At five forty-five the next morning Cross heard a monk knocking on the doors of the other monks, waking them up gently with a soft Latin supplication. Sleepy, muffled Latin responses came back from inside all of the rooms. There was no knock on Cross’s door. But he decided to get up anyway. He wanted to observe a full day in the life of a monk. He sat in the church as the monks sang lauds. As someone who liked his routine there was something satisfying to Cross at starting the day in the same way every day. He liked the continuity, the predictability of it. He found it calming and almost soothing.
As he was walking into the refectory Father Magnus came up to him with a pile of wrapped clothing.
‘The monks were talking last night about how filthy your clothes had been getting, working on the organ. So, we thought you might like to have these. It’s what we use when doing manual labour. Very comfortable and practical. Also keeps your clothes clean.’
Cross took them to his room. There were dark blue canvas trousers and a hooded top. He wasn’t sure it was necessary but then imagined what Ottey might say to him in these circumstances. He decided to wear the clothing as he thought that’s what she’d advise because the monks had been so considerate. To all intents and purposes, he now looked like one of them.
After breakfast he and Thomas set about their task in an efficient, contented silence. They made good progress and took a break mid-morning sitting outside in the sunshine.
As if by some sort of telepathic communication Brother William arrived with a tray of tea and biscuits. He was helped by Snip. The presence of a teapot and strainer lifted Cross’s spirits. William and Snip sat with them.
‘Snip is giving me a hand in the bookbindery,’ said William who still seemed a little subdued and quiet.
‘We met at the funeral,’ said Snip.
‘We did,’ Cross said. ‘And here you are again.’
‘How is the work progressing?’ William asked.
‘Very well,’ replied Cross.
‘Are you enjoying it, Brother Thomas?’ William inquired.
‘It’s quite satisfying, but I am concerned about neglecting the lawn,’ Thomas replied.
‘I’m sure it’ll survive for a couple of days. If you’d like, though, I could help DS Cross and you could go back to the lawn,’ William said.
‘Do you have an eidetic memory?’ Thomas asked.
‘I do not,’ William answered with a smile that suggested to Cross this was a frequently used question in Thomas’s vocal armoury.
‘Then I think not,’ said Thomas.
‘There is something you could help with, though,’ said Cross. ‘I’ll show you after we’ve had our tea.’
‘Excellent.’
Cross was glad of William’s presence. There was something he wanted to ask Brother Thomas. He thought the presence of another monk might set him at ease. Given the fact that Brother Thomas had refused to come to the interview with him and Ottey, he was sure that something was troubling him. That he did indeed have something to add. Cross thought he hadn’t told them for fear of his being at fault, in some way to blame for what had happened. He had obviously felt this about witnessing Brother Dominic’s conversation on the gate phone, but Cross wondered whether there was more. He often felt this himself, that he was at fault for things when he wasn’t. It was a product of never really being sure how he was coming over to people.
‘Brother Thomas’s memory is quite something,’ he began by saying to William.
‘Oh yes. Nothing happens here without Brother Thomas knowing. He has all our birthdays memorised. Saints’ feast days, anniversaries of the parishioners who come on Sundays,’ William replied.
‘What kind of anniversaries?’ Cross asked.
‘Husbands’ and wives’ deaths, wedding anniversaries, birthdays,’ William replied.
‘Not all of them, surely?’ asked Cross. ‘There must be some parishioners whose details he doesn’t know.’
‘I know them all,’ Thomas suddenly said. ‘You can test me if you like,’ he said with almost childish defensiveness.
‘So, if any strangers come on a Sunday, you would know?’ Cross asked.
‘Of course,’ Thomas replied.
‘The same for any visitors to the abbey?’ Cross asked.
‘Brother Thomas makes it his business to know everything that happens here,’ said William with the tiniest air of irritation, Cross thought. It was possible Brother Thomas had been aware of Brother William’s feelings for Brother Dominic before anyone else at the abbey. Perhaps Brother William still resented it.
‘Did Dominic have any visitors at the weekends?’ asked Cross. He thought that if anyone involved in his death had visited him at the abbey, a visit at a weekend with the church full of people would be the easiest way to go unnoticed.
‘It’s difficult to say whether they were visitors or new congregants,’ replied Thomas.
‘So, there was someone?’ said Cross. ‘Someone you weren’t familiar with?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who were they?’
‘I don’t know their names,’ replied Thomas.
‘You didn’t ask Brother Dominic?’
Thomas seemed horrified by this idea. ‘It was none of my business,’ he replied.
‘How many people were there?’
‘Two.’
‘At the same time or on different occasions?’ Cross asked.
‘Two at the same time, then each returned individually,’ said Thomas.
‘Male or female?’ asked Cross.
‘Both men.’
Cross got out his phone and pulled up a press photograph of Patrick Murphy with Bates at his side.
‘Are these them?’ he asked Thomas.
‘Yes.’
Snip leaned over to have a look.
‘Is that Patrick Murphy?’ he asked.
‘It is,’ replied Cross.
Snip nodded knowingly, then said, ‘You know about his past, right? Murphy’s? All this ethical gambling is bullshit – sorry, Brother William. He’s just a Scouse thug dressed in a fancy suit.’
‘People can change,’ William suggested.
‘Then why was Dominic so disturbed by the whole situation and by him?’ Snip asked.
William reflected on this for a moment then conceded, ‘He was definitely preoccupied by it.’
‘Was he frightened?’ asked Cross.
‘He was really upset by it. Not so much frightened, as alarmed at the change in Murphy. It was like he was suddenly dealing with an entirely different person.’
‘But murder? Over a book? It seems extreme,’ said William.
‘It wasn’t about a book, Brother William. It was about twenty million pounds. People have killed for a good deal less,’ said Snip.
‘Murder is always extreme, Brother William, and he has a point. People have killed for a good deal less,’ said Cross.
‘And it’s not always intentional,’ Snip added.
‘What makes you say that?’ asked Cross.
‘Well let’s say it was Murphy, or more likely someone employed by him. I read that Brother Dominic was badly beaten,’ Snip continued.
Cross noticed how William winced at the thought of this. Thomas was looking away, as if he didn’t want any part of the conversation.
‘What if the idea was to persuade him to change his mind, thereby saving Murphy millions? Brother Dominic refused and they just went a bit too far? It’s not as if they were going to benefit from his death, were they?’
‘Indeed. Which begs the question, who would benefit from the death of a Benedictine monk?’ asked Cross.
‘A good question, Sergeant. The fact is, though, that this Murphy bloke was like a changed man after Brother Dominic told him about the book,’ Snip added.
‘Disappointment manifests itself in many different ways,’ William pointed out.
‘Now this is why I could never be a monk,’ Snip joked. ‘Always seeing the best in people.’
‘I too have observed that in the brothers,’ agreed Cross.
‘And that’s why you could never be a monk either, Sergeant. Your job is the polar opposite. Always looking for the worst in people,’ said Snip.
‘I disagree. I don’t go looking for the worst in people. I go looking for the truth and sometimes that leads me to see the worst in them,’ replied Cross.
‘A fine distinction and well put,’ William commented.