The Connicle Curse (30 page)

S
ilence hung over the monastery like a pall. Not only did no one speak to us as we followed Father Nolan Demetris down the barren hallway, the muffled rustling of his black cassock the only sound accompanying us other than the clicking of our own inapt boots, but no one tossed us so much as the slightest of looks. It was as though the three of us could neither be seen nor heard. As if our presence here were as ethereal as the deity the monks dedicated their lives to. And yet there was something oddly guarded about the way the monks scuttled past us, their eyes diverted down and away. Something awkward and rigid and almost pained in their movements. And while I was certain they did not wish us to be here, I also sensed an acceptance that seemed to border almost on relief. For one of their own had been murdered. The man at the very heart of their community. Their abbot.

We turned a corner on yet another stark hallway, and as we made our way down it, I realized the ceiling looming just over my head was contributing to my feeling of unease. Standing at precisely six feet, I could sense there were no more than a handful of inches from the crown of my head to the yellowed lath and plaster crowding down upon me. Neither Colin nor Father Demetris seemed to take the slightest note, however, given that Colin was four inches shorter than me and Father Demetris one or two below that. When we finally stopped outside one of the countless doors studding this and every hallway we had been escorted through, I could see that I was going to have to duck to get inside.

Father Demetris seized the small ring of bronze keys he had grabbed upon our entry into the complex and slid the one with the notched head smoothly into the keyhole and, giving it a firm twist, handily sprang the lock. He released a muted sigh as he reached for the short, wrought-iron lever, pressing it with noticeable hesitation just before he pushed the door wide with a disquieting
screech
.

“This is the Father Abbot's cell,” Father Demetris said from the doorway, staring into the black space a long moment before releasing yet another small sigh and plunging forward. “He lived here for ten years,” he added as he struck a match and lit the two oil sconces on the wall and a single oil lamp on a small, square table shoved into the far corner of the tiny room.

“Did you call it a cell?” I blurted without thinking, Colin and I still hovering in the doorway as the space gradually revealed itself in the blooming light of the three flames.

It was indeed an apt description, for it could hardly have been called a room. It stretched back no more than twelve feet at the very most and looked only half again as wide. Other than the little table with its equally diminutive lamp and the homemade-looking wooden chair shoved up beneath it, there was only a single-sized bed—which was really nothing more than a wood-sided cot—a tall, round stand across from it upon which sat a white porcelain bowl, though its matching pitcher was conspicuously absent, and a square cutout bit of plain rug made of some sort of reed or fiber by the bedside. There were no windows, no adornments of any kind, and nothing to suggest any but the most rudimentary levels of comfort. I found it startling, though I suddenly could not fathom what else I should have expected.

Father Demetris smiled at the two of us, his brown eyes crinkling at the corners in such an easy way that I knew my question was one he had heard many times before. “The brothers of Whitmore Abbey live a life of religious asceticism in their devotion to God. They are Benedictine monks, you see, and have accepted the vows of stability,
conversatio morum,
and obedience.”

“Conversatio morum . . .”
Colin said as he slowly entered the minute space. “Latin, of course. Conversion of life?”

“Well done!” Father Demetris's smile widened. “It refers to the acceptance of the monastic life.” He spread his hands wide and gestured around himself. “This life.”

“Yes . . .” Colin muttered as he gently ran a hand across the tabletop. “And I would presume obedience refers to the church . . . ?”

“Of course.”

“And stability?” He stepped away from the table and knelt down beside the undersized bed. “How ever is that defined?”

“The commitment to remain in the same monastery for the rest of one's life. Even in death; a monk will be buried on-site.” Father Demetris came back to the door, where I had remained, as Colin began to widen his study of the plank flooring in an ever-expanding arc. “Once a novitiate accepts the Benedictine vows he enters this community and, for the greater part, leaves the outside world behind. It is a profound and admirable dedication.”

Colin stood up and glanced quickly around himself one last time. “It is certainly bleak.”

The priest gave a soft chuckle as he stepped back out into the hallway. “It is not for everyone. And even a man of faith can have his doubts now and then.” He sighed. “I suppose that's a part of the human condition.”

“A condition, is it?” Colin muttered absently as he snuffed out the three lights before backing out of the tiny room, his gaze remaining intensely focused inside despite the immediate blackness.

“More of a curse, I should think,” Father Demetris responded solemnly as he slid the skeleton key back into the lock and rebolted the door, “when compared to the glory that awaits us.” He started off down the hall again, and we quickly fell in line behind him.

I had a hundred questions rattling through my mind and knew Colin would surely have twice as many more, but the two of us remained silent as we followed the priest through the somber space. Each hallway we traversed was punctuated by only the minimum amount of light from smoke-stained glass sconces interspersed too infrequently along the way. Their thick, oily scent permeated the tight space and stifled the air, putting me in mind of the opium clubs I had spent too much of my youth in. The thought made me cringe, and I wondered why they had never converted the monastery to gas. If nothing else, it was safer than these oil lamps that continuously needed their wicks trimmed and oil pots refilled.

“Here we are then,” Father Demetris announced in his quiet, easy manner as we turned into a slightly brighter and wider hallway with a ceiling that thankfully lifted several feet above my head. “We'll talk here in the Father Abbot's office.”

He swung the door open onto the first vaguely acceptable space I had seen since our arrival. The room was a suitable size, big enough to hold a large desk of dark, almost black, wood that was ornately carved in a seemingly bacchanalian fashion with cherubic faces, a tendril of vines, and small bunches of grapes. A huge, overstuffed chair sat behind it, covered in a deep burgundy fabric with a nap that appeared to be velvet. Facing the desk were two plain, straight-backed chairs that I was certain would be as uncomfortable as the Father Abbot's looked inviting, and behind those was a plaster-fronted fireplace painted dark gray that held the faces of eleven men in relief—five on one side, six on the other—that I thought I should recognize but did not.

The best features of the office, however, were the two narrow, leaded-glass cathedral windows that rose up along the opposite wall from where we stood, letting in a veritable ocean of prismatic light across the room. Given that we were already past midday, most of the sunshine was stretching across the wall of bookshelves rising up from behind the desk and along the doorway wall. Although the windows did not reach the full height of the room, some fifteen feet, they were large enough that I knew they could not have been brought in by way of the short, narrow hallways we had just traversed.

Father Demetris gestured us to the harsh-looking chairs as he settled himself behind the desk in what would have been the seat of the abbot, the man whose murder we had been sent to solve. “It doesn't seem right to be sitting here,” Father Demetris said, and, indeed, he did look ill at ease. “Abbot Tufton is only the second man to lead this pious brotherhood since Whitmore Abbey was consecrated almost thirteen years ago. His predecessor served only eight months before he was called home to the Heavenly Father, so it has really been John Tufton who created the fine community you see here today.”

“Where did Abbot Tufton serve before coming to Whitmore Abbey?” Colin asked.

“Mostly in Ireland. He spent time in several dioceses under several different bishops. He was highly regarded, even as a young man. He was allowed to spend time in the Papal State studying under His Holiness Pius the Ninth when he was just out of seminary. A remarkable feat for a young man.” He gave a wistful smile. “He could have risen much higher in the church, but this was his calling. He was happy here. Bishop Fencourt considered Abbot Tufton his monastic blessing.” Father Demetris chuckled as he said the words.

“How many monks live here?” Colin pressed forward.

“Thirty-three, not counting the abbot. It is a small order, but then the town of Dalwich cannot claim more than five thousand residents itself. I don't think the whole of Sussex County is even half a million.”

“Still”—Colin gave a slight smile—“that's a fair amount of souls to save for such a small band of men.”

Father Demetris shook his head with a patient grin. “Ah, I'm afraid you confuse these monks with missionaries, deacons, and vicars. The brothers of Whitmore Abbey do not conduct services for the public, nor do most of them have much contact with any laypeople beyond these walls. They are monks, Mr. Pendragon. They are here solely to dedicate themselves to prayer, divine contemplation, and devotion to God. They are a rare and august breed of acolyte, you see. Very few receive such a calling or are up to the challenge of accepting it if they do.”

“Of course,” Colin muttered with a note of irritation, and I knew he was annoyed at having made such a fundamental error. “Have all of the monks been here from the beginning?”

“A good many, but not all. The church built an additional dormitory about three years ago. It can house ten additional monks, but for now there are only three brothers living there. As I said before, this is not a life for everyone.”

“Quite so.” Colin flashed a tight grin. “And are those three monks the last to join the monastery?”

“Precisely. You see, once a brother moves into a cell, there is no reason for him to change. Life in a monastery is not about the earthly comforts but rather the promise of divinity thereafter.”

“Indeed.” Colin nodded. “That bit I noticed.” He sat forward in his chair. “Now you must permit me to ask you about the murder of Abbot Tufton. If we are to accomplish anything, we shall need to understand exactly what transpired.”

Father Demetris exhaled deeply as he shifted in the chair as if it could possibly be causing him pain. “Of course,” he said with obvious reluctance. “But you will forgive me should I find myself overcome. I considered the Father Abbot a dear friend and find it difficult to consider how he must have suffered at the end.”

“You mustn't give it a second thought,” I answered at once. “We are regrettably familiar with the confluence of emotions attendant in situations such as this. You must put yourself at ease.”

He nodded with the ghost of a smile. “You are most generous. I have known John Tufton almost forty years. We spent quite a bit of time together in seminary back in Dublin. He will be sorely missed.”

“Your memories do him fine honor,” I managed to say, even though I found the priest's sorrow keenly distressing. While I understood how he would miss his friend, I had thought he would be held fast by his surety of the afterlife. For if he was not, then what did that suggest for one of tentative faith like me?

“Please . . .” Colin prodded gently, and I suspected he could sense my mood. “When did you and Bishop Fencourt learn of the Father Abbot's murder?”

“We received a telegram the day before yesterday, not an hour after sunrise. Abbot Tufton failed to appear for morning prayers, so one of the brothers went to check on him.” He shook his head and gazed out the windows, the pained look on his face in marked contrast to the sunshine filtering through. “They tell me it was a terrible scene.”

“Who told you?” Colin pushed a bit more forcefully than I thought appropriate.

Father Demetris glanced at him. “Brother Morrison and Brother Silsbury, mostly. And, of course, poor Brother Hollings, the young monk who found him.”

“Of course,” Colin repeated perfunctorily. “And what exactly did Brother Hollings find?”

“The Father Abbot was collapsed across the floor of his cell with one arm stretched out as if he was reaching for something while the very life force drained out of him. A horror,” he tutted as his eyes drifted back toward the leaded-glass windows.

Colin and I remained quiet, and after several minutes of transfixed rumination, Father Demetris continued. “There was no mistaking what had happened. The walls were splattered with blood. Brother Hollings said he didn't even enter the cell to check on John . . . Abbot Tufton . . . but turned and ran at once to fetch Brothers Morrison and Silsbury.”

“Why them?” Colin asked.

“They're both senior members of the community, and Brother Silsbury also attends to the infirmary. While he is not a doctor, he is a man with some knowledge of health and healing.”

“And what did they determine when they went back?”

Father Demetris sucked in a rasping breath as he closed his eyes a moment before answering. “Brother Silsbury noticed slash marks across the back of Abbot Tufton's nightshirt that were stained with blood. So he and Brother Morrison rolled John over and . . .” His voice broke, and he closed his eyes again, his lips silently reciting something before he looked at us and began again. “They tell me his face was covered with blood and that the front of his nightshirt was slashed almost to shreds. There were wounds beneath . . .” He let his voice drift off as he shook his head and turned back toward some distant place out the window. “I understand it took some time before Brother Silsbury realized that the Father Abbot's tongue had been removed. I suppose it must have been the amount of blood across his face. I have not asked.” He abruptly flicked his eyes back to Colin, his face a torment of grief. “I will leave that to you, Mr. Pendragon. I haven't the stomach for anything more.”
¹⁵