Guilty Parties

by Martin Edwards

  ‘Did you know what Father Ambrose was going to say this morning?’

  ‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘Has it upset you?’

  I knew better than to admit to personal discontent. ‘I don’t like to think about our departed brothers lying under a hockey pitch.’

  He shook his head. ‘Those are only mortal remains. Their souls have already gone to a Better Place.’

  He was right. I wished I hadn’t spoken. ‘Are you in favour of this?’

  ‘It’s ordained,’ he said. As the second most senior monk, he probably felt compelled to show support.

  I heard the slap of sandals on the floorboards behind me. We had been joined by Vincent, the scribe. He was a more worldly character than Alfred, always ready with a quip. ‘What’s this – a union meeting?’ he asked. ‘Are we going on strike, or what?’

  ‘Brother Jeffrey is here to cancel his order for next year’s seeds,’ Alfred said. ‘We have to look to the future.’

  ‘A future without a meadow? That’s going to leave Jeffrey without a garden shed for his afternoon nap.’

  ‘We don’t know where we’ll be,’ I said, ignoring the slur about my contemplation sessions. ‘Wherever it is, I expect we’ll have a garden.’

  ‘No problem for me,’ Vincent said. ‘All I need is a small room, a desk and a chair. And my art materials, of course. Do we have some more orpiment in stock?’

  ‘Plenty,’ Alfred said.

  ‘What’s orpiment?’ I asked.

  ‘A gorgeous yellow,’ Vincent said. ‘The old scribes used it and so do I, but modern artists prefer gamboge.’

  ‘If it’s so gorgeous, why isn’t it used more?’

  ‘Because it’s the devil – if you’ll pardon the expression – to grind the natural rock into a pigment. In fact, the variety I use is man-made, but based on the same constituents. I’ll take some with me, Alfred. Chin up, Jeffrey. I’m sure there’ll be a little patch of ground for you at the new place. If we leave London altogether, you could find yourself with acres more to grow things on.’

  But you never know what the Lord has in store. The concerns we had over moving from the monastery were overtaken by a shocking development. Our Father Superior reported to the infirmary with stomach pains, vomiting and diarrhoea. Some of us suspected Brother Barry’s cooking was responsible, but Brother Luke diagnosed an attack of gastro-enteritis brought on by a virus infection. All that could be done at this stage was to make sure the patient drank plenty of fluids. Normally the infection will subside. But poor Father Ambrose didn’t rally. His condition worsened so quickly that we barely had time to administer the last rites.

  Was it a virus, we asked each other, or food poisoning? The latter seemed unlikely considering all of us had eaten the same food and no one else had been ill. A post mortem would have settled the matter, but, as Luke remarked, it wouldn’t have altered anything. Being a qualified doctor, he issued the death certificate and nothing was said to the local coroner. I dug a grave and we buried Father Ambrose the following Monday.

  After a period of mourning, we resumed our worship and work. Life has to go on for the survivors. Vincent returned to his restoration work. Barry got on with the cooking, and assured us all that he was using fresh ingredients and regularly washing his hands. Luke, with no patients to tend, scrubbed the infirmary. And I made a wooden cross for Ambrose, carved his initials on it, placed it in position and then went back to caring for my wildflowers. The ever changing, ever beautiful, meadow was a source of solace. Already the bee orchids were appearing.

  There was no debate about installing our next Father Superior. Alfred, through seniority, was the obvious choice. And he had gravitas. We held a token election and he was the only candidate. A well-organised monk I haven’t mentioned, called Brother Michael, took on the mantle of procurer and computer operator.

  One afternoon I was in my shed having a few minutes’ contemplation when I was startled by someone tapping on the window. It was Michael.

  ‘Did I wake you?’ he asked when I invited him in.

  ‘I was fully awake,’ I said. ‘Meditating.’

  ‘I’ve been doing some thinking myself,’ he said.

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Father Ambrose’s sad death.’

  ‘He was getting on in years,’ I said. ‘It comes to us all eventually.’

  ‘But not so suddenly. He was gone in a matter of hours. I was wondering whether he was poisoned.’

  I was aghast. ‘Food poisoning was mentioned, but we all eat the same and no one else was ill, so the virus seems more likely.’

  ‘I don’t mean food poisoning. I’m speaking of murder by poison – as in arsenic.’

  ‘Oh, my word! You can’t mean that.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Michael said, ‘but I have some information that I feel bound to share with somebody. When I took over the store I decided to do an inventory and there was one item that was new in my experience, called orpiment.’

  ‘It’s paint,’ I told him. ‘Brother Vincent needs it in his work. It’s a shade of yellow the medieval scribes used.’

  ‘So I understand. But have you seen the packet it comes in? There’s a warning on the side that it contains poison. I checked on the internet and it’s produced by fusing one part of sulphur with two parts of arsenic.’

  Shocked by this revelation, I tried to answer in a level voice, not wishing to turn our peaceful monastery into a hornets’ nest. ‘I didn’t know that,’ I said. ‘Presumably Brother Vincent is aware of it.’

  ‘I also looked up the symptoms of arsenic poisoning,’ Michael said. ‘Nausea, vomiting, abdominal pain, diarrhoea – easily confused with acute gastro-enteritis.’

  ‘What exactly are you suggesting, Michael?’ I said, still trying to stay calm. ‘None of us had any reason to poison Father Ambrose.’

  ‘The motive may not have been there, but the means was.’

  ‘Let’s not get carried away,’ I said.

  ‘It’s tasteless,’ he said.

  ‘You took the words out of my mouth.’

  ‘No. I’m saying that arsenic has no taste. And if you remember, it was a Friday – curry night – when Father Ambrose died. The orpiment wouldn’t show up in curry.’

  ‘But no one else was ill. We all had the curry.’

  ‘If someone meant to poison Father Ambrose, they could have added some of the stuff to his bowl.’

  ‘But when?’

  ‘As you know, Barry spoons the curry into the bowls with some rice and then one of us carries the tray to the table. Then we bow our heads and close our eyes for the grace. The opportunity was there.’

  Clearly, he’d thought this through in detail and believed it.

  ‘Are you accusing Brother Barry of murder?’ I asked.

  ‘Or whoever carried the tray. Or whoever was seated beside Father Ambrose, or whoever was opposite him.’

  ‘Any of us, in fact?’

  ‘Well, yes.’ His eyes widened. ‘And when I said just now that there was no motive, I was trying to be charitable. If one thinks the worst, there is a motive – Father Ambrose’s master plan to remove us all to another monastery. No one likes change. Let’s face it, we were all shocked and distressed when he announced it. By getting rid of Ambrose, we would save the monastery.’

  I shook my head sadly. ‘Michael, if this were not so silly, it would be a wicked slander. Do I need to remind you of the vow of obedience we all took? It’s unthinkable for any of us to question our Father Superior, let alone cause him harm.’

  He appeared to see sense. ‘I hadn’t thought of it like that.’

  ‘Then I suggest you put it out of your head and don’t mention it to anyone else. I’m going to forget you ever spoke of it.’

  Months passed. I cropped my meadow late in August after the seeds had spread and Michael’s alarming theory was as weathered as the bronzed hay. I’m bound to admit I had been unsettled by it. Despite my promise to forget about the conversation, I couldn’t stop m
yself casting my brother monks in the role of poisoner. Once the seeds of suspicion are sown and growing, they are as difficult to root out as ground elder. Take Alfred, for example. He had attained the highest position in our community through Ambrose’s death and as the procurer he had easy access to the orpiment. Equally, Vincent was in possession of the deadly stuff and although he professed to be indifferent to a move, he’d reacted strongly when it was first mentioned. Luke, with his doctor’s training, probably knew more about the dangers of poisoning than any of us. Barry, as the cook, was best placed to administer the poison, and had been deeply upset by the criticism of his culinary skills. And Michael had benefited from Ambrose’s death and risen to the position of procurer. What was his reason for spreading suspicion of everyone else? Uncharitable thoughts come all too readily when you’re gardening and most of them are best ignored.

  Late in October, when the last butterflies had gone and autumn mists were appearing over the meadow, the harmony of our community received another jolt. Alfred, our new Father Superior, had made almost no significant changes to our routine since being called to lead us. Then he announced he would be leaving the monastery for a week on a small mission. From time to time, the calls of family disturb the even tenor of our existence, so we thought nothing of it. In Alfred’s absence, our services were led by Brother Luke. But when Father Alfred returned, he addressed us in chapel and my heart sank, for he stood to one side of the altar, just where Father Ambrose had been when he announced his ill-omened plan.

  Alfred cleared his throat before saying anything. ‘You may not all appreciate what I have to say, but hear me out and when you have had time to absorb it, you will be better able to consider the matter without personal feelings intruding. Six months have gone by since our dear departed Father Ambrose raised the question of vacating this building so that the school could move in. As his successor, I feel bound to give consideration to his last great idea. It had been revealed to him, as he made clear, in the nature of a divine vision. After much prayer, I was moved this week to take the process a step further and I am pleased to tell you I have been to see a building that with the Lord’s help we can transform into a monastery better suited to our numbers.’

  After a moment’s uneasy silence, Luke asked, ‘What is it, a private house?’

  ‘No, a lighthouse.’

  ‘God save us,’ Barry said in a stage whisper.

  ‘These days, the warning lamps are automatic, using solar powered batteries, so there’s no need for a keeper, but the living space is still there,’ Alfred said. ‘The rooms are wedge-shaped, most of them, smaller than the dormitory you’re used to, but they will actually provide more privacy.’

  ‘I don’t think I’m hearing this,’ Vincent said in a low voice.

  ‘There are kitchen facilities,’ Alfred went on, warming to his theme and sounding awfully like an estate agent, ‘and a telegraph room that we can convert to the chapel. The building isn’t just a glorified cylinder, you see. There’s a keeper’s house attached and most of our communal activities would take place in there.’

  ‘Where exactly is it?’ I asked.

  ‘Off the north-west coast of Scotland.’

  ‘Off the coast?’

  ‘It’s a lighthouse, Jeffrey.’

  ‘Some lighthouses are on land.’

  ‘This is an island a mile out to sea, a crop of rocks known as the devil’s teeth.’

  He wasn’t doing much of a selling job to a bunch of London monks. ‘So it’s built on solid rock?’ I said. ‘Isn’t there a garden?’

  ‘That’s one thing it does lack,’ Alfred admitted.

  I was speechless.

  ‘When you say “kitchen facilities”,’ Barry said, ‘can I run a double oven and two hobs, as I have at present?’

  ‘I believe there’s a Primus stove.’

  ‘I don’t believe this.’

  ‘Where will I do my restoration work?’ Vincent asked. ‘I need a north-facing light.’

  ‘Top floor, in the lamp room,’ Barry unkindly said.

  But there was no question that Father Alfred was serious. ‘Brothers, we must be flexible in our thinking. It can only do us good to adjust to a new environment. Try to come to terms with the concept before we discuss your individual needs.’

  We had curry as usual on Friday. Brother Barry’s curries were notable more for their intensity than their flavour, so nothing was unusual when Father Alfred gasped and reached for the water jug. We always drank more on curry night. We smiled and nodded fraternally when he complained of a severe burning sensation in the mouth and throat, extending to his stomach. There was more concern when he retched and ran from the table.

  Four hours later our Father Superior was dead.

  Brother Luke, who was with him to the end, could do nothing to reverse his rapid decline. The patient vomited repeatedly, but brought up little. Severe stomach cramps, diarrhoea and convulsions set in. He complained of prickling of the skin and visual impairment. Before the end he became intensely cold and was talking of his veins turning to ice. A sort of paralysis took over. His facial muscles tightened and his pulse weakened, but his brain remained active until the moment of death.

  You will have gathered from my description that Luke gave us a full account next morning of Alfred’s last hours. A chastened group of us discussed the tragedy after morning prayers.

  Barry insisted it couldn’t have been the curry. ‘It must have been the same virus that killed poor Father Ambrose.’

  ‘Again?’ Michael said. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Why not?’ I said. ‘The symptoms were similar.’

  Michael gave me the sort of look you get from a dentist when you insist you brush after every meal.

  Then Luke said, ‘I must admit, my confidence is shaken. I’ve never come across a viral condition quite like this. In fact, I’m thinking I should report it to the Department of Health in case it’s a new strain.’

  ‘Before you do,’ Michael said, ‘let’s consider the other option – that he was poisoned.’

  I raised my hand to dissuade him. ‘Michael, you and I went over this before. Speculation such as that will damage our community.’

  ‘It’s damaged already,’ he said. ‘Aren’t two violent deaths in six months serious damage? I was silent before, at your suggestion, but this has altered everything. We know for a fact that a poisonous substance is stored here.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Barry said.

  ‘Orpiment. The pigment Vincent uses is two-thirds pure arsenic.’

  ‘Vincent?’

  All eyes turned to our scribe.

  Michael added, ‘It doesn’t mean Vincent administered the stuff. Any one of us could have collected some from his studio or my shelves. I don’t keep the store locked.’

  ‘And used it to murder Ambrose and Alfred? That’s unthinkable,’ Barry said.

  ‘Well, maybe you can think of some other way it got added to the curry you serve,’ Michael said, well aware how the words would wound Barry. He wasn’t blessed with much tact.

  While Barry struggled with that, Luke asked, ‘What possible reason could anyone have for murdering Father Alfred?’

  ‘Come on,’ Michael said. ‘Just like Ambrose, he was about to uproot us. None of us wants to see out his days on a lump of rock in the Atlantic Ocean.’

  ‘So there was motive, means and opportunity, the three preconditions for murder.’ A look of profound relief dawned on Luke’s features. As our physician, he was no longer personally responsible for failing to contain a deadly virus. ‘You must be right. I’m beginning to think we can deal with this among ourselves.’

  ‘What – a double murder?’ Michael piped up in disbelief.

  ‘We don’t want a police investigation and the press all over us.’

  I added in support, ‘They’ll want to dig up Father Ambrose for sure. Let him rest in peace.’

  Barry agreed. ‘No one wants that.’

  Michael, in a minori
ty of one, was horrified. ‘We’d be shielding a killer. We’re men of God.’

  ‘And He is our judge,’ Luke said. ‘If we are making a mistake, He will tell us. Shall we say a prayer?’

  This was the moment when we all became aware that Luke, as the senior monk, was the obvious choice to be elected our new Father Superior. Even Michael bit his lip and bowed his head.

  I dug another grave and we buried poor Father Alfred with the others at the edge of the meadow next morning. None of us asked what Luke had written on the death certificate. He was now our spiritual leader and it wasn’t appropriate to enquire. I constructed the cross and positioned it at the head of the grave.

  The lighthouse wasn’t mentioned again. Father Luke had more sense. He wasn’t quite as paternalistic as some of his predecessors. He believed in consulting us as well as the Lord and we left him in no doubt that we wanted to remain where we were, in our beloved monastery in the heart of London. Life returned to normal. I managed my meadow and kept the graves tidy. Vincent worked on his psalter. Barry kept us fed. Michael ran the store with efficiency and ordered our supplies online.

  It came as a surprise to me one afternoon in January when I was in my shed wrapped in a quilt, indulging in my post-prandial contemplation, to be disturbed by a rapping at the door. Michael was there, hood up, arms folded, looking anything but fraternal.

  ‘Is something up?’ I asked, rubbing my eyes.

  ‘You could put it that way,’ he said. ‘The Father Superior wants to see you in his office.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘He’s waiting.’

  The office was in the attic at the top of our building. Michael escorted me and said not another word as we went up the three flights of stairs.

  Father Luke’s door stood open. He really was waiting, seated behind his desk, hands clasped, but more in an attitude of power than prayer. ‘Come in, both of you,’ he said.

  There wasn’t room for chairs, so we stood like schoolboys up before the head.

  ‘This won’t be easy,’ Father Luke said. ‘It’s about the deaths of Father Ambrose and Father Alfred. Michael has informed me, Jeffrey, that he spoke to you after Ambrose died, about the possibility that he was poisoned with arsenic.’