A Demon Summer (41 page)

“Quite. It's the only thing that makes sense.”

“I must say, your powers of deduction are remarkable.”

“Undoubtedly,” said Max, smiling. “It also helps that I have a signed confession.”

“A confession to the murder?”

“Not that. That would be too much to hope for. But I do know the motive.”

Cotton stared at him.

“I think we will have to be content with that and deduce the rest,” said Max.

“I don't suppose you could give me a hint?”

“I can give you several,” replied Max evenly. “One question I began to ask myself was why such an obscure place as Monkbury Abbey attracted so many rich donors. There are many worthy causes fighting over a dwindling number of dollars and pounds sterling, and yet two rich Americans and a wealthy lord swan in and start writing cheques the moment it is announced funds are needed for an extension to the guesthouse. They start staying in the existing guesthouse—which everyone agrees is completely out of character in the case of Lord Lislelivet. One could argue the nuns are a worthy and attractive cause, yes. And the guesthouse needed work, yes. But was there an additional reason? A motivating factor—a factor especially motivating for people both of a religious persuasion and with a keen sense of how to exploit an opportunity?

“We know these people had caught wind of the rumors swirling around the place—the ludicrous rumors reignited by the sudden popularity of an obscure book by an even more obscure man named Frank Cuthbert of Nether Monkslip. But these were hardheaded people of business and sound financial judgment, both the Goreys and Lord Lislelivet. They were not the types to throw a lot of money around based on mawkish sentiment. No, they would want—what? A payoff. Proof.

“But proof of what, I wondered?

“And then, in doing a little quiet snooping about, I found in the crypt the very thing that had drawn them to this place.

“I found The Face.

“So, while the wealthy donors at first were—and continued to pretend to be—bent out of shape over the disappearance of their money, they were in fact on a treasure hunt. Somehow they learned what the earthquake had revealed—probably workmen in the village, while sworn to secrecy, had been unable to resist claiming that
they
had seen proof of what that crackpot book was claiming. The abbess should have known it was human nature not to be able to keep this ‘knowledge,' this wild speculation, quiet for long.

“I think that when Lord Lislelivet stayed at the inn in Temple Monkslip, he heard something. The place was the hub of village life, as such places are. And what were the chances some of the same workmen who had come to work on repairing the crypt were later to be found drinking in their local? I'd say the chances were very good indeed.

“The inn is in fact the only gathering spot of its kind in the village, and the bar is the sort of snug little place frequented by all sorts of people from all walks of life. And having a pint in that bar, Lord Lislelivet undoubtedly heard whatever rumors were flying about. He prided himself on being a man of the people, able to talk to people high and low. Whether the lowly always appreciated his condescension may well be another matter. But over a pint he perhaps overheard the workmen talking about the crypt at Monkbury Abbey. About what they'd found there. What they'd seen. What the abbess had in fact begged them to keep to themselves. She was used to obedience, and these men were used to doing as they pleased, especially after a round or two.”

“Lady Lislelivet said something of this when I spoke with her,” said Cotton. “Her husband had mentioned running into two men who had been involved in the repair work in the church. Her husband had said no more than that, and otherwise couched his visit here in terms of his sudden need to restore his soul or whatever. And then, of course, she never saw him again.”

“And his probing into the matter, we assume, led to his death? Now, why would it? It makes no real sense.”

Cotton replied, “Because one of the nuns is so unhinged she doesn't want the secret to come out?”

“That was possible. A monastery, like any closed group, can be a breeding ground for that sort of instability. But was it credible? No.” Max shook his head. “No, he was murdered for a simple reason, for a straightforward reason. He was murdered because he was recognized.”

“Certainly that's to be expected. He was a well-known man.”

“Not to a group of women who haven't seen a newspaper in decades. Nor to an American, I daresay.” Max clapped his hands together. “Okay. Let's gather the suspects. Right here in the guest living room should do fine.”

“Oh, please tell me we're not doing the Poirot thing again? The suspects in the library with the candlestick or whatever?”

Max looked at him. “Fruitcake, in this case. And what would you prefer? A car chase? It's the most efficient way to flush out a killer, as Dame Agatha Christie well knew.”

“All right. Whatever you want. Just the guests?”

“The nuns, too. Meeting here, we don't invade the sanctity of their cloister any further than it's already been invaded.”

“
All
of them?” Cotton looked around him. “We're going to need a bigger boat.”

“Not of all them will be needed.” Max rattled off a handful of names, ending with Sister Rose Tocketts, the novice.

“They're all suspects?” said Cotton, incredulous.

“They're all involved in some way, as we know. But only one of them holds a key that can help me solve a murder.”

 

PART VII

Compline

 

Chapter 35

MAX AND THE CORRECTION OF MINOR FAULTS

A sister found guilty of constant relapse into a minor fault shall be excluded from meals and from the oratory. No one shall converse with her, and she shall work and live alone. She shall not be blessed by anyone, nor shall her food be blessed, until her fault be corrected.

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

There had been the expected protest from Abbess Justina to the effect that this was an outrage and a sacrilege, but she had been convinced that dragging her nuns down to headquarters one by one was a far worse alternative. Cotton himself requested that she gather “her people” together and sent Sergeant Essex to collect the guests.

Everyone was told to appear at a time nicely chosen by Max not to interfere with the nuns' cycle of prayer.

And so they assembled, in pairs and singles. The guesthouse inhabitants in the forms of the three Goreys, Paloma Green and Piers Montague, and Dr. Barnard. The nuns in the forms of the elderly portress, the guest-mistress, the kitcheness, the librarian, the infirmaress, the cellaress, the novice, and the postulant. Dame Meredith was excused from attending—she had taken yet another turn, and Dr. Barnard had decreed she must be spared this sort of ordeal. Max had agreed.

They all, thought DCI Cotton, were looking as nervous as pigs at a luau: thrilled to be invited but suspecting a trap. That one nun couldn't stop fiddling with the linen thing around her face. The wimple. And the pretty librarian nun kept polishing her glasses.

“Let's start,” said Max, “where it all began. With the poisoning of Lord Lislelivet. He came here to visit his dying aunt—so he said. And, having found religion, to answer the call of God to pray for his own soul. But we suspected that he was drawn here by tales of the vast wealth hidden somewhere inside the abbey. He left instead with the ‘gift' of a poisoned fruitcake. Yet he came back to the nunnery, instead of staying away like a sensible man would do. Why?”

“I can answer that,” said Clement Gorey. “He would have felt it was entirely worth the risk. An antiquity possessing miraculous powers would fetch untold sums at auction. Particularly with all the free publicity being generated by that recent bestselling book. It's not just a curiosity. It's the
Holy Grail
. The actual Holy Grail! Sotheby's would have to turn billionaires away at the door if it came up for auction.”

Yes, thought Max. What Xanda called the mandolin. The Mandylion, or the face of Christ. The Face, a contemporaneous representation of arguably the most famous man ever to live.

How many people had been lured by that promise of miracle and wealth and secret solving, all rolled into one great quest, Max wondered? Frank Cuthbert's book had spawned speculation similar to that surrounding
The Da Vinci Code
, a similar frenzy to get to the truth.

“You expressed concern,” Max said to the Goreys, “that your dollars from the fund-raising were being wasted or misspent somehow and not used for the new building. And you sensed you were being given the stall and the runaround by Abbess Justina—you, such an important benefactor.”

“That is correct,” said Clement.

“Abbess Justina was not forthright about that, to be sure. And the abbess knew she should tell the bishop but was dragging her feet on that, as well. Why? Because she didn't want the place suddenly turned into a shrine, attracting pilgrims and sensation seekers.”

“Who could bring in much-needed revenue,” said the ever-practical cellaress, Dame Sibil. But for that she got a sharp reproof from the abbess and backed down immediately. That call to obey, thought Max, was very strong.

“Yes,” said Max to Clement Gorey, “you wanted to know where the money went, but that wasn't the only thing that brought you and your wife here. You'd read about a ‘gold icon,' or Mandylion, and you wanted to look for it. You were often to be found in the church, where you believed, rightly, that it was hidden. You are a deeply religious man, yes, but one on a treasure hunt. Had you found the treasure, I wonder?”

“You don't understand. It's not just any icon. It's the
Grail
,” insisted Clement.

“Yes,” said Max, astonished at his gullibility, this hardheaded man of business. Miraculous powers, indeed. “Indeed,” he said aloud. “And if it fell into dishonest, unscrupulous hands, there would still be a buyer found somewhere for it. It might even just disappear into a billionaire's home, maybe into his private chapel, never to be seen again. At least not during his lifetime. Even a man with serious means might not want to run the risk of losing this coveted treasure to some other billionaire at auction. You business types tend to be competitive. Isn't that right, Mr. Gorey? Mrs. Gorey?”

“I say,” said Oona Gorey. “How dare you imply—we'll sue for libel.”

“Slander,” said Max calmly. “Please go right ahead if you feel you must. My point is, this kind of treasure blinds people to all common sense. Isn't that right, Ms. Green?”

Paloma Green exchanged worried looks with her companion, Piers.

“What are you talking about?”

“I'm talking about some questions that have come up with regard to your art gallery and some previous fund-raisers held on the premises. Something in the dossier DCI Cotton compiled about allegations that all the money you helped raise didn't necessarily make it into the coffers of the worthy cause. Oh, and something else about forgeries. What was it, DCI Cotton?”

“Forged documentation for some of the work sold out of your shop.” Cotton replied. “Manufactured provenances. The usual art fraud sort of thing.”

“How dare you!” Paloma said. “There are operating expenses involved in putting on such an event. And if someone landed me with a painting that they claimed was genuine, well … how was I to know differently?” Twisting around in her seat, she invoked the others. “You're all witnesses to what he said. I'll sue, too!”

“By all means, join the queue,” said Max. “Your worthy causes don't seem to have been made aware in advance of your operating expenses. Apparently the cellaress had begun to suspect some of the funds you had raised for the abbey had not actually reached the abbey.”

“I can explain,” said Paloma. “I told her … it's complicated.” She turned to Piers for backup, but Piers seemed to have discovered a cuticle that needed his immediate attention. “I—”

“I would bet it is getting complicated. And that your complaining customers are becoming more numerous than the stars. If you're going to run an art gallery, Ms. Green, you might want to bone up on how to tell a forgery from the real thing. Just a suggestion. But let us leave the intoxicating environs of the art world for a moment and return to the murder of Lord Lislelivet, shall we?

“And perhaps we should focus for the moment on the
how
, before turning to the
who
. Sister Rose Tocketts has been invaluable in regard to the ‘how.'”

She beamed at Max. Her sisters turned toward her at once, a flock of seagulls spotting a breadcrumb.

“If a murder happens in a nunnery,” said Max, “which thankfully does not often happen, the obvious first thing to look at is the habit. At the fact that everyone, with the exception of the novices and postulants, looks basically the same from a distance. And since the Handmaids of St. Lucy also have a cowl or hood to cover their heads—well, the solution to the ‘how' is obvious.

“At least, part of the solution.”

Max, speaking quietly now, said, “The choir is divided into individual stalls for the sisters. The divisions are designed to provide a little privacy if one leans one's head back in the stall. But what really affords privacy is the hood pulled over one's head, obscuring the profile.

“The hood or cowl is only worn ceremonially in the choir or in winter for warmth and is not otherwise used—certainly not in summer. Which is why Sister Rose wondered at seeing a hooded figure in the passageway. She was being punished for some minor transgression, and so was free to wander about on her own, witnessing things that others missed.

“By tradition, the hood was not to be pulled up over the head until the nun entered the church proper. It is possible someone forgot—one of those tiny infractions of the Rule. There were so many rules it was easy to forget. But Sister Rose noted it, wondered who it was, and assumed it was Dame Hephzibah, who was often forgetful.”