Ottey gave Cross and Mackenzie a lift to Dominic’s funeral. It was one of those early spring days where rain felt inevitable. A grey sky with constantly moving clouds which threatened rain, then suddenly changed density and flew by innocuously. Stephen had decided the right and proper place for his brother’s service was St Eustace’s. As they drove through the abbey gates which had been left open for the day, they were surprised to see cars parked to one side of the lane extending as far as they could see. Ottey pulled over and the three of them walked. The narrow road was flanked by cars all the way up the hill. The area outside the abbey house was filled, as was the large turning circle outside the abbey church.
‘It’s beautiful,’ Mackenzie commented. ‘Just how I imagined it. Maybe a little smaller.’
There were a couple of vans, one a passenger van, the other Fred Savage’s building van parked in the circle. No sign of a hearse as Dominic’s open coffin had been in the church for a couple of days. The monks had continued their daily offices around him, as if he were still part of the community. They had taken it in turns to sit in vigil with the coffin over the two days so that their brother was never alone.
As indicated by the number of cars, the turnout for the Benedictine monk was huge. Cross had somehow imagined that it would be just the three of them, the monks and Stephen. But there had to be over a hundred people there. The small church was packed to the gills.
‘Who’s that woman looking at you, George?’ asked Ottey. It was Christine, who had found a seat at the back of the church. Cross turned round. She gave him a small, discreet wave.
‘What is she doing here?’ he asked.
‘Well, I don’t know. Who is she?’ Ottey repeated.
‘My mother,’ said Cross turning back and looking over at his father Raymond, who had also made the trip. Cross’s immediate instinct was to leave. But at that point four priests walked onto the altar. Father Abbot Anselm and Father Magnus, together with another monk who had come from Prinknash. Leading them was Stephen, who seemed to be the main celebrant. It was a solemn Catholic funeral mass with a lesson from the bible read by Brother William. There was communion for those who wanted it. Ottey was quite taken by the Gregorian chant. It was beautifully sung with such simplicity and purity. The ranks of the Cheddar monks had been swelled by a group of monks from Prinknash Abbey who knew Brother Dominic. Their voices rose as one to the vaulted ceiling, which then distributed the sound into every corner of the church like a divine Dolby surround sound system. Ottey found this, together with the incense, quite intoxicating. It was markedly different from the services at her local Pentecostal church which were almost raucous by comparison, a riot of colour, clapping and swaying, singing at full pelt. She’d been brought up in the church by her mother who was still a member of the choir. Ottey had also sung in it, right up until the time she joined the police when she no longer had the time. The community was very small and predominantly of Jamaican descent. Sundays had become something of a police surgery for her with congregants seeking advice, mostly, it had to be said, ‘for a friend’. She enjoyed this and saw it as her own unofficial form of outreach.
There was no sermon and no eulogy, but what really preoccupied Cross was the fact that there was no organ accompaniment for the hymns. Father Magnus explained to those who weren’t their regular congregation, that the organ was out of commission. He asked the congregation to let the monks begin each hymn and then join in.
Finally, the monks sang the Gregorian requiem chant of Libera me Domine. The church bell sounded mournfully throughout this part of the service. Mackenzie found herself transported to another time, another world. Stephen led the priests to the front of the now closed coffin, where they all turned and bowed. Holy water was sprinkled on it. The monks left their stalls and pulled their hoods over their heads in unison. Six of them took hold of the rope handles on the sides of the coffin and lifted it up to waist height. They then processed, singing the Gregorian chant, behind the crucifer carrying a tall silver crucifix, and the four priests. The church bell continued to toll. Ottey thought the monks’ serene expressions and reverent singing somehow made the process of death just a normal part of life. But then again, they clearly believed that their brother had gone to a better place. A place he had prepared himself all his life to go on to.
The congregation followed the slow procession as they carried Dominic to the side of the church where their burial ground was. It was no bigger than an allotment. There were several small, plain, identical crosses with just the name of the late monk followed by the initials OSB on them. The congregation instinctively held back as if to give this family of monks some privacy, and watched from a respectable distance. The monks laid their brother gently to rest.
As the interment took place, the rain that had threatened to come all morning arrived in a deluge. People who had come prepared opened their umbrellas. Cross took a small fold-up umbrella from his backpack and opened it over his head. After a couple of seconds, he realised that Ottey and Mackenzie didn’t have umbrellas and were getting wet. They showed no inclination to find shelter. This presented him with a conundrum. He couldn’t offer only one of them protection from the rain under his umbrella, as the other would be put out. There was no reason for him to give them the umbrella. Why should he suffer when he was the only one to have had the foresight to have brought one? Then he remembered that the mackintosh he was wearing, a relatively new one, had a hood hidden in the collar. He turned to Ottey, holding out the umbrella.
‘Here,’ he said.
‘Are you sure?’ she replied.
‘You’re both getting wet,’ he said, then pulled the hood out of its secret hiding place and over his head.
Ottey looked at the hooded figure now standing next to her. ‘Very appropriate,’ she said, turning back to the hooded monks at the graveside. They stood, heads bowed as they prayed, oblivious of the rain as it ran down their hoods, dropped onto their noses and fell to the ground.
As soon as the burial was completed, the rain suddenly stopped. The monks left the graveyard and stood in small groups outside the church, their hoods now back on their shoulders, their arms folded underneath their habits. Some of the congregation left, others stood around talking. There was to be no funeral tea which Cross thought probably disappointed some of them. He saw Father Magnus introducing Ursula Mead to Father Stephen. He would doubtless want to talk to her at some point about his brother, whom she had seen a lot more of than him over the last fifteen years.
‘Oh, this should be interesting. George?’ said Ottey who had quietly appeared at his side.
‘What?’ he replied, turning to see Father Stephen now introducing Cross’s mother Christine to his father Raymond. A sense of panic suddenly overwhelmed Cross and he bolted down the side of the church to the side door and sought refuge inside. Ottey watched him go and thought he was probably best left alone for the time being.
Cross sat in the front pew. Beads of sweat prickled above his forehead. He realised he was hyperventilating. This often happened when something took him by surprise socially or there was something in his life he had no control of. He couldn’t work out what he was upset about. Was he upset for his father? His mother? She must have known Raymond would be there. His father would have been sideswiped. But it wasn’t this, he realised. He knew at some point his mother and father might meet again. He had no problem with that. It was none of his business. But for some reason he knew he wanted no part of it. Why? It was a complication that he had no time for. A change, an upheaval that wasn’t welcome. Cross compartmentalised areas of his life which he liked to keep separate, like his food. He had his work, his organ playing and his father. This was sufficient for him. He found it difficult enough when work started to merge with his personal life with Ottey and Mackenzie meeting and taking an interest in his father.
He would have to work this out, but he was saved from this emotional upheaval when he noticed the organ pipes behind the altar and went to investigate why exactly it was out of commission. Cross had had his suspicions that something was possibly wrong with the organ the first time he saw it, and noticed that the keys on the manuals were uneven. This probably meant that it was a tracker organ and that the trackers were out. These were thin lengths of wood that linked the key with the valve. When a key was pressed the wooden tracker pulled open a valve in the corresponding pipe above to let the air out and create the note. He found a door behind the organ and went into the old bellows room where the air for the organ was generated. Originally it would have had a manually operated bellows like a blacksmith’s, but this one had been updated at some point and was electrically operated. Cross was horrified to see cleaning equipment piled up on the air reservoir. The leather corners were broken which meant they had to leak air. It obviously couldn’t be used in this condition; it simply wouldn’t play properly. At the back of the organ chamber was a ladder leading to a small door. Cross climbed up and opened it. The pipes inside were all covered in dirt and dust. Large pieces of plaster were lodged between the pipes. He looked up and saw that part of the ceiling directly above the organ had fallen down.
Cross heard voices in the church below. He looked down through the organ pipes and saw the four priests walking down the aisle, talking quietly. They each genuflected in front of the altar then disappeared from his view. He climbed out of the organ chamber and down the stepladder, being careful not to knock any of the organ’s tracker action. He assumed the priests had gone into the sacristy to disrobe. He knocked on the door and went in.
‘Your organ is in need of repair,’ Cross announced.
‘As is your mackintosh,’ replied Father Magnus.
Cross looked down at his raincoat, which was covered in filth and cobwebs from the organ cabinet, and saw that it had been torn. He looked back at the abbot.
‘Yes,’ the abbot sighed. ‘It is indeed. There was a partial ceiling collapse above it, which is also in need of repair.’
‘I’m assuming you don’t have the funds to fix it?’ said Cross.
‘Well, in point of fact we’ve just secured some money to repair the ceiling, which is more urgent and dangerous, but not the organ, alas,’ replied the abbot.
‘Then I shall repair it for you,’ said Cross, who suddenly felt it was inappropriate for him to be in a room with priests disrobing. Despite the fact they were all wearing cassocks. Cross looked at Stephen. He urgently wanted to ask him about his mother and father. Not just what had been said, but why he had seen the need to introduce them. He wasn’t sure how to broach it, particularly in front of the other priests. Stephen sensed this immediately.
‘Why don’t we talk about it the day after tomorrow, George?’ he intuited. ‘You will be coming to practise?’
‘That’s Thursday,’ Cross stated.
‘It is.’
‘Then I will be,’ he said and left.
The father abbot turned to Stephen. ‘Am I right in thinking George intends repairing the organ himself, or will he get someone else to do it?’ he asked.
‘No. He’ll repair it himself. He’s very accomplished. It’s how we know each other.’
‘Oh, I thought he might be a member of your congregation,’ the abbot replied.
‘Gosh, no. George is a very committed non-believer. But he looks after the organ at my church,’ said Stephen.
‘I see. A man of myriad talents.’
‘Indeed.’
As Cross got to the main door of the church he stopped before going outside and phoned Ottey.
‘George, everything okay?’ she asked.
‘Are they still there?’ he asked.
‘Who?’
‘My parents,’ he replied irritably.
‘No.’
He cut off the call, opened the door and went back outside, looking around anxiously.
‘Are you sure she’s gone?’ he asked Ottey.
‘Absolutely. She gave Raymond a lift back to Bristol,’ she replied.
‘She what?’
He was genuinely concerned by this idea.
Serena Birch and Mark, her husband, Brother Dominic’s friends from London, walked over to them together with another man in his forties. Serena had been crying and was obviously still very upset.
‘This whole thing is so surreal,’ she began by saying. ‘Not just that he’s dead, but seeing all the monks and this setting, the abbey, it just feels so odd when you see the reality of it.’
‘That he actually was a monk all this time, living with this community,’ Mark explained.
‘I’m still getting my head round the fact that he was actually murdered,’ said the man with them. He was well dressed in a black suit, white shirt and black tie, with close-cropped hair.
‘Oh, I’m sorry. This is Andrew. Andrew Beresford, one of Alex’s oldest friends from Cambridge and then the City,’ said Mark.
‘The one we told you about in London?’ Serena clarified.
‘Ah yes. The one whose name you couldn’t remember,’ Cross pointed out unhelpfully.
‘DS Ottey and Cross,’ said Ottey.
‘Are you absolutely certain he was murdered?’ Beresford asked in disbelief.
‘I’m afraid there’s no question about it,’ answered Ottey.
‘When was the last time you saw him?’ asked Cross.
‘Not for years. Ten, fifteen years? Certainly not since before he became a monk.’
‘Did you become aware where he was through all the media coverage?’ asked Cross.
‘Yes. Actually, the first time I saw him was on the local news. I wasn’t sure at first, but it was definitely him. I couldn’t believe it.’
‘Was that about the book of hours?’ asked Cross.
‘Yes, that was it.’
‘Did you get in touch with him? Come and see him?’ asked Cross.
‘Well no. I didn’t know where he was. I suppose I could maybe have worked it out by process of elimination. I don’t know how many abbeys there are in the Points West area, to be honest. I was just amazed it was him.’
‘Where do you live now, Mr Beresford?’ asked Ottey.
‘Just outside Bath,’ he replied.
‘Oh good. We’d like to talk to you and today probably isn’t the right day. This is my card. Could I have your contact details?’ asked Ottey.
‘Of course,’ he replied, fishing in his pocket for his wallet and producing a business card for her.
‘Mr Beresford—’ she began.
‘Andrew,’ he corrected her.
‘Andrew. Do you have any idea who might have wished Alex harm?’ she asked.
‘None at all,’ he replied.
‘You say that with a surprising amount of certainty, Mr Beresford,’ observed Cross.
‘The only surprising thing here for me is that one of my friends has actually been murdered. The whole idea is preposterous to me.’
‘That’s a fair point,’ replied Cross. ‘What is it you do these days?’
‘I’m a financial adviser.’
‘Are you two driving back to London?’ Ottey asked Serena and Mark, in an everyday conversational way which Cross knew signalled she wanted his conversation to end. He saw William talking to another mourner. The monk beckoned him over. Cross duly obliged.
‘DS Cross, I wanted to introduce you to Snip. He was—’
‘I know who he is,’ Cross interrupted. ‘I’m surprised at your presence here.’
‘I get that. So am I, if I’m honest. I just felt I had to come,’ the young man replied. He was very thin, his suit hanging off him, as if he’d either recently lost a lot of weight, or borrowed it in haste from a friend.
‘Why?’ Cross went on.
‘In the end Dominic had a huge impact on my life.’
‘You lost your job because of him,’ Cross pointed out.
‘I lost my job because of my behaviour. It had nothing to do with Brother Dominic. However, more importantly, because of that I got sober. I figured out that if I could behave in such a way that a Benedictine monk was driven to punch my lights out, I must’ve hit rock bottom.’
‘I see,’ said Cross.
‘And this is Robbie Weald. Robbie has been a frequent guest of ours. He helps in the bookbindery and with the bees. He had many conversations with Brother Dominic who, as you know, was guest master here at the abbey.’
‘DS Cross,’ said the man holding out his hand. He withdrew it shortly afterwards, when he realised it wasn’t going to be shaken. He was quite short. His head was shaven completely bald. He had a thick beard but a pasty, almost unhealthy-looking pale complexion. ‘Sorry to meet you in these circumstances,’ he went on.
‘In my experience people are generally sorry to meet the police in any circumstances,’ replied Cross.
The man laughed politely as did William. Mackenzie walked over and silently stood at the edge of the group.
‘It feels strange to say this, and I certainly don’t want to waste your time. I wouldn’t normally have thought anything about it. But now that Dominic has been murdered in such a brutal way… What am I talking about? The fact that he’s been murdered at all, full stop, has made me wonder whether it might be relevant. But I’ll let you be the judge of that. Brother William tells me you’re aware of the book of hours controversy,’ Robbie said.
‘Correct,’ replied Cross.
‘Have you actually seen it?’
‘I have not.’
‘It’s a beautiful thing, but unfortunately for Sir Patrick Murphy not the beautiful thing he thought when he spent a fortune on it.’
‘Dominic was deeply upset when he reached the conclusion that the book was a fake. He was upset for Sir Patrick whom he’d come to know quite well over the years,’ added Snip.
‘You also spoke to him about it?’ asked Cross.
‘Yes. We all did.’
‘But after Dominic made it clear he wouldn’t change his opinion, Murphy and his associates’ behaviour, became worrying,’ Robbie said.
‘In what way?’ asked Cross.
‘Well, in truth, it wasn’t so much Murphy as his consigliere who behaved with real malice,’ Robbie continued.
‘Martin Bates?’ Mackenzie suggested.
‘That’s him. He came to the abbey himself on a number of occasions, attempting to persuade Dominic he’d made a mistake and should rectify it.’
‘This was after the television interview?’ Cross clarified.
‘That’s right.’
‘Are you sure?’ Cross asked.
‘Of course. Why do you ask?’
‘Because he assured me, he hadn’t made any contact with Brother Dominic after the interview,’ replied Cross.
‘Well, he did, and more often than not, in person. He became increasingly aggressive, threatening Brother Dominic, pretty much.’
‘Did Brother Dominic talk to the police?’ asked Cross who was unaware of any such reports. But that didn’t mean they didn’t exist.
‘No. It’s not the Benedictine way, after all,’ Robbie replied, looking at William for approval. ‘Of course, I wish I’d done so myself. But I never imagined this would happen. I’m absolutely racked with guilt.’
‘And as I keep telling him, there’s absolutely no need,’ said William. ‘This whole thing was completely unexpected. What is more, we don’t actually know that Sir Patrick Murphy is responsible for this. Let us not forget that he’s a man of profound faith and Christian belief.’
‘I don’t see many other potential suspects, Brother William,’ Robbie said.
‘Is there anything else you think I should know?’ Cross asked the two men.
‘Well, Brother Dominic thought there was something distinctly fishy about the provenance of the book,’ said Robbie.
‘How, exactly?’ asked Cross.
‘He told Murphy he should return the book to the seller and demand his money back. If he wasn’t willing to repay him, he should sue. Brother Dominic volunteered to appear as an expert witness. But this was impossible, apparently. I don’t know the details, but the seller was not entirely respectable and what you might call legitimate.’
‘Then why buy it from him in the first place?’ asked Cross. ‘Surely this kind of thing was an obvious risk.’
‘Because of the allure of the piece. Had it been genuine it would have been the crowning jewel of his collection. A simple case of greed and ambition,’ said William. But his attention seemed to be distracted by Andrew Beresford walking to his car. Cross also noticed Beresford looking quickly away from William when he became aware of Cross looking at him.
*
‘She seemed very nice, your mum,’ said Ottey as she drove Cross and Mackenzie back to Bristol.
‘Your mother was there?’ asked Mackenzie with a familiarity that irritated Cross. ‘No way,’ she said, which annoyed him even more.
‘And his father,’ Ottey added.
‘Oh, I know. I had a chat with Raymond. Was it me or is he not himself?’ she asked.
‘Hardly surprising in the circumstances,’ said Cross.
‘I thought so too the last time the girls and I popped over for tea. We’d baked a cake and took it over,’ Ottey replied.
‘When was that, exactly?’ asked Cross.
‘Last weekend. Saturday afternoon.’
‘He didn’t mention it to me.’
‘Well, there you are. He’s definitely not himself. There’s nothing wrong medically, is there?’
‘He’s absolutely fine,’ Cross insisted.
‘George…’ Ottey began, before thinking better of it.
‘What?’ he asked.
‘I’m not sure you’d notice if your dad was a bit down. Let’s be honest,’ she said.
He would’ve objected to this had he not known it was the truth.