‘And Brother Dominic?’ asked Ernest Clayton, unwilling to be diverted on to questions of ethics before he had heard the complete story.
‘Ah, yes, Brother Dominic. Well, as you will have observed, he was still a relatively young man. He came to us first — how long? — five or six years ago. Not a drug case, though. He had had, even by then, a very remarkable career, starting at school. He had been an agent, arranging meetings between clients and attractive boys from the school. Very often I gather the boys were quite unaware they were being used in this way, and quite unaware of the fees Brother Dominic, or Denis Crowther, was collecting. He was an extraordinary young man: quite without emotional involvement; completely efficient; completely ruthless. Though I like to think that the Community managed to soften that last trait a little. After he left school he managed to establish a complete double identity. In his home village he was Denis Crowther, a quiet, unapproachable young man. But throughout the week he was in London, where he managed an extensive service, catering for unusual tastes.’
‘Unusual sexual tastes?’
‘Precisely. Little boys, unwilling virgins, dwarfs in rubber suits, Australian female swimmers — you know the kind of thing.’ The Bishop’s eyes nearly popped out of his head at the suggestion. ‘Whatever the fancy he prided himself on being able to provide it, at a price of course. He kept this going for three or four years, and there must be a lot of people who regret him today. Many of the tastes he catered for were quite harmless and legal, but of course many were not, and in the course of providing for them he sailed well over the limits of the law’s tolerance. That was the secret of his financial success: he was pricey, but it was he who took the risks — did the procuring and so on. Naturally, like all things of that sort the business had a limited life-span. Somebody peached — for money, perhaps, or in a spasm of ill-conceived puritanism — and he became aware that the police were interested in him. If he had been caught and tried the sentence would have been severe.’
‘And so he came here?’
‘Exactly. He had, like me, no intention of staying permanently. He intended, in fact, to lie low for a spell then to start the business up again, resume the old contacts, and so on. But I think the life here suited his temperament: he was inclined to be rigid and authoritarian, in spite of his occupation outside the walls. I think basically he despised his clients and their messy emotional lives. And perhaps the atmosphere here did some good — it is not for me to say. Finally he made the decision to make his life within the walls. He was invaluable as far as I was concerned, both as friend and assistant. The life here had become a little wearisome after so many years. He renewed my interest. He was so good at arranging things too. He managed to buy a little pied-à-terre in London, and we both used it occasionally, separately. You will have noticed a little car in the barn. He would take charge while I was away. It may be the others somewhat resented him: he was not temperamentally inclined to smooth the edges of authority. But for me it has been a very happy time. His passing is a terrible blow.’
‘But what attitude did the other brothers take to all this?’ asked Ernest Clayton curiously.
‘The first question is how much they knew. They were tolerant in so far as they had knowledge, which was not very far. Some of the older ones such as Brother Jonathan knew nothing, or so we thought. Perhaps we were wrong: his behaviour when the — women’ (sharp intake of breath) ‘arrived suggests that this was a culmination of small discontents. Perhaps he’d been wanting to protest at one or two other things for some time but had never been able to collect his wits sufficiently.’
‘But the majority of brothers must have known a lot more than that poor old man.’
‘They knew more, certainly. You must remember that several of them have arrived here themselves as fugitives from the law. As to the rest, I had made clear to them from the time I took over that, if necessary, the Community should function as some sort of refuge. I persuaded them to take the same view over this as I took myself. They agreed, they even agreed enthusiastically, provided daily life proceeded peacefully and decorously, as it has done. The spiritual life of the Community, as I say, has been in no way impaired. Perhaps there have been what you would call “affairs” between the brothers, but I’ve no doubt that has always been the case in monasteries everywhere. They have been discreetly conducted here, I assure you of that. As to my excursions beyond the walls, these have always been an occasional necessity, and if they seem to have increased in frequency of late, it has no doubt been put down to the increasing complexity involved in running a community of this kind. You will have noticed that we have fewer brothers than we have room for.’
‘Hardly remarkable, in the state of the Church today,’ said Clayton.
‘No. Nevertheless the fact is I have been very strict in my selection. Any types that seemed likely to cause friction have never been able to get their nose in here. I can truthfully claim there has never been any trouble to speak of in the Community.’
‘Hitherto,’ said Clayton.
‘Quite,’ said Father Anselm. ‘And I must say I have always regretted the symposia, though it did not seem wise to try to put an end to them. But how right I was. They brought murder here.’
‘If, to labour the point again, the murderer was not one of the inmates,’ said Ernest Clayton. ‘Or, for example, my friend in the priest-hole.’
‘But how unlikely that is,’ said Father Anselm. ‘As far as young Gareth was concerned, I personally ensured that he was locked in with the brothers that night. I was thinking of the women, of course — the young man seemed catholic (if I may so express it) in his tastes, to judge by his experiences. If I had known then what I know now, that the young man was acquainted with one of the delegates, I would have gone further and kept him in the priest-hole. As to the other brothers: this was the one time of the year when concealment was next to impossible. I considered the idea, I confess, but rejected it as far, far too risky. If it had been any of our brothers with a criminal past, he would have chosen any other time of the year. No, the obvious murderer is one of the visitors.’
‘But what could be the motive?’ asked the Bishop with a pleading undertone to his voice.
‘Denis Crowther had several clergymen among his regular clients,’ said Father Anselm. ‘Needing little boys, mostly, I imagine. One of them, in fact, introduced him here. I have no doubt that it is there that the truth lies.’
‘You mean they were afraid of exposure?’
‘Not altogether a happy way of putting it, but yes: that surely is the obvious motive.’
The Bishop contemplated for some time vagaries of the flesh he had never been greatly troubled by: ‘I wonder which of them it could be,’ he said at last.
‘Any one of them, I’ve no doubt,’ said Father Anselm. ‘Including the foreigners if they were sufficiently afraid of their pasts being revealed.’
‘You mean you think he tried to blackmail them?’ asked Ernest Clayton.
Father Anselm considered. ‘That seems unlikely,’ he said. ‘Possible, of course: our little excursions to the outside world became expensive, inflation being what it is. This had already caused problems. The Community’s silver has, I fear, mostly gone to pay for these little luxuries. But he said nothing to me (or I would most certainly have forbidden it) and he was averse to taking risks. I think the mere thought that he might attempt blackmail, was in a position to do so, must have been enough to spur someone on to murder him.’
There was a long silence. Both the Bishop and Ernest Clayton believed that they were now as close to the truth as made no difference. But another question was now swimming to the forefront of their minds: the question of what was to be done about the Community of St Botolph’s. They were both moderately satisfied Father Anselm was not a murderer. On the other hand he was a — well, perhaps better not put a name to it. They sat for some minutes hunched in thought. It was not difficult for Anselm to read their minds.
‘The alternatives ar
e these,’ he said, breaking in on their thoughts. ‘The first possibility is complete exposure: you go either to the police or to the Church authorities, and you tell them everything I have just told you about what has been going on in the Community. No doubt you are weighing up which of the two to go to, but in fact the result would be the same: the Church would be obliged to communicate their knowledge to the police, and the police would be obliged to tell the Church. There would be — not to put too fine a point on it — a most tremendous stink, a scandal to, almost literally, rock the Church.’
‘Not,’ said the Bishop, with that note of pleading strong in his voice, ‘if all the parties concerned were to act with the utmost discretion.’
‘Ah,’ said Father Anselm, his voice at its silkiest, ‘but they won’t.’
‘You mean — ?’
‘Look at it from my point of view. One certain result of any investigation is that I would be robbed of my position here, and excluded from this or any other order. The first is not important, but the second is. I would be thrown on the dung-heap of the outside world. Rather than that, I would leave tomorrow.’
‘But if you did . . .’ said the Bishop.
‘You may not know it, My Lord, but outside the gates there is a gang of panting, ink-soiled reporters, eager for dirt. I have only to pass the word to one of them, or wend my way to Fleet Street and open communications with one or two papers, and offers will come flooding in: offers of at least four figures, I confidently expect. There are publishers too, respectable publishers, not fringe ones, publishers who would pay well, who would jump at the thing in book form. If I am to become a layman again I shall need money to live in a certain modest style, and to indulge my tastes. That is how I shall get it.’
‘But your loyalty to the Church,’ said the Bishop feebly. As soon as he had said it he had the sensation of having dug a pit for himself.
‘My loyalty is to the Community of St Botolph’s, and it will not be I who will destroy it. For the Church hierarchy I feel no loyalty whatsoever. In my dealings with them they have proved shabby, timorous, compromising and timeserving. If they attempt to “clean up” St Botolph’s they will bring down on their head a result which their own behaviour has richly deserved.’
The Bishop contemplated the future with his heart in the gravel pits. Ernest Clayton, not altogether unsympathetic to Father Anselm’s last remarks, was nevertheless almost as depressed as he considered the force of the man’s remarks. If the man did what he was threatening to do, the fall-out would be terrible. The Church would be a laughing-stock and a ruin.’
‘You mentioned alternatives,’ he said. ‘We should at any rate hear the others.’
Father Anselm spread out his hands. ‘I am a reasonable man,’ he said expansively. ‘For myself, I believe that what I have been doing is in no way reprehensible. I hope I have made that much clear. Christ went among the tax-collectors and prostitutes and befriended the outcasts. I have done the same with their modern equivalents. But I can see there may be other points of view — yours, for example — and I am willing to meet you half-way. When this affair is over, well over, it would give me no pain to give up my leadership here and become an ordinary brother. To do it precipitately, so soon after the murder, would certainly cause a scandal, or at least cast the shadow of doubt over my period as head of the order. To do it in a year or two’s time would seem only natural, I having borne the burden for so long. In the meanwhile I am willing to forgo my excursions to the outside world and to exercise more prudently (I have no doubt you think prudence a virtue) the shelter I have given here to those who as respectable modern followers of the Lord you think I should shun.’
‘But the police — the murder investigation — ’ said the Bishop.
‘I don’t think that difficulty is insuperable,’ said Father Anselm. ‘I personally have every confidence in the police solving the case, at least now that the idiot has been removed. Croft seems extremely competent. I am willing to promise that if they have not arrested anybody within let us say a fortnight, I will go to him. I will tell him that information has come to my ears — through another brother, who must be nameless, in whom he confided — about Brother Dominic’s former life in the outside world. That way, you would not be involved at all.’
The Bishop sniffed dubiously at the carrot which that last remark represented. It seemed too good to be true. ‘But if Croft does solve the case before then, he is pretty sure to find out about the man’s activities,’ he said.
‘Quite. But as far as we are concerned, he was Denis Crowther, of Little Purlock. We had no knowledge of his other existence, and we are profoundly shocked. I’ve no doubt, whichever way it goes, I could carry it off.’
They neither of them had any doubts about that. Ernest Clayton had come to have, in the course of the interview, a grudging respect for the man. Of course he was sophistical, Jesuitical, outrageous. He was the archetypal devil quoting scriptures, he was what people meant when they said someone was a politician to his fingertips. And yet . . . and yet . . .
He had made some hits. Against him, Ernest Clayton, he had made some hits. If Clayton was dissatisfied with himself after twenty-five years as a parish priest, was it not partly because he (like the Church which he criticized but followed) had become too respectable, too exclusive, one of an in-group of the lukewarm faithful looking out on the great mass of sinners with an expression of well-bred distaste on their faces? In the Middle Ages the Church had been a sanctuary for wrong-doers: Father Anselm had revived that function. Whatever his motives, were the results entirely to be deplored? Many of the fugitives to whom refuge had been given would today be guilty of no crime. Father Anselm himself would be free to follow his own tastes without interference if he went out into the world again. The law changes slowly, creaking after public opinion, leaving in its wake human wrecks who have been broken for doing what the next generation was to do with complete impunity. Had the Church’s role in this been so very heroic? At best it offered some such figure as the Bishop of Peckham, masking his flabbiness with paradox; at worst its leaders poured the oil of cliché over socially troubled waters or tamely followed in the wake of vicious popular prejudices, tentatively wagging their tails.
One thing was certain: if the Bishop of Peckham did not give a resolute no to Father Anselm’s second alternative, and give it straightaway, then Anselm would have won.
The Bishop stirred in his chair, and shook himself out of his meditation like a wet dog.
‘I think, Clayton, we should go away and talk this thing over,’ he said.
‘Very well,’ said Ernest Clayton.
CHAPTER XVI
BREAKING UP
IT WAS SATURDAY morning, and Inspector Croft sat in Father Anselm’s study, away from the sun, and away from the sight of other human beings. It ought to have concentrated the mind wonderfully, no doubt, being thus shut in in the gloom and forced to focus his thoughts on the case and nothing but the case. But he found it difficult. He would have liked, in fact, to have had a window in the room — a high window whence he might look down on the brothers and the delegates on their last day and see how they were behaving themselves, watch their reactions and the interplay of their characters. For in spite of all the reports and the digging into backgrounds, he felt he knew very little about them.
He could have kept them together longer, of course, but on consideration he had felt he had to let them go. There was very little in the way of solid evidence to connect them rather than the resident brothers with the murder. Their jobs made it unlikely they would stage a sudden disappearance, and Father Anselm’s anxiety to have the women within his walls not one minute longer than necessary was, though unstated, patently obvious.
Croft, in spite of his determination that no one was to be implicitly trusted, whatever his position, was nevertheless impressed by Father Anselm: a man of strong will, great capacity. He was impressed too by Anselm’s conviction that the murderer was one of the outsiders, though in
tellectually he could find little to back up that belief. He was impressed by his superb belief in himself. Now that the symposium was breaking up the Community could return to normal, and he could continue his investigations in the dingy familiarity of his own office. Meanwhile the delegates had been given the news of their release from Babylonian captivity, and he wondered how they were taking the news.
As he sat there in the dimly-lit room, with only the crucifix for decoration, he mused on the case and tried to find a shape in it. The pieces in the puzzle shifted around in his mind, coalesced, moved apart and began to form new patterns. What were the pieces? A pathetic, mothered clergyman childishly avid for publicity; a black bishop with one foot in Christianity and the other in a tribal world so strange as to be almost beyond the power of a Westerner to penetrate; a fishing knife; a bitter, rabble-rousing vicar with no rabble to rouse; a leaden American with a sharp financial nose; a blood-stained habit; two Norwegians, totally different in character, both of whom had had lengthy stays in Britain in the past; a sacrificial lamb; an intellectually agile bishop who went flabby in moments of crisis, and seemed to depend heavily on an obscure vicar apparently his intellectual inferior; a shifty-looking brother with restless eyes . . .
The body of Brother Dominic, savagely butchered, his bedclothes thick with his own blood . . .
Two of the pieces started dancing together, and making little patterns of their own, patterns which set up in Croft’s mind an insistent series of question-marks.
He wished again he could look at the delegates preparing to leave, and at the brothers preparing to see the last of them.
• • •
It was half past ten, and all the delegates had eaten a healthy and hearty breakfast and done their packing. Now they were strolling together for the last time in the sun of another brilliant day, watched from a distance by many of the brothers, drab, uniform, inscrutable. The mood of the delegates had changed once again on the news of their release: now they felt like schoolchildren soon to break up after a rather difficult term. Considering the butchery that had taken place within the walls during their stay there, they were all remarkably spry. Even jolly. The press, clustered around the main door like Neapolitan beggars, had been told that the delegates would be leaving at eleven-thirty. Until then the delegates in question talked, joked and swapped addresses for all the world as if they wanted more to do with each other.
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