The Dalwich Desecration (19 page)

“Not at all.” Brother Silsbury waved him off as he pulled three chairs into a loose circle on the near side of the room. “I've just been doing some studying. There is always time enough for that. Now, what can I do for you?” He lowered himself into one of the chairs.

“I understand that you collected the abbot's personal effects and have stored them away for safekeeping.”

“Personal effects, is it?” He leaned back and watched us with a deliberate sort of gaze. “I think you will find this a rather short conversation given what little the men here are allowed.”

“I am not referring to his clothing or bedding,” Colin explained.

“Just as well as I had his nightshirt and bed linens burned. There was no use to it anymore.”

“Of course,” Colin acknowledged with little interest. “What I am actually curious about are his personal effects. His writings, his Bible, anything he might have kept with him in his cell.”

“I see.” Brother Silsbury nodded once, crossing his arms over his chest and studying Colin through half-lidded eyes that made me think him oddly leery. “His public papers have already been given to Brother Bursnell for access in the library. I would suggest you start there.”

Colin offered a smile that I presumed was meant to be gracious but looked more calculated and cunning to me. “An outstanding idea that we have already availed ourselves of twice before. Brother Bursnell has been generous with his time and the documentation that he has, but it is the items that are
not
there that most prick my attentions at this point. For instance, he mentioned journals the abbot kept from his sabbatical to Egypt a few years ago. . . .”

“Oh yes . . . Brother Bursnell has all of the abbot's journals. Abbot Tufton gave his permission to store his writings in the library some time ago. The things I'm holding are the few personal items that were in his cell at the time of his . . . death. I will be sending them up to his sister in Dorchester. She is his only surviving kin.”

“Of course,” Colin nodded. “But before you do, I should very much like to view those items, though I must admit to disappointment at hearing that you are not also storing the abbot's journals from Egypt. Unfortunately, they seem to have gone missing.”

“Missing?!” Brother Silsbury leveled a disbelieving gaze upon Colin that seemed to question his soundness of mind. “I can assure you they are not missing. All of his journals are right here at Whitmore Abbey, where they belong. One of the brothers is obviously studying them. I can assure you that things do not go missing here, Mr. Pendragon. This is a monastery, not a prison.”

“Ah . . .” Colin's eyes went wide and doughy, and for a moment I thought surely I was going to laugh. “But, of course. I did not mean to infer anything unseemly, only that the whereabouts of those particular writings are currently unknown. Just the same, I should still very much like to view the other items he kept in his cell.” His smile softened into something more earnest as he added, “If you would be so kind.”

Brother Silsbury shrugged slightly, as though he were considering the possibility in spite of the odds being against us. “It would be most unorthodox to have you pawing through the abbot's personal belongings when neither I nor any of the other senior brothers here have yet had an opportunity to review them ourselves.” He allowed a tight-lipped bit of a smile to pull across his mouth as he continued to look at Colin and me. “We are but human,” he added with an arid chuckle, “and sometimes even the ramblings of a monk can seem disquieting to the uninitiated.”

“Disquieting, is it?” Colin repeated, nearly leaping on the word. “How very unexpected. And do you have reason to believe such musings might be in your abbot's papers?”

The monk's brow knit ferociously, though he was too young to have any but the faintest lines etched upon his forehead. “Do you mean to mock me, Mr. Pendragon? To find mirth in my desire to protect the memory and character of a man I admired and served for over ten years?”

Colin's demeanor sobered at once. “Brother Silsbury, the only thing I mean to do is find the person responsible for the death of your abbot. To that end, I would very much like to see the papers and books he was keeping in his cell at the time he was killed. You seem disinclined to allow me such access and I find that fact rather”—he paused and I found myself cringing, certain I knew what he was about to say—“disquieting,” he uttered just as I had known he would.

Brother Silsbury popped out of his seat and pounded back to his office, his cassock billowing around his ankles in a display of ill temper as he disappeared without a word. I wanted to caution Colin that perhaps he was pushing too hard, being too insensitive, but felt I had riled him enough already so chose instead to hold my tongue. To my surprise, I was rewarded with a quick, mischievous smirk just before the perturbed monk returned to the main room with an armful of loose papers and several books.

“Your efforts on behalf of our beloved abbot are an answer to prayer. . . .” The monk spoke with the requisite solemnity in spite of the fact that I could detect a rash of disapproval in his voice. “Which is why I am consenting to your rifling through his things before any of us have had an opportunity to.” He carefully laid the pile of documents onto the closest empty bed to where we were standing. “I know you can appreciate how expeditiously we all hope you will be able to complete your time here. I feel certain you are as anxious to return to London as we are to have you do so.”

“I could not agree more,” Colin said with a rare flash of impeccable honesty as he stood up.

Brother Silsbury remained standing between Colin and the items on the bed, effectively blocking his view. “Just let me request one small favor,” he added, a smile dusting across his face that was devoid of both warmth and genuine sincerity. “Please do not discuss the contents of these papers with anyone outside of this monastery unless you have first conferred with me, Brother Morrison, Brother Wright, or Brother Clayworth.”

Colin snapped a like smile upon his lips and I knew he would agree to whatever was necessary to see those papers, whether he actually remembered who the latter two monks were or not. “Without question,” he blustered. Which proved enough to get Brother Silsbury to stand aside.

“Your understanding is greatly appreciated,” Brother Silsbury replied quite grimly, remaining just a step past Colin's shoulder as he began to slowly sift through the loose pages. “We take our responsibilities to one another very seriously. I rather suppose that might be evident given the nature of our lifelong vows.”

“Does anyone ever quit?” Colin asked glibly, his attention now fully absorbed with the papers before him.

“
Quit?!
” The poor man looked startled. “This is not a fraternal club, Mr. Pendragon. One does not join or resign on a whim. It is a calling from God.”

Colin glanced back at the aggrieved man and gave a succinct nod. “I am aware of that. I only wish to know whether a monk has ever left the monastery for a fresh”—he paused for a second before tipping his head slightly and fording ahead—“calling?”

Brother Silsbury exhaled with a note of irritation. “There are always a few men who will suffer a crisis of faith, but none of them were ever serving here at Whitmore Abbey.”

“Very well.” Colin flashed a distracted smile as he returned to the papers that he had quite handily splayed out across the bottom of the bed. “Do you mind if I avail myself of Mr. Pruitt's assistance?”

“As you will,” the monk answered as he finally took a few steps back.

I did not wait for Brother Silsbury to reconsider but immediately stepped over to Colin as smoothly as I could. “What would you have me look for?”

“The usual,” he muttered as he slid the bulk of the papers toward me, saving a thinner section for himself along with a Bible and a small book that was clearly some sort of journal. “Anything that raises your hackles.”

I knew precisely what he meant. How many times had I searched through books, files, documents, manifests, inventories, registries, and catalogs over the years, looking for that unnameable something that scratches the unconscious and raises an inkling of suspicion? “Of course,” was all I said, eager to wend my way back into his better graces.

“Then I shall leave the two of you to your rummaging.” Brother Silsbury took another hesitant step backward. “I presume I am safe in the knowledge that you will neither mar nor remove anything?”

Colin lifted an eyebrow skyward but did not glance back at the man. “I am wounded that you would even feel the need to ask such a thing.”

“Yes”—Brother Silsbury gave a stilted chuckle that sounded as though it had been dragged across gravel—“there it is then. I shall be in my office if you require anything further from me. Just let me know when you are finished.” It took another moment before he finally turned and stalked back to his office, his long legs carrying him quickly across the room. As before, his cassock rustled around his ankles as he moved, making me marvel that the youngest members were so fleet-footed while those more senior seemed very much the opposite.

“Well, this seems a positive step,” I said softly, even though we were alone, “no matter how tentatively given.”

“I only wish I could find the abbot's Egyptian journals. A thing missing is always of the greatest interest to me. This”—he held up a handful of papers and let them sift through his fingers—“is unlikely to reveal much of anything.”

I leaned forward and grabbed a small wad of pages and yanked them away from him. “You aren't helping by doing that. Besides, I will certainly do my best to see what I can lift from the table in the abbot's cell tonight.” I snatched up the abbot's Bible and shoved it at him. “Why don't you study this? You were asking about it before. Perhaps he will have underlined some passages about Egypt.” I had meant only to be facetious as I turned back to the pages I had grabbed, eager to find anything that might propel this case forward, but Colin dutifully began flipping through the book before a wearied sigh escaped his lips.

“Ach . . .” he mumbled. “There are an endless amount of passages underlined as though every page is brimming with inordinate value.”

“He was an abbot in a monastery. What else would you expect to find?”

“Still”—he continued randomly flipping pages as a frown deeply furrowed his forehead—“how am I supposed to discern the essential from the pedestrian if there are so many bits and pieces called out? Didn't he realize that nothing truly has value if everything is deemed crucial?!”

I wanted to chuckle at his frustration even as I found myself sorting through endless lists of supplies such as candles of every size imaginable, communion wafers, and incense in a variety of fragrances. There was a listing of garments: cassocks, scapulars, cowls, tunics, undergarments, shoes, and sandals, which assured me how meticulously the clothing was monitored for each of the monks. Likewise the catalog of Bibles—one to a man—and the blankets, paper, pens, rosary beads, one pillow, one prayer rug, and on it went, the earthly belongings of each monk listed out with the precision of the military to ensure no monk was treated differently and that each of them made do with nothing more than that which was absolutely fundamentally necessary.

A second set of documents revealed a record of supplies requested for the infirmary by Brother Silsbury himself. There were also requests from Brother Green for foodstuffs and two four-quart cooking pots, which someone had crossed out. Brother Bursnell had submitted an inventory of supplies needed for the upkeep of the library, including a new set of shelving with the specific dimensions of seven feet high and three feet wide, though thinking of the current confines of the library I wondered exactly where he intended to put it.

There was a brief missive from Brother Clayworth, but rather than ordering supplies for his ale production, he appeared to be making a curt demand for more assistance.
As we have discussed, I find myself insisting I be given more support,
he had written,
or I will not be responsible for the fall in our production and its effect upon our solvency
. How like a business the running of this monastery suddenly seemed. For some reason I found the whole of it rather disturbing. How was it that a commitment to spiritual obeisance could end up as elementary as any other business endeavor?

I found a letter that Brother Wright had drafted to Abbot Tufton not about provisions for the garden he tended out back, but about the state of his health. The frequency and severity of his headaches was clearly worsening, and the poor man sounded torn by his suffering:
Has the Lord set before me a test, or am I merely at the whim of a physical body that seeks to dismantle my will with ever greater frequency?
I could not help the feeling of impropriety that coursed through me as I read these private words, but even so I noticed that someone, most likely Abbot Tufton himself, had written a note along the border that said,
Seek the answer within
. It was a response I could not help but find unsatisfying and was relieved that Brother Wright had not received it back.

“Oh . . . !” Colin said as a folded scrap of paper tumbled out of the Bible and fluttered to the floor. “I do hope it's a treasure map.”

“Well, it's awfully small if it is.”

Colin snapped it up and carefully unfolded it, his face pinching almost at once as he stared at it. “‘
Strauss,
'” he read aloud.

“What?”

“
Strauss,
” he said again as he looked over at me. “So are we to believe that the abbot was such a fan of Richard Strauss's compositions that he kept the man's name in his Bible?”