Ursula Mead was a widow in her mid-seventies, but she looked younger somehow. Her hair was dyed blonde and she exuded a purpose in life, as if she never really had enough time to fit everything into her busy schedule. But behind her eyes there was an immovable sorrow which just hung back and was never really that far away. She lived in a terraced house in a small village outside Cheddar. The front garden had been paved over and there was a middle-of-the-road, mid-range SUV parked on it. The house was filled with photographic reminders of her late husband and her family of children and grandchildren. She welcomed Cross and Ottey into the house. They sat in the garden. It was a classic English cottage garden which she obviously took great pride in and wanted to show off. It was planted with a mix of early flowering spring bulbs and plants. There were narcissi, tulips and hyacinths in ordered pots. She obviously spent a lot of time in the garden which reflected her horticultural prowess and knowledge.
‘How long had you been driving Brother Dominic to the weekly abbey shop?’ Ottey began.
‘Pretty much since he joined the abbey. It was just after my husband died. He was only sixty-two,’ she said sadly. ‘I needed something to do and it came my way by chance. It was a godsend. Literally, I like to think. Dominic was such good company. He always asked what was going on in my life. Forever asking about the children and the grandchildren.’
‘Did he talk to you about his life at all?’ asked Cross.
‘Oh yes. Of course. I insisted it shouldn’t be just one-way traffic. He told me about things at the abbey, about his book work, the bees. He loved his bees.’
‘Did he talk about life before he entered the monastery?’ asked Cross.
‘No. I did ask. But he didn’t seem to want to talk about that. I had the feeling that, for whatever reason, it was something of a closed book. Something he’d left behind,’ she said.
‘In a sinister kind of way?’ asked Ottey.
‘Oh no, not at all. He said, in order to devote his life to God completely, he had to look forward and not back.’
‘Was he at all defensive or guarded about it?’ asked Cross.
She thought seriously about this for a minute.
‘Like he had something to hide?’ she asked.
‘Maybe,’ replied Ottey.
‘It’s funny, I have been thinking about that this week since… No, I don’t think so. Do you think it was something from his past? I suppose that would make more sense. Why else would someone want or need to do that to a monk?’ she said.
The right question again, but what was interesting, Cross thought, was the use of the word ‘need’. Why would someone need to kill him? What end would it serve?
Ursula Mead talked like someone who was making the most of having a willing audience. She was obviously someone who might not speak to people in person for days at a time. Like many lonely people, she often asked a question in a breathless fashion, then answered it herself before anyone else had a chance to. It was a self-deprecating thing to do. As if what she had to say had no real meaning, import, nor could possibly be of any interest to others.
‘That’s a very good question, Mrs Mead. Very pertinent to the case,’ said Cross, causing her to blush with the approbation. Ottey smiled at this. Cross hadn’t noticed, nor had he meant to flatter her. ‘Did people ever stop to talk to him on these shopping trips?’ he went on.
‘Not since he stopped wearing his habit. I suppose he was just like another shopper then. But when he was dressed as a monk, they’d stop him all the time. It took him at least half an hour longer to do the shop when he was in his habit.’
‘Was he pleased for the opportunity to wear ordinary clothes?’ asked Ottey.
‘I don’t think so. I think he actually missed the interaction, to be honest,’ she replied. ‘He took pride, if that’s the right word when it comes to a monk, in being a monk.’
It also gave him a cloak of anonymity, Cross thought to himself.
‘Had you noticed any change in him over the past few months?’ he asked. ‘Did he seem anxious or worried about anything?’
‘He worried about the state of the world, that’s for sure. He was concerned about the morality, or lack of, and the quality of the people in charge of the country. He seemed very well informed about the world for someone who led such a deliberately sheltered life.’
‘What days did you take Brother Dominic to the supermarket?’ Cross asked.
‘Every Friday.’
‘Always the same supermarket?’
‘Always the Cheddar Sainsbury’s.’
‘So, the last time you took him would be Friday the thirty-first of March?’ he went on.
‘Yes,’ she faltered. ‘The day he went missing.’
‘Did anything different happen that day?’
‘Yes, and I’ve been meaning to call you. But I wasn’t sure who to get in touch with,’ she explained, as if she might be in trouble.
‘What happened, Mrs Mead?’ Ottey asked gently.
‘When he came out, a man was following him, arguing. He seemed quite annoyed, angry even.’
‘Could you hear what he was saying?’
‘No, not really. I wound the window down but I couldn’t make it out.’
‘What did he look like?’
‘In his forties, close-cropped grey hair, trimmed beard, also grey, and I thought he sounded foreign.’
‘Where from? What kind of accent?’ Ottey asked.
‘I’m not sure. Dutch? Norwegian, something like that.’
‘Did you ask Brother Dominic about it when he got into the car?’ asked Cross.
‘Obviously, but he didn’t want to talk about it.’
‘Did he seem upset?’
‘No, actually. I think maybe I was more upset at someone shouting at him than he was,’ she replied.
‘You felt protective of him. You were obviously very fond of Brother Dominic,’ said Ottey.
‘Oh, yes. Very much so. It was impossible not to be fond of Dominic…’ she said and started to weep. ‘Would you excuse me?’ She got up and left the room, returning a few moments later with a lever arch file that was bound in leather.
‘This is for my shares and pensions. Dominic covered the file with leather, embossed it and put marbled paper inside. Isn’t it beautiful? He did the marbling himself. Used all my favourite colours,’ she said.
‘It’s like a work of art,’ said Ottey.
‘Isn’t it?’ she replied.
‘Why a folder for stocks and shares?’ asked Cross.
‘Why not?’ she responded.
‘Well, you go to church, why not a bible? Or a photograph album for your late husband?’ asked Cross.
‘Oh, I see. I suppose it must look like an odd choice,’ she laughed. ‘The reason I’m showing it to you is because he helped me after Arthur died. Sorted all my financials out. He even sold and bought some shares for me. He was very good at it, made me a small fortune. Who would’ve thought, with his being a monk? He could’ve made a fortune in the City.’
Cross said nothing. He leafed through the files with her financial holdings and dealings. There was just over £250,000 in shares. It had started years before at just over £50,000. Brother Dominic knew what he was doing when it came to share dealing, it would seem. But then, given his background, this wasn’t especially surprising. He came across another account at the back of the file. It was called ‘Ursula Mead 02’.
‘You have two accounts,’ Cross observed.
‘Yes,’ she replied a little uncertainly.
‘And these can be accessed online?’ he asked.
‘Yes, at quickshare.com.’
Cross reached into his backpack and took out his laptop.
‘George?’ Ottey asked, hoping to know what he was up to. But he said nothing. He typed the web address for the share company into his browser. The opening page came up. In the username box he typed in UrsulaMead02. He then reached into his pocket for his phone and opened his photos. The last photograph he’d taken was of the post-it note he’d found under the desk in the abbey office. He typed URSM02116ste2011 into the password box and an account immediately opened on the laptop screen. It corresponded with the transactions he’d seen on the last pages of the paper file. There was just over £21,354 in the account. Cross looked up at Ursula.
‘Why would Brother Dominic have a password to a shares account in your name, in his office at the abbey, Mrs Mead?’ Cross asked.
Ursula didn’t answer and looked a little troubled as if she’d made a mistake in showing it to them.
‘It seems to me there’s nothing illegal in all of this, Ursula. So there’s nothing for you to be worried about,’ said Ottey.
But the woman still seemed conflicted.
‘It was my idea,’ she began. ‘Dominic had done so well with my shares and pension. My husband, bless him, hadn’t left our financial affairs in the rudest of health. I’m not blaming or criticising him. How was he to know he was going to die so suddenly? When I told Dominic, he asked if he could have a look. He then said he could help and I didn’t see why not. After a few years he’d basically made my future secure, financially. He was surprisingly good at this stuff, you know, for a monk.’
‘What happened then? What was your idea?’ asked Cross.
‘Well, every now and then the abbey needed money for its upkeep. The boiler broke. The abbey roof needed repair. There was damp. It was so difficult for them. Even though they were a parish church they couldn’t countenance appealing to the parishioners for money. They applied for various grants and sometimes the order made money available for them, but it was always a struggle. So I suggested I took a chunk of money from my profits—’
‘Twenty thousand pounds?’ Cross suggested, looking at the accounts in front of him.
‘That’s right. It wasn’t a gift as such, but a sum that Dominic could manage and invest and then use the profits he made for the abbey,’ she continued.
‘In the form of anonymous gifts,’ Cross said.
‘That’s right.’
‘Wow,’ said Ottey.
‘You mustn’t tell the abbot,’ Ursula pleaded.
‘Something tells me he might already know,’ Cross commented.
‘Really?’ Ursula replied, immediately unsettled by this.
‘Doesn’t this mean he broke his vow of poverty?’ asked Ottey.
‘Well, yes and no. We did discuss it. I argued that it wouldn’t be, as it wasn’t being done for the purposes of self-enrichment but for the upkeep of the abbey, so he was still abiding by his vows. It’s not as if he bought them a widescreen TV or a jacuzzi.’
Ottey laughed. ‘I’m sorry, it’s just the image of—’
But Cross’s look stopped her short.
*
‘Well, that was interesting,’ said Ottey as she drove them back to Bristol. ‘Interesting but not necessarily relevant.’
‘To the case? Probably not,’ replied Cross. ‘But it might well be something else that made the abbot so reticent.’
‘Quite funny when you think about it. A monastic slush fund. I’m beginning to like poor Dominic,’ she said.
‘You’re managing to find quite a lot of unintended humour in this case,’ Cross observed. ‘A slush fund implies a certain impropriety, which I’m not sure is applicable.’
‘True,’ she said.
‘Do you know the etymology of the term “slush fund”?’ he asked her.
‘Would it surprise you if I said no?’ she asked.
‘It wouldn’t, because your knowledge of such matters seems quite limited. In fact, general knowledge when it comes to you is something of an oxymoron,’ he said.
‘Well, don’t pick me for your next pub quiz team then,’ she said.
‘I don’t do pub quizzes, as I’m sure you know, but if I did, I certainly wouldn’t,’ he replied indignantly.
‘Why thank you. Now can you just get on with imparting whatever nugget of useless information you have and get it over and done with?’ she pleaded.
‘Well, if that’s your attitude, then no,’ he replied pompously.
‘Fine,’ she said.
‘Fine,’ he repeated. Not because he or it was, but just because that was what people tended to say in these situations, he’d noticed. So on they drove in a nose-cutting-face-spiting silence for the next five minutes as her curiosity grew at an increasing rate, matched only by his burning desire to tell her.
‘All right, go on then, tell me,’ she finally relented.
‘It’s actually a nautical term,’ he began with an alacrity which betrayed exactly how impatiently he’d been waiting for her prompt. ‘When sailors boiled meat, usually salted, fat or grease would form at the top of the pot. They would skim this off. It was called slush. The officers would then sell the slush to tallow makers and use the proceeds to make small purchases for the ship’s crew. So it became known as the slush fund.’
She made no comment.
‘Interesting, no?’ he said, desperate for her acknowledgement of the truth of this. But he’d annoyed her so it wasn’t forthcoming. Despite the fact that she’d found it more interesting than most of his normal ‘indispensable’ trivia.