.
Ten minutes later, two round, bright headlights approached and the shape of a small minivan appeared out of the gloom.
Gabriella nudged her colleague. “Ça vient.”
Instinctively, both officers slid down in their seats, making it impossible for any passing drivers to see them clearly.
Seconds later, Brother Ernest steered the monastery van past the parked Mini and onwards out of the village, his passenger still hunched up, head leaning on the window, obscuring his face.
“Jack, Luc, they’ve driven straight past us,” Thierry almost shouted into the handset, excited with the sighting and expecting to give chase.
There was a pause, before Hobbs replied, “We must have been mistaken then. Orders were to watch Saint Magdalena’s, so you’d best stay put.”
“What do we do now?” Luc asked, peering down into his empty plastic coffee cup. “Shall we wait for them to return?”
“I reckon so,” Jack said, with a nod. “At least then we’ll know how long they’ve been gone, just in case they are up to something.”
The red-haired detective looked through the windscreen and up towards the monastery. Everything remained in darkness; not a light flickered, not even an owl hooted. In fact, nothing stirred on that dark country lane except for the gentle sway of foxgloves in the wind. It bothered Jack that two monks would sneak out in the middle of the night and he picked up his phone.
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