by Paul Gitsham
‘Not much until we get him back to the morgue and I do the post-mortem. I can’t tell if he died of burns, smoke inhalation or something else, although I’m told the kids that discovered the body heard screaming, so I suspect he was conscious at some point. Like I said, I’ll know more later.’
‘“He?” Definitely male then?’ asked Ruskin.
‘Almost certainly, although again I’ll be more confident after the PM. The muscles have contracted, which makes it difficult to estimate build; I’d be prepared to go out on a limb and say he’s not a child, but anything more will have to wait.’
Warren looked at the chair lying next to the man; a sturdy affair, the wood looked scorched but not burnt.
‘One of the seats from the chapel, you can see the kneeler fixed to the back,’ offered Harrison.
‘Why didn’t it catch fire?’ asked Ruskin.
‘The fire investigators will tell us for sure, but my nose suggests that the body was doused in petrol before being set alight. You can see that his clothes clearly caught, and then his skin, but the petrol probably vaporised and didn’t soak into the wood sufficiently for it to catch.’
Ruskin’s voice was thick when he spoke.
‘Who would do such a thing?’
Before Warren could answer the young officer’s rhetorical question, Harrison spoke up.
‘Don’t jump to conclusions, son.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Sutton.
‘We found a petrol canister and matches next to the body, alongside some whiskey and a pill container. The container was melted from the heat and only part of the label is visible. I reckon you’ll get the prescription details but not the patient’s name. They’ve been sent off for analysis. And I’ve not seen any sign that the deceased was restrained.’
‘What are you suggesting?’ asked Warren.
‘Well, the door from the chapel to the undercroft was locked; I’m no locksmith, but the large metal key we found next to the chair looks like it matches the only entrance to this place.’
It took a few moments for the importance of the discovery to sink in.
When Ruskin finally spoke, his voice was filled with horror.
‘You mean the victim did this to himself?’
Saturday 21st February
Chapter 2
Warren stifled a yawn. He’d arrived home very late the night before, the adrenaline of the night’s activities soon giving way to a bone-weary exhaustion. He could have handed over the 8 a.m. briefing to DI Sutton, but his second-in-command had been up just as late as his DCI. And what would be the point? Despite his tiredness, sleep had proven elusive. The nightmares that had plagued him since the events of the summer had returned, and he’d eventually given up and driven into work, trying his best not to disturb Susan.
At the back of the room, he spied Moray Ruskin busy regaling another detective constable with a no-holds-barred description of the body from the previous night. He at least looked refreshed – a fact that had more to do with him going straight home than the resilience of youth, Warren told himself.
‘Dunno where the kid gets his energy,’ muttered Sutton. ‘He’s already been for a run and a session in the gym this morning. He’s helping train Mags Richardson for her first half-marathon.’
‘It’s just because he had a good night’s sleep.’
‘Keep telling yourself that, sir.’
Warren chose not to respond, instead bringing the room to order. After briefly summarising the events of the previous night, he projected a photograph of the body onto the briefing room screen.
‘We have yet to identify the victim, however preliminary indications are that the fire was self-inflicted. But until that is confirmed we’ll be treating the death as unexplained.’
Detective Sergeant Mags Richardson beat DS David Hutchinson to the first question.
‘Have we eliminated the kids who called it in? Some folks get a kick out of these things.’
‘That’s underway. Forensics are analysing their clothing and belongings for traces of accelerant and have finger-printed them and taken impressions of their shoes. The locked door is supposedly the only entrance into the undercroft large enough for a person to fit through, although we will be checking the state of the bars on the windows.’ Warren smiled. ‘Moray, they might respond better to someone closer to their own age. Can you do a follow-up interview with them later today?’
Ruskin acknowledged the thinly veiled reference to his own cheeky comments the night before with a grin.
‘Have English Heritage been contacted?’ asked Hutchinson.
‘We managed to get hold of them late last night, Hutch, and they referred us to St Cecil’s Home for Retired Clergy, who are actually responsible for the maintenance and upkeep of the abbey,’ said Sutton, referring to his notebook. ‘The retirement home is actually situated within the abbey grounds, but at the far end from the chapel, and shielded by trees, so none of the residents were aware of what was happening until the fire engine turned up. A Deacon Gabriel Baines is in charge of the whole site, and he called the groundsman. The property was secured and I’ve arranged for a meeting with him first thing.’
‘I’ll take that,’ said Warren. ‘I want to get out there again.’
‘Any indications who the victim might be?’ asked DS Rachel Pymm.
‘All we have so far is that it’s an adult male,’ said Warren. ‘When we have a better description, we’ll contact missing persons and homeless shelters. I’m going to visit the abbey immediately after this briefing, and see if they can help. Any further questions?’
When none were forthcoming, Warren started assigning roles to the team.
‘Mags take charge of collecting CCTV; I’m sure they have cameras inside the grounds for security; our victim may have driven or walked, see what’s available from the surrounding area. Hutch, scope out any residential properties nearby and see if there are any witnesses. I’d also like you to arrange a team to interview any of the residents that live on site after I’ve visited.
‘Moray, bring the kids that called it in down to the station and sweat them a bit. At the moment it’s looking like a suicide, but I want us to keep an open mind. Rachel, I’d like you to set up an incident desk and get information inputted into HOLMES; if this does turn out to be something more sinister, I want us ready to react quickly.’ Warren suppressed a grimace as he remembered his early morning meeting with his superior, Detective Superintendent John Grayson. ‘Somebody burning to death in the crypt of Middlesbury’s number one tourist attraction is likely to generate headlines for all the wrong reasons. The sooner we deal with this the better.’
Chapter 3
Deacon Gabriel Baines was a sparsely built man with a full shock of white hair and a ruddy complexion. He’d greeted Warren at the main entrance to the abbey grounds, unlocking the trades’ entrance next to the imposing double doors that served the public. A printed sheet pinned to the door apologised for the abbey’s unexpected closure.
‘These doors date back to the eighteenth century and are pretty much impregnable – it’s just a shame the same can’t be said about the rest of the perimeter walls.’
‘I saw that there have been a number of complaints of trespassing and criminal damage going back several years,’ said Warren.
‘We’ve given up reporting all but the most serious cases. Our groundsman chases people out of here at least once a month; mostly kids like those two last night, but occasionally we find drug paraphernalia in some of the open tombs. Every once in a while, somebody sprays graffiti or damages some of the gravestones.
‘It’s upsetting, but what can we do? We’re raising money to repair the walls, in part to stop this sort of thing, but at the rate we’re going it’ll be another thirty years before we can even make a start.’
‘I thought English Heritage were responsible for the abbey’s upkeep?’ said Warren.
‘Unfortunately, we aren’t, strictly speaking, owned by English Heritage. I’m
assuming from your accent that you never had the obligatory primary school visit to the ruins?’
Warren admitted his ignorance; he’d been brought up in Coventry which had too much local history to justify a trip all the way to Middlesbury to see an old church. And somehow, he’d never found time in the three-and-a-half years since he’d moved to Middlesbury to take a tour.
‘Then let me give you a quick tour,’ suggested Baines as they walked into the grounds. ‘The area inside the walls was the original site of the thirteenth-century Middlesbury Abbey. It was founded in 1220, by a group of Andalusian monks from what is now Granada in modern Spain and for three hundred odd years, it served Middlesbury and the surrounding villages. When the plague came to town in the mid-fourteenth century, the brothers expanded their priory to become an infirmary and built a new gatehouse so that sick people could receive medical care without infecting the rest of the abbey and complex – remarkably prescient given that they didn’t have any understanding of germ theory at the time.’ Baines paused and directed Warren to a gap in the tree line.
‘You can see the new gatehouse there.’ He pointed to an imposing set of double wooden gates in the far perimeter wall. ‘It’s on the opposite side of the grounds to the visitors’ entrance we’ve just come from, and is still used by staff and residents. Unfortunately, the old infirmary building was knocked down and built over a couple of hundred years ago.’
Baines continued to lead the two men up a roughly tarmacked path, just wide enough for a single vehicle to drive down without brushing the trees and shrubs either side. A signpost directed visitors to turn right along a narrow pathway for the chapel or left for the education centre. The road continued straight on, but another signpost marked it as ‘Private. Staff only beyond this point.’ Baines continued walking straight ahead.
‘Of course, daily life came to a halt in 1539 during the dissolution of the monasteries by Henry VIII. The monks abandoned the abbey and returned, we presume, to Andalusia. The abbey fell into disrepair and was basically the ruins that you see today until 1700 when Sir Howard Langton bought the grounds. He was ostensibly a respectable Anglican landowner and businessman, making his fortune from sourcing locally produced textiles to sell at the market, but we know now that he was really a Roman Catholic. At that time, Catholicism was still a crime, punishable by death, but he was careful to make donations to the right people and didn’t proselytize, so if anyone suspected his true faith, they said nothing.’
Baines pointed towards the chapel where the fire had taken place the previous night. Partially visible through the trees and the lingering mid-morning mist, the building took on a moody, almost sinister appearance. Even during daylight hours, Warren could see the fascination it would hold for some; he suspected that without a major upgrade to the site’s perimeter walls, they were fighting a losing battle against trespassers, with the previous night’s tragedy likely to increase the attraction.
White and blue police tape demarked a cordon twenty metres beyond the chapel’s perimeter. As they watched, a couple of white-suited CSIs emerged from the tent protecting the chapel entrance.
‘Despite its older appearance, the chapel was actually built by Langton in the first years of the eighteenth century, over the top of what had been the original abbey’s undercroft. He took care to preserve the walls that originally formed the abbey’s kitchen and scullery and there is also evidence to suggest that the undercroft was used to hold illegal Catholic services. When Catholicism was no longer a crime, the chapel became Middlesbury’s first public place of worship for Catholics. We still serve a small, but loyal parish.’
‘How do worshippers access the chapel?’
‘We open the main visitors’ gate and let them through.’ Baines smiled tightly. ‘In anticipation of your next question, we take it on trust that they are attending the chapel, not trying to get into the site for free.’
Warren filed the fact away for future reference. Although the policy meant that potentially anyone could have been wandering around the site, it also meant that everyone that entered would be caught by the cameras on the main entrance. He’d make certain to have the CCTV checked thoroughly.
‘So where does English Heritage come into this?’ asked Warren. The organisation’s distinctive red, crenelated square logo was prominently displayed on the signage leading into the abbey grounds.
‘English Heritage, or the Ministry of Works as it was back then, first became interested in the site in the Fifties. Langton and his descendants had lived here from about 1700 to the early years of the 1900s. They built a large house overlapping the ruins of the old infirmary, expanded the graveyard, resurrected the walled vegetable gardens and planted an apple orchard. Much of this was done before the 1791 act effectively decriminalised Catholicism, and so the house has a number of hidden rooms and priest holes. All boarded-up due to health and safety concerns now, of course,’ Baines said ruefully.
‘By the turn of the last century however, a combination of no suitable heirs and bad financial decisions meant the family were all but bankrupt. The house was abandoned, and aside from being requisitioned during the Second World War, was left empty.’
‘Which was when you took it over?’
‘Pretty much. The Catholic Church had always had an interest in the site, as it is part of our heritage and one of the few monasteries and abbeys founded by the Granadians, whose influence has largely disappeared even from their own region of Andalusia. However, the land had been seized during Henry VIII’s power grab and exactly who owned it was a bit of a legal quagmire. English Heritage were interested, but didn’t really want to do anything beyond preserve the ruins as they were. In the end a deal was brokered, whereby English Heritage would manage the upkeep of the actual historic ruins and run it as a visitor attraction, whilst the church would pay a symbolic one-pound annual rent and maintain the rest of the grounds, using proceeds from the gardens and other business ventures.’
‘Which is why all the staff working here are priests?’
‘Not all, but you are right that many of the staff are members of the church.’
He gestured towards a large building just visible in the distance behind a clutch of trees. ‘That was the original family home built by Howard Langton. It was extended several times and was part of the land bought by the church. We didn’t do much with it at first, most of our efforts were focused on the original medieval abbey, and we ignored the later additions. But by the Nineties the church was starting to face a retirement problem. Lots of our clergy were getting old or ill, leading to a shortage in priests, as well as increasing the numbers of our brothers needing care.
‘We’d wanted a dedicated retirement home in the area for some time. Many of our priests have lived in the area for fifty years and don’t want to give up their ties to the community. Renovating the house was the most cost-effective option and it was opened in 2004; the name St Cecil is an anglicised version of Caecilius of Elvira, the patron saint of Elvira, modern day Granada. Now we have up to twenty priests at any time, ranging from those who are still quite fit and healthy, and still say Mass occasionally, to the fully-retired who need some day-to-day assistance. We are also providing hospice care for a couple of our brothers who are soon to receive their eternal reward. Those that are well enough are encouraged to help in the grounds. We also have three sisters who support us.’
‘Are any of the residents likely to have been outside in the grounds at the time of the fire?’
Baines pursed his lips. ‘Unlikely, I’d have thought. I will ask Bishop Fisher of course, but most of our brothers typically rise before six to take part in the breviary and so tend not to stay up late. I don’t live in the house, so I knew nothing of what had happened until I was called at about a quarter to ten. The old warden’s house and orchard block most of the view of the chapel and graveyard so nobody in the house had any idea what was going on.’
‘Who is Bishop Fisher?’
‘Bishop Emeritus Nichola
s Fisher was the driving force behind the conversion of the house into a retirement home. When he reached 75 and it came time for him to slow down himself, he opted to live amongst his fellow brothers and attend to their pastoral care, rather than take up residency somewhere more in keeping with his office.’ Baines smiled. ‘His Grace might be elderly, but he’s still very much in charge.’
‘So what is your role?’
‘I am, for want of a better term, our business manager.’
Warren raised an eyebrow.
‘I was called to serve God later than many, after a career in business. Bishop Fisher asked me to make the community and abbey more financially self-sufficient. It’s why all the food in our gift shop and most of our café dishes are made from produce grown on our own grounds. We have an apiary producing honey and we’ve recently resurrected Middlesbury Abbey cider. Quite a kick, if you ever get the chance.’
‘Would I be able to speak to Bishop Fisher? And I’d also like to have a word with the groundsman.’
‘Of course.’ Baines looked at his watch. ‘Bishop Fisher will probably be in his office, I can get Rodney to join us there.’ He pulled out an iPhone, and gave Warren an amused glance. ‘It is the twenty-first century, Chief Inspector. We even have wireless broadband.’
* * *
The house was even bigger up close than it appeared and Baines was clearly very proud of the community he had helped build.
‘We have twenty-eight bedrooms spread over three floors. At present we have nineteen residents, not including Bishop Fisher. We are also fortunate to have Father Boyce, a trained medic, who helps care for our sicker brothers when the care assistants go home for the day, and Sisters Clara, Angela and Isabella who assist Father Boyce and are responsible for cooking and cleaning. The remaining rooms are guest rooms for visiting relatives. The Langton family liked to entertain and so the kitchen and dining room are big enough for us all to eat together as a community.