The Barber Surgeon's Hairshirt (Barney Thomson series) (8 page)

He had been a popular member of the order, much loved by the other monks. He had answered the call thirty-seven years previously, on the back of a series of rejections at the hands of women, which had tormented him through the teenage years. A wayward eye, unruly hair, lips that meant he could do naught but kiss like a sea anemone, skin like the surface of a Rice Krispie, and many times had his heart been broken. However, he had found his peace with God, believing him to be not judgmental; ignoring the evidence of the Old Testament, where God won the Olympic gold for being judgmental, for several consecutive centuries.

For nine years past he had worked in the library, keeping meticulous care of the seven thousand volumes in his possession. Losing himself in books, the only way. He had come to the position of librarian at an early age. He should have been librarian’s apprentice for many years. However, after only six months in the post, the librarian of the day, Brother Atwell had given in to the lure of compliant womanhood, and had fled the abbey on an evil and stormy night. Brother Saturday had been given premature promotion; Brother Morgan had become his apprentice. Not that anyone suspected Morgan of the heinous crime perpetrated upon Saturday.

There were many of the monks who would have been grateful for the opportunity to work in the library, away from the cold of the fields. The chance of working amongst the warmth of the books could have been a powerful motive; for an unbalanced mind. And there seemed little doubt that the killer had come from within the walls of the monastery itself, the murder weapon coming from the vaults of the abbey.

No one suspected the Abbot or Brother Herman. That left thirty others under suspicion; everyone from the longest-serving – the aged Brother Frederick, who had come to the monastery from the killing fields of Passchendaele – to the newest recruit, Brother Jacob. And there were few who doubted that many of their fellow brothers within those walls were hiding dark secrets and dark pasts.

‘Brother Jacob?’

Barney turned. Breakfast was over, the company beginning to disassemble, the day’s tasks ahead. Tending the livestock; fortifying the buildings and the land against the harsh winter to come; kitchen, cleaning and laundry duties. The mornings were for the work of the monastery, the afternoons for prayer and study with the Lord. Barney’s task was to clean the floors.

‘Aye?’ he said to Brother Herman. Felt nervous in his presence.

Brother Herman’s eyes stared from deep sockets, within a long, thin face. Long Face they’d called him at school. Behind his back.

‘The Abbot will see you in his study in five minutes.’ Deep voice. Ominous.

Barney nodded. The Abbot. Brother Copernicus. He had been awaiting the call. All new students of the order were called to the Abbot at the end of their first week. Barney had already been questioned by Brother Herman on Saturday’s murder; wondered if this was why the Abbot would see him now. Further questioning. Barney, a man under suspicion. Felt like he couldn’t get away from murder.

Five minutes. His heart raced.

***

Barney sat before the Abbot in the Spartan surroundings of his study. A simple desk, a wooden chair on either side. Bare stone floors and walls, a row of books along one. A long, slim cut in the wall behind the Abbot, the window open, so that the cold of the room was the cold of outside. The light of day was augmented by two oil lamps mounted on the walls and an unlit candle sat on the desk. The Abbot read. Left hand turning the pages of the book, right hand tucked away inside his cloak.

Barney stewed.

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned, he could imagine himself saying, though he had never attended confession in his life. I committed murder. Well, more manslaughter really. I didn’t mean to do it. Chris and Wullie, the men I worked with. They were a pain in the arse – sorry, Father – but I didn’t really want them dead.

Then my mother died and I discovered six bodies in her freezer. Forgive her as well, Father, she knew not what she did. I wronged, I know that. I should have confessed all, like Bart does in that episode of
The Simpsons
when he cuts the statue’s head off. But I panicked. I disposed of all the bodies and made it look like Chris was the killer. There were four policemen on to me, but they all shot each other. That definitely wasn’t my fault, it was just stupidity. So, I suppose…

‘Brother Jacob,’ said the Abbot, closing his book and looking up. Barney’s heart danced; he ended his silent confession.

‘It’s not too cold for you?’

Barney was freezing.

‘No, no, I’m fine,’ he said. Shivered; hairs stood erect, goose bumps rampaged across his body like German storm troopers.

The Abbot nodded; knew that Barney lied.

He took his time, considering his words. The Abbot, Brother Copernicus. Had renounced the pleasures of the world in his early twenties, had been at the monastery since the fifties. Hair was greyed; the paunch of youth had long ago given way to a sinewy body, engulfed by the cloak. Thin lips, a sharp nose, green eyes which saw more than eyes were meant to. Not, however, a man without humour.

‘I’m sorry that your first week has been blighted by such terrible circumstances, Jacob. A terrible business.’

No bother, thought Barney. I’m thinking of opening a shop;
Cadavers ‘R’ Us
.

‘I’m sorry too, Your Grace,’ he said.

The thin lips stretched and smiled. The eyes too. ‘It’s all right, Jacob, I’m not the Pope. Brother Copernicus will do.’

Barney smiled and nodded. Relaxed a little. Felt more at ease.

‘How are you settling in, Brother?’

Barney pondered the question.

Bad points: no gas or electricity; no hot water; lamps out by eight o’clock, up at five-thirty; a thin single bed, hard wood, two coarse blankets; no entertainment, no distractions but for the scriptures and other works of religious learning; day after day on his hands and knees cleaning the floors; praise be to God; God the father, God the Son, God the Holy Ghost; God all-seeing, God divine; God this, God that, God the next thing. God, God, God, God, God, God, God. Bloody God.

Good points: the food wasn’t too bad; a cup of wine with dinner every night; there was no contact with the outside world, so no one had ever heard of Barney Thomson. That was about it.

‘Not bad, you know.’ Laughed self-consciously. ‘Takes a bit of getting used to, but I’m all right.’

The Abbot nodded. Drummed the fingers of his left hand on the desk. Long, cold fingers. Barney could feel them at his throat; shivered, tried to clear his head of fears and sorrows.

‘Our monks come here for all sorts of reasons, Jacob. It is not for me to question or examine them. We, each of us, must be content in our hearts that we are where we belong. There are many who come here and realise after a time that this life is not for them. One such was Brother Camberene, who came to us for a few sad months last year. He’d been involved in a tragic accident, blaming himself for the resulting fatality. He was racked by guilt, his life tortured by anguish. He stopped going to work, his wife left him. After a time, the river of fate, which winds its way through the lives of us all, led him to us. But I am afraid that even we could not provide the answers for which he searched. He spent a few unhappy months, then moved on. A sad and desperate, restless soul. We all still say our prayers for Brother Camberene, but I am afraid that we might never hear of him again. However, wherever he may be, we know that God is with him.’

Barney swallowed, stared at the desk. Saw himself in the story. ‘What sort of accident was he in?’

The Abbot shook his head. Sombre eyes.

‘He ran over a six-year-old boy with a full trolley in Tesco’s.’

Barney stared.

‘That’s a supermarket, apparently,’ said the Abbot, ‘although I presume you know that.’

Barney wanted to meet Brother Camberene. Sounded like his kind of man.

The Abbot looked up, let the weight of Camberene lift from his shoulders.

‘So, what I’m trying to say is this. If you do not find your answers among us, we shall not condemn. We are here to help you. If you find that this life is not for you, we would wish you on your way with the love of God and the love of all our hearts. And should you find contentment here, you will have our love and understanding as you learn our ways, and the ways of the Lord.’

Speech over. Barney was a little wide-eyed.

It was like being at Sunday school. He was reminded of Miss Trondheim. Tall, dark complexion; black hair, one growing out of a mole on her left cheek. And Mr Blackberry. Short; Stewart Granger hair, although he had once come in with a Robert Mitchum.

No words came his way. He tried to look at one with God.

The Abbot was used to such reticence.

‘However, Jacob, having said that, if there is something about your past which you wish to share with me, I am here to listen. If there is something from which you run, it is often best to face it, even if it is from within these walls.’

Giving the new brother his first chance to speak, the Abbot knew he would say nothing. They all arrived with their secrets and insecurities, and in time they would out. But not yet.

‘No, no, you know,’ said Barney. ‘I thought I’d try something new. Bit disillusioned with life, you know.’

The Abbot nodded, pursed his lips.

‘It is late in life for a change, Jacob. No man putteth a piece of new cloth unto an old garment, for that which is put in to fill up taketh from the garment, and the rent is made worse. Neither do men put new wine into old bottles: else the bottles break, and the wine runneth out, and the bottles perish: but they put new wine into new bottles, and both are preserved.

‘You should remember those words, Jacob.’

‘What?’ said Barney, surprised. ‘You make wine up here? This far north?’

The Abbot smiled. ‘You have much to learn, Jacob. You should read your Bible.’

‘Aye. Right.’

The Abbot looked into the heart of Barney Thomson, wondering what lay therein. Knew that sooner or later it would emerge, but there was no hurry. Had no reason to suspect him of the murder of Brother Saturday. No more than any of the others, at any rate.

‘One final point, Jacob, as you start out on this new road which lies ahead. As you can see, ours is a simple life. We have little contact with the outside world and we take care of most of our own needs. Might there be a skill from your past which you would be able to share with us?’

Barney thought. Dare he tell them about barbery? Might it put them on to him? But they obviously had no idea what was going on in the outside world.

‘I’ve done a bit of haircutting in my time,’ he said.

The Abbot raised an eyebrow. ‘A barber?’

‘Aye.’

‘Well. It is indeed many years since we had a professional hirsutologist in our midst. A most noble trade.’ His hand automatically strayed to the back of his neck. ‘Brother Adolphus does his best, but sadly his skills in this direction are somewhat lacking. Despite all our prayers.’

Barney felt a swelling of his heart. It had only been two weeks, during which time he had given the odd one-off haircut around the Highlands, but he had missed the click of the scissors, the bite of the razor into the back of the neck, the pointless chatter. Wondered if St Johnstone were managing to hang on at the top of the league.

‘Could do with a bit of a haircut myself,’ said the Abbot.

‘Oh, aye?’ said Barney, feeling useful. ‘I’m sure I could help you out.’

‘That would be good,’ said the Abbot. ‘Later on this afternoon, perhaps. After prayers, before dark. I wouldn’t mind a Brother Cadfael.’