The Barber Surgeon's Hairshirt (Barney Thomson series) (29 page)

‘Ah.’

‘So the rest of the monks were stranded,’ said David, continuing the narrative, the unfortunate case of Brother Dorian having been dealt with. ‘As the weeks went by they gradually worked their way through the provisions of food and firewood. Too quickly at first, but soon they realised that this was to be a winter like no other; a winter where men would become kings, kings would become gods, and gods would become the frozen umbilical cords of unfettered life-blood…’

‘Stop talking rubbish and get on with the story,’ said Mulholland. ‘I want to know whether or not I can finish this sandwich.’

‘It was on Christmas Day, that Day of Days, that grand testament to man’s great fortune and the wonders of God, that the first of the monks was to die in the monastery. Thereafter, it is told, they died at regular intervals. By the beginning of March, including those who had gone in search of help, half the complement of the monastery were dead. There was barely enough food for one man to survive there a week, there was no heat, there was nothing. And so those who remained were faced with a difficult choice.’

‘Go to that great refrigerator in the sky,’ said Sheep Dip, ‘or make chops out of their colleagues.’

‘Exactly,’ said David, with unexpected relish. The furtive glances over his shoulder had given way to eager excitement. ‘They were in a quandary, for these were men of God, don’t forget. The arguments raged day and night. Men with strength for little else found themselves in calamitous debate into the small hours of the morning. This was more than life or death; this was everything about the nature of existence, the eulogy of actuality against the precipice of faith and, above it all, the great question of flesh as the body of Christ.’

‘Of course,’ said Proudfoot. ‘Communion and all that. The eating Christ’s flesh thing.’

‘Exactly the argument the Cannibalists used. Debate was furious, and soon internecine war had erupted. The monastery was in chaos. The factions split apart, with the Humanists guarding the bodies of the dead, while the Cannibalists made daring raids in the middle of the night to try and retrieve some frozen flesh. It was a bitter and bloody struggle. Even within the factions themselves there was bitter fighting. A brother was stabbed over an argument about which was the best way to cook the arms. It was awful.’

‘Bloody hell,’ said Proudfoot. ‘What happened?’

David paused, staring into the snow. A shudder tripped through his body at the thought of it. ‘I think they decided they were better grilled than boiled,’ he said eventually. ‘But then, what isn’t?’ he added, somewhat glibly, given the circumstances.

‘Not the arms, you idiot,’ snapped Mulholland, who had given up waiting for a conclusion and was chewing his gammon sandwich. David turned and looked wistfully across the barren snowfields, white upon white, stretching for many, many miles.

‘No one knows. All things must pass, after all, and eventually the blizzard went. Most of the Humanists were dead, from cold or starvation; most of the Cannibalists survived. It could have been a triumph of will over providence, or it could have been that they tucked into a few of the dear departed brothers. That part of the story was never recorded.’

‘I suppose sixty years is a bit too long for any of these characters to still be about?’ said Mulholland.

‘Oh no,’ said David, unthinking. ‘There are three. Brother Frederick, Brother Malcolm and Brother Mince.’

‘Brother Mince?’ said Proudfoot.

‘Yes. I believe it’s a nickname dating from around that time. No one knows how he came by it.’

‘Right, then,’ said Mulholland, as the snow began to fall with greater ferocity, the edge of a new blizzard beginning to encroach. ‘Even if we can’t find your killer, we might just arrest those three.’

David’s eyes went big and wide, his cheeks a little paler. The phrase
help m’boab
forced itself into his head. What had he done?

‘Oh dear,’ he said. ‘Oh dear. I didn’t mean that. I mean…’

‘Come on,’ said Sheep Dip. ‘This snow’s closing in again. We should be going. Still got a few miles, haven’t we?’

Mulholland looked at the rest of his first sandwich. Proudfoot stared at the barely touched cup of tea. The snow cascaded around them and the wind once again began to bite into their skin through their meagre clothing. And the phrase
help m’boab
also forced its way into their heads.

***

The Abbot awaited them, Brother Herman at his side. A bleak day was this in the annals of the abbey. The outside forces of the law come to investigate murder. And now that they were there, there could be little doubt that the story would spread around the country; appear in newspapers, be discussed on talk shows, become part of a promotional campaign on the back of cereal packets. The floodgates would open. The press would arrive, across mountain and glen, and the peace of the monastery would be lost forever.

This day could be the end of the monastery as they knew it. Already dark, already well into evening; perhaps the sun would never shine upon them again. What could save them now but the Will of God? And God’s Will had not been in their favour these last few days.

If the snow kept up for long enough, the press would be unable to get near, and maybe they would have become bored with this story by the time the weather had cleared. But that thought made the Abbot think of the winter of ‘38, which depressed him even more. Perish the thought that the police ever found out about that.

Mulholland, Proudfoot and Sheep Dip were ushered in before them. Warmed by soup, drunk on the heady wine of the relief of journey’s end, the safety of indoors and the comparative warmth within those great stone walls.

‘Welcome,’ said the Abbot, the voice that of the classical man of sorrows.

Mulholland stepped ahead of the others. ‘Chief Inspector Mulholland, Sergeants Proudfoot and MacPherson.’

The Abbot shook his head. ‘I never realised you would arrive in such numbers.’

‘Numbers?’ said Mulholland. ‘With what’s been happening here, if it hadn’t been for the weather, there would have been a hundred of us. As there will be when the snow clears.’

The Abbot shook his head again, staring mournfully at the desk behind which his authority languished.

‘Perhaps then we should be thankful for the gift of bad weather. I trust your journey was not too harrowing.’

‘Could’ve walked another twenty miles,’ said Mulholland.

‘It’s absolutely Biblical out there,’ said the Dip. And indeed they could hear the storm continuing outside, intensifying with every hour. ‘If it hadn’t been for Brother David, we’d never have made it.’

If it hadn’t been for Brother David, thought Mulholland, we would never have had to come here in the first place.

‘A fine man,’ said the Abbot, but his voice trailed away. So what if he was a fine man? Could he be that much longer immune to the assassin’s knife, or scissors, or comb? Was he not destined to go the same way as the rest of them?

Time for business. Mulholland wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible, but the thought of walking back through the storm he’d just endured filled him with the sort of anticipation he got from visiting Olivier & Sons, dentistry with a smile, for all your cavity needs. He was there until a Land Rover or helicopter could get through.

‘There have been three murders?’ he asked.

Murder, bloody murder, everywhere he went. He could remember a time when he went nearly four years without investigating a murder. A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away.

‘Five,’ said the Abbot without raising his head.

‘Five?’

‘Yes. We found the body of Brother Ash this morning. Head smashed in. And Brother Festus we found in the abbey, impaled through the top of the head with the nose of a gargoyle.’

‘God!’ said Proudfoot at the back. The Abbot stared at the floor, not even bothering to raise the eyebrow which that exclamation would normally have deserved. God indeed.

‘So why didn’t you contact us before?’

The Abbot looked up quickly. An awkward question. What could he say to that? The monastery, and everyone in it, was already in enough trouble. How could he say that they’d wanted to treat it as just a little local difficulty?

‘The weather,’ said Herman from his shoulder. ‘It is always worse in this glen than the surrounding area. The murderer has picked his moment, knowing that we wouldn’t be able to get out to get help.’

Mulholland could smell the lies. Let it pass for the moment. ‘And you’ve no idea who it is?’ he asked.

The Abbot looked to Brother Herman again. Was thinking that perhaps he should let him take over. This was too much for him and, although he had nothing to hide, he was liable to say something incriminating.

‘We know exactly who the killer is,’ said Herman. ‘It is Brother Jacob. The man is the spawn of Satan himself. He was born of the Devil, and he has brought the ways of the Devil and the Devil’s deeds among us. This is a house of God and he has turned it into a house of Darkness. He has breathed the fetid breath of evil upon us. Have you ever encountered true evil, Chief Inspector?’

Mulholland shivered, felt the cold, the draught from the insubstantial shutter placed against the storm on the window behind the Abbot. Evil? Did he ever encounter evil in his endless boring days? Probably not. Stupidity and thuggery accounted for most of what he had to deal with; but not evil.

Barney Thomson, maybe, but somehow that was looking less and less likely. Barney Thomson was just a stupid wee Muppet. They had set out on the trail of a serial killer and had come to realise along the way that he was a casual innocent in the world of crime. However, what had he led them to?

‘Where is he now?’

‘We do not know,’ said Herman. ‘This man came among us a little more than a week ago. A lost soul, we thought, someone who could come to us and learn the ways of God, and one day be rid of the demons which haunted him. The first murder, that of Brother Saturday, came but five days later.’

‘Coincidence?’

‘Might have been,’ said Herman. Coincidence nothing, he thought. ‘But we have reason to link Brother Jacob with at least two of the murder weapons, and once our suspicions had been aroused, the brother disappeared.’

‘How do you know he has not been murdered himself?’

Brother Herman hesitated. The eyes narrowed, then clicked back to normal setting. ‘He was seen lurking in the shadows by one of the brothers. This is an old building, Chief Inspector. It was built for a much greater complement of monks than we have here now, even before Brother Jacob began his evil task. There are many unused rooms where a man might hide; secret passageways too. And there are few monks here who have the stomach for hounding this man.’

‘Prefer to sit and wait to get slaughtered?’ said Mulholland.

‘We are men of God, Chief Inspector!’ said the Abbot sharply, raising his head. ‘We are not equipped to go chasing killers.’

Mulholland nodded his acceptance of that. Had his own demons with which to contend; the demons which condemned him to treat everyone else with contempt. These were clearly desperate men, and their problems were far greater than his were ever going to be. Picked off one by one. Although, now that he was here and trapped by the weather, his problems had become the same as theirs. Most assuredly he could not be contemptuous of them. And he felt worry for the safety of Proudfoot; followed by worry that Detective Sergeant Dip might be a better protector of her than he himself.

‘What can you tell us about the victims, then? Any connection between them? Any pointer to other potential victims?’

‘We thought at first it was something to do with the library,’ said Herman. ‘The first victim, Brother Saturday, was the librarian; the next, Brother Morgan, his assistant. But the last three, they have had no connection with that seat of learning.’