Warren’s sharp tone brooked no argument and within a few seconds two healthcare assistants were by Coombs’ side. It took all of Warren’s self-control to remain out of the way, knowing that he was more likely to hinder than help matters.
A few worrying moments passed before the coughing subsided and Coombs’ breathing returned to normal. One of the assistants carefully placed an oxygen mask over his face.
‘I’ll give you a dose of morphine, to make you more comfortable,’ he said, reaching for the button clipped to Coombs’ shirt pocket.
To the surprise of everyone in the room, Coombs stopped him. When he spoke, his voice was wheezy and muffled by the mask.
‘No. Not yet. I must talk to DCI Jones.’
‘I’m not sure that’s sensible …’ started the other assistant.
‘No. I need to speak to him.’
Both assistants turned to Warren who shrugged helplessly. There was no question that he wanted to speak to the man more than ever now, but having a witness die on him mid-interview would be awkward to say the least.
‘OK,’ said the first assistant eventually, ‘but if it happens again, pull that cord, it’s what it’s there for.’
With a final glare in his direction, the two assistants left.
When he spoke again, Coombs’ voice was noticeably stronger, although he didn’t remove the mask.
‘Let me tell you a story,’ he started. ‘It’s supposedly a deathbed confession, but I’ve cross-referenced with some of the diaries of the monks living at the abbey at the time and they seem to confirm that the key events happened as described.’
Coombs coughed again, although he waved Warren away before he could summon help. When he continued speaking, his voice was stronger.
‘The story dates back to 1522, when the abbey was in its heyday. By then, the community had grown to almost fifty brothers, led by an Abbot Godwine. Similar to now, the abbey paid for itself through growing produce, some of which they sold at market. In addition to the brothers working in the gardens, they also employed cooks and cleaners and a groundsman from the nearby town.
‘The groundsman was a man by the name of Francis Scrope. He had two sons, and had been widowed during the birth of the younger son. The elder son, Simon Scrope, was apprenticed to his father, whilst the younger son, Matthias, joined the abbey at the age of twelve to begin training for the priesthood.
‘By all accounts, they had a pretty good life, when compared to their contemporaries in the town. Francis Scrope and Simon Scrope earned a good wage by the standards of the day, and they had a house and free food. Both boys were taught to read and write and perform basic arithmetic by the brothers, which they probably wouldn’t have been able to afford if they were simply peasants. Joining the priesthood was also a prestigious occupation for the younger brother.’
‘I’m guessing this isn’t going to be an entirely happy ending,’ said Warren passing over a glass of water.
‘Yeah, it starts to get pretty dark,’ Coombs agreed after a long swallow.
‘It seems that even back then, the church’s instinctive response to any whiff of scandal was a cover-up. The description in the confession and in those diaries that mention the events are typically circumspect, but it seems that the younger son attracted the wrong sort of attention from some of the older brothers.’
‘Abuse?’
‘Of the worst kind, apparently. According to the confession, Matthias wasn’t the first to be attacked in this way. It may even have been tolerated as one of those things that came part and parcel of being accepted into the community.’
‘Christ,’ breathed Warren; even five centuries on, the crime still shocked him.
‘I doubt He had a very high opinion of what had happened,’ stated Coombs. ‘Anyway, Matthias told his father what had happened and Scrope went to see Abbot Godwine. As to what happened next, we only have the word of the older brother to go on, who is himself recounting it secondhand, years after the fact, but it seems that the abbot simply bought the father off.’
‘He bribed him to let it go?’
‘Five pounds – the equivalent of a year’s salary – plus as much wine as he could drink; an apparently irresistible sweetener for the father. He also supposedly made it clear that if any more was said on the matter, the father would lose his job and with it his home, the older brother, Simon, would lose his apprenticeship and Matthias would be excommunicated.’
‘What happened to the monks involved in the abuse?’
‘Apparently nothing. I suppose if they had been kicked out or disciplined too harshly then there was always the chance that word would get out and the abbey itself would come under the scrutiny of the mother church. The beginning of the sixteenth century was a period of great upheaval and some of the church’s less godly behaviours were being challenged. These events took place when the established church was coming under pressure from Martin Luther on the continent and King Henry VIII in England. The abbot would have wanted to keep his head down.’
‘So what happened?’ The story was fascinating, in a morbid sort of way, but Coombs had yet to link those events to the present day murders, although Warren was starting to have his suspicions as to where it was heading.
‘Well, Matthias was never the same again after that, and neither was his father. He couldn’t accept what had happened, and supposedly ended up blaming his son for bringing it on himself; he couldn’t understand why they chose his son unless he did something to encourage them. Sixteenth-century victim-blaming to use the latest terminology.’
‘It’s an attitude that some still hold five hundred years later,’ noted Warren, thinking back to some of the cases he’d dealt with over the years.
‘All this time, Simon Scrope was apparently ignorant of what had happened, as his brother was too ashamed to tell him. But it all came to head a few months later when Matthias tried to kill himself by throwing himself off the abbey roof.
‘By some miracle he survived for almost a week. At that time of course, suicide was considered a sin, and so the boys’ father refused to speak to him. Matthias told Simon what had happened a few hours before he finally died, reportedly saying that all he wanted was for those involved to admit what they had done and seek forgiveness for their sins.
‘And did they?’ It was a hypothetical question.
‘What do you think, DCI Jones? Matthias was buried in an unmarked grave outside of the abbey grounds, supposedly because his suicide brought shame on the abbey community and his family. When his brother confronted his father over what had happened, his father reportedly said that he only had one child, and even blamed Matthias for the death of his mother in childbirth.’
Coombs took another swallow of water, and closed his eyes, his hand straying towards the button again. Again, he stopped himself.
‘Please, have a rest,’ said Warren.
Coombs shook his head slowly, before opening his eyes. When he spoke again, his voice was firm, but noticeably weaker.
‘Plenty of time to rest in the not too distant future. Where was I?’
‘Simon Scrope had just confronted their father after the death of his younger brother.’
‘Oh yes. Well it seems that Simon felt racked with guilt for not having spotted his younger brother’s distress earlier and so he decided to get revenge on all those who had been complicit in his abuse and to fulfil his dying wish to confess their sins.
‘The first person that he killed was his own father. It was poetic justice I suppose, he made it look like a suicide; and nobody suspected otherwise until Simon Scrope made his deathbed, confession, thirty years later. He claimed to have waited until his father was drunk one night and then made him confess to what had happened, before covering him in tar and setting him on fire. The confession was pinned to the abbey gate and reportedly read by a number of the more literate townspeople before it was taken down. Nobody suspected a thing, they assumed he was so wracked with guilt at the death of his son that he’d taken his own life. Nobody questioned who had actually written the note, even though the father was supposedly illiterate and could only write his name. Take a guess where he was burnt alive?’
‘The undercroft,’ whispered Warren.
Coombs nodded.
‘Next he started targeting the monks who had committed the abuse.’ Coombs started coughing, but again ignored Warren’s pleas that they take a break. After a few moments, his breathing returned to normal.
‘As I am sure you are aware, they were pretty creative in the medieval period when it came to torture. Scrope claims to have waited in the shadows until the monks were on their way back from vespers – evening prayers – before setting upon one of them. He was a pretty big lad by all accounts, used to hard, physical work, so it wasn’t too hard for him to subdue the much smaller monk.
‘Back in those days, the ducking stool was a real crowd pleaser. It was used primarily to humiliate those who had committed minor crimes, or punish scolding or gossiping housewives, but it was also used to elicit confessions and punish crimes such as witchcraft. Scrope says he had witnessed its use in town and he figured if it could make a person admit to being a witch, it could make them confess to what they had done to his brother.
‘He tied the man to a chair and repeatedly submerged his head until he eventually agreed to write a confession. He doesn’t say whether he drowned the man deliberately, or if it happened by accident, but after he died, he carried the body out to the bridge by the mill house and threw him over. These days we call it waterboarding and everyone thinks the Americans invented it in Iraq, but Medieval Europeans were centuries ahead of them.
‘After that, he again pinned the suicide note to the abbey gates where it was read by the townsfolk before being taken down and presumably destroyed. Again, everyone believed it was a suicide, probably brought on by guilt and triggered by the death of Francis Scrope.’
Warren sat back in his chair, stunned. It seemed to be too fanciful to be true. As if reading Warren’s thoughts, Coombs reached over and patted the lever arch folder on the coffee table, and then pointed shakily towards the closet.
‘It’s all in here, and there are photocopies of the original documents in the wardrobe, you can easily check them out for yourself.’
‘Where did the drowning take place?’ asked Warren. They still hadn’t located where Father Daugherty had been killed before he was dragged to the bridge. If the present-day murders were following the same pattern as the ancient killings, then it was possible that he had been drowned in the same place. The location could contain vital forensic evidence.
‘It doesn’t say. Simon left it too late to start writing his confession; I’ve seen the original document and his handwriting deteriorates markedly towards the end, before finishing abruptly with his signature.’ Coombs smiled humourlessly. ‘I can sympathise with his poor timing.’
He coughed again, and Warren passed him his water. He sipped it gratefully, before starting to choke, water dribbling down his chin.
‘Shit.’ Warren had become so carried away with the man’s story he’d forgotten how ill he was. Reaching over he went to slap the man’s back, before hesitating. The man was stick thin, could he take a pounding? Remembering the carer’s admonishment, Warren pulled the red cord that dangled by the bed.
The assistants appeared within seconds. Yet again, Warren found himself standing helplessly to one side.
‘I think that’s enough for today,’ said one of the carers as they firmly pressed the button on the morphine pump. Warren agreed.
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ rasped Coombs, a trace of humour in his voice. ‘Call tomorrow.’
‘Call ahead,’ warned the carer.
Suitably chastened, Warren nodded and headed toward the door. Already Coombs’ face was softening, as the powerful sedative worked its magic.
‘DCI Jones?’ Warren stopped, Coombs’ voice had a dreamy quality to it, and his eyes were closed.
‘There was more than one monk involved in Matthias’ abuse.’