By the end of the next day all the ranks of pipes had been cleaned and replaced in the abbey church. The organ chamber was now spotless. The reservoir still needed new leather folds, but the blower was as good as new. Cross would have to adjust some of the trackers so that the keyboard was even. But on the whole, he was immensely satisfied. Ottey had texted him to say that she would pick him up at the end of the day, which was convenient, if unexpected. Cross was invited to wait for her in the abbot’s office with the abbot and Father Magnus.
‘How is the case progressing, George?’ the abbot asked.
‘It’s beginning to take shape, I think,’ Cross replied.
‘That’s interesting, you make it sound like you’re writing a play or a story,’ Father Magnus said. Cross thought for a minute.
‘Every crime, in this case, murder, has a narrative. There are many contributing factors that go into that narrative, but they don’t come to you in a sequential order. My job is to work out which ones are relevant and where they fit into that narrative. So in a sense your analogy is correct. With the added qualification that the narrative I’m working on isn’t fiction. It’s fact,’ Cross answered.
‘We say prayers for you and Josie every day, George,’ said the abbot.
Cross was unsure how to respond to this, as he felt it was a pointless exercise. But he said nothing. This was his default way of not causing any offence. But he did have another question for them. While working on the organ that day it had occurred to him that they hadn’t considered what had happened to all of Alexander Mount’s money when he entered the abbey. He was obviously immensely well off at the time he became a monk. So where was it?
‘When Brother Dominic arrived at the abbey, did he bring anything with him?’ Cross asked.
‘People arrive here with nothing, and they leave with nothing, George,’ said Father Magnus. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘It’s my job. At times it’s like shaking a fruit tree which has already been harvested or picked, one last time, to see if any fruit you might have missed, drops,’ replied Cross.
‘I see,’ replied the abbot. ‘We’ll ask Father Wolfson. He was in charge of any gifts the abbey received. Money, mostly. But we kept track of everything, so in the unlikely event Dominic brought anything with him, he would know.’
‘What else do you get given other than money?’ Cross went on.
‘Candlesticks,’ they answered together and laughed.
‘Alcohol from the parishioners when they come back from holiday. We have a cupboard full of it,’ said the abbot.
‘We call it the duty-free cupboard,’ added Magnus. ‘We have quite a collection of spirits and what you might call an eclectic array of obscure liqueurs from around the world.’
‘The Scandinavian ones are like firewater,’ said the abbot.
‘Which should of course make Father Abbot feel right at home. To be fair I think that’s why they buy it for him,’ said Magnus.
‘It’s filled to bursting after the summer holidays,’ said the abbot smiling to himself.
Cross’s phone vibrated. It was Ottey who had arrived and was outside.
The journey that Cross had been dreading the day before now confronted him. Ottey had taken the girls and Raymond to the Cheddar gorge and caves. Cross was treated to a full account of their day by the girls, punctuated by the noise of incessant crisp crunching for the entire journey back to Bristol. While one spoke the other ate and then the roles were reversed which meant there was no let-up for Cross, who was squashed in the back seat with them. They informed him of all the interesting facts and statistics that Raymond had told them throughout the day, sometimes with such enthusiasm that, to Cross’s horror, partly chewed pieces of crisps did indeed fly in his direction. The same interesting facts and statistics Raymond had told him on their trips in the white Ford Cortina with red leather seats, some forty years before. Cross was about to say something to this effect when Ottey gave him a pre-emptive glance in her rear-view mirror. He clamped his mouth shut tight and suffered in a well of noble silence. The peace and tranquillity of the abbey suddenly seemed a million miles away.