A Demon Summer (23 page)

“Good afternoon, Abbess Genevieve,” he greeted her.

A majestic nod of the head.

“Father.”

“Father Max Tudor, at your service.” Without thinking, he had slipped into the courtier role that she seemed to expect, this woman from another time. Almost another planet, an impression she reinforced with her next words.

“I am come from the Mother Ship, St. Martin's. I conduct business with the Abbess Justina. We are selling her convent's goods and vice versa. They have had great success with our face cream.”

“Ah,” said Max. She meant of course the motherhouse, but her impish expression hinted at the joke. She was perhaps fifty, perhaps eighty—like most of the sisters, who with the exception of Dame Hephzibah appeared to be ironed free of wrinkles, he had a difficult time telling. He could have sworn Abbess Genevieve was wearing a light scent, or perhaps had used a perfumed soap. Surely that was an infraction of the Rule? Or did she have her own rules? It was an idea she seemed to confirm with her next words.

“Never underestimate the reviving and healing power of a nice fragrance,” she said. “And of a little pampering with handmade products. I bring this for Dame Meredith.” She held up for his inspection a small package, exquisitely wrapped in linen and lace and decorated with a sprig of lavender. “So much better than things produced in enormous factories.”

“I congratulate you on your successful alliance with Monkbury.”

She nodded, modestly accepting the tribute as hers alone.

Max noted that French women even managed to wear a wimple and veil with a certain style and—dare it be said?—sex appeal. It must be some manual the women over there were issued at birth. Her habit was different from that of the other nuns, so apparently the satellite abbey here in England was free to do as it wished with regard to fashion statements. It was of a dark blue, almost black, and while her manner was a model of correct austerity she managed to comport herself with a certain élan that was missing in the other nuns. She stared directly into Max's eyes, taking his measure. Apparently liking what she saw, she answered, “Thanks to God. We have a most successful partnership now. All the rancor of the past, it is forgotten.”

“And may I ask how long you have been here?”

“Not long enough to be of value to you in your investigation,” she said quickly. “I only arrived last week.”

Certainly, word of his mission had spread—not, Max supposed, that it had been any secret.

“So you weren't here last fall, when the unpleasantness seems to have originated?”

“No. I would have put a stop to it.”

“How so?”

“
Mon Dieu
. I would not have allowed that horrid man such access to the nunnery for more than a day. Yes, we are to welcome all, but the maker of trouble?
C'est un homme pas sympathique.
Some exceptions even to Christian charity must be made for the spirit who brings nothing but disturbance. Do we welcome the devil?
Non
. Such a man I fear is this nettlesome sprig of the aristocracy. But I see you do not agree with me, Father.”

Max studied her, without seeming to stare, taking in that serene visage, that calm, competent expression that seemed to admit of no trouble, no turmoil. A more sane and rational-looking person would be hard to imagine. Granted, one first had to look past the medieval costume in which she had shrouded herself head to foot. Look past the choice of a lifestyle that rejected much of what was deemed pleasurable or “normal” to the outsider. She had willingly chosen celibacy, poverty, obedience to the Rule—obedience to the call of the bells that told her where to be and when. She had chosen not to have a family, apart from the “sisterhood” that surrounded her. Surely as with any other family, there were members here she would not have chosen to associate with on the outside, but here was forced to get along with day by day, unto death.

She had even chosen to forego the little pleasures most women would allow themselves: a new dress, a new hairstyle, gossip with girlfriends over a cuppa. The scented lotion or whatever she was wearing was surely the limit to the rebellion she permitted herself.

Was this normal?

What
was normal? Max in his job sometimes had to distinguish true piety from mental illness, a surprisingly challenging task. One man's vision, as one of his Oxford dons had liked to say, was another man's brain tumor.

“Is there a particular reason for your visit, Abbess Genevieve? I mean, at this particular time?”

“Am I a suspect, then? How very thrilling. I can't wait to get back to France and tell my nuns.”

“If you wouldn't mind answering the question?” Max asked deferentially.

He was well aware she'd be within her rights to refuse to talk to him, but she said: “
Absolutement
. It is rather a coincidence, a bit of bad timing on my part. Although I would not have missed this excitement for anything.”

“Did you have a chance to meet Lord Lislelivet while you were here? Talk with him at any length, I mean?”

She answered obliquely.

“He is God's child. I remind myself of this constantly.”

“You didn't like him.”

“I don't suppose God really likes all his children.
Loves
them, yes. But only He knows and sees and forgives all. We humans can only struggle against our dislikes.”

“How true. So I gather he is not a favorite. But again, you are here now because…?”

“We talk business,” she said. “Abbess to abbess. The church is in great crisis, as you know. Falling vocations. Declining revenue. If we are to keep these grand old places going, or even keep them from falling into disrepair, it will take business ingenuity. We are nearly the last generation that can save all of this.” The rosary at her waist rattled as she swept out an arm to embrace the material beauty of their surroundings. The beads were of polished stone, possibly ebony.

“Is Abbess Justina in agreement with you on that?”

“In theory, yes. I think she does not like the … how you say … the vulgarity of the whole thing. The grubbing after money. To her it is a vulgarity epitomized by the American, Clement Gorey. But I say to you that it will take his sort of know-how to keep this fine old house a religious establishment. Otherwise, they may as well sign the deed over to the National Trust tomorrow.

“And that would be a catastrophe.”

 

Chapter 19

AT THE ALTAR

A sister should never forget that she is always seen by God in heaven, and that her actions are reported by angels at every hour.

—The Rule of the Order of the Handmaids of St. Lucy

Max left Abbess Genevieve waiting for the doctor to finish his ministrations to Dame Meredith. Max was sure the French abbess was right about the reviving effects of her small thoughtful present, even if it was too much to hope a bit of pampering could stave off eternity.

Prompted by this thought, he was drawn to the church with its inviting stillness. It was three-thirty. The nuns would have finished the mid-afternoon prayer, None, and dispersed again to their various chores or to quiet reflection on their own. The church would likely be empty until Vespers—evening prayer—at six.

Going by way of the guesthouse and the gate feebly guarded by Dame Hephzibah, he reached the outer door to the church, the door by which visitors were permitted entry to the nave. Just inside, steps to his left led up to the bell tower, which was located at the front of the church rather than atop the cross passage further in. From the entry he again took in the grandeur of the place, the wooden vaults darkened by age soaring over his head. It was easy to imagine heaven was somewhere just beyond the interlaced beams. He spotted the occasional grotesque, too, peering down on him—the puckish, carved faces of inhuman creatures meant to warn or entertain the wandering eye of the faithful below. Max subscribed to the theory that the grotesques were often extreme caricatures of those who had offended the artist in some way. The bulbous eyes and nose, the comically exaggerated leer, the lolling tongue. Surely that was a master who had failed to pay wages on time?

Max walked down the nave, studying the occasional worn inscription underfoot. His internal compass told him the altar faced not directly east as was customary but slightly toward the north. The rocky landscape must have dictated to the early architects what was possible. There was also a chance that a seismic event had shifted the whole thing like building blocks tumbling on sand.

Like many abbey churches, this one had probably started small and been added on to as the nunnery prospered. This would have been not so much a matter of showing off but a practical matter as well, to accommodate and flatter rich patrons who wanted masses said for their souls—patrons like Clement and Oona Gorey. In the beginning the building would have been a simple rectangle; the bell tower may have come later. Special chapels would have been added north and south of the nave and presbytery for the lucrative practice of saying prayers for the dead.

Max crossed the area where the public were permitted and walked up the steps to the choir stalls where the nuns prayed throughout the day. He looked over the stalls with their elaborately carved canopies, designed for beauty as well as to protect the nuns from the cold in winter.

Just then a voice halloed softly across the aisle.

It was Dame Olive, the abbey librarian, in her role as sacrist or keeper of all that was holy or valuable in the church. She had entered from the cloistered area, her footsteps making the merest whisper of sound.

“Don't mind me. I've just brought fresh flowers for the altar.” If she was put out that he was in fact in her territory she gave no sign. He stood respectfully back and watched as she adjusted the arrangement, a perfect offering of phlox and marigolds and other summer blooms. His untrained eye spotted peonies and violets and roses, from all of which a heady odor wafted around the altar area and into the choir stalls, mingling with the spicy scent of incense.

Finally satisfied that every bud was perfect, every leaf perfectly unfurled, she stepped back and made a quick obeisance toward the altar.

She turned to Max, saying, “You should see the church decorated for the holy days—for Christmas and Easter and Pentecost. Candles are everywhere, hundreds of candles. And a great fir tree stands behind the altar. We are woken from our beds by the pealing of the bells—
all
of them at once. It is the most glorious racket imaginable. And we have a wonderful meal at midday and at supper.”

“With fruitcake for the pudding?” he said lightly.

She returned a sardonic smile. “It would be a shame to stop the custom now, wouldn't it?”

His gaze went to the altar with its finely fashioned altar cloth, the product no doubt of months of eye-straining labor by the nuns. “I'd like to have a look around, if you don't mind. At some of the artwork and carvings. There's no need for you to linger. I know you have things to do.”

She hesitated—just a fraction, but Max noticed it. Had she been sent to keep an eye on him? Surely not. She gave him a slow, thoughtful once-over and then seemed to make up her mind.

“Of course, Father,” she said. And then added, as if to cover for her prior hesitation, “You may have questions. If so, you can always come and see me. Or Dame Hephzibah—she knows a lot of the history of the acquisitions. Most were donations, of course, or came to the convent as a dowry with the postulants. Some of our work is quite priceless, you know. Oh, and feel free to go up in the belfry. The view is fantastic. One of the bells has a crack in it that is rather worrying—you'll see.”

Max nodded. Still seeming to fetch about in her mind for something more to delay her leaving, she finally gave him a short bow and withdrew in the direction of the chapter house with the remaining flowers in her basket. He heard a door into the cloister open and shut behind her.

Max began his survey of the artwork—an exercise in art appreciation that was a pretext for assessing what might be the draw for the unscrupulous visitor. There were various fantastic scenes from the Book of Revelation, designed to induce nightmares. One painting, part of a triptych, depicted the Whore of Babylon. She looked faded, rather as if centuries ago someone had taken a scrub brush to her and her seven-headed beast.

He continued down the aisle. Mary Magdalene washed the feet of Christ, drying them with her red hair. The Apostles looking astonished, not terribly bright—their usual role, as Jesus tried over and again to explain his mission. There was a charming, rather rustic depiction of the Nativity, displayed in an elaborately carved and gilded frame, and it was matched by a painting of the flight into Egypt, with Mary on a donkey, holding the Christ child as Joseph and angels led the way. The artist had had difficulty with profiles, so everyone, including the donkey, looked like the artwork found inside an Egyptian tomb.

Max walked on, smiling, the images doing their job of inspiring and diverting. And of educating a populace that didn't necessarily know how to read. In a niche between two paintings was a beautifully executed statue depicting Christ healing the blind man. Across the centuries, the astonished gratitude of the man could be imagined, even in his carved stone eyes. Max remembered reading that some of the grand early monasteries in England had imported stonemasons and glassmakers from Gaul. The English had learned their lessons well.

The works of art appeared to have been collected over many centuries. Some might even have survived the Vikings, never feted as art connoisseurs. Monasticism had been restored to England only after decades of systematic pillaging. Someone probably had hidden these works for safety, before the marauders arrived.

He turned, taking in the solemn beauty of the nave. Unlike in the pews of his own St. Edwold's, here there were no colorful needlepoint kneelers of vines and crosses and flowers, provided by a long-ago altar guild. He imagined “chapel knees” were not a big concern of the nuns. Visitors were invited to kneel as the nuns did in their choir, on plain wood. The nuns used the 1662 Book of Common Prayer with its poetic and haunting language—a book written by a committee of fifty vicars and academics, each one more obscure than the last. That these men had managed to produce some of the most stirring prose in the English language was still a source of wonder. The nuns would pray the Collect for the Queen, a Queen they never would set eyes on again in their long lives, even on the telly. The whole place was positively creaky with old-world beauty, the twenty-first century having made few encroachments.