Murder at the monastery, p.11
Murder at the Monastery, page 11
part #3 of A Canon Clement Mystery Series
Theo burst out laughing. ‘Daniel? A truncheon muncher?’ Honoria flinched at that. ‘The last time – the only time – Daniel had a special feeling for someone was when he was a little boy and Granny took him to hear Kirsten Flagstad sing at St Matthew’s, Northampton, when Father what’s-his-name – Hussey – was in charge. He wet himself. Granny had to bring him home in a chorister’s cassock.’
‘And nothing since then?’
‘I’m fairly sure Daniel is about as sexually active as a fish slice. Not so much as a pimple when he was a teenager. Not so much as a crusty sock under the bed. I know, I looked. I once found a magazine hidden under his pillow. It was a catalogue for ecclesiastical vestments.’
‘But,’ said Alex, ‘just because he hasn’t shown any sign of erotic desire in the past – and how would we know? – doesn’t mean it isn’t happening now. And if it is happening now, imagine what that would be like?’
Honoria said, ‘We’re talking about two people, aren’t we? I don’t know about Daniel, but let me assure you, Neil is no more gay than Henry Cooper.’
‘You never know . . .’ said Alex.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Alex. If there is passion between Daniel and Neil, it’s going one way.’
‘Is it?’
‘You love a scalp, you gays,’ said Theo. ‘But not everyone you want to be gay is gay.’
‘You said this about George Michael, Alex,’ said Honoria. ‘George Michael?’
‘I don’t think everyone’s gay. But it needn’t be that. They’ve become close.’
‘I imagine solving murders together creates a certain bond.’
‘No, more than that. And it’s not just one way. They make me think of best friends at school.’
‘Yes,’ said Honoria, ‘and Neil goes on about him. Endlessly. Daniel said this, and Daniel said that. He’s started listening to Mahler.’
Theo said, ‘I found a Marc Almond record on Daniel’s radiogram.’
‘What was it, “Tainted Love”?’
‘No, that cover with Gene Pitney. But Daniel playing anything later than the Second Viennese School is obviously evidence of a folie d’amour.’
‘Neil’s got that Marc Almond record too,’ said Honoria. ‘He must have, because he keeps humming it under his breath – drives me bananas.’
‘Maybe it’s “their tune”?’
Nathan came in from the kitchen carrying a tray with a cafetière, which looked like something from a laboratory, and dainty jewel-bright coffee cups. ‘I’ve done the washing-up, Alex,’ he said, ‘and I bruck one of these cups. Sorry.’
‘Coalport,’ said Alex, ‘nothing that special.’
Nathan put the tray down and began to pour.
‘Nathan,’ said Theo, ‘they think Daniel’s secretly in love with Honoria’s policeman and has been rebuffed and that’s why he’s gone away.’
‘The rector?’
‘Who else?’
‘It’s . . . never crossed my mind.’
‘What?’
‘That the rector would like anyone. I mean, he likes everyone, doesn’t he? So picking one . . . it’s not what he does, not to my mind.’
‘But did you ever think he might be gay?’
‘You all look gay to me. Not you . . .’ He nodded at Honoria.
‘Neil is definitely not gay,’ she said.
‘No, nor him. But Alex and Theo and the rector.’
‘I’m not gay,’ said Theo. ‘Well, not very.’
‘The things you say. The things you like. BBC Two. No overhead lights. Getting hay fever.’
‘That’s not the same thing as wanting to have sex with men.’
‘You can do that without being gay, though,’ said Nathan. ‘Do you want cream in that?’
The three of them looked surprised. ‘Sorry, say that again,’ said Honoria.
‘Do you want cream?’
‘Not that.’
‘Oh. Most men who like to do it with other men aren’t gay. They don’t go to the opera. Have sushi. Fall in love.’
‘What do they do?’
‘They end up sharing a bed with a mate after the pub. Or they go to lay-bys and toilets or the picnic area at Wythmail Woods. How do you think I got started?’
Alex said, ‘I thought with me.’
‘Not just you. Or they go out and get wasted and end up in . . . situations . . . Then they go home to their wives and their kids and drive lorries and go to the football. You know?’
Nobody said anything.
‘I can’t see Daniel in an HGV,’ said Honoria eventually.
‘Me neither,’ said Theo. ‘And I can’t see him hanging around a picnic area looking for anonymous sex.’
‘Daniel is not a wraith, a disembodied spirit,’ said Alex. ‘He’s a man and he has all the component parts of a man. Sex. Desire. They may be unimaginable to us, but it doesn’t mean he doesn’t have them.’
Theo said, ‘And they could be dormant – or repressed – and then someone comes along and they wake up. Maybe Neil reaches the parts other men can’t reach and Dan’s desire is roused and – he may not even realise what’s happening – and before he knows it, he’s falling for Neil and it’s for the first time and he doesn’t understand what’s happening and he starts to think Neil is feeling the same thing too.’
Alex nodded. ‘And Neil is feeling attraction and affinity too, just not in the same way, but Daniel’s a polar bear that’s just woken up from hibernation and all he sees is a fat seal waving at him and he thinks, hello, there’s my breakfast.’
‘Oh, God . . .’ said Honoria.
‘What?’
‘Neil was falling in love. Not with Daniel, but with me. And that was a big secret. And Daniel, who misses nothing, saw it, but thought it was about him. And then Neil – yes, of course, this is what happened – confessed it to Daniel after the service yesterday and Daniel discovered it wasn’t him but me. Oh, how devastating!’
‘And that’s why he went. Makes sense.’
‘But where?’
Aelred and Daniel and Father Paulinus were in the abbot’s parlour. They were sitting in the ugly armchairs around a coffee table. One of the novices had made tea and the whisky bottle had been put back in Aelred’s cupboard. They did not need a stiffener, they needed something that would sustain them, for this was going to be a long night, and they needed to be alert. At least they weren’t obliged to sit in candlelight. Father Paulinus had fired up the old diesel generator that provided power when the turbine was out of service, so the lights were on, not only in the monastery, but up at the turbine house, where an ambulance and a police car had arrived, flashes of blue through the night. These sudden illuminations made the darkness of what had happened at Ravenspurn seem all the more stark. Aelred had spoken to Bede’s parents – to whom he was Adrian, not Bede, with a story from birth to adulthood and a place in a family – and hearing their shock, then grief, distantly by phone when he told them their son had died in an accident (he did not give much detail) made the awfulness all the more awful.
Monks are not sentimental people, and their affection for each other, where there is affection, runs cold. ‘In this life,’ Aelred used to tell the novices, ‘it is not about what you feel but what you do.’ Whenever he had to deal with deep human feeling, Aelred felt a sort of distaste, almost a revulsion when emotion was especially high. He had seen enough of passion in the war to prefer to keep it at distance, beyond the perimeter of the monastery wall preferably. Visitors brought theirs, of course – Daniel had, with his uncontainable and undignified tears – but the cause happened off-site, and the visitors left and the rhythm of Aelred’s life was restored with barely an interruption. Of course, monks brought their passions with them too, and when they flared, and the cloister trembled with anger or fear, he felt most acutely the aloneness of his chosen life. And he felt most vulnerable when what happened in the cloister obliged the involvement of the outside world, with its different ways of doing things, and processes that did not match theirs or threatened the delicate balances on which the community’s viability relied.
‘There are a number of issues we need to consider,’ said Father Paulinus with characteristic rigour. ‘First, was the death of Brother Bede an accident? If so, then we need to discover how it happened. I have had a thought about that. The machinery is exposed and as far as I know we have not made many attempts to ensure that all steps were taken to mitigate the risk it might cause to anyone operating it. There is legislation, I am led to believe, and when we last had it serviced the engineer said that although it was of great historical interest to him, it was an accident waiting to happen, and if the Health and Safety Executive, which is the body established to ensure that working practices—’
‘Yes, yes, Father, we know about that . . .’
‘—if they were to inspect it, I do not know if we would be compliant, and if we would have to take immediate remedial action . . .’
‘But the turbine house has been in operation without incident since long before the war,’ said Aelred. ‘We know more about it than they do.’
‘Then perhaps we have been lucky, or lucky up to now. It is no defence for us to say that we did not think the rules applied. I will take advice on this, of course.’
‘Are there exemptions?’ asked Daniel. ‘And if so, would we qualify?’
‘I don’t know. Like I said, I will take advice. But if we have been negligent, then we have to consider the legal consequences.’
‘We’ve been using Wallace & Wallace for years,’ said Aelred. ‘I’m sure they would have said if there were the potential for exposure to unnecessary risk.’
‘And there is another possibility,’ continued Paulinus, ‘or set of possibilities. Was his death caused by himself or by another deliberately?’
‘Really, Father,’ said Aelred, ‘it seems in the poorest of taste to even say such a thing . . .’
‘That may be so, Father Aelred, but the police officers on site are working with that possibility in mind. It is potentially a crime scene . . .’
Daniel shuddered, remembering the terrible night at Badsaddle Airfield when he had seen Josh Biddle’s body in the old chapel there, lit in arc lights, surrounded by scene-of-crime officers and pathologists in their paper suits, logging every gruesome detail, the brutal mystery of his death.
‘. . . we will hear from them in due course,’ Paulinus continued. ‘They will make their enquiries, but I think it important that we consider the whos, whys, whens, wheres and whats before we speak to them . . .’
‘If someone has done harm to Bede,’ said Daniel, ‘can you think of a reason why, or a likely candidate?’
Aelred was stretched out in the armchair, his fingers pressed together in front of his face in an attitude half of prayer, half of thoughtfulness. ‘As I’ve said so many times, in the event of a murder at the monastery we would all be prime suspects.’ It did not seem so funny now and he waved his hands in the air as if to dispel an unpleasant smell. ‘But of course, it is a ridiculous idea. He may have been irritating, sometimes unbearably irritating, but . . . kill him? And if somebody did, kill him like this? No, it is absurd.’
There was a knock at the door.
‘Yes?’
Brother Placid opened it. ‘I have Sergeant Bainbridge, Father Aelred.’
He ushered in a uniformed policeman, in his fifties, thought Daniel, with grey hair and a face set in the experienced officer’s unchanging look of wry detachment. ‘Father Aelred,’ he said in a Yorkshire accent. ‘Fathers,’ he added, nodding at Paulinus and Daniel. ‘Very sorry that we find ourselves in these circumstances.’
‘Dennis, how kind of you to come,’ said Aelred. ‘I do hope we have not spoiled your evening.’
‘A policeman’s lot is not a happy one, Father Aelred, especially not when The Amsterdam Kill is on telly. But Mrs Bainbridge is on the video recorder. Don’t be surprised if all the lights go out again . . .’ He laughed at his own joke.
‘You know Father Paulinus – he’s the novice master, among other things – and this is Canon Daniel Clement, who was once a novice here. Many years ago.’
Sergeant Bainbridge looked puzzled for a moment. ‘Not the Canon Clement who’s vicar of Champton? The sleuth? You’re all over the papers!’
‘Rector of Champton. But what you read in the newspapers is mostly nonsense.’
‘Isn’t it always? But I believe you know one of my lads? Neil Vanloo? I helped train him when he was a young constable. How’s he getting on?’
Daniel’s stomach lurched. ‘Very well – he’s the detective, not me.’
‘Talented young man, even as a probationer, but that was a nasty business with your curate. I was sorry to read about it. That poor boy.’
‘Yes, it has been horrible.’
‘But what of our poor Bede?’ interrupted Aelred.
‘Very nasty too. A terrible sight.’
‘We know. I didn’t know where – or what – to anoint . . . So I just poured some holy oil in like . . . 3-IN-ONE on a bicycle chain.’ Aelred shuddered.
Nobody said anything.
Then he said, ‘But, Sergeant Bainbridge, do you have any preliminary thoughts about what happened?’
‘I think he was working up there and he got his scapular caught in a cog and it pulled him backwards into the machine. Ker-chung!’
The monks looked at each other.
‘We’ve never had an accident with it before,’ said Aelred.
‘Then you were lucky, Father Aelred,’ said Sergeant Bainbridge. ‘Unprotected moving parts like that? Health and Safety would have a field day!’
‘Would have? Or will have?’ said Paulinus.
‘Doesn’t apply to you.’
‘Why not?’
‘As I recall, the legislation only covers employers and employees. Health and Safety at Work Act. And you’re not either.’
‘But we are employers,’ said Aelred. ‘We have cleaning staff.’
‘In the monastery?’
‘Yes.’
‘But not in the turbine house?’
‘No, only the brethren go there.’
‘Then I don’t think the Act applies. I have to say, there are reasons why we’ve had Factory Acts and inspectorates and occupational health. Workplaces with this kind of machinery are dangerous. Safety first?’
‘Well, you never think it will happen to you, I suppose. And we . . . we have always gone our own way here. As you know, Dennis.’
‘I’m not looking to come here and tell you how to do things. You are the experts at living your life. But you are going to have to explain to his parents how their son came by his death. That might be a very difficult conversation if they come to feel that you have been . . . negligent.’
Aelred winced. ‘Negligent? Negligent means liable?’
‘I would have a word with your insurers.’
Paulinus pulled a face. ‘We are not over-insured, as a matter of fact, Sergeant,’ he said.
‘Why not?’
‘I suppose we have always acted consistently with our belief in providence. That the Lord will provide for our needs. And, actually, he does provide.’
‘I don’t mean to sound flippant,’ said Sergeant Bainbridge, ‘but the Lord has not provided casing for your turbine machinery. That’s your job, I dare say, meeting God halfway? Like I said, you might want to talk to your insurers. And your lawyers. Anyway, I had better head up the hill, see what the lads are thinking. Any chance of a brew? It’s a cold night.’
‘Yes of course, Dennis, for you and for the men. Paulinus, could you get a novice on to it?’
Paulinus nodded and left.
‘And you’ll keep me informed of . . . anything I need to know?’
‘Of course, if I can. You never know how it will go with an investigation like this. And if you have any concerns, Father Aelred, you know how to find me. Goodnight, Fathers!’ he said with a professional cheeriness at odds with the sombre mood of that night.
Miss March had been looking forward to stopping at the Mandarin for a takeaway supper of sweet-and-sour pork with egg-fried rice after ‘A Voyage into the Fjords’, this evening’s programme for Music Appreciation at Braunstonbury library. Then Margaret Porteous approached her in the interval between Grieg’s ‘Peer Gynt Suite’ on the gramophone and Sinding’s ‘Rustle of Spring’ on the pianoforte, played by Miss Wood, LRAM.
‘Miss March! So lovely to see another Champton face at our soirée! Stella used to give me a lift, then Anne kindly offered after Stella died, but . . . well, no Anne tonight.’
So Miss March offered to take Margaret home in her Vanden Plas after the event, and then spent the next forty minutes wishing she had not because there were some navy suede and tan leather cross-body bags that looked like Liz Claiborne but weren’t on the front seat, which she did not want Margaret to see before they were properly displayed in the shop.
Miss Wood at the pianoforte hoisted the Norwegian flag again with Grieg’s ‘Wedding Day at Troldhaugen’, a very jolly occasion indeed and full of promise, which the soloist seemed to anticipate with tremendous energy.
There was applause and a vote of thanks, more applause, and a call went out for assistance in putting away the pianoforte.
‘It’s a Blüthner, Miss March,’ said Margaret, ‘a very fine instrument that belonged to Miss Wood’s mother.’
It looked – and sounded – to Miss March like it might have belonged to Grieg’s mother, but she made no comment for she was hungry and would now have to make do with a sandwich or something from the freezer. She gently shepherded Margaret towards the library steps.
‘Wait here, Margaret,’ she said. ‘I’ll bring the car round.’
She had parked her Vanden Plas, with its bronze livery and gleaming grille, in the council car park, the most convenient spot for the library, but it was also the most convenient spot for McDonald’s, and now the spaces on either side were occupied, an Escort on the left and a Fiesta on the right. Both cars were heaving with young people, smoking and eating and drinking, and playing on booming sound systems what sounded to Miss March like an air-raid warning.
‘POMP up the JYAAAM, POMP it UP!’
