Murder at Maddleskirk Abbey (6 page)

‘Then what did you both do?’

‘I went to inform the abbot,’ said Prior Tuck.

‘And I went up to the cop shop to ring you because I suspected murder.’

‘So where was the sculptor during this time?’

‘Over there,’ said Prior Tuck, pointing to the workbench. ‘He was working on that bench when I arrived, sorting and selecting tools by the sound of it, and by the time we’d finished,
he’d gone. We didn’t see him leave and he didn’t speak to us. He was there when Mr Rhea arrived but left soon afterwards. I’ve not seen him since.’

‘Show me.’

Together we retraced our earlier steps as Napier stood and looked at the incomplete clay proofs, then allowed his gaze to take in the workbench and its arrangement of tools, all on show and ready for instant use. I noted he did not handle anything, leaving everything for forensic scrutiny. We also showed him the cupboard where more tools were stored; again, he did not touch anything. The monks were now chanting
Laetatus sum
– ‘They said unto me, let us go unto the house of the Lord’.

Napier addressed his sergeant now. ‘Sarge, all this must be preserved as a crime scene, as I know you’ve done so far, but we need to test every one of these tools for blood or other deposits, if only to eliminate them from our enquiries. That sculptor must be found and must not be allowed in here until we’ve finished, is that clear?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Right, now Prior Tuck and Mr Rhea, did you do anything else before leaving and locking up the crypt?’

I responded. ‘Yes, we searched the entire area, looking for the murderer in hiding or perhaps another victim, or even the weapon. We didn’t find anything.’

‘No weapon thrown away?’

‘Nothing.’ I realized we could have missed something that might have been a weapon – even a heavy stone. A thing like that could have been tossed into a dark corner – or hidden among the sculptor’s tools.

‘We’ll search it again with better lights once we’ve concluded our action at the scene. I must say you’ve both done well, but now it’s our turn.’

‘Is there anything we can be doing now?’ asked Prior Tuck.

‘Not a lot. We’ll leave here for the time being and secure the scene until our experts arrive.’

We left the crypt, extinguished the lights and emerged into
the reception as the sound of the singing monks diminished.

‘Sarge,’ Napier addressed Sullivan, ‘we need to form a joint plan of actions to be allocated to our murder team. So what are you two going to do now? Are you going to help us with this investigation?’

‘That’s the general idea, if we’re allowed,’ I responded.

‘In view of your past experience, I’m happy to have you both on board, Mr Rhea and Prior Tuck. You are both former police officers which means you swore the oath so I can trust you. And that includes your monkstables who are officially police officers and know their way around the place, as well as its daily routine and personnel so they must be useful. But if anyone makes a mess of things, they’ll get their marching orders. Of course we do have non-police personnel working on murder inquiries – secretaries, forensic experts and so on, and all can be trusted to do their jobs. I’ve recently heard of two police forces who are considering their pensioners rejoining as serving officers – they’ve got a lot to offer society at large. So there we are. We’re all one big flexible team!’

‘Thanks, we won’t let you down. I’ll begin by finding out how our searchers are getting on,’ said Prior Tuck.

‘So what about me speaking to the abbot,’ asked Napier.

‘I’ll call him from here,’ I said. When I rang, he agreed to see Napier immediately. Father Will offered to show him the way.

‘Now I’ll track down Brother George to see if he has the number of the sculptor’s van,’ I offered. ‘Then we might learn more about him.’

As Chief Superintendent Napier prepared to leave with Father Will, he produced one of his rare smiles. ‘I can see you fellows know your own minds. I like my officers to show some initiative, but always keep me informed. Remember, that I am the boss as from this moment: this is now
my
patch.’

When Father Stutely returned within a couple of minutes, having delivered Napier to the Abbot’s office, I asked if he knew the whereabouts of all the monkstables who were
hunting for Simon, Brother George in particular. He explained, not surprisingly adding that Brother George had gone to search the abbey’s farm buildings. As an ex-farmer who had also grown up on a farm, he knew all the likely hiding places around farm premises, such as places that might attract tramps wanting a night’s sleep or even tired schoolboys. It was about a mile from the abbey church, but I wanted to talk to Brother George, so I took my car.

I was also hoping that whilst I was there I might sneak a quick look at my inherited piece of land. One of its boundaries bordered some fields of the farm although most of it bordered the abbey estate itself. The farm was managed on behalf of the trustees by a husband-and-wife team, Richard and Susie Seaton.

‘Good heavens, Constable Nick!’ responded Richard, when he answered my knock on the kitchen door. Years earlier, he had managed a farm at Aidensfield where I called regularly to check his stock registers. ‘What are you doing here? Not on police duty, I’m sure? Is it about the missing lad? Brother George told us.’

‘It is,’ I told him. ‘I’m looking for Brother George. Is he still here?’

‘He’s had a busy time searching all over the place, all our sheds and outbuildings, stables and cowsheds. I helped him but he’s back in the kitchen now, having a nice cup of coffee and a slab of fruit cake. Then he says he wants to wash up the pots. He regards washing-up as an offering of thanks to God, so he says. Susie is happy for him to do that. Anyway, come in.’

Brother George, sometimes known as Greenfingers due to his gardening expertise, was a jolly fellow with red cheeks, thick grey hair and the gait of a farmer. He had the reputation for creating gardens out of the most barren pieces of land, but he liked to wash up after meals following a heavy day’s work – it was his form of relaxation and a way of thanking God for another day on earth. There were times when I wondered if he got in the way of the permanent domestic staff, but seemingly, no one criticized his efforts. When I entered he was sitting at
the bare wooden kitchen table chatting to Susie, and both had whopping big mugs before them. I joined them for cake and coffee and after some good-natured banter, I said, ‘Brother George, I need your help.’

‘Me, Richard and Susie have searched this place from top to bottom, Nick, inside and out, and there’s no sign of young Simon. I’m confident he’s not been here this weekend. No one has seen him around the place.’

‘Thanks; we can cross it off our list. But there’s another reason I want to talk to you. I know you’ve been diligently recording car numbers that come onto the abbey grounds – especially white vans.’

‘Yes, it’s too easy for a plain white van to get onto our site when all this construction work is going on. It can easily lose itself among all the others. Now we have those archaeologists and they’ve got a white van too. A camper-van, but white nonetheless. A couple of rogues in a white van can soon nick a few valuables and vanish before anyone knows the stuff has gone. I want to catch them – and their white vans!’

‘I can understand that, but I’m interested in the sculptor’s white van. Harvey he calls himself, just the one name. We need to trace him, Brother George. We should be able to do it through his van registration number.’

‘You don’t think he has kidnapped young Simon, surely?’

‘No, nothing like that. We just want to talk to him about the body that was found this morning.’

‘I’ve been telling Richard and Susie about it.’

‘Well,’ I now addressed the couple, ‘it was in the crypt not far from where Harvey was working, so we need to find out if he saw or heard anything. He’s gone now and no one knows where he lives or where his studio is, so we thought his van number would tell us something.’

‘I’ve got the details in my notebook,’ smiled Brother George. He hauled his diary from his pocket, flicked it open at a page in the back and said, ‘Here we are, Nick. I might add I checked it – you know when we went to Police Headquarters during
training last week? I was curious about that sculptor even then! I asked if the control room could check his number for me. They did. It belongs to a one-man garage-cum-petrol station in Leeds.’

‘A garage? In Leeds? So it’s not Harvey’s own van?’

‘I rang them. He hires it. They said Harvey paid cash in return for borrowing the van for a few months. It wasn’t a formal hire arrangement. They have no idea who Harvey is, but because he produced the right money in nice fivers and tenners, they let him take the van. No written contract. They told me it was not worth anything as a saleable vehicle and so were happy for him to use it for as long as he wants. He’s already paid its market value several times so they’re not
bothered
if its falls to pieces or if they don’t get it back.’

‘But surely they have his name and address?’

‘He gave an address in Hull when he did the deal. Later when they wanted to contact him about renewing the hire, the garage discovered it was a Salvation Army hostel. The manager had no idea who Harvey was.’

‘A dead end, then?’

‘It seems he’s very secretive. Since then I’ve asked about him here on the campus, but as you said, no one knows where he lives or where he operates from. But he’s still got the van and it is taxed, tested and insured by the garage. He still pops in from time to time with cash-in-hand when it’s due. No questions asked!

‘The procurator says Harvey always wants cash … no cheque, no money paid directly into his bank account.’

‘But even he doesn’t know where Harvey lives? Or his full name?’

‘I’m afraid not,’ said Brother George. ‘The only time people see Harvey is when he parks his van behind the kitchens and goes through to borrow a trolley for something heavy. Even then, he won’t tolerate being quizzed, watched or approached. He hates people putting him under pressure. He’ll simply walk away.’

‘Then it’s going to take him a long time to get his work of art finished.’

‘Maybe that’s his intention – a piece of art without an end.’

We had chatted for a few minutes and then I felt I should leave – I wanted to take a surreptitious look at the piece of land I had inherited. It included some old buildings which could be a hiding place for the missing boy. My solicitor had suggested that at this early stage I should not mention my inheritance to any of the abbey officials, trustees or staff because I had not yet signed the relevant papers. It was common knowledge that the trustees had long desired to obtain the land in question but its Scottish owners had refused to sell it. Right now, however, I could justify my visit by claiming I was searching it in the search for Simon Houghton. As indeed I would.

‘Can I cadge a lift back?’ asked Brother George when I got up to leave.

‘You can, but I’m going via Ashwell Priory barns, I want to check them to see if Simon is there.’

‘I’ll come and help you,’ and so Brother George and I thanked our hosts and left, with me taking a short cut towards the south or back entrance to the abbey Estate. On the way we passed close to George’s Field and I remarked on the presence of the archaeologists, one of whom had a white camper-van.

‘They’ll not find anything there,’ remarked Brother George. ‘I’ve told them there’s nowt to find under that field, but the chap in charge insists on looking. But I should know, I
fashioned
that field out of some disused land. If there had been summat under there, I’d have found it. Anyway, I’ve noted the number of his boss’s van, just in case he does find summat valuable and clears off with it.’

‘Would he do that?’

‘Who can tell? Such things are not unknown,’ smiled Brother George. ‘So, do you think Simon could be hiding in the old barns?’

‘I think they’re worth a check,’ I responded. ‘People use them for all kinds of things.’

‘I can believe that, Nick. When I had a farm you never knew who was sleeping in your haysheds or nicking turnips from the fields!’

My two stone barns with tiled roofs had long fallen into disuse but remained standing with their roofs intact. They were very close to Ashwell Priory Wood and adjoined each other like two small semi-detached houses. They shared the same roof but had separate large archway doors but no interior dividing wall. Surprisingly dry inside, there was a hayloft at one end of the long building with a ladder in place to give access. It was really a single large barn with two huge entrances but locally everyone referred to them in the plural as Ashwell Barns.

As we drew up before them, Brother George said, ‘They’re a bit isolated. Simon wouldn’t be hiding here, would he?’

‘There’s only one way to find out.’

I
PARKED ON
the grassy plot adjoining the barns.

‘Do these belong to the abbey?’ asked Brother George, his farmer’s eyes noting their condition and probably mentally assessing their usefulness.

‘No.’ I didn’t want to tell him the truth just yet, so I said, ‘They belong to a Scottish estate. Down the years they’ve refused to sell the barns and that land opposite. I know the trustees have made offers as they would find the barns and nearby land useful, but the answer has always been “no”.’

‘Probably there’s an old priory buried in those woods.’ Brother George pointed to the dense woodland nearby where several trees had blown down in yesterday’s gales. ‘We’ve always been told never to look for the ruins as it’s not safe. Mind you, if I’d still been farming today I’d have sorted out all that fallen wood and made a few quid from it – folks like log fires, especially ash wood. And I’ll tell you what, Nick, I think this district has too many abbeys and priories. If our abbey bought it, what would they do with it? They’ve already got that old one in the crypt.’

‘Religious houses were numerous in the past, but lots were very tiny and depended upon a parent abbey,’ I aired my knowledge. ‘But I doubt if Ashwell can ever be revived or restored as it’s been buried for centuries.’

‘Well, I sorted out that patch of land near our abbey and made a cricket field out of it, so I could do summat useful with all this woodland and these barns. Mebbe if folks knew about
that buried priory, they would wonder if there was summat similar under what’s now the cricket field.’

‘It’s a possibility,’ I nodded. ‘We’ve got archaeologists with us this morning, looking. This place seems full of old ruins.’

‘Speak for yourself!’ grinned George. ‘I’m not past it yet!’

We walked along the frontage of the barns. The doors had long since rotted away, or been stolen, but the interiors were dry and I could see no sign of leaks from the roof or walls. I assumed that circulation of air did something to prevent them suffering damage from damp. There was some litter inside and signs of a long-dead fire that had been used for heat or cooking. Its ashy remains were on the earthen floor between two bricks. Bird droppings suggested that some species roosted in the rafters, or perhaps, like swallows, built their nests there. No doubt hikers and cyclists also made use of this shelter from time to time. The narrow lane that ran past it was a public highway that emerged to the west of Maddleskirk Abbey lands.

‘There’s a bike over there,’ said Brother George, pointing to it. It was leaning against the rear wall but it didn’t appear to be the well-maintained kind that was used by serious cyclists or tourists. It was a gents’ machine with a very rusty green frame, dropped handlebars and metal ‘rat-trap’ pedals. It had silver coloured aluminium mudguards, derailleur gears and its tyres were inflated. However, there was no sign of a saddle-bag or other means of carrying a small load. We went for a closer look and although it appeared neglected, its pumped-up tyres suggested it had recently been used. The presence of the bike and the remains of a fire indicated someone might be sleeping here. And there was the ladder leading up to the open floor that formed the hayloft.

‘I wonder if Simon’s up there?’ I found myself whispering, but, as I climbed, I was surprised to see a man sitting on the floor of the hayloft. Heavily bearded, he was squatting on a bed of what looked like a pile of straw and bracken covered with sacks and old coats. Was Simon sleeping under that pile? I
completed my climb and without speaking to the man went across the floor to shake the raggy coverings. There was no one else in the loft, but I noticed bits of rubbish lying around, such as old newspapers and wrappings from food. By noisily
clambering
up the ladder, I had roused the fellow from a deep sleep, but for a long time he did not say a word as he watched my progress.

‘Now then,’ I attempted to start a conversation but he still said nothing.

Was he Harvey the sculptor? I thought he looked older and smaller than the man I’d seen earlier in the crypt.

I tried again. ‘Are you alone in here?’

‘Of course I’m alone, you can see I’m alone.’

‘Who are you?’ I demanded, in what I hoped was a stern, police-sounding tone. Then I thought I recognized him from long, long ago.

‘More to the point, who are you?’ I detected a faint Irish accent in his voice.

By this time, I was standing over him; then he got to his feet. A few inches smaller than me, he was probably in his
mid-sixties
, of medium height and slender build with jet black but greying hair grown long and a straggly thick dark grey-black beard. His eyes were black and sharp without specs and he was dressed in a jumble of old green and brown clothes – trousers, a sweater, brown boots and he had a somewhat old and unpleasant sweaty aroma. A jacket and overcoat were hanging on a nail in the wall and on the floor I could see a large wicker basket full of pegs and trinkets. I wondered if he carried it on his head – when I was child we were visited by a tinker who carried his basket of wares on his head. Beside his bed was a back-pack, some packets of cereal, tin plates and dishes, spoons, knives and forks, a pint bottle of milk and other objects such as an electric torch and umbrella.

‘So,’ I repeated my question, ‘who are you and what are you doing here?’

‘And I ask you the same thing,’ he retorted, his accent
sounding stronger as he tried to defend himself. ‘Who the devil are you and what are you doing in my bedroom? Waking me up like this! This is my home. I have squatters’ rights, mister.’

‘Really?’

‘So I have, and I don’t like my privacy being disturbed like this. People just barging in—’

‘Well, others have ownership rights so I think you should leave. If you are here without permission, you’re trespassing.’ I refrained my declaring my own rights in these barns.

‘Trespassing? I am not, so I am not. I am squatting and I have rights, so you’ll have to throw me out, so you will. I am not leaving for you or anyone else. As I said, this is my home. I am a squatter, mister. I have rights. I’ve been coming here for years.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘I’m not telling you.’

‘You realize the owner can obtain a court order to have you removed, by force if necessary, and if you persist in staying here in spite of it, you are open to a fine of a thousand pounds or six months’ imprisonment.’

‘You sound as if you know the law, so you do.’

‘I am a retired police officer.’

At that stage he paused for a few moments, scrutinizing me closely as he weighed my words. Then he surprised me by saying, ‘You’re that Constable Rhea, aren’t you? From Aidensfield. Much older, broader and greyer than when we met before.’

‘I am, so who are you?’ At that moment, I could not bring our previous encounters to mind. His heavy beard was a good disguise. But that accent? ‘I feel I should know you.’

‘Look, Mr Constable Rhea, I’m doing no harm, I don’t leave rubbish behind, I never light fires or make a mess, all that stuff down below isn’t mine, I take all my stuff away with me. I just want to get my head down for a couple of nights, then I’ll move on. I’m always on the move. One or two nights here, another one or two somewhere else and so on. That’s my life, always on the move. There’s never been anyone in here for years; nobody
uses these barns, I’m doing no harm, so I am not. Why do you want me out? What harm have I done? I’ve never done harm, so I have not.’

‘I’m undertaking security work for the abbey.’ I adopted a calmer tone now that I felt I should know him. ‘I’m surprised to find you here. So who are you and what are you doing?’ I wondered if he was a villain or escaped prisoner on the run.

‘Doing? I’m doing nothing, just sleeping. I sleep here often, like I said. Now it’s time I was leaving; I have work to do. You don’t remember us meeting?’

‘You look like a pedlar, travelling and trading on foot.’ I pointed to his basket wondering if he was trying to be too friendly. ‘Have you a pedlar’s certificate?’

‘Tinker, Mr Constable. They call us tinkers where I come from.’

‘Here we call you a pedlar. And you need a certificate.’

‘I have one.’

‘Then it must be produced on demand to a policeman, a magistrate, or anyone upon whose private grounds or premises he is found. I have found you here, on private premises, so I can demand to see your certificate. And if you refuse, or if you don’t have one, you can be prosecuted.’

He sighed heavily but delved into one of his pockets and pulled out a battered old leather wallet. He opened it and it was packed tight with money in banknotes; I spotted several £10 notes and fivers along with some coins. From one of its compartments, he pulled out a well-worn piece of paper and handed it to me. It was a pedlar’s certificate and it was valid with six months still to run. The certificates lasted a year from the date of issue. His name was Barnaby Crabstaff. For his place of abode, it said, ‘No fixed address’. Then I recalled our previous encounters. I passed it back to him.

‘OK, Barnaby, now I remember you. You once showed me a nightjar in these woods, one night when I was off duty. It must have been twenty years ago or more – so thanks for that. So are you still doing the rounds?’

‘I am, sir, so I am.’ Now he was calling me
sir
which meant he respected me as memories of our past meetings began to filter into his brain – and mine! ‘I just go around selling my stuff. I sleep here once or twice a year.’

‘Without permission?’

‘Nobody has ever stopped me, and I do no harm. Just you ask them over at the abbey. The kitchens give me food and drink and they said I could sleep here.’

‘The kitchen staff probably think these barns belong to the abbey, but they don’t. They never have. All right, Barnaby. I’ll not throw you out, but sooner or later, these barns are going to have a new owner and they’ll be upgraded and might even be turned into cottages. So long as you look after them, you can stay – until those alterations begin.’

‘Thank you, sir, God bless you,’ and he held out his hand for me to shake. ‘I won’t let you down, so I won’t.’

‘One condition, Barnaby,’ I told him as I shook his dirty hand. ‘I want you to look after the barns whilst you’re here, making sure they are clean and tidy, that unwanted people or animals don’t use them, that no one lights fires inside or uses them as toilets … you’d be a sort of caretaker, Barnaby.’

‘Would I now?’

‘You’ll have to take care of them if you stay – and look after the swallows that nest in here.’

‘Yes, sir, it will be no problem, so it won’t. I’ll see to them, sir, so I will, all the times I am here. God bless you, sir.’

‘I’ll be popping in from time to time,’ I warned him. ‘I walk through these grounds every day.’

‘Yes, Constable Rhea sir, I understand. I won’t let you down.’

‘Now, Barnaby, we have some questions to ask you. This is Brother George, one of the abbey constables …’ By now, Brother George had also clambered up the ladder and was standing to one side as I conducted my interview.

‘He looks like a man of the cloth with that dog collar, but he looks like a copper with a white helmet….’

‘I am both,’ beamed Brother George. ‘Now, Barnaby, who does this bike belong to? Is it yours?’

‘No, I don’t have a bike. It’s not mine, to be sure. I didn’t steal it, no I did not. I’ve no idea who it belongs to.’

‘We’re looking for a pupil who has vanished from the college, a lad of seventeen. Tall and slim, dark hair … he went out yesterday, we think, and he hasn’t come back. Have you seen him?’

‘No, not a sign of him, Mr Constable Monk. Is that his bike?’

‘I don’t know, we have to find the owner. So has anyone else visited the barns that you know about?’

‘No pupils have been here over the weekend, and no hikers and such. Only Mr Greengrass, he comes here for our business meetings … I’m expecting him later today….’

‘You mean he’s still in business?’ I asked.

‘Oh, very successful is Mr Greengrass, me and him go back years.’

‘Right, if he comes, ask if he saw our pupil over the weekend.’

‘Well, he’s not been here, Mr Rhea, Constable Monk—’

‘All right, we believe you, Barnaby. But we might be back in case the search intensifies, so get thinking about things.’ Then I felt I should make enquiries relating to the body in the crypt but without telling Barnaby that a murder had been committed. ‘Barnaby, do you get hikers in here?’

‘Sometimes, yes. In bad weather. Sheltering mainly,
sometimes
sleeping here. It’s them that light fires and leave rubbish, not me.’

‘So have any been here this weekend, or recently? Such as a man of about fifty? Small build. Wearing a coloured woolly hat….’

He shook his head. ‘Not to my knowledge, Mr Constable Rhea. I came only on Friday, you see.’

‘I’m interested in this recent weekend in particular. But you will ask Mr Greengrass when you see him at your business meeting? He might have noticed the lad, or the hiker, or he might know who that bike belongs to.’

‘Yes, sir, yes, sir, I’ll be pleased to help….’

And so we thanked Barnaby and left him to concentrate on his day’s trading.

As we walked back to my car, Brother George said, ‘You know, Nick, I’m sure I’ve seen that bike outside the kitchens when I’ve been helping to wash the pots.’

‘Really? When was the most recent time?’

‘It might have been this Sunday after mass. Yesterday, I mean. We have coffee after mass, as you know, around eleven o’clock, and the congregation and visitors are always invited. We have it in the concourse just inside the main entrance to the church but it makes the kitchen busy. I volunteer to wash up the cups afterwards.’

‘So you think it was outside the kitchens yesterday?’

‘I can’t bank on my recollection being accurate as I didn’t really take much notice, but I am sure I thought it was rather unusual to see an old bike there.’

‘Right, Brother George, you and I are now going to visit the kitchens. I want to check on what Barnaby has just told us and you can ask about the bike.’