by Paul Gitsham
‘Below us is the basement. The Granadians were well-educated by the standards of the day, and very keen diarists. They recorded everything that happened, no matter how inconsequential. Nobody is really sure why. Howard Langton was very keen to preserve these records and so he made the basement secure and dry. We have been working with a local historian to write a history book, and those original records have been invaluable, providing a remarkable insight into day-to-day life at the abbey.’
The inside of the building reminded Warren of many of the stately homes that he and Susan had toured with her parents, keen members of the National Trust. The ceilings of the entrance hallway were easily fifteen feet high, the walls painted bright red, with gold edging. Wide, south-facing windows filled the room with bright, early morning sunlight.
‘Is this house open to the public?’
‘No. We considered it, but in the end we felt it would be too disruptive for some of our residents.’
The wooden floors creaked as Baines led Warren deeper into the house, pointing out the small room used by the community for their daily worship.
‘Don’t you use the chapel?’
‘No, we attend Mass there on a Sunday and take it in turns to lead the service on weekday mornings, but the local lay congregation is too small for us to justify the cost of opening it up at other times, especially very early in the morning or last thing at night for divine office. Besides which, it’s a bit of a trek for some of our less-mobile brothers, especially in the winter.’
Warren couldn’t blame them. He’d not noticed any lighting on the paths and could only imagine what it would have been like in the dark, with the trees pressing in on all sides and the rustle of unseen animals in the bushes … He pushed away the thought, repressing a shudder.
Bishop Fisher’s office looked much like Warren would expect. The walls that weren’t hidden by six-foot wooden bookcases filled with academic-looking volumes, were the same red as the hallway outside. The faint smell of furniture polish mingled with fresh coffee. The bishop himself sat behind a large wooden desk, opposite a picture of the current pope and a small, porcelain statue of the Virgin Mary. An elderly looking desktop computer and an even older inkjet printer took up only a small proportion of the available desk space.
Portraits of earlier popes covered a wall to his right. Warren recognised Pope Francis, Pope Benedict XVI and Pope John Paul II. The remaining images probably represented others that had also held the position of Bishop of Rome since Bishop Fisher’s own ordination.
Bishop Nicholas Fisher trembled slightly as he stood, his back stooped. Nevertheless, his handshake was firm and his gaze steady. He wore the first dog collar that Warren had seen since arriving that morning; Deacon Baines’ thick fleece jacket hid his.
‘Welcome to St Cecil’s, DCI Jones. I’m sorry that it is under such sorrowful circumstances. I understand that it is believed to have been a suicide?’
‘Thank you for seeing me, Your Grace. We are keeping an open mind at the moment, however it is looking that way.’
The bishop shook his head. ‘Such a terrible affair. Let us hope that he has found peace from whatever was troubling him. If there is anything we can do to help his loved ones at this time, please don’t hesitate to let us know. We will of course be praying for his soul.’
‘That’s very kind, Your Grace. In the meantime, I wondered if it would be possible to question the residents and staff to see if anyone saw anything?’
‘Of course. I spoke to about half of the residents at breakfast this morning, nobody mentioned seeing anything. I will arrange for anyone who thinks they may be of assistance to speak to you.’
‘What about staff who live off-site, such as the groundsman? Do you know who was present last night, or who may have been in the grounds?’
‘Gabriel can get you a full list, but I believe the volunteers who help in the abbey visitor centre typically go home about five-thirty?’
Baines nodded. ‘And they use the old infirmary gatehouse exit behind the house, rather than the public entrance, so they wouldn’t have gone past the chapel anyway. The same goes for the carers that tend to Fathers Kendrick and Ramsden during the day – they’d have been here until about 8 p.m. – I’ll get their contact details for you.’
A quiet knock on the door signalled the arrival of the groundsman.
Rodney Shaw was a fit-looking middle-aged man, dressed in a grubby green fleece and black corduroy trousers.
‘I’ve been planting bulbs ready for the summer,’ he said, by way of an apology for not shaking Warren’s hand.
He’d finished work at his normal time of 5 p.m. the day before, then headed to his small flat on the other side of Middlesbury. He’d been watching the end of the news, and planning on an early night when his mobile phone had rung.
‘Deacon Baines called me as soon as he was called, and I arranged to meet him here. At first I assumed that it was just kids.’ He shrugged. ‘It wasn’t until I got there and saw the ambulance that I realised that it was a bit more serious. I had no idea that some poor bastard had died in there. Excuse my language, Your Grace.’
‘The doors to the chapel and the undercroft had been locked. These keys were found with the deceased. Do you recognise them?’ Warren showed the man a photo on his phone of the keys retrieved from the scene. Forensics hadn’t finished with them yet, and it was still speculation that they fitted the doors.
‘Yes, they’re the ones. Those locks are over a century old; I must have taken them apart and fixed them a half-dozen times over the last twenty years.’
‘Are these the only copies of the keys?’
The groundsman shook his head. ‘No, those are the ones that hang in the vestry. I have a second set at my house for safekeeping.’
‘Are the keys in the vestry accessible?’
‘Yeah, they’re hidden and you need to know the code to the door, but the brothers take it in turns to open the chapel for morning service, so everyone knows where they are.’
‘What about this key? It was found in the deceased’s trouser pocket.’ Warren flicked to the next image.
Groundsman squinted, then pointed at the screen. ‘That’s the key to the padlock for the main tool shed. I recognise that red blob of emulsion.’
‘Is that also in the vestry?’
‘Yeah, although I use my own copy so I don’t know how long it’s been missing.’
‘One final thing.’ Warren flicked to the next image.
‘Yeah, that’s the petrol can for the lawnmower. It’s kept in the main tool shed.’
‘Dear Lord, it would seem that the victim, whoever he may be, might be one of our community.’
Fisher’s tone suggested that he hadn’t considered that possibility until now.
‘I’m afraid that is quite possible, Your Grace – either one of your residents or a regular volunteer.’
The room fell silent for a moment.
After an appropriate pause, Warren asked if anyone had checked the whereabouts of everyone living in the house. He also requested a full list of volunteers and regular visitors who might have the necessary knowledge to find the keys to the chapel and undercroft. Identifying the victim was his first priority.
Before anyone could reply, there came a soft knock at the door.
Shaw answered it, before announcing the visitor needed to speak to Baines urgently. Warren caught a glimpse of a grey, ankle-length skirt and matching blouse before the door closed behind him.
A few seconds later Baines returned, ashen-faced. ‘I think that list might not be necessary. Father Nolan didn’t come down to breakfast this morning. Sister Clara says his bed hasn’t been slept in.’
Chapter 4
It took less than an hour for CSIs from the Scenes of Crime team working down at the chapel to seal off Father Nolan’s room and do a preliminary sweep for evidence. Tony Sutton supervised the search, whilst Warren continued interviewing Bishop Fisher and Deacon Baines. Until the body found in the
chapel was positively identified as Father Nolan and the cause of death determined, it was still regarded as unexplained, and so the room was being treated as a potential crime scene.
The note was written in a spidery script, on lined paper, and had been placed folded on the dresser. A photograph of it was on Sutton’s tablet computer, sitting on the bishop’s antique desk.
‘Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.’
The seven-word opening refrain was familiar to any Catholic who had ever partaken in the sacrament of confession. Warren felt the slightest twinge of guilt – the typical following statement, detailing how long it was since the penitent’s last confession, would be measured in decades, rather than years, for him.
‘Sinned in what way? In a general sense or something more specific?’ asked Sutton.
Fisher shrugged wearily. ‘I have no idea.’
‘Did Father Nolan give any indication that anything may be troubling him?’ asked Warren.
‘I shall ask others if he had said anything in public, but I had not heard him say anything openly.’
‘What about privately?’ asked Sutton, casually.
Fisher fixed him with a stare. ‘If you are referring to the holy sacrament of Penance, then you are no doubt aware that the seal of confession is sacrosanct.’
Sutton looked as though he had more to say, but a glance from Warren stopped him.
‘There was an open, empty container of medication next to the body. The part of the label that we could still read indicates that it originally contained Doxepin, which according to the internet is usually given to patients to combat depression and help with sleep. Was Father Nolan suffering with any mental health issues?’
Fisher paused before answering.
‘Father Nolan had struggled with depression for a number of years. I’m sure that his doctor can furnish you with more details.’
‘Do you know what lay behind the depression?’ asked Sutton.
Fisher shrugged again. ‘As I am sure you aware, clinical depression is a medical condition, it does not necessarily have a “cause”. His doctor may be able to shed more light on his condition.’
‘Deacon Baines tells me that Father Nolan was 76 years old,’ said Warren, ‘you said that he has been a resident here for eight years. That would make him 68 years old when he retired. My understanding is that priests normally retire at 75 or later, especially if they are physically fit and able to continue in their ministry. Was the depression the reason for his moving here?’
‘In part.’
Warren paused, but no more was forthcoming.
‘Thank you for your time, Bishop Fisher. I don’t suppose that you have a sample of Father Nolan’s handwriting?’
‘I am certain that we can find one.’ The elderly bishop hesitated before continuing. ‘Will it be necessary for somebody to identify the body?’
An image of the burnt corpse, with its rictus grin, appeared in Warren’s mind’s eye.
‘Unlikely. We should be able to confirm his identity from his dental records and a DNA match from his toothbrush.’
With nothing more to do until Forensics had completed their search, Warren and Sutton left the bishop’s office and headed outside, into the cool, winter air.
‘Let’s work on the assumption that the body is Father Nolan for the time being. Liaise with Deacon Baines and arrange for statements to be taken from Father Nolan’s acquaintances. Also, chase down his GP and see if we can find out if he was suicidal.’
‘For all the good it will do.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Warren, picking up on the edge in Sutton’s voice.
‘They’re all bloody Catholic priests. You heard what Bishop Fisher said in there. “The seal of confession is sacrosanct” – they’ll use that as an excuse to tell us what they want us to know and hide behind their vows for the rest.’
‘That’s a bit harsh, don’t you think? The seal only applies to what is said in the confessional, and I can’t imagine Father Nolan confessing to suicidal thoughts. Anything said outside of that relationship is open for discussion,’ countered Warren. ‘It’s no different to the privileged status given to clients and their solicitors.’
‘I disagree. Solicitors are duty-bound to report serious crimes to the authorities – Catholic priests think they are above the law.’
Warren eyed his friend with concern.
‘This really bothers you, doesn’t it?’
Sutton let out a puff of air.
‘I just don’t like the implication that the law applies differently to some people.’
Chapter 5
Warren wasn’t a big fan of autopsies. Ordinarily he would just wait for the results to be emailed or phoned to him, or rely on a summary from someone like Tony Sutton. Unfortunately, Sutton was busy and Moray Ruskin hadn’t seen a burn victim up close. With all his detective sergeants otherwise occupied, Warren took it upon himself to oversee this part of the probationary constable’s training. His own mentor, Bob Windermere, had done the same for Warren in the dim and distant past. On the way over he’d grilled the young officer about the interviews he’d conducted with the two teenage witnesses who’d reported the fire; from the sounds of it, Ruskin’s questioning had been thorough, but hadn’t uncovered anything new.
Professor Jordan greeted them at the door to the morgue, situated under the Lister Hospital in Stevenage, where the pathologist’s office was located. The two officers had already slipped protective clothing over their street clothes when Warren’s phone vibrated.
‘Good to see you again, Constable Ruskin. Shall we begin?’ said Jordan.
Warren motioned for them to carry on without him.
The text from Susan was brief and to the point.
Scan fine, everything looking good. Just waiting for blood test. Sxx
Warren responded with a simple ‘Wxx’, before going to re-join Ruskin, who by now was peering eagerly at the body, which lay on its left side in a similar position to how it had been found at the scene. A discreetly placed metal wastepaper bin stood to the left of the table, in case the sight and smell were too much. That didn’t look as if it would be a problem, at least not for Ruskin. Warren had been breathing through his mouth since entering the cooled room.
‘Tell me what you see, Constable,’ invited Jordan.
‘The skin on the upper torso is badly charred, probably third-degree burns. Skin that isn’t charred is swollen and split. The crown of the head is so badly burnt it’s unclear if the victim had hair or was bald.’
Ruskin did a complete circuit of the body, before bending over to look more closely.
‘The skin on the front of the thighs is very badly burnt, with little evidence of the clothes that he was wearing, whereas the clothing on the backs of the thighs is scorched but intact.’
‘Suggesting what?’ asked Jordan.
‘That the deceased was sitting down initially – if an accelerant was used it was probably poured over the top of his head, splashing down to cover his torso and upper thighs.’
‘Good. What about the position of the body? Describe its position.’
‘Classic pugilistic or boxer’s pose, hands up as if defending his face from attack.’
‘Which implies what?’
Ruskin’ eyes crinkled, betraying the smile beneath his mask.
‘Nothing. The positioning is caused by the heat shortening the ligaments and tendons.’
‘Good.’
Lesson over for the time being, Jordan summarised his findings.
‘DC Ruskin is correct; the deceased was likely sat down on the chair when the accelerant – probably petrol – was poured over his head. That could have been self-inflicted or by persons unknown. The deceased remained seated for at least some time, whilst the fire took hold; the accelerant will have burnt off fairly quickly but remained long enough to ignite his clothing. In the final stages the clothing and accelerant had gone, but the deceased’s skin and tissues continued to burn until he was
extinguished. At some point he toppled off the chair onto his left side.’
‘Was he alive?’
Jordan nodded. ‘I believe that the witnesses reported screams, which only lasted a few seconds. If accurate, then assuming that they came from the deceased, he was almost certainly alive for at least some time – presumably until the fire took hold. Pathologically, I’ve found traces of soot below the larynx which indicates that he was breathing in the smoke.’
‘Christ,’ muttered Warren. ‘Do you have a cause of death?’
‘Fire is the best I can do at this stage,’ said Jordan flatly.
Ruskin frowned.
‘It’s impossible to be more precise. I measured his carbon monoxide concentration at 42 per cent. That’s on the low end of fatal. Similarly, the intense temperature of the fire did serious damage to his internal organs and ultimately clotted his blood. Unfortunately, I can’t tell you if that killed him, or if he died of other causes before the damage reached a fatal level.’
‘What other causes?’ asked Ruskin.
‘He had moderate cardiovascular disease. It’s possible that the stress of the situation triggered a cardiac event. It’s difficult to tell what damage to the heart was pre-mortem and what was post-mortem – regardless I’d still regard that as being caused by the fire.
‘I’ve sent off for toxicology reports. There was a significant volume of alcohol in his stomach and there was an empty container of medication near to his body. Doxepin has sedative properties, enhanced by alcohol. It’s always possible that he succumbed to their combined toxicity before the fire killed him.’
Ruskin shook his head slowly. ‘All the other evidence suggests that it was suicide. But how is that possible? The burns on his thighs make it look as though he remained sitting for at least some time before falling off his chair. The witnesses I spoke to are clear that they heard screaming, so he must have been conscious at some point. I’ve seen the videos on YouTube of those monks setting themselves on fire. They shrieked and ran around.’
‘Could the alcohol and doxepin have numbed him?’ asked Warren.