Murder at Maddleskirk Abbey (5 page)

I asked, ‘Are we talking of a possible abduction here, Father Abbot? With a ransom?’

‘That must be a strong possibility, Nick. Yesterday, being Sunday, was the senior boys’ free day. They can play sport, go for walks and outings, go out with their parents, entertain
visitors
, take a bus to York or Scarborough, or go into Ashfordly. They can do more-or-less what they wish and our only demand is that they behave themselves and conduct themselves
responsibly
whilst away from the premises.’

‘I know they enjoy considerable freedom,’ I commented.

‘They do, but it’s for a purpose: the idea is to encourage them to take responsibility for their own actions.’

‘I wish all families would do that!’

‘Taking into account the number of boys who live here, we don’t do too badly. Not many ventured out yesterday due to the storms. Fortunately when such things happen, they can be otherwise occupied on campus.’

‘So by today – Monday morning – the missing lad should have been back in his room and at his desk for the first lesson at quarter to nine? And that should have been after spending the night in his room and going down to the refectory for breakfast?’

‘That’s right, but it seems he wasn’t back for supper last night.’

‘Last night? I know his bed was made-up but he could have done that this morning. So you are suggesting he was away all night?’

‘That’s what I fear.’

‘So would his room have been checked last night? By his housemaster perhaps?’

‘Not necessarily, after all, he is seventeen. But if someone had reported his absence last night, we would have initiated enquiries straight away. But that didn’t happen. No one had any idea he hadn’t returned. It’s not unusual for pupils to miss supper when they return late after a day out. Most have enough pocket money to buy a meal, even if it’s only fast food.’

‘Are you aware of anything that might explain his absence? A letter perhaps? A sudden invitation? Problems at school? Bullying? A victim of child abuse? You’ve talked to friends and classmates?’

‘That’s being done as we speak. Boys do absent themselves without us alerting the whole world. This could be such an occasion, but I am not aware of any reason for Simon to absent himself.’

‘You seem to have done all the right things, Father. But can
we be certain that he actually left the premises? Would he venture out during severe weather? And has he been seen talking to that bearded man who’s in the coffin?’

‘We can’t be absolutely sure about any of that. He could be still on the premises, just not in his usual haunts.’

‘In that case I’m sure the searchers will find him.’

‘I should stress that he’s not in any kind of trouble, Nick, if that’s what you’re implying. But, as I hinted earlier, there is an underlying problem and I must tell you I did not want to call in the county constabulary to deal with his absence. I know they are aware of it now – it is unavoidable in the
circumstances
– but I would like his absence to be kept very quiet and confidential. Most certainly I do not want it to reach the media.’

‘I fear the death in the crypt is going to ruin all your
expectations
, Father Abbot. Once the inquiry gets underway with teams of detectives asking questions, there is bound to be media interest – and a missing pupil is relevant. I fear this story will reach the press unless he is found quickly.’

‘The monkstables are quite capable of dealing with a normal absence, I’m sure, and doing so without publicity. That is what I would wish. Surely there is some way you can keep his
disappearance
out of the newspapers and other media?’

As I sipped my coffee, I wondered why the college
authorities
did not want to call in the local police or their experts from headquarters – or seek help from the press and other media. In most cases when a pupil disappears, every possible source of help is utilised. If the county police – apart from the murder investigation – were to undertake a professional search for a pupil, teams of officers would be deployed and police dogs would be called in to check the huge expanse of the grounds and the surrounding area. Certainly there would be publicity in the press and on radio and television and this would inevitably result in an organized and thorough examination of all buildings, old and new, along with checks on buses and taxis and enquiries in the neighbouring towns and villages. In
that way, thousands of extra eyes and ears would be on the lookout for him.

I explained all this to the abbot with due emphasis on the added burden of a murder investigation on the premises. He listened intently but I gained the impression he still seemed reluctant to associate the missing boy with the murder or to involve the media. His attitude pointed to the possibility he was not being completely open.

‘You’re holding something back, Father. Am I not in full possession of all the facts? Has this something to do with child abuse? Is it something sexual? Involving a monk? Or member of staff? Is there a major scandal brewing behind the scenes that I don’t know about? Could that be why he has run away? Or is it why we have a mysterious dead man in the crypt? Is anyone else missing? Teacher? Monk? Another pupil? Someone from the village, a girl perhaps? Someone from the domestic staff?’

‘I sincerely hope it’s nothing like that, Nick. I have no reason to think it is any of those things, but let me tell you why this is such a delicate matter. And now, to change the direction of this discussion, how familiar are you with the history of Poland?’

‘Completely unfamiliar!’ I wondered why on earth he had suddenly introduced Poland into the conversation.

‘Like many more millions!’

‘I think most of us forgot poor old Poland long before it was lost deep within the Soviet empire. But I know it emerged anew in 1968 and is now regarded as a vibrant and progressive nation. The election of Pope John Paul helped a lot. Poland has got some of its old sparkle back.’

‘That sums it up, Nick. Now, the Polish royal family was the Waza dynasty which was in power until 1668. The last king was John II who abdicated in that year, and, officially, the line became extinct. That was in 1672.’

‘I note you say “officially”?’

‘The family line survived, but did so in secret and in exile. Now, with Poland’s emergence onto the world scene, there is a move to reinstate the monarchy.’

‘So you’re saying the line did not die out?’

‘That’s right. Legitimate descendants are very much alive. The family trees have been thoroughly checked by experts. A new King of Poland, descended from the earlier dynasty, is possible. That could – and would – happen if the national desire is there.’

‘Really? So how will they manage to resurrect their royal family?’

‘There is a young man with pure Polish royal blood in his veins, Nick, one whose ancestry can be traced right back to that time. And his father is dead. He was killed in England some fifteen years ago as the result of a traffic accident.’

‘A real accident, or a staged one?’

‘That was never determined. The police investigation concluded there were suspicions about the cause of the
accident
but nothing was proved against the other driver. He was not charged with any offence.’

‘That sounds ominous. Are you saying this missing boy is the legitimate heir?’

‘Yes, that’s exactly what I am saying. It means this young man, or one of his descendants, would be the next King of Poland if the monarchy is ever revived. But there are some people who are not Polish nationals – and others who are – who do not want a Polish royal family under any circumstances.’

He paused as I realized the seriousness of what he was telling me. He continued, ‘Let us say these anti-royalists are prepared to take any steps necessary to prevent that happening.’

‘So are you saying the future king is the pupil who’s missing?’ The enormousness of that statement was almost unbelievable.

‘Yes. He’s one of our boarders. Here he is known as Simon Houghton, and that is the name on his passport. He was born and brought up in this country, so his English is perfect. You’d never know he had any other ancestry. The security services have done a good job in maintaining his disguise.’

‘Now I understand your caution!’

‘Good – and I cannot over-stress that great caution is constantly required.’

‘Well, it seems to have worked for the past seventeen years or so.’

‘Yes, but legally the lad is not yet an adult as he is under eighteen. Young Houghton has had that name since infancy and has never been known by any other. That was done
particularly
so that he cannot inadvertently reveal his true name and future role.’

‘So even he doesn’t know his own real identity?’

‘No. He is completely unaware of who he is. I was informed because we – the community of monks, the college – are acting
in loco parentis
. His mother though is acutely conscious of his true heritage.’

‘So does she know he’s missing?’

‘No, not yet. We thought we should do all we can to find him before we tell her – hence the very thorough search. If we find him safe and sound, she need never know of this adventure.’

‘What a huge responsibility. For her and for you.’

‘Absolutely. His real name is Wladislaus Sobieski and it must never be revealed to the public in case the wrong people find him. We don’t want publicity under any circumstances. Now, you can see our problem.’

‘I can and I understand everything now. But could his real name ever be uncovered if the lad himself is unaware of it?’

‘The short answer is “yes” and that is the problem. There are agents at work in this country, Nick, and elsewhere. One problem is that more and more people from Poland and other parts of Europe are coming here to settle or to find work and we have reason to believe that some are using such stories as a cover for their real purpose. It is known there are those who are determined to seek out and identify descendants of the former Polish royal family and eliminate them. Such people know that a possible heir exists and they are determined to destroy him. The motives of many are not always supportive of a revived
monarchy! I’m telling you this so you can fully appreciate the problem that’s confronting us. In view of your experience and contacts, I hope you can co-operate with us in this drama.’

‘I must say, Father Abbot, once anyone tries to deceive the press or the police the truth has a nasty habit of emerging. If it is really necessary to conceal or disguise the truth we could say that the hunt for young Houghton is merely a training exercise for our monkstables without naming the pupil who has
volunteered
to go into hiding! But Detective Sergeant Sullivan is already aware of Simon’s absence. At the moment, the media is unaware of it, but if it is shown that the man’s death in the crypt is the result of murder, then a continuing absence of Simon will be of increasing importance to the investigation – he’ll be considered a suspect or perhaps another victim. It will not be easy keeping such information from the media.’

‘Can you offer a solution?’

‘I favour honesty when dealing with the media but I see no reason to inform them of Simon’s name or home area. We could merely say he is a juvenile so we cannot publish his name. I would be in favour of investigating his absence with all possible help from the media but with absolutely no hint of his background. Perhaps one solution is to inform Detective Chief Superintendent Napier of Simon’s background? No one here, apart from you, me and his housemaster knows his true
identity
, so there is no reason why it should emerge during this investigation – after all, he is merely a seventeen-year old pupil who hasn’t turned up for lessons. I am sure Mr Napier will respect our wishes without informing the wider public of the true situation.’

‘I still feel there is a risk, Nick, if the wrong people read about the case and begin delving….’

‘There is slender hope for us, Father. That fact that Simon is under eighteen means that, in some cases, such youngsters’ names are not revealed by the press.’

‘That’s a good point and it may offer the best solution. Thanks for that.’

‘I still think we should inform Detective Chief Superintendent Napier to ensure his co-operation.’

‘I will speak to him, but here I must be straight with you: according to the latest intelligence we have received, certain parties are aware that the Polish heir is now masquerading as an English student at an English Catholic public school. And please remember his father died in suspicious circumstances. If this boy’s name gets into the national or international media, I fear the truth will emerge. We cannot risk that, murder or no murder investigation.’

‘So is his Simon Houghton alias completely secure?’

‘Nothing is ever completely secure, Nick. That’s my concern.’

‘Surely that’s all the more reason to behave absolutely as normal?’

‘Then I shall speak to the senior detective. So, Nick, despite a murder on our premises, the fact remains that we have to find that young man before someone else does.’

W
ITH THE MONKS’
chanting clearly audible, I left the abbot’s office and went directly to the Postgate Room to find Prior Tuck and Detective Sergeant Sullivan. Prior Tuck had been busy. He had found a blackboard, now standing near a lectern, and on the wall behind was a large computer screen bearing a detailed map of the entire campus. Small green areas showed places that had already been searched and declared clear. Facing the screen were about twenty chairs arranged in rows as if awaiting a lecturer and upon each was a pad of paper and a ballpoint pen. Prior Tuck expected his monkstables to make full use of this room as their own assembly point.

‘This is the monkstables’ operations room,’ he beamed, recalling his own police experience as he addressed the
detective
sergeant. ‘The CID murder room will be in SALT – St Alban’s Lecture Theatre – near the library. Their equipment and personnel are
en route
. Meanwhile all our monkstables have responded and are searching for Simon. Father Robin has organized them into two-man teams. Father Will in the cop shop will deal with anything that arises and we have both computer and telephone contact with him.’

‘Good. So have there been developments with the murder enquiry?’ I asked.

‘We’re awaiting the official photographers, police doctor and the forensic pathologist; when they’ve finished in the crypt we can move the body. There’s very little we can do just now.’ Detective Sergeant Sullivan was carrying a mug of coffee as he
wandered up and down the central aisle. ‘I’m expecting my boss any minute but meanwhile the crypt remains sealed. Your cops are doing a good job.’

‘Some were pupils at the college which means they know their way around – and all the hiding places! They’re all are very keen. So is there any sign of Harvey?’

‘No. I’ve managed to make a few enquiries, but no one seems to know where he has established his studio, or where he might have gone. He does a lot of his work on his triptych away from here so his studio can’t be far away. I’m working on it – we must talk to him as soon as we can.’

‘Do we know any more about him?’ I asked Prior Tuck.

‘I’ve spoken to the procurator,’ he replied. ‘Even he knows very little about him. He’s a loner, very much a mystery figure and most elusive. He calls himself by one name – Harvey – and won’t give his full name or address to anyone, nor will he say where he has based his studio. He’s paid cash from funds donated by a benefactor in Cannes, through the abbey accounts. The donation – a large one that covers his fees and expenses – has been banked and the abbey pays him an agreed amount at the end of each month. He insists on cash and signs the receipt as Harvey, but refuses to commit anything else to writing. I must say he works hard; he’s not a slacker or a work-dodger.’

‘So how do we contact him?’

‘By leaving notes on his work-bench in the crypt – he can read! We never know what time he’s expected there; he comes and goes without warning and never visits any other place on the campus, except the procurator’s office around month end. Even then, he can vary his visits. You can’t plan a meeting with him, and have to rely on a chance encounter, or hope he responds to one of those notes.’

‘Well, he’ll have to change his tactics now.’ Detective Sergeant Sullivan sounded emphatic. ‘We’ve bolted the north and south doors from the inside so if he wants access to his creation he’ll have to ask me and that won’t be granted until we’ve forensically examined the entire crypt.’

‘If he can’t get in, he’ll ask at reception. He’ll be told what’s going on.’

‘Yes, and I have the key. We don’t want him moving around the crypt before we’ve finished with it. Don’t forget he’s a prime suspect – lots of his tools would make good murder weapons. We need to examine those and then interrogate him.’

‘You’re not honestly suggesting he’s the killer, are you?’ I asked.

‘It can’t be ruled out, but I’m also aware that someone else could have picked up one of his hammers and used it, then put it back or thrown it down somewhere. That’s something we’ve yet to establish – we’ll get more information about the wound once the pathologist has carried out his post mortem. Then we’ll try to match a hammer or other tool against it. If it’s none of those, we’ll have to look elsewhere.’

‘There’s one more thing about Harvey,’ added Prior Tuck. ‘He runs a scruffy white van which he parks at the north of the abbey near the kitchens when he’s working in the crypt. He usually enters via the north door if he has anything bulky or heavy to bring in, so he’ll borrow a kitchen trolley to carry it. The kitchen staff are quite used to him wandering through their corridors.’

‘And a description? Do we have a description?’ asked Sullivan who was jotting notes on a pad of paper, later to be written up in his official pocket book.

‘Of him or the van?’ asked Tuck.

‘Both.’

‘According to the procurator, he’s a large man, more than six feet tall and heavily built, more like an all-in wrestler than a sculptor. He dresses all in black – much of it leather, and wears knee-length leather boots with thick soles. Some of his clothing bears chrome studs. He has leather kneecaps because much of his work involves kneeling. He has a very unruly mop of curly black hair with matching moustache and large beard. He reminds the procurator of one of those Goths who go to Whitby to celebrate Dracula’s visit. It’s hard to tell his age. Late forties perhaps.’

‘Well, he shouldn’t take much finding, except on a dark night,’ beamed the sergeant. ‘So what about his van. Has it got his name on it? Do we have its registration number?’

‘Neither. It’s plain and rather scruffy, quite anonymous. I don’t have a record of its registration number but Brother George may have it.’

‘Who’s he?’

‘He’s a monkstable and well into his sixties, Sergeant,’ responded Prior Tuck. ‘He was a hill farmer before joining the monastery and lost a lot of his sheep to thieves. He got into the habit of recording the registration numbers of every car, lorry or van that came anywhere near his farm – and several thieves were caught. He has continued that practice here, especially because there are so many white vans coming onto the site due to the construction work. Building materials are sometimes stolen, and if we get a report of a theft or burglary in one of the site offices, he passes van registration numbers to the county police who then interview the drivers. He’s not an ordained priest by the way; he’s a monk, Brother George – not Father George.’

‘Thanks. He sounds a useful sort of man to have around. OK, at an opportune moment, I’ll see what he can tell us. I’m
beginning
to appreciate your monkstables more and more. I’m sure we can work together on this….’

And at that point, the door opened without warning, crashed against a chair that was rather too close behind it and admitted a huge man with massive splayed feet. Large black shoes with polished toe-caps exaggerated the overall
appearance
of them. Bald-headed with a dome of white skin but with tufts of black hair around his ears and the back of his head, he appeared to waddle rather like a penguin.

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Found you, Sarge. Is the coffee on? I’m parched.’

‘I’ll see to it,’ offered Prior Tuck who had not yet had an opportunity to don his police uniform. He was still wearing his black habit.

‘Thank you, Reverend, that’s a good start. I’m Detective Chief Super Napier,’ beamed the huge fellow. ‘Now DS Sullivan, I’m sure you have not spent all your time chatting and drinking coffee, so what can you tell me about all this?’

He plonked himself on a chair, issued a huge sigh of relief and continued, ‘I must get some weight off, I feel as if I’m carrying several sacks of spuds around with me all the time. So, introduce me to your friends then tell me what I need to know.’

Clearly in awe of the great man, Jim Sullivan first introduced Prior Tuck as the man in charge of the monkstables, giving a brief account of them and then explaining this room would be their base as they searched for Simon Houghton.

‘Tuck?’ frowned Napier. ‘You’re not that man Tuck from Northumbria Police, are you?’

‘Yes, I left to join the Benedictines, some years ago.’

‘I remember you leaving quite suddenly after that child drowned. So what does a prior do?’

‘I’m deputy to the abbot.’

‘I suppose that means a lot of God-bothering and praying?’

‘Among other things. But because of my police experience, I’m in charge of our own force of constables. This is our
operations
room, apart from being a small general conference room, and we have an office in the abbey’s reception area.’

‘Oh, well, don’t let me get in the way, I’ll clear off in a while and leave you to it. Has my team of detectives got another room? I hope there’s somewhere suitable. They’ll be here soon, forty or so at least. Mebbe fifty. They’ll need a lot of space. And they’ll want gallons of coffee.’

‘Yes, sir,’ replied Sullivan. ‘We shall be using a lecture theatre called SALT as our murder room – that’s St Alban’s Lecture Theatre. I’ll take you there after we’ve visited the scene.’

‘I’m with you so far. So this must be ex-Inspector Rhea?’

He made no effort to shake hands, so I nodded. ‘Yes, that’s me.’

‘So what are you doing here? I’ve always thought retired
police officers never returned to their old haunts. When I retire, I’ll never want to read about another murder, let alone try to solve one.’

I explained my role as a former police inspector and force press officer, adding that I was founder and trainer of the monk-constables. I explained they were now searching for a teenaged pupil who had not turned up for today’s first period.

‘Is he a suspect?’

‘I doubt it,’ was my response.

‘Victim, then?’

‘I sincerely hope not.’

‘Never doubt such possibilities, Mr Rhea. Everyone is a suspect until proved otherwise, and if that kid’s done a runner, then he’s in the frame. Whatever has happened, he needs to be found and eliminated, and soon. I don’t want my men
needlessly
chasing him around the countryside if there’s a genuine suspect lurking somewhere else. So can we place that lad at the scene? At the material time?’

Sergeant Sullivan answered, ‘Not at this early stage, sir. We need to establish his movements and contacts over the weekend.’

I now said my piece. ‘The abbot wants to speak to you about the missing pupil, Mr Napier. It’s very important.’

‘He’s explained his worries to you, has he?’

‘Yes. As I said, I was responsible for helping to train the monkstables.’

‘Then you can tell me what’s bothering the abbot.’

‘I would rather he told you in complete confidence, Mr Napier.’

‘Oh, well, I suppose I can fit him in. This is a posh school with rich and famous families here … he’s probably thinking of kidnap with a ransom demand. Right, I’ll have a chat with him. Maybe you could fix that?’

‘I will. The monkstables are searching for the boy at this minute. They’re checking the grounds and buildings.’

‘I should hope they are, you can’t hang about in cases like
this. Those monk-cops could be very helpful. Now, where’s that coffee?’

Prior Tuck went to the adjoining ante-room and emerged with a mug of coffee on a tray, complete with milk and sugar.

‘Black for me, Reverend,’ he said, as he accepted the mug. He drained it almost at one gulp, put it back on the tray and said, ‘I don’t want to contaminate the evidence by spilling my coffee into this stone coffin you told me about so, now, DS Sullivan, take me to the crypt. How do we get in?’

‘We’ll go through the door in reception,’ Prior Tuck told him. ‘I’ve got the key. The other entrances, north and south, are bolted. We’ve made the place secure.’

‘Good. Lead on. Are we all going?’

‘Yes, sir,’ replied Sullivan. ‘Prior Tuck was first at the scene and he called in Mr Rhea for advice. At that stage, it wasn’t evident the man had been attacked, he merely appeared to have died in the coffin. In his sleep perhaps. Then we noticed his head wound.’

‘Right, you can each tell me your story when we get there. Then it’ll make more sense to me. Any sign of our technical wizards yet?’

‘They’re all on the way, sir. Scenes of Crime, pathologist, photographer.’

‘They should learn to move faster and get here earlier. OK, show me the scene.’

As Detective Sergeant Sullivan took the keys, we followed him into the reception area where I explained to Constable Stutely that we were going into the crypt and that no one was presently in the Postgate Room. He indicated his
understanding
and would inform us if the technical team arrived.

‘You sound as if you’ve got an efficient private constabulary working here, Reverend.’

‘We do our best.’

And so we followed DS Sullivan down the illuminated steps into the crypt as Prior Tuck switched on the lights and led the way, once more using his torch. I was expecting some caustic
comments from Napier but the sound of the monks’ choir could be heard in the church and he said nothing. He was looking about himself as he entered the crypt, concentrating on his task and absorbing every detail.

‘Weird place, nice singing. Monks have their uses,’ he muttered, adding, ‘Smells musty and damp, I’d say,’ and then for us all to hear, he said, ‘Prior Tuck, Mr Rhea, lead me into the scene where the body lies, using the exact route you used when you first found it. And give me a commentary on your actions and thoughts at that time. Both of you. If either of you noticed anything out of the ordinary, tell me. I need to know such things. Also I need to know about that sculptor – show me his work area before we leave.’

As they reached the foot of the steps, Prior Tuck began his account, repeating what he had told me about responding to the note currently in the cop shop. He demonstrated how he had approached the so-called coffin curtain, opened it at one side and discovered the body. He described the body as he recalled it, and how he had then returned to the cop shop to summon Father Bowman who was a qualified doctor. He had returned with Father Bowman who had pronounced the man dead. We were shown their routes towards the curtain. Prior Tuck then said he had telephoned me to seek my advice, at that time not realizing the man had been attacked. I provided my own account, adding that I had touched the body on its face and hands to check for
rigor mortis
to satisfy myself that his was a genuine death and not some kind of student stunt. I explained how I had noticed the blood.