by Paul Gitsham
‘We’re completely in the dark here. We’ve no idea if either Baines or Shaw is the killer. We don’t know if the killer has another target or if he’s finished, and we don’t even know that the victim or killer are on site; Baines’ car was abandoned miles away.’
‘I know, but what else can we do, Warren? At least if we can secure the abbey site we can be sure that the priests are safe,’ said Sutton. ‘Besides which, the killer seems determined to follow some sort of plan and every victim so far has been murdered within the abbey grounds, just like the original killings.’
‘And each of the killings has taken place where the original killings happened,’ said Warren. ‘Father Nolan and Matthias Scrope’s father both burned to death in the chapel undercroft. Father Daugherty and Brother Benedict were found face down in the river. Brother Isaac supposedly hung himself in the infirmary, which no longer exists, but Father Madden was killed within the retirement home, which partly overlaps the ruins of the old infirmary.’
‘By that logic, the next killings should take place in the blacksmith’s workshop,’ said Richardson.
‘Which is no longer standing,’ said Warren. ‘Nor are the ruins on the map.’
‘So where was it?’ asked Sutton.
The three officers stared at the map. They all saw it at the same time.
‘Where better to have the blacksmith than next to the horses he was shoeing?’ asked Warren.
Sutton stabbed a finger at the area marked ‘stable block’.
‘The old blocks are just ruins now, but there’s a sign pointing towards an interactive attraction for children up that way. What’s the betting it’s a recreation of a sixteenth-century blacksmith’s workshop?’
* * *
Warren, Sutton and the two uniformed officers were within fifty metres of the wooden hut when they smelt the burning. The smoke wasn’t that of wood smoke. Neither, mercifully was it the burnt pork smell of human flesh.
‘Charcoal,’ muttered Sutton.
Warren nodded his agreement, it reminded him of the smell of a barbecue, just before the meat was placed on the grill.
The two officers’ deduction had been correct; signposts on the pathway had invited visitors, in particular children, to see a ‘recreation of a blacksmith at work’.
‘The door’s been blocked up,’ observed the officer to Warren’s left. She was right, the hut’s wooden door didn’t quite reach the ground and it looked as though a blanket had been forced into the gap.
If they were correct, then whoever had been trapped in the hut may have been slowly suffocating since the previous night. Warren braced himself for what they were about to find.
* * *
The paramedics that had accompanied the team to the abbey had been told to stand down; there was nothing they could do for either of the men inside the blacksmith’s hut.
‘Until Professor Jordan performs a full autopsy, I’m going to suggest that the cause of death was asphyxiation, specifically by carbon monoxide poisoning.’ The on-call doctor had arrived in record time, and been in the hut for only a couple of minutes. It hadn’t taken a great leap of logic for him to deduce what had happened, after seeing the smouldering piles of charcoal briquettes, and the carefully blocked up window and doors.
Warren nodded. He’d seen the flushed skin, and a cursory check of the carotid pulse had been all that was necessary for him to decide it was a murder scene and exit quickly into the fresh air, already feeling light-headed.
‘What about the head wounds?’
‘Obviously that’s Professor Jordan’s call, but there’s a lot of fresh blood around the lesions and some on the floor, suggesting that bleeding occurred for a significant amount of time after the wounds were inflicted. Professor Jordan will have to look for smoke particles in the airways and run blood tests, but I’ve seen victims of carbon monoxide poisoning before, and it’s indicative.’
‘Any idea what the weapon might have been?’
The doctor pursed his lips. ‘Now you’re asking me to go out on a limb.’
‘Gut feeling, off the record.’
‘A blunt object, probably fairly narrow.’
‘Would a tyre iron do the job?’
‘Off the record? It’d do the job quite nicely.’
Chapter 89
Even after a short period of time in the hut, Warren’s eyes were stinging. Tony Sutton gave a gravelly cough. Richardson flapped her jacket ineffectually. ‘This’ll have to go straight into the wash,’ she grumbled.
‘So what do we do now?’ asked Sutton.
‘Well, at the very least, we know there’s a third person involved,’ said Warren. ‘Baines and Shaw didn’t wallop their own heads with a tyre iron and suffocate themselves.’
‘But who? Those two were our strongest suspects. And where is the killer now? Baines’ car was abandoned more than sixteen hours ago.’
Sutton looked as exhausted as Warren felt. Neither man had enjoyed more than a couple of hours’ sleep since the previous morning, and they had been working long hours for the past three weeks. Richardson didn’t look much better. The adrenaline comedown coupled with the lack of sleep made the thought of starting all over again daunting in the extreme. Warren was suddenly glad that they had commandeered a police car to get them to the abbey; he doubted he was safe to drive himself home, now that it was all over.
He pulled his mobile phone out of his pocket. Grayson had heard the weariness in Warren’s voice as he’d reported their discovery, and promised to send over a DI from Welwyn to take over managing the crime scene until the morning.
The phone vibrated in his hand. Warren recognised the main switchboard number from CID that all external calls were routed through. He answered it, expecting to hear Grayson’s voice. He prayed that his replacement wasn’t going to be unduly delayed, he could almost hear his bed whispering in his ear.
‘Sir, it’s Moray.’ A somewhat unnecessary introduction, given the man’s booming Scottish voice. Warren pressed speaker phone, so that Sutton and Richardson could also hear.
‘The pupil roll’s in from Thomas Tichborne and I was right – almost nobody called their kid “Keith”, even back then.’ Ruskin was excited, and Warren contemplated turning the speaker off, they hardly needed it. ‘Just one pupil has that first name. A Keith Boyce.’
‘Why does that surname sound familiar?’ asked Sutton.
‘Did he have a brother?’ asked Warren.
‘Yes, an older brother, attended five years earlier. Angus Boyce.’
Despite his fatigue, Warren recognised the name immediately, ‘Christ, I’m an idiot. I knew that something was off about that note on Vernon Coombs’ photocopy. “Buy a pint for Father GB.” Gabriel Baines was a deacon, he wouldn’t be called “Father”. Father Angus Boyce though …’
‘Angus, commonly abbreviated to Gus,’ filled in Sutton.
‘Father Angus Boyce is in charge of the care of Fathers Kendrick and Ramsden,’ said Warren.
‘What’s the betting that at least one of them is on morphine for pain relief?’ asked Richardson.
‘It also explains why there were black cotton threads on the bridge when Father Daugherty was found. His coat was buttoned up, he couldn’t have transferred fibres from his shirt to the wall. But if his killer was a priest—’
‘He was probably wearing exactly the same clothes as his victims,’ finished Sutton.
‘We don’t want him anywhere near that home,’ said Warren. ‘Tony, call ahead to the officers guarding the house. Tell them to be on the lookout just in case he comes back.’ He returned to the phone call, ‘Moray, get Grayson to put out a bulletin for the arrest of Father Angus Boyce, we should have his photograph on file.’
‘Will do, sir,’ responded Ruskin. In the background, Warren could hear a commotion. Ruskin came back on the line. ‘Sir, Rachel Pymm needs to speak to you urgently. She’s found something. I’ll transfer you to her line.’
‘Sir, I’ve been looking through the last
of those files.’ Rachel Pymm’s voice sounded panicky over the phone speaker. ‘I made a mistake, Abbot Godwine was also a target of Simon Scrope.’
‘I thought you said he was still alive when he abandoned the abbey in 1539?’
‘He was, and Simon Scrope remained behind and went into hiding in the town, but Scrope made his attempt years earlier.’
‘What did he do?’
‘I can’t be sure exactly, but two of the monks’ diaries report that Abbot Godwine took gravely ill towards the end of 1522, just a few weeks after the killing of the final monks involved in the abuse. The symptoms that they describe match poisoning. The same diaries later note that Abbot Godwine employed tasters for his food from then on.’
‘Shit. If that’s true, then Boyce might try to kill Bishop Fisher as some sort of finale,’ said Sutton. ‘Completing the job that Scrope failed at five hundred years ago would have some sort of symmetry to it.’
‘We’re still at the abbey,’ said Warren as the three officers started to run towards the house.
‘Where’s Bishop Fisher?’ Sutton asked the officers guarding the main doorway.
‘I think he’s in his office.’
Another officer emerged, a clipboard in his hand. ‘Sir, Father Angus Boyce is on site, and is unaccounted for. He arrived by bicycle at 7 a.m. this morning, and several people reported seeing him during the day, including Fathers Kendrick and Ramsden. Nobody has seen him since about 6 p.m. None of the officers on the main door have seen him leave the house.’
‘He must still be here,’ said Sutton. ‘When did he leave yesterday?’
The officer flicked back through his log.
‘He left with Deacon Baines, in Deacon Baines’ car, at five-thirty Friday evening.’
‘Shit, the timing works. They must have met up with Rodney Shaw; there would have been plenty of time that evening for Boyce to kill them both,’ said Warren.
‘I bet he even nicked Shaw’s bike,’ said Sutton darkly.
‘The whereabouts of Sister Clara are also unknown,’ continued the officer. ‘She didn’t appear in the dining room when everyone was summoned.’
‘Hold on, could Sister Clara be helping Boyce?’ asked Sutton.
‘Why do you say that?’ asked Warren.
Sutton started to count the points off on his fingers.
‘She always seems to be involved. She reported Father Nolan’s room hadn’t been slept in and she and the other sisters have full access to the house as cleaners and carers. They’re practically invisible; I’ll bet they know as much about this place as Baines or Shaw did. Also, the Friends of Middlesbury Abbey said that at least one of the sisters was in attendance at the talk Vernon Coombs gave.’
‘Hutch said that it was one of the sisters that mentioned this supposed argument between Father Nolan and Rodney Shaw that nobody seems to have actually witnessed,’ said Richardson. ‘What’s the betting that Sister Clara was the one to start that particular rumour?’
‘She also helped look after Fathers Kendrick and Ramsden; she’d have full access to their morphine,’ said Sutton. ‘And remember that nice double-bed at Baines’ house? How likely is it that we find traces of her DNA on the bedsheets? Assuming Baines was celibate since his wife died, seducing him might not have been too difficult. I just wonder what her motive is and why she teamed up with Boyce?’
Warren frowned slightly. ‘Well, we can worry about that later. What concerns me now is that she has access to the kitchen, we need to track her down.’
He turned to the officer with the clipboard.
‘Come with us,’ Warren ordered him, ‘and keep your baton handy.’
They entered the bishop’s office without knocking.
The elderly clergyman sat behind his desk, eyes closed, his hands clasped.
He looked up as the officers burst in.
Next to him there was a bowl of soup, a glass of water and some crusty bread.
‘Have you eaten anything, Your Grace?’ asked Warren urgently.
‘No, I was giving thanks first,’ he said. ‘What is this all about?’
Warren let out the breath that he had been holding.
‘Constable, radio for a CSI to come and take the food as evidence. Don’t handle it yourself just in case, we don’t know what Boyce or Sister Clara may have put in it.’
‘You think they might have poisoned my food?’ Bishop Fisher had turned pale. ‘I overheard the officers at the door talking. Do you really think that Father Boyce is responsible for the murders?’
‘We believe so, Your Grace. I’m assuming that you didn’t make the soup yourself?’
‘No, of course not. The sisters made a batch of it, Sister Clara gave it to the officer on the door as I was waiting for you.’
‘Shit, we could be looking at multiple poisonings,’ said Sutton.
‘And everyone else is in the dining room, where we put them for safekeeping,’ said Warren.
‘We’d better go to the kitchen and secure the soup before somebody decides to bring it out,’ said Sutton.
By now, two more uniformed officers had arrived at the office door.
Warren pointed at one at random, ‘You and Sergeant Richardson look after Bishop Fisher. You’ve seen photos of Father Boyce and Sister Clara – do not let them approach, use force if necessary.’
He turned to the uniformed officer beside him and squinted at his name badge.
‘Constable Patel, come with us.’
Warren, Sutton and Patel made their way rapidly to the dining room. To their relief, the priests were milling around, but there was no sign of the tainted food.
‘Sealed bottled water only, no food or other drinks until I clear it,’ Warren instructed the bemused officers guarding the elderly priests.
The rear exit from the dining room led into a short corridor, its lights extinguished. To the right, another door led back into the main reception. To the left, the kitchen doors, with their glass windows, provided the only illumination, a sickly green from the emergency exit sign.
Warren tiptoed down the corridor, towards the kitchen, before peering carefully through the doors. The weak light reflected off a large soup tureen sitting on a wheeled cart.
‘I can see the soup, but I can’t see any sign of Sister Clara or Father Boyce,’ he whispered.
‘Why are the lights off?’ muttered Sutton.
‘Keep that baton handy,’ Warren ordered Patel quietly, as he gently pushed the door open and stepped in.
The kitchen was cool, the ovens turned off. On closer inspection, Warren could see an electrical cable leading from the tureen to a socket on the wall. An orange light turned to red as the thermostat switched the heating coils back on.
Warren’s eyes were slowly adjusting to the dark. The door to what appeared to be a walk-in pantry was slightly ajar, a dark lump stopping it from closing. It was a foot.
‘I think we’ve found Sister Clara,’ muttered Warren quietly.
On Warren’s signal Patel moved towards the body.
As the constable leant forward, the pantry door suddenly crashed open, knocking him over. A shadowy form followed through, arm swinging. Patel gave a grunt of surprise as the wooden rolling pin caught him full in the face.
Boyce leapt over the prone man and headed straight for the door. Warren and Sutton braced themselves to stop him, but the disgraced priest grabbed the cart and thrust it violently towards them. The trolley travelled barely a metre, before reaching the end of its cable. The sudden jerk was enough to tip the tureen over and the two officers had to throw themselves backwards to avoid the tide of scalding hot soup.
Patel was staggering back to his feet, his nose clearly broken.
‘Stay with Sister Clara,’ ordered Warren as he and Sutton took off after Boyce.
Bursting back out into the corridor, the two men caught a glimpse of their target as he slammed through the doors at the far end of the corridor. Warren and Sutton followed him seconds later.
T
he two officers standing by Bishop Fisher’s office door were reaching for their batons as Warren and Sutton followed Boyce into the reception area. Boyce’s shoes squeaked as he turned on the polished wooden floor and headed up the ornate stairway.
‘Mags, follow us,’ ordered Warren as he and Sutton followed the fleeing priest up the stairs.
The first flight of stairs was carpeted, and led onto the first floor balcony. By the time the three police officers made it onto the balcony, Boyce had already exited into the corridor beyond.
Following him, they entered the wood-lined hallway. One of the priest holes smashed open during the frantic search for Father Madden still gaped open, like a yawning mouth full of stained, brown teeth.
Boyce ignored the hole, heading for the stairwell at the opposite end. Unlike the opulent flight of stairs leading down to the reception, these were purely functional and Boyce’s shoes made loud, echoing booms as he pounded up them. Warren and Sutton gasped for breath as they followed him. Richardson overtook them, her marathon training giving her an extra-burst of speed. Emerging onto the second floor, Warren managed to suck in enough air to shout after the running man.
‘Give it up, there’s nowhere for you to go. You’re on the top floor.’
Boyce ignored him, and continued to the end of the corridor. Reaching the far end, he turned and pulled on a narrow door, before ducking in and slamming it behind him. Warren caught a quick glimpse of a green fire exit sign.
‘He must be heading for the roof,’ said Warren as they continued to race after him.
Sutton was halfway between Richardson and Warren, and only five paces from the exit when it happened. One moment the DI was sprinting for the end of the corridor, the next it was as if his legs turned to liquid, sending him crashing face first to the floor. Warren managed to dodge his falling friend, before skidding to a halt. Richardson, hearing the thud, turned also.
‘Tony?’ said Warren.
The only response was a slurred mumble.
‘Shit,’ he turned to Richardson, who’d sprinted back to join them. ‘Call an ambulance.’
Warren dropped to his knees beside Sutton.
The man’s eyes were rolling, his jaw had opened, and drool was coming out. Warren grabbed his left hand; it felt limp.