A Demon Summer (6 page)

“Yes. Yes, that was it,” said the bishop. “DCI Cotton.”

“You can't fill me in a bit more?”

The bishop studied the ornately carved ceiling of his office as he searched his memory. “They were jumpy, some of them, when last I saw them. Decidedly jumpy. It was most un-nun-like behavior. Nuns should be serene. They should just glide along, cool, calm, and collected. But I could get nothing out of them. I did ask. However, I didn't press when I was assured all was well. Again, one doesn't want to micromanage, and the abbess is a completely competent sort of woman.”

“Did you get a sense of an ongoing feud, personality conflicts, anything like that?”

“They had the usual petty squabbles—you can't shut people up together in such isolated circumstances and expect otherwise. But
this
? Attempted murder in order to discredit the place? No.

“Max, I'll speak plainly. I want you to go out there. I want you involved. If anyone can get to the bottom of this, you can. There have been other complaints, you see, one from an individual well placed to make trouble.”

Max was in the midst of his usual dilemma when confronted by a crime. The investigator part of his nature was champing at the bit to get started. The priest in him was dismayed at all the projects in Nether Monkslip that would be left in abeyance for his return, the Christmas ensemble band being the least of his worries. And now to leave Awena's side for even a day … Monkbury Abbey was only a few hours from Nether Monkslip, but even so …

“One can't ignore the fact that money talks,” the bishop was saying.

Max dragged his mind back to the conversation. “Anyone I would have heard of?”

“Clement Gorey and his wife, Oona. They've been major benefactors of Monkbury Abbey over the years.”

Max whistled softly. Nearly everyone knew the eccentric American by name and reputation. “I suppose a financier of Clement's caliber would be particularly incensed at being played for a fool financially.”

Again a look of despair enveloped the face of the ginger-haired prelate. He must have been working in the garden recently, thought Max, for his complexion was a red several shades darker than normal.

“And now Lord Lislelivet and his wife are hopping up and down about poisoned fruitcake. Just imagine the headlines—no! It doesn't bear thinking about. Both the men and their wives are quite concerned—naturally. The situation must be contained.”

A bell had sounded in the far reaches of Max's brain, the part where cold cases were filed.

“Wasn't there an earlier scandal involving the Lislelivet family? A kidnapping?”

“Lord Lislelivet's brother disappeared. Yes. An appalling tragedy, that. So you see, this coming on top of everything is bound to attract attention—too much and of the wrong sort.”

Max, despite himself, was intrigued. “I'll of course see what I can do. But I can't hold out a lot of hope. What is probably needed with regard to the missing funds is some sort of forensic accountant. I can barely get the books of St. Edwold's to balance each month. I—”

“No, of course, your bailiwick is murder most foul, not fiscal shenanigans and pranks—just do your best. I must say, the whole fruitcake thing strikes me as a lark designed to harm the reputation of Monkbury Abbey. Not something, well, more serious.”

“Not attempted murder.”

“We shall soon know more. There was fruitcake remaining in Lord Lislelivet's larder—there always is; fruitcake does linger so—and it was sent to the police lab for testing. But I think diplomacy might be what is needed right now, more than business savvy or analytical skills. Whatever is going on, we need to keep Mr. Gorey satisfied that we are conducting an open and thorough inquiry. Calm him down until we know what is what. The same goes, of course, for Lord Lislelivet. In his case, I rather get the impression he is weighing whether news of an attempted attack against his person would ruin or enhance his reputation. While he is deciding, there is still time.”

Max smothered a laugh. Lord Lislelivet was known for waffling on every issue under the sun, from the care of children to that of old-age pensioners. He voted not with his heart, God knew, and not with his pocketbook, but with the flair of the born politician looking for whichever angle would ensure his survival. If he was up against Abbess Justina and she was as smooth an operator as the bishop said, he may have met his match.

The bishop, catching and misreading the smile playing at Max's lips, said, “Good. So you'll do it. I admire your can-do attitude, Max. Always have. That's set then. Just be sure someone covers your duties at St. Edwold's for a few days. See if Father Arthnot is available. Good-bye and keep me posted.”

“Erm…” Max knew he should be used by now to these sudden dismissals, but somehow the bishop always caught him flat-footed.

“Oh, by the way,” the bishop turned from his computer, where an incoming e-mail had caught his eye. “Try to get there before nine tonight.”

Tonight
? Who had said anything about tonight? “Why is that?” Max asked.

“They keep the Great Silence after Compline, which is at nine p.m. You won't get a word out of them until after Lauds the next morning. This is a
such
conservative group.” The bishop seemed to feel that fact could not be emphasized enough. “Oh, I've had chats with them here and there over the years, little pep talks, trying to egg them further into the twenty-first century. I could grant special dispensation to let them talk to you, but under the circumstances I think it best that you see them as they are and not ruffle any feathers by throwing them off their usual schedule.”

If a possible attempted murder by poisoning hadn't done that already, Max didn't know what would, but he saw the bishop's point. Better to cause the least disruption possible on first arrival.

“I could celebrate the Eucharist for them while I'm there,” he offered.

“A sort of special guest appearance! Yes, yes—that's a good idea. I'll see that Father Riley is notified—he is their usual celebrant. Some of the nuns, the highly,
highly
traditional ones, still prefer a male priest. Which is odd when you think about it. Anyway, I'm sure they would welcome the little change in routine.”

“I'll do what I can, but—”

“You can be there tonight, can't you?” The bishop reached for the immaculate pile of paper printouts stacked at one side of his desk.

Max said, “Not for at least a day, Bishop, I shouldn't think. Loose ends to tie up at St. Edwold's before I go, you know the sort of thing.”

“Oh.” The bishop did a poor job of hiding his disappointment. “Well, that will probably be all right. Lord Lislelivet has said—quite loudly—he will be on his guard while he's there.”

“While he's
there
?”

“Oh, didn't I say? Yes, he is there this week. I don't know for how long. I'm surprised he hasn't hired a food taster, but what he means of course by being ‘on his guard' is that he won't eat anything that isn't offered to the community at large. He's probably travelling with a large supply of energy bars and such.”

“I can't imagine why he's there at all, frankly. It seems quite a mad thing for him to do.”

“Me, either. Surely it would be wiser to stay away until this mess is cleared up. He claims to have had a religious experience when he was there before.”

“A what?”

“I don't understand it either,” the bishop said impatiently, with a pointed look at the pages now spread before him on his desk. “Nor do I believe him. I rely on you to get to the bottom of it, Max.” He looked up. “Oh, I suppose I should mention: all the people currently on retreat at the guesthouse were there some time in the fall, just not all at same time. And the fall is when Lord Lislelivet picked up the fruitcake in question.”

“That is an odd coincidence, surely,” said Max.

“DCI Cotton says they are all there again.”

“What? That seems beyond coincidence.”

A latent interest in crime was showing on the bishop's face, mixed with genuine concern. He's become an eager participant in all of this, thought Max.

“Not when you think about it. The whole thing is coming to a head out there. You'll see. Well, good-bye and Godspeed, Max. Toodle-oo. I'm really frightfully late for my next appointment.”

And Max, seeing no option, rose, made a deferential bow, and left the office.

The Right Reverend Bishop Nigel St. Stephen stopped shuffling his papers and punching his computer keys long enough to watch him go. The bishop thought of himself as a patient man, a big-picture sort of bloke. In his mind, the two things went together. A benign philosophical stance combined with the patience to watch and wait as the Creator made all things clear. But the incidents at Monkbury Abbey had shaken him from this Siddhartha-like pose.

Something had to be done about the situation at the abbey, and something had to be done ASAP, before all hell broke loose.

But ASAP would not be soon enough.

When Max reached the vicarage later that same evening, he found two urgent messages waiting for him in Mrs. Hooser's hieroglyphic scrawl. One was from Bishop St. Stephen, and one was from DCI Cotton of the Monkslip Constabulary. Somehow, Max knew even before he picked up the heavy Bakelite phone to begin dialing that the two messages were connected.

 

PART III

Terce

 

Chapter 4

MONKBURY ABBEY

But let us ask the Lord: Who will find rest upon your holy mountain?

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

Monkbury Abbey lay almost directly to the north of Nether Monkslip, past Monkslip Cathedral, a few miles past Muckleford Piddle and a few further miles east of the roundabout at Temple Monkslip. Max made record time the next day in light traffic, stopping once for petrol at a motorist convenience stop. He decided against the “healthy” option on the menu there, opting for a quick pub meal in Temple Monkslip.

Afterwards he entered rolling countryside that in ages past had been as flat and sodden as a rice paddy. Spotting the nunnery in the distance, he pulled into a lay-by to take in the full postcard-worthy view. A marvel of medieval construction surrounded by a wide river, Monkbury Abbey clung to the craggy, steep mountainside like a walled castle of the Languedoc, to which it may well have owed its inspiration. It was difficult to tell what was rock and what was building.

An evening mist rose from the river at the mountain's base, enveloping the bottom, so that the abbey seemed to float suspended against a turquoise sky shot through with copper. Greenery grew nearly to the summit of the walled precinct; a narrow road could be glimpsed winding to the top like a swirl of soft ice cream. A cruciform church with Norman tower was the crowning glory; from there the abbey buildings tumbled higgledy-piggledy down the hill, clinging to the sides until they came to a stone wall. This plunged straight into the river like the long train of a lady's skirt.

Max thought, smiling to himself, that the only possible word for the nunnery was “impregnable.”

He had consulted a drawing and photographs on the Internet before setting out and knew the steepest wall comprised one side of the infirmary. The buildings where the nuns slept, ate, and worked surrounded the eastern and southern sides of the cloister garth. To the west, set slightly apart, was the guesthouse.

Animals, specks of white and brown, could be seen grazing on fields surrounding the complex. The place looked utterly self-contained—mysterious, forbidding, and inexpressibly beautiful.

And despite its splendor, Max did not want to be there. He did not want to be anywhere Awena was not.

He put the Land Rover into gear and set off up the hill.

*   *   *

His phone conversation of the previous night with DCI Cotton had lasted half an hour. The DCI had confirmed the lab results were back on the fruitcake retrieved from the country home of Lord and Lady Lislelivet. The cake had definitely been tampered with.

“But whether deliberately or accidentally, of course they can't say,” Cotton told him. “To some people—me, for example—good-for-you berries look exactly the same as bad-for-you berries. That's why I avoid the great outdoors at all costs. As far as I'm concerned they invented the supermarket to keep me out of forest glens. But the experts suggest it may not have been an attempt to kill outright, but to make someone decidedly uncomfortable. Who, after all, in their right mind would eat more than a few bites of fruitcake?”

“It was something in the nature of a cruel prank, you mean. But why would anyone go to the trouble?” Max wondered.

“It's an unorthodox situation, to say the least—if you will pardon the expression. When all this first came up, the Bishop of Monkslip himself called the station, asking to speak with me. Once the switchboard determined it was not a hoax they put him through to my flat, where I sat blamelessly watching a
Downton Abbey
rerun. The bishop is desperate to have us approach the matter with all diplomatic caution. I gather he has already asked you to look into a few things at the abbey. I've had a brief look-see myself but I didn't have a lot of time to devote to it.”

“Yes, he asked me to take a look around,” said Max. “He said that beside the berry incident, there might be some financial irregularities. Perhaps he was hoping against hope the berries would prove to be harmless—the lesser of two evils. It is not impossible that Lord Lislelivet would raise a big stink over a minor matter for publicity purposes.”

“Ah, you know him.”

“I know enough of him,” Max replied. “So. Whether we are talking of a prank or attempted murder, this ninny apparently has taken himself off to the abbey to be right in the thick of things.”