Confession at Maddleskirk Abbey (2 page)

I
N HIS CAPACITY
as security advisor to Maddleskirk Abbey, retired Inspector Nick Rhea, the former village constable of nearby Aidensfield, paid regular visits to the abbey. Each Monday he spent half an hour or so with the monkstables. Sometimes he would analyze reported incidents to ensure they had been correctly dealt with, or he may give advice on matters arising from those discussions. Those Monday morning sessions were always eagerly awaited as the monks gradually developed a deeper understanding of their police role.

Nick also arranged bi-monthly meetings to consider changes or improvements. Overall, of course, he was expected to advise on any major problem or to give spontaneous advice in phone calls to his home. Although he had retired from the police in the rank of inspector, he found his new role interesting and stimulating – and he was paid a small but useful retainer.

In creating this small private police force, he’d had help from retired police sergeant Oscar Blaketon and ex-PC Alf Ventress of Ashfordly, who were always keen to be involved. The tiny police force comprised a highly effective unit of eight monks plus their leader, Prior Tuck of Maddleskirk Abbey. The monkstables dealt with a wide range of internal problems such as bad car parking, dropped litter and unruly behaviour, often by trespassers, whilst criminal or serious matters remained the
responsibility of the North Yorkshire Police.

Every day, each monkstable performed an eight-hour shift patrolling in police uniform within the spacious estate that comprised Maddleskirk Abbey and College. The rest of their time was devoted to their monastic calling. On occasions, one or more monkstables might be directed to one of the external properties that came within the abbey’s jurisdiction, such as a school or parish.

In addition, and upon request, they could be seconded temporarily to other local abbeys or convents such as Ampleforth, Stanbrook or the Bar Convent in York. The likelihood of a female monkstable being recruited had not been overlooked – a nunstable perhaps? That idea was awaiting development and was proving of interest to the local convents and indeed the abbeys.

Under the capable leadership of Prior Tuck, himself a former police officer, the monkstables were doing a good job – there was less litter around the campus, there had been a reduction in bad language and noisy behaviour, and there was an awareness of the need for good parking along with more considerate driving and cycling. People seemed to take more care when walking through the grounds, even collecting litter they had found, to then drop it in a waste bin.

One surprising bonus was that a lot of found property had been restored to its owners and the uniformed monkstables were also proving very knowledgeable guides to the increasing numbers of daily tourists or those on retreat. They could even perform car-parking duties during major events at the abbey. There was no doubt the monkstables, in their smart black uniforms and white helmets, were proving extremely effective. Black was the colour of the habits worn by the Benedictines; most police uniforms were a very dark navy blue.

On that Monday morning in September Nick walked from his home to the abbey, a journey of some ten minutes. As he strode along he was aware of a military helicopter flying down the valley; it was using a designated route that avoided built-up
areas. Monday was when the army cadet corps was on parade to deal with staged incidents, often arranged by incoming professional soldiers of all ranks. The ‘copter would land on the helipad within the grounds and would be used in today’s training of the corps.

Helicopters from both military and private sources were a regular sight around the college. Even the Archbishop of Canterbury had once arrived by helicopter, sparking a rumour that he was about to convert to Catholicism and join the Benedictines.

With the autumn foliage showing its seasonal colours, Nick was heading for the cop shop within the main building. It had formerly been the abbey and college shop, selling everything from sweets to fashionable clothes. When the shop had transferred to larger premises, the old tuck shop had found a new role as the abbey’s own dedicated police station. Inevitably, it became known as the cop shop. During opening hours it was staffed by one of the monk-constables whilst a couple of the others would be patrolling the huge site in between their monastic duties.

With its blue light above the entrance, the cop shop had all the appearances of a small busy police station, which in fact it was. On office duty that day was Father Will Redman, a small studious man in his early fifties with thick spectacles and an amazing knowledge of monastic history and culture. His understanding of computers had been a wonderful bonus to the monkstables and through his technical knowledge the cop shop was now linked to the control room at the county police headquarters and also the local police station at Ashfordly. Under Father Will’s guidance, security cameras had been installed in selected areas of the abbey and college, both internally and externally. After each tour of duty, the monkstables entered their daily records in the cop shop computer system, an ideal means of maintaining up-to-date information about all the events and occurrences in and around Maddleskirk Abbey and College.

‘Ah, Nick, good morning,’ greeted Father Will. ‘Nothing
much to report so far today and it’s been very quiet overnight.’

‘Is anything happening on the site that we should know about?’

‘I have to say that our systems are functioning well and the important thing is that the staff and visitors know that we’re here if we’re needed. Outside, there is the monthly corps exercise and parade by the college students but they look after themselves. Our patrols will pay visits from time to time, just to show a presence!’

‘That’s how it should be. So is the cop shop keeping busy?’

‘Surprisingly so. We’re obviously fulfilling a need. People – visitors and staff – come regularly for all sorts of reasons which is most gratifying. Now, Nick, whilst we are alone, I have something to tell you …’

Father Will wanted to discuss Father John’s visit to hospital because he had not yet returned, but at that moment the door opened and in strode Barnaby Crabstaff accompanied by a whiff of heavy sweat and other indefinable but not very pleasant odours.

‘Ah, Constable Rhea,’ he panted. ‘I saw you heading this way as I was coming here so because I wanted a chat to tell you something important I came right here right away right now so as to catch you before you left and here you are …’

‘So I am, Barnaby. Is there something you want?’

‘I was coming to the cop shop to report this but when I saw you I thought you might know what to do and if you’d not been here then I would have spoken to this officer standing here but because you are here, I may as well mention it to you. Or to both of you.’

‘I think I know what you mean,’ Nick responded after deciphering Barnaby’s speech. ‘How can we help?’

‘I think there’s a body up there in Ashwell Priory woods…’ He lapsed into a whisper as he pointed vaguely to somewhere outside. ‘Or he could be just asleep.’

‘A body?’ asked Father Will with a clear look of horror on his
face. Nick did not miss his expression – it reminded him of a child’s guilt when a personal secret has been discovered. Did Father Will know something about this? Had it already been reported?

‘It’s a man and he’s not moving. He’s cold and stiff but if he’s been sleeping outside on a chilly night like last night then he would be cold so perhaps he’s not very dead …’

‘Who is it, Barnaby? Any idea?’

‘Sorry, no, Mr Rhea, not a clue. Never seen him before.’

‘Does anyone else know about this?’

‘I think not, Mr Rhea, they’d never go walking where he is lying, it’s off the footpath and deep among the rocks and trees, so it is, off the beaten track as they say but I go there quite a lot, looking for rare birds which is why I was there and why I found him, if you understand. I was not poaching, Mr Rhea, or anything like that …’

‘All right, Barnaby, you’d better show us,’ suggested Nick. ‘Do you want to come with me, Father Will? As a monkstable of this abbey this might be our responsibility even if he’s not on abbey land, or shall I find someone else?’

‘Can you find someone else?’ His voice quivered slightly. ‘I’ll stay and look after the office. I might be needed here. Monkstable Dale is patrolling somewhere around the abbey, probably looking in on the corps parades, so I’ll call him on his mobile. He should go with you.’

‘You’re right, he should.’

They waited as Father Will phoned Monkstable Dale. Nick attempted to coax more of the story from Barnaby whilst doing his best not to suggest in any way that he was responsible.

Nick was well acquainted with Barnaby and knew that the poor fellow had an enormous guilt complex. However, from what he said, it seemed he’d been bird watching in Ashwell Priory woods earlier that morning when he’d stumbled across the man lying on the ground. He was among trees some distance from the footpath in an isolated location. That little-used
path twisted up the hillside before arriving at St Valentine’s Well, now regarded as a wishing well but in reality a pond about the size of a tennis court. It was not usual to find such a pond or well on a hilltop but this was due to the many springs in the area, some overflowing at high altitude from the huge water-filled caverns underground. This locality was almost a mile from the abbey whilst being deep within Nick’s recently inherited Ashwell Priory woodland. The casualty was therefore on Nick’s property. But he said nothing about that at this stage.

As Barnaby’s tale unfolded under gentle questioning, he suggested the man would be difficult to find because he was lying in thick undergrowth, adding that he was not dressed in hiking gear but wore a dark green T-shirt, blue jeans and white canvas plimsolls. He said the man had white skin, dark hair and was about thirty years old. Barnaby had not noticed a rucksack nearby, neither had he seen a tent in the woods – but as he said, he had visited only a very small part of the entire woodland, which was rather isolated. Nick wondered whether he should call a doctor or even the county police, but decided it would be wise to first establish the true situation. Barnaby’s assessment might be faulty – the fellow might have been lying asleep or hiding in the hope of spotting a rare bird. Nick did not wish to cause undue alarm or unnecessary work by rushing headlong into the situation. A cautious approach was needed.

‘Barnaby, can we be sure this is a body? Could it be somebody asleep?’

‘First I thought he was asleep, Mr Rhea, and I tried to wake him to ask if he was all right but his cheek was cold and stiff so now I think he’s dead, so I do.’

‘Anything else? Did you notice anything else?’

‘A spot or two of blood near his head. Among the leaves. I never touched that, I swear.’

‘Blood? Where would it have come from? Any idea?’

‘It was near his head, on some leaves. I saw it. I never touched it, and I never did touch him either, so help me …’

‘I know you didn’t, Barnaby. You’ve done the right thing by telling us about it. So will you show us where he is?’

The shock of the discovery must have alarmed poor Barnaby so it was rather surprising that he had responded by informing the police. It reminded Nick of the help Barnaby had given when young Simon Houghton had been trapped in the ruins of Ashwell Priory. Maybe in his maturity he was mellowing and coming to trust the police? Nick hoped so – Barnaby was good-hearted, if devious to a degree, but always nervous in the presence of police officers and priests.

‘Yes, I can take you there.’ And at that opportune moment, Father Alban Dale arrived. Tall, slim, fair-haired and in his forties, he was often called Allan after the Robin Hood character of Allan a’ Dale. One of his great ambitions was to visit every Marian shrine in the world, but this ancient pilgrimage site and its small well was dedicated to St Valentine so he hadn’t included that in his itinerary. Nonetheless, he had often visited the holy well for no other reason than it had once been the venue for pilgrimages. Equipped with portable radio sets, Father Alban, Barnaby and Nick used an abbey van to speed through the grounds towards Ashwell Priory woods.

Father Alban parked near the old barns. They walked the final quarter of a mile and it took about twenty minutes to clamber up the steep hillside path as it snaked through the trees. Near the summit, Barnaby veered off the path to trudge through knee-deep undergrowth and bracken towards a patch of beech trees growing among very large boulders.

‘He’s over there,’ whispered Barnaby, pointing ahead towards the base of a very high cliff. ‘That’s where he was when I left. …’

‘Well, I hope he’s not there now,’ Nick commented. ‘I hope he’s alive and he’s woken up to continue his walk or whatever he came to do.’

But the man was there; white-faced, still and deathly, just as Barnaby had described. He was lying face up beneath the canopy of beeches as if they formed his final resting place. The
eight tall trees had the appearance of an ancient temple with the deceased in the centre awaiting his spiritual fate. To their immediate left was the high cliff of local limestone. Had he fallen from there? Or jumped? Or staggered here before collapsing? He seemed rather too far from the cliff face to have fallen. With white skin, he was of a fairly tall height with dark hair and he appeared to be in his thirties, just as Barnaby had said. He was wearing a dark green T-shirt, blue jeans and white canvas plimsolls. His eyes were closed and there did not seem to be any injuries on his body, or any personal belongings nearby, such as a rucksack. There was not even a watch on his wrist.

Nick shouted a loud ‘Hello’ to test for a reaction, but there was none. Aware that one should never unnecessarily pollute a crime scene, Nick stood back from the body and from a distance surveyed the surroundings to acquire a clear mental memory of those moments. He took several photographs with his mobile phone.

In spite of his caution, however, he must ascertain whether or not the man was dead. As the others stood at a discreet distance, Nick approached with care, noting his route for future reference so that CID would step into the same footmarks. Then he reached down and touched the man’s cheek. It was stone cold and wax-like; he was unsure whether rigor mortis had set in.