Murder at Maddleskirk Abbey

by Nicholas Rhea

  ‘Would he do that?’

  ‘Who can tell? Such things are not unknown,’ smiled Brother George. ‘So, do you think Simon could be hiding in the old barns?’

  ‘I think they’re worth a check,’ I responded. ‘People use them for all kinds of things.’

  ‘I can believe that, Nick. When I had a farm you never knew who was sleeping in your haysheds or nicking turnips from the fields!’

  My two stone barns with tiled roofs had long fallen into disuse but remained standing with their roofs intact. They were very close to Ashwell Priory Wood and adjoined each other like two small semi-detached houses. They shared the same roof but had separate large archway doors but no interior dividing wall. Surprisingly dry inside, there was a hayloft at one end of the long building with a ladder in place to give access. It was really a single large barn with two huge entrances but locally everyone referred to them in the plural as Ashwell Barns.

  As we drew up before them, Brother George said, ‘They’re a bit isolated. Simon wouldn’t be hiding here, would he?’

  ‘There’s only one way to find out.’

  CHAPTER 6

  I PARKED ON the grassy plot adjoining the barns.

  ‘Do these belong to the abbey?’ asked Brother George, his farmer’s eyes noting their condition and probably mentally assessing their usefulness.

  ‘No.’ I didn’t want to tell him the truth just yet, so I said, ‘They belong to a Scottish estate. Down the years they’ve refused to sell the barns and that land opposite. I know the trustees have made offers as they would find the barns and nearby land useful, but the answer has always been “no”.’

  ‘Probably there’s an old priory buried in those woods.’ Brother George pointed to the dense woodland nearby where several trees had blown down in yesterday’s gales. ‘We’ve always been told never to look for the ruins as it’s not safe. Mind you, if I’d still been farming today I’d have sorted out all that fallen wood and made a few quid from it – folks like log fires, especially ash wood. And I’ll tell you what, Nick, I think this district has too many abbeys and priories. If our abbey bought it, what would they do with it? They’ve already got that old one in the crypt.’

  ‘Religious houses were numerous in the past, but lots were very tiny and depended upon a parent abbey,’ I aired my knowledge. ‘But I doubt if Ashwell can ever be revived or restored as it’s been buried for centuries.’

  ‘Well, I sorted out that patch of land near our abbey and made a cricket field out of it, so I could do summat useful with all this woodland and these barns. Mebbe if folks knew about that buried priory, they would wonder if there was summat similar under what’s now the cricket field.’

  ‘It’s a possibility,’ I nodded. ‘We’ve got archaeologists with us this morning, looking. This place seems full of old ruins.’

  ‘Speak for yourself!’ grinned George. ‘I’m not past it yet!’

  We walked along the frontage of the barns. The doors had long since rotted away, or been stolen, but the interiors were dry and I could see no sign of leaks from the roof or walls. I assumed that circulation of air did something to prevent them suffering damage from damp. There was some litter inside and signs of a long-dead fire that had been used for heat or cooking. Its ashy remains were on the earthen floor between two bricks. Bird droppings suggested that some species roosted in the rafters, or perhaps, like swallows, built their nests there. No doubt hikers and cyclists also made use of this shelter from time to time. The narrow lane that ran past it was a public highway that emerged to the west of Maddleskirk Abbey lands.

  ‘There’s a bike over there,’ said Brother George, pointing to it. It was leaning against the rear wall but it didn’t appear to be the well-maintained kind that was used by serious cyclists or tourists. It was a gents’ machine with a very rusty green frame, dropped handlebars and metal ‘rat-trap’ pedals. It had silver coloured aluminium mudguards, derailleur gears and its tyres were inflated. However, there was no sign of a saddle-bag or other means of carrying a small load. We went for a closer look and although it appeared neglected, its pumped-up tyres suggested it had recently been used. The presence of the bike and the remains of a fire indicated someone might be sleeping here. And there was the ladder leading up to the open floor that formed the hayloft.

  ‘I wonder if Simon’s up there?’ I found myself whispering, but, as I climbed, I was surprised to see a man sitting on the floor of the hayloft. Heavily bearded, he was squatting on a bed of what looked like a pile of straw and bracken covered with sacks and old coats. Was Simon sleeping under that pile? I completed my climb and without speaking to the man went across the floor to shake the raggy coverings. There was no one else in the loft, but I noticed bits of rubbish lying around, such as old newspapers and wrappings from food. By noisily clambering up the ladder, I had roused the fellow from a deep sleep, but for a long time he did not say a word as he watched my progress.

  ‘Now then,’ I attempted to start a conversation but he still said nothing.

  Was he Harvey the sculptor? I thought he looked older and smaller than the man I’d seen earlier in the crypt.

  I tried again. ‘Are you alone in here?’

  ‘Of course I’m alone, you can see I’m alone.’

  ‘Who are you?’ I demanded, in what I hoped was a stern, police-sounding tone. Then I thought I recognized him from long, long ago.

  ‘More to the point, who are you?’ I detected a faint Irish accent in his voice.

  By this time, I was standing over him; then he got to his feet. A few inches smaller than me, he was probably in his mid-sixties, of medium height and slender build with jet black but greying hair grown long and a straggly thick dark grey-black beard. His eyes were black and sharp without specs and he was dressed in a jumble of old green and brown clothes – trousers, a sweater, brown boots and he had a somewhat old and unpleasant sweaty aroma. A jacket and overcoat were hanging on a nail in the wall and on the floor I could see a large wicker basket full of pegs and trinkets. I wondered if he carried it on his head – when I was child we were visited by a tinker who carried his basket of wares on his head. Beside his bed was a back-pack, some packets of cereal, tin plates and dishes, spoons, knives and forks, a pint bottle of milk and other objects such as an electric torch and umbrella.

  ‘So,’ I repeated my question, ‘who are you and what are you doing here?’

  ‘And I ask you the same thing,’ he retorted, his accent sounding stronger as he tried to defend himself. ‘Who the devil are you and what are you doing in my bedroom? Waking me up like this! This is my home. I have squatters’ rights, mister.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘So I have, and I don’t like my privacy being disturbed like this. People just barging in—’

  ‘Well, others have ownership rights so I think you should leave. If you are here without permission, you’re trespassing.’ I refrained my declaring my own rights in these barns.

  ‘Trespassing? I am not, so I am not. I am squatting and I have rights, so you’ll have to throw me out, so you will. I am not leaving for you or anyone else. As I said, this is my home. I am a squatter, mister. I have rights. I’ve been coming here for years.’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘I’m not telling you.’

  ‘You realize the owner can obtain a court order to have you removed, by force if necessary, and if you persist in staying here in spite of it, you are open to a fine of a thousand pounds or six months’ imprisonment.’

  ‘You sound as if you know the law, so you do.’

  ‘I am a retired police officer.’

  At that stage he paused for a few moments, scrutinizing me closely as he weighed my words. Then he surprised me by saying, ‘You’re that Constable Rhea, aren’t you? From Aidensfield. Much older, broader and greyer than when we met before.’

  ‘I am, so who are you?’ At that moment, I could not bring our previous encounters to mind. His heavy beard was a good disguise. But that accent? �
�I feel I should know you.’

  ‘Look, Mr Constable Rhea, I’m doing no harm, I don’t leave rubbish behind, I never light fires or make a mess, all that stuff down below isn’t mine, I take all my stuff away with me. I just want to get my head down for a couple of nights, then I’ll move on. I’m always on the move. One or two nights here, another one or two somewhere else and so on. That’s my life, always on the move. There’s never been anyone in here for years; nobody uses these barns, I’m doing no harm, so I am not. Why do you want me out? What harm have I done? I’ve never done harm, so I have not.’

  ‘I’m undertaking security work for the abbey.’ I adopted a calmer tone now that I felt I should know him. ‘I’m surprised to find you here. So who are you and what are you doing?’ I wondered if he was a villain or escaped prisoner on the run.

  ‘Doing? I’m doing nothing, just sleeping. I sleep here often, like I said. Now it’s time I was leaving; I have work to do. You don’t remember us meeting?’

  ‘You look like a pedlar, travelling and trading on foot.’ I pointed to his basket wondering if he was trying to be too friendly. ‘Have you a pedlar’s certificate?’

  ‘Tinker, Mr Constable. They call us tinkers where I come from.’

  ‘Here we call you a pedlar. And you need a certificate.’

  ‘I have one.’

  ‘Then it must be produced on demand to a policeman, a magistrate, or anyone upon whose private grounds or premises he is found. I have found you here, on private premises, so I can demand to see your certificate. And if you refuse, or if you don’t have one, you can be prosecuted.’

  He sighed heavily but delved into one of his pockets and pulled out a battered old leather wallet. He opened it and it was packed tight with money in banknotes; I spotted several £10 notes and fivers along with some coins. From one of its compartments, he pulled out a well-worn piece of paper and handed it to me. It was a pedlar’s certificate and it was valid with six months still to run. The certificates lasted a year from the date of issue. His name was Barnaby Crabstaff. For his place of abode, it said, ‘No fixed address’. Then I recalled our previous encounters. I passed it back to him.

  ‘OK, Barnaby, now I remember you. You once showed me a nightjar in these woods, one night when I was off duty. It must have been twenty years ago or more – so thanks for that. So are you still doing the rounds?’

  ‘I am, sir, so I am.’ Now he was calling me sir which meant he respected me as memories of our past meetings began to filter into his brain – and mine! ‘I just go around selling my stuff. I sleep here once or twice a year.’

  ‘Without permission?’

  ‘Nobody has ever stopped me, and I do no harm. Just you ask them over at the abbey. The kitchens give me food and drink and they said I could sleep here.’

  ‘The kitchen staff probably think these barns belong to the abbey, but they don’t. They never have. All right, Barnaby. I’ll not throw you out, but sooner or later, these barns are going to have a new owner and they’ll be upgraded and might even be turned into cottages. So long as you look after them, you can stay – until those alterations begin.’

  ‘Thank you, sir, God bless you,’ and he held out his hand for me to shake. ‘I won’t let you down, so I won’t.’

  ‘One condition, Barnaby,’ I told him as I shook his dirty hand. ‘I want you to look after the barns whilst you’re here, making sure they are clean and tidy, that unwanted people or animals don’t use them, that no one lights fires inside or uses them as toilets … you’d be a sort of caretaker, Barnaby.’

  ‘Would I now?’

  ‘You’ll have to take care of them if you stay – and look after the swallows that nest in here.’

  ‘Yes, sir, it will be no problem, so it won’t. I’ll see to them, sir, so I will, all the times I am here. God bless you, sir.’

  ‘I’ll be popping in from time to time,’ I warned him. ‘I walk through these grounds every day.’

  ‘Yes, Constable Rhea sir, I understand. I won’t let you down.’

  ‘Now, Barnaby, we have some questions to ask you. This is Brother George, one of the abbey constables …’ By now, Brother George had also clambered up the ladder and was standing to one side as I conducted my interview.

  ‘He looks like a man of the cloth with that dog collar, but he looks like a copper with a white helmet….’

  ‘I am both,’ beamed Brother George. ‘Now, Barnaby, who does this bike belong to? Is it yours?’

  ‘No, I don’t have a bike. It’s not mine, to be sure. I didn’t steal it, no I did not. I’ve no idea who it belongs to.’

  ‘We’re looking for a pupil who has vanished from the college, a lad of seventeen. Tall and slim, dark hair … he went out yesterday, we think, and he hasn’t come back. Have you seen him?’

  ‘No, not a sign of him, Mr Constable Monk. Is that his bike?’

  ‘I don’t know, we have to find the owner. So has anyone else visited the barns that you know about?’

  ‘No pupils have been here over the weekend, and no hikers and such. Only Mr Greengrass, he comes here for our business meetings … I’m expecting him later today….’

  ‘You mean he’s still in business?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, very successful is Mr Greengrass, me and him go back years.’

  ‘Right, if he comes, ask if he saw our pupil over the weekend.’

  ‘Well, he’s not been here, Mr Rhea, Constable Monk—’

  ‘All right, we believe you, Barnaby. But we might be back in case the search intensifies, so get thinking about things.’ Then I felt I should make enquiries relating to the body in the crypt but without telling Barnaby that a murder had been committed. ‘Barnaby, do you get hikers in here?’

  ‘Sometimes, yes. In bad weather. Sheltering mainly, sometimes sleeping here. It’s them that light fires and leave rubbish, not me.’

  ‘So have any been here this weekend, or recently? Such as a man of about fifty? Small build. Wearing a coloured woolly hat….’

  He shook his head. ‘Not to my knowledge, Mr Constable Rhea. I came only on Friday, you see.’

  ‘I’m interested in this recent weekend in particular. But you will ask Mr Greengrass when you see him at your business meeting? He might have noticed the lad, or the hiker, or he might know who that bike belongs to.’

  ‘Yes, sir, yes, sir, I’ll be pleased to help….’

  And so we thanked Barnaby and left him to concentrate on his day’s trading.

  As we walked back to my car, Brother George said, ‘You know, Nick, I’m sure I’ve seen that bike outside the kitchens when I’ve been helping to wash the pots.’

  ‘Really? When was the most recent time?’

  ‘It might have been this Sunday after mass. Yesterday, I mean. We have coffee after mass, as you know, around eleven o’clock, and the congregation and visitors are always invited. We have it in the concourse just inside the main entrance to the church but it makes the kitchen busy. I volunteer to wash up the cups afterwards.’

  ‘So you think it was outside the kitchens yesterday?’

  ‘I can’t bank on my recollection being accurate as I didn’t really take much notice, but I am sure I thought it was rather unusual to see an old bike there.’

  ‘Right, Brother George, you and I are now going to visit the kitchens. I want to check on what Barnaby has just told us and you can ask about the bike.’

  Five minutes later, we were entering the kitchens where we were both known to most members of the staff. I spotted one of the cooks that I knew.

  ‘Hi, Sylvia,’ I greeted her. ‘Can you spare a few moments? We’d like to ask you something.’

  ‘Sure, Mr Rhea, you’re a rare visitor here nowadays! Are you both wanting a cup of coffee?’

  ‘No, thanks, we’re not scrounging,’ I assured her. ‘And Brother George isn’t here to wash up. It’s a minor enquiry. We’ve just met a character sleeping in the old Ashwell Barns across the valley, an Irish tinker called Barnaby Crabstaff. I rec
all him from the past so I thought I’d check on him. He says he often pops in here.’

  ‘Oh, him! Yes, he does. He’s a tramp or a tinker or something. He comes round this way every few months and sleeps in those old barns for two or three nights at a time, then moves on. He comes to us for food and drink. He’s harmless enough, Mr Rhea, although he is a bit light-fingered. He’s never nicked money, just cakes and pies. In any case we leave food near the back door for him to collect.’

  ‘The Benedictine tradition of treating every visitor like Christ, eh?’

  ‘Except he never comes inside; we don’t encourage him, it’s to do with the hygiene regulations.’

  ‘Thanks, I thought he was harmless, but felt I should check. I remember him as quite a pleasant old character and very knowledgeable about birds. But we have another query: have you heard we’re looking for one of the pupils who didn’t turn up for lessons this morning?’

  ‘Yes, but we couldn’t help. Constable Father Little called earlier to ask, but we don’t know what goes on in the main buildings – although I did hear a whisper that a hiker had been found dead in the crypt!’

  ‘The CID are there, looking after that crime, Sylvia. Brother George also has a question about a bike.’

  ‘We’ve not had any hikers or bikers coming here looking for spare food, if that’s what you’re going to ask.’

  ‘It’s not that,’ said Brother George. ‘Sylvia, yesterday after ten o’clock mass – about eleven o’clock or thereabouts I was washing the cups as usual and I’m sure I noticed a bike outside here? Near the side door.’

  ‘Lots of the pupils have bikes, Brother George.’

  ‘This is a green one, a gents’ model, quite old and a bit rusty in places but serviceable. Not a smart bike, but it has drop handlebars.’

  ‘Yes it was outside here, it was a lad who wanted a packed lunch, with an extra helping. He came on the bike to collect it – two sandwiches, extra chocolate bar, two apples, soft drink in a bottle … and off he went.’