While I did not relish seeing the sight, neither could I stop myself from leaning over and glimpsing inside. The mouth was caked with blackened blood and it was obvious at once that something was dreadfully wrong. Still, it took a moment to realize that the tongue was not nestled against the bottom jaw where it belonged, leaving a gap that was as shocking as it was unexpected. Even so, it took another moment to spot the nub of flesh that had dropped far back into the throat that, in spite of an angry red incision, looked as though it had been carefully filleted.
I stumbled back a half step before catching myself and forcing a deep intake of breath. “It’s awful,” I heard myself say.
“That it is,” Colin mumbled agreement. He had moved across from me and was bent over the abbot’s neck and shoulders, running his fingers over the areas, both of which were covered with a veritable jumble of slash marks. The monk’s chest, arms, upper abdomen, and right side were equally marred, and while I assumed the left side would be as well, I did not immediately advance to see. “Here”—Colin waved to me as he continued to peer at several of the neck wounds from a distance of mere inches—“count these wounds. I want to know how many there are.”
The thought of it made me blanch, but I was glad Colin had not noticed. It wouldn’t have altered his request anyway. I quickly swiped at my nose and then wished I hadn’t as a fresh wave of stink assaulted me. It was enough to make my head go light and I had to flick my eyes up to the ceiling for a moment until I could gather my wits again. I could do this, I scolded myself.
The slicing wounds started just below the jawline with most of them occurring on the sides of the neck. There was only one, in fact, that was on the throat itself, coming very close to the Adam’s apple without actually touching it. I started to count the wounds, trying to convince myself that the thin black lines had been drawn on with charcoal.
Working slowly, I progressed down the right arm and side, counting to twenty-three, before having to step around Colin, who was now studying the right hand so intently that someone unaware might have thought he was pondering whether the abbot might have held the knife himself and delivered the blows. I moved back around to the other side of his chest, adding up the marks across the abdomen before beginning to inspect the left arm and side. Curiously there was far less damage there, yet even so, I had nearly reached fifty by the time I leaned back and stepped away from the body.
“What do you have so far?” Colin asked as he released the abbot’s right hand, his brow tightly knit.
“Forty-eight.”
He shook his head. “Help me roll him up so we can see his back.”
“His back?!” I blurted without thinking. Of course he would want to see the monk’s back.
Colin did not respond, nor did I expect him to, as I went over and stood beside him. Stealing a quick intake of breath, we rolled the body away from us and I was glad to find that it moved more easily than I had expected. Without having to be told again, I leaned forward and resumed counting the hash marks across the back, neck, and shoulders of Abbot Tufton. Colin was poking around the upended right side, but as I was too focused on my own work I could not tell what had caught his attention this time. It was only after I heard the hushed swing of the door behind us, followed by an abrupt gasp, that I stopped my counting.
“What in the name of the Holy Father are you doing?!”
“Examining the body,” Colin replied flatly as he nevertheless signaled me to lower the abbot back down. “It may not appear to be a reputable duty, but I can assure you it is quite critical.”
“Nevertheless, it is unseemly.” Brother Silsbury reiterated the charge from the night before. He quickly came forward and snatched up the sheet that Colin had carelessly bunched up at the abbot’s feet. “Abbot Tufton was a highly regarded man in this monastery,” he explained, his voice taut and brittle. “I cannot condone this sort of pawing about his remains. I’m sorry, but I cannot.” He tossed the sheet over the midsection of his abbot’s body. “He would not want it.”
“We mean no disrespect,” I said before Colin could reply.
Brother Silsbury’s face was ashen and very much distressed. “Please tell me you are finished here.”
“We are.” Colin spoke up, his tone as smooth as ever. “We have learned a great deal. Thank you.”
“Good.” The relief was immediate on Brother Silsbury’s face. “Then perhaps all of this”—he waved a rigid hand toward the abbot’s body on the table—“will have served some purpose.”
Colin nodded grimly. “Rest assured that we are already drawing nearer to the perpetrator of this horrendous murder. I believe we shall see a resolution within the week.”
Brother Silsbury looked stunned. “Then I owe you an apology, sir,” he said stiffly, “for I confess I did not think such a thing possible.”
“You must have faith,” Colin answered wryly. “And you may be certain that I will not fail the brothers of this monastery, no matter the outcome.” He gave a curt nod and exited the room before Brother Silsbury or I could respond in any way.
CHAPTER 6
A fair-haired monk who looked to be in his late twenties with a trim shape, compact features, and an expression about as welcoming as any we had yet seen sat across from us in the well-stocked library. Brother Morrison had brought us here to introduce us to the monastery’s librarian, Brother Bursnell.
“I am hoping you might be able to give us some information,” Colin was saying. “Is this an appropriate place for us to speak . . . ?” he asked, sliding his gaze around the otherwise unoccupied space.
“As you can see,” Brother Bursnell answered with a congenial nod, “you won’t disturb anyone here today. I seldom get many visitors. Sometimes I think I do my job more for posterity than any daily usefulness,” he added wistfully.
Though that may have been the case, this was the largest single room we had yet visited in the monastery with the exception of the refectory. Bookcases hugged the four walls from the floor right up to the low-slung ceiling, and there were half-a-dozen rows of shorter bookcases that rose to a height of some five feet arrayed all around the large, rectangular oak table that we were sitting at in the room’s center. The table had a dozen chairs pulled up around it and, given its well-worn appearance, I presumed that many a gathering had taken place here in spite of Brother Bursnell’s contention.
“I shall leave the three of you to it,” Brother Morrison muttered in his usual way. He started to leave and I noticed that he limped slightly, causing him to favor his right side. When he reached the door he turned back and added, “I was much heartened by your intention to conclude your investigation within the week.” But I did not think the gruff, elderly man sounded in the least bit heartened. “It is important for the lot of us to return our attentions back to God’s work. It is who we are. It is why we are here. Our abbot would wish it so.”
Colin’s expression remained steady, though I caught a flicker of displeasure charge across his eyes. “Of course.”
“After all, you would be wise to remember that justice belongs to God alone.”
“Ah”—Colin flashed a tight grin—“I thought God attended to those who attend to themselves.”
“That is not Scripture, Mr. Pendragon,” Brother Morrison grumbled. “It is moralistic tripe used to exonerate otherwise inappropriate behavior. Please do not misconstrue my great affection for Abbot Tufton with my commitment to God and this brotherhood. For I can assure you that I do not confuse the two.” And having said his piece, he pushed out into the hallway, letting the door snap shut firmly in his wake.
Colin pursed his lips and glanced back at the young monk, whose pale complexion had flushed noticeably during the exchange. “I do seem to rile that man,” Colin noted casually, “and without even meaning to.”
I wanted to laugh but managed to hold my tongue as Brother Bursnell spoke up. “You must forgive Brother Morrison his resoluteness. He has been in service to the church since boyhood, and I believe this d
readful murder has left him more adrift than any of us.”
“Since boyhood?!” Colin repeated with astonishment as he plunged a hand into his coat pocket and extracted a silver crown. He immediately began flipping the coin back and forth across the back of his right hand with the dexterity of a juggler. “Are you telling me he became a Benedictine monk while just a lad?”
Brother Bursnell’s eyes followed the twirling coin with some measure of shock before he looked up at Colin. “What are you doing?”
Colin stared right back at him, failing to register the monk’s reference for a moment before suddenly glancing down and quickly sweeping the coin into his palm. “This?” He held the shiny coin up between thumb and forefinger, a crooked grin alighting his face. “It’s just a silly habit I picked up in school. I suppose it helps me concentrate. I can’t say I’m even aware that I’m doing it half the time.”
“Money is the devil’s tool,” Brother Bursnell stated solemnly. “We do not permit its use here in the monastery. What little we earn through the production of our ale is kept in the abbot’s office. It is only dispersed if one of us is going into Dalwich to purchase necessities we cannot otherwise provide on our own. To see you tossing it so casually about . . .” He shook his head with an awkward grimace.
Colin’s expression congealed as he quietly slid the coin back into his pocket. “Forgive me. . . .”
“You couldn’t have known,” the young man said with a brief smile. “I know we are not the easiest to understand. And those who have been devout the longest—Brothers Morrison and Clayworth and Silsbury—are often the least tolerant. I only hope you will forgive us our zealotry.”
“I would be a fool to begrudge you your convictions,” Colin answered briskly, allowing a thin smile. “And I must also admit to being surprised by the volume of books and manuscripts you have here. Surely it must be a great deal more than strictly theological.”
Brother Bursnell nodded and I thought he was pleased by the question. “You are spot-on, Mr. Pendragon. We keep all manner of writings here. Educational, fine art, historical, scientific, some literature, and, most certainly, theological. We expect the brotherhood to be well-learned and mean to keep them that way. After all, a devotion to God does not preclude a quick and erudite mind.”
“I commend you for such insight. Now, what were you telling us about Brother Morrison? That he has been with the church since he was a boy . . . ?”
Brother Bursnell nodded again, his youthful face belying a maturity and intelligence that was evident in his eyes. “He began his training at thirteen and became a novitiate four years later when he moved to Derry. I believe that’s where he met Abbot Tufton. They attended seminary school together. Father Demetris was there as well. The three of them go back quite a long way.”
“And Brother Silsbury? Is he likewise as extensively embedded?”
Brother Bursnell gave a soft chuckle. “You make it sound as though we are affixed in a setting like the colorful shards of glass in the chapel windows.”
“Well, it would seem you are all permanently placed, though the perpetrator of this murder will undoubtedly find himself excised at the end of this.”
The young man winced. “I have been praying that you will not find the hand of one of my brethren in this travesty.”
“Nevertheless . . .” Colin’s lips pulled taut and I knew what he was going to say. “You must prepare yourself for the possibility. We have been told the monastery is self-sufficient with only Mr. Chesterton allowed to make regular visits for the procuring of your ale.”
“There is also Mr. Honeycutt.” Brother Bursnell spoke without thinking, his face instantly going ashen. “Of course, I don’t mean to imply that he had anything to do with the abbot’s murder. . . .”
“Who is Mr. Honeycutt?”
“George Honeycutt. He’s a local farmer who brings us deliveries of milk and eggs several times a week. He, and sometimes one of his sons, drops them off near the kitchen while we are at matins. I’ve met him a time or two. He’s been coming as long as I have lived here. I believe his farm is just over the ridge to the north of Dalwich.”
I jotted down the man’s name and directions to his farm on the pad of paper I always carried for just this reason.
“You mentioned his sons . . . ?” Colin pressed.
“Yes, he has three or four of them. I’m not certain. I met his eldest once. I think he called the lad Edmond or Edward, but you’d be best off speaking with Brother Green, as he’s the one who attends to our kitchen. I”—he gestured at the room around us—“spend most of my time here.”
“Yes.” Colin gave a swift smile before standing up and meandering over to a shelf of books. He casually ran a finger along the spines of several volumes and it looked like a gesture borne of excess energy. I suspected he was lamenting being unable to fidget with his coin. “Is there anyone else who makes visits to your monastery?”
“No, if there is anything else needed, one of us will go into Dalwich to fetch it, but that doesn’t happen more than once every six or eight weeks.”
“Has there been any dissension amongst the brothers of late?” Colin asked with a feigned innocence that I knew Brother Bursnell caught as his face flushed slightly, the paleness of his skin revealing his mood with a persistence I was certain he must dislike.
“Dissension?” he repeated anyway, his answer as cheeky as Colin’s question had been.
“You know . . .” Colin prodded offhandedly as he continued to brush a finger across countless books, “. . . disagreements about the way things are run, perhaps? Anything that might have caused a bit of tension amongst your brotherhood?”
“The principles governing our monastery do not change,” Brother Bursnell responded firmly. “Our standards and faith are dictated by the word of God, not the whims of man or time.”
Colin dropped his hand and finally turned to look back at us, his expression pleasant, though I could see the rustlings of impatience within his eyes. “I do not mean to question the tenets by which you live, Brother, but as Father Demetris pointed out, monks are also men. And as men living in a tight community I would suspect it to be within the realm of possibility that there might be conflicts now and again.”
The towheaded monk nodded ever so slightly, his youthful face keeping the frown that he seemed determined to adopt from appearing on his forehead as he pinched his eyebrows. “And so there are,” he allowed. “But not to any end that you might be seeking to imply.”
Colin came back over to us, his gaze holding steady on Brother Bursnell. “You are defensive of your brothers and I wonder if I have made you so. Please be assured that I am as prepared to find the killer of your abbot outside these walls as within. I mean only to review all possibilities.”
“Yes, of course,” Brother Bursnell muttered, his face flushing yet again as he slid his eyes away from Colin. “You must understand, Mr. Pendragon, that life here at Whitmore is uncomplicated. Sometimes there can be a bit of griping if the crops are not producing properly, or the ale production is too high or too low, or there is too much fish served and not enough chicken, or any number of other petty trifles, but they are no different than those solved every day by thousands of people everywhere.”
“And so it is,” Colin answered curtly. “Tell me, was your abbot a writer?”
Brother Bursnell looked surprised. “He was. He set many doctrines and ideas onto paper. I have a small section along the back wall where all of his writings are kept. But whatever would make you ask such a question?”
“There is a desk in his cell but not a scrap of paper found upon it. So, you were tasked with keeping his writings?”
“I was. Whenever he completed something I logged it and placed it on his shelf. Everything we have is available to all of the brothers. There is no secret in that.”
“Indeed. And when was the last time your abbot gave you something to include here?”
The young monk gave a small, uncomfortable shrug. “I
really don’t remember. A few weeks perhaps. I can check my records if you’d like.”
“That won’t be necessary just now. For the moment I think we shall go and find your Brother Green. I assume he is likely to be in the kitchen?”
“Yes, just across the hall and to the left.”
“Perhaps this afternoon we might get a look at whatever your abbot gave you most recently. Would that be possible?” Colin asked as I followed him to the door.
“Certainly,” Brother Bursnell replied.
And offering the thinnest of smiles Colin pushed out into the hallway with me on his heels. “You are forever riling these poor monks with your insinuation that one of their own could be culpable of this deed,” I whispered.
“Don’t be naïve, Ethan. These men are individuals first and monks second.” And before I could press him on his sardonic reply, he shoved his way through the first door on the opposite side of the corridor.
As I hurried in after him I found myself standing in a medium-sized kitchen, certainly smaller than I had expected considering that three meals a day were prepared here. A large butcher-block table stood at the center of the room upon which was spread a rabbit’s fantasy of fresh greens and vegetables. Two sinks were aligned against the back wall, and two ovens stood just down from those. Long, well-beaten wooden counters stretched along the other two walls and were piled high with pots and pans of varying shapes and sizes. It was a cluttered mess that I knew would drive our Mrs. Behmoth well out of her wits.
It took me a moment to notice the small monk, easily less than five feet, of middle years with straight black hair nearly down to his ears and the round face of a cherub who was staring at us from the far side of the vegetable-laden table. He proved to be a striking dichotomy when a second monk burst out of a small pantry at the rear of the room with a beatific smile upon his face. This was a towering bulk of a man with a large, round belly that looked as though he had swallowed a melon whole. Yet it was his beaming visage, like a child on Christmas morning, that held my eye.
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