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Chapter 3

Deacon Gabriel Baines was a sparsely built man with a full shock of white hair and a ruddy complexion. He’d greeted Warren at the main entrance to the abbey grounds, unlocking the trades’ entrance next to the imposing double doors that served the public. A printed sheet pinned to the door apologised for the abbey’s unexpected closure.

‘These doors date back to the eighteenth century and are pretty much impregnable – it’s just a shame the same can’t be said about the rest of the perimeter walls.’

‘I saw that there have been a number of complaints of trespassing and criminal damage going back several years,’ said Warren.

‘We’ve given up reporting all but the most serious cases. Our groundsman chases people out of here at least once a month; mostly kids like those two last night, but occasionally we find drug paraphernalia in some of the open tombs. Every once in a while, somebody sprays graffiti or damages some of the gravestones.

‘It’s upsetting, but what can we do? We’re raising money to repair the walls, in part to stop this sort of thing, but at the rate we’re going it’ll be another thirty years before we can even make a start.’

‘I thought English Heritage were responsible for the abbey’s upkeep?’ said Warren.

‘Unfortunately, we aren’t, strictly speaking, owned by English Heritage. I’m assuming from your accent that you never had the obligatory primary school visit to the ruins?’

Warren admitted his ignorance; he’d been brought up in Coventry which had too much local history to justify a trip all the way to Middlesbury to see an old church. And somehow, he’d never found time in the three-and-a-half years since he’d moved to Middlesbury to take a tour.

‘Then let me give you a quick tour,’ suggested Baines as they walked into the grounds. ‘The area inside the walls was the original site of the thirteenth-century Middlesbury Abbey. It was founded in 1220, by a group of Andalusian monks from what is now Granada in modern Spain and for three hundred odd years, it served Middlesbury and the surrounding villages. When the plague came to town in the mid-fourteenth century, the brothers expanded their priory to become an infirmary and built a new gatehouse so that sick people could receive medical care without infecting the rest of the abbey and complex – remarkably prescient given that they didn’t have any understanding of germ theory at the time.’ Baines paused and directed Warren to a gap in the tree line.

‘You can see the new gatehouse there.’ He pointed to an imposing set of double wooden gates in the far perimeter wall. ‘It’s on the opposite side of the grounds to the visitors’ entrance we’ve just come from, and is still used by staff and residents. Unfortunately, the old infirmary building was knocked down and built over a couple of hundred years ago.’

Baines continued to lead the two men up a roughly tarmacked path, just wide enough for a single vehicle to drive down without brushing the trees and shrubs either side. A signpost directed visitors to turn right along a narrow pathway for the chapel or left for the education centre. The road continued straight on, but another signpost marked it as ‘Private. Staff only beyond this point.’ Baines continued walking straight ahead.

‘Of course, daily life came to a halt in 1539 during the dissolution of the monasteries by Henry VIII. The monks abandoned the abbey and returned, we presume, to Andalusia. The abbey fell into disrepair and was basically the ruins that you see today until 1700 when Sir Howard Langton bought the grounds. He was ostensibly a respectable Anglican landowner and businessman, making his fortune from sourcing locally produced textiles to sell at the market, but we know now that he was really a Roman Catholic. At that time, Catholicism was still a crime, punishable by death, but he was careful to make donations to the right people and didn’t proselytize, so if anyone suspected his true faith, they said nothing.’

Baines pointed towards the chapel where the fire had taken place the previous night. Partially visible through the trees and the lingering mid-morning mist, the building took on a moody, almost sinister appearance. Even during daylight hours, Warren could see the fascination it would hold for some; he suspected that without a major upgrade to the site’s perimeter walls, they were fighting a losing battle against trespassers, with the previous night’s tragedy likely to increase the attraction.

White and blue police tape demarked a cordon twenty metres beyond the chapel’s perimeter. As they watched, a couple of white-suited CSIs emerged from the tent protecting the chapel entrance.

‘Despite its older appearance, the chapel was actually built by Langton in the first years of the eighteenth century, over the top of what had been the original abbey’s undercroft. He took care to preserve the walls that originally formed the abbey’s kitchen and scullery and there is also evidence to suggest that the undercroft was used to hold illegal Catholic services. When Catholicism was no longer a crime, the chapel became Middlesbury’s first public place of worship for Catholics. We still serve a small, but loyal parish.’

‘How do worshippers access the chapel?’

‘We open the main visitors’ gate and let them through.’ Baines smiled tightly. ‘In anticipation of your next question, we take it on trust that they are attending the chapel, not trying to get into the site for free.’

Warren filed the fact away for future reference. Although the policy meant that potentially anyone could have been wandering around the site, it also meant that everyone that entered would be caught by the cameras on the main entrance. He’d make certain to have the CCTV checked thoroughly.

‘So where does English Heritage come into this?’ asked Warren. The organisation’s distinctive red, crenelated square logo was prominently displayed on the signage leading into the abbey grounds.

‘English Heritage, or the Ministry of Works as it was back then, first became interested in the site in the Fifties. Langton and his descendants had lived here from about 1700 to the early years of the 1900s. They built a large house overlapping the ruins of the old infirmary, expanded the graveyard, resurrected the walled vegetable gardens and planted an apple orchard. Much of this was done before the 1791 act effectively decriminalised Catholicism, and so the house has a number of hidden rooms and priest holes. All boarded-up due to health and safety concerns now, of course,’ Baines said ruefully.

‘By the turn of the last century however, a combination of no suitable heirs and bad financial decisions meant the family were all but bankrupt. The house was abandoned, and aside from being requisitioned during the Second World War, was left empty.’

‘Which was when you took it over?’

‘Pretty much. The Catholic Church had always had an interest in the site, as it is part of our heritage and one of the few monasteries and abbeys founded by the Granadians, whose influence has largely disappeared even from their own region of Andalusia. However, the land had been seized during Henry VIII’s power grab and exactly who owned it was a bit of a legal quagmire. English Heritage were interested, but didn’t really want to do anything beyond preserve the ruins as they were. In the end a deal was brokered, whereby English Heritage would manage the upkeep of the actual historic ruins and run it as a visitor attraction, whilst the church would pay a symbolic one-pound annual rent and maintain the rest of the grounds, using proceeds from the gardens and other business ventures.’

‘Which is why all the staff working here are priests?’

‘Not all, but you are right that many of the staff are members of the church.’

He gestured towards a large building just visible in the distance behind a clutch of trees. ‘That was the original family home built by Howard Langton. It was extended several times and was part of the land bought by the church. We didn’t do much with it at first, most of our efforts were focused on the original medieval abbey, and we ignored the later additions. But by the Nineties the church was starting to face a retirement problem. Lots of our clergy were getting old or ill, leading to a shortage in priests, as well as increasing the numbers of our brothers needing care.

‘We’d wanted a dedicated retirement home in the area for some time. Many of our priests have lived in the area for fifty years and don’t want to give up their ties to the community. Renovating the house was the most cost-effective option and it was opened in 2004; the name St Cecil is an anglicised version of Caecilius of Elvira, the patron saint of Elvira, modern day Granada. Now we have up to twenty priests at any time, ranging from those who are still quite fit and healthy, and still say Mass occasionally, to the fully-retired who need some day-to-day assistance. We are also providing hospice care for a couple of our brothers who are soon to receive their eternal reward. Those that are well enough are encouraged to help in the grounds. We also have three sisters who support us.’

‘Are any of the residents likely to have been outside in the grounds at the time of the fire?’

Baines pursed his lips. ‘Unlikely, I’d have thought. I will ask Bishop Fisher of course, but most of our brothers typically rise before six to take part in the breviary and so tend not to stay up late. I don’t live in the house, so I knew nothing of what had happened until I was called at about a quarter to ten. The old warden’s house and orchard block most of the view of the chapel and graveyard so nobody in the house had any idea what was going on.’

‘Who is Bishop Fisher?’

‘Bishop Emeritus Nicholas Fisher was the driving force behind the conversion of the house into a retirement home. When he reached 75 and it came time for him to slow down himself, he opted to live amongst his fellow brothers and attend to their pastoral care, rather than take up residency somewhere more in keeping with his office.’ Baines smiled. ‘His Grace might be elderly, but he’s still very much in charge.’

‘So what is your role?’

‘I am, for want of a better term, our business manager.’

Warren raised an eyebrow.

‘I was called to serve God later than many, after a career in business. Bishop Fisher asked me to make the community and abbey more financially self-sufficient. It’s why all the food in our gift shop and most of our café dishes are made from produce grown on our own grounds. We have an apiary producing honey and we’ve recently resurrected Middlesbury Abbey cider. Quite a kick, if you ever get the chance.’

‘Would I be able to speak to Bishop Fisher? And I’d also like to have a word with the groundsman.’

‘Of course.’ Baines looked at his watch. ‘Bishop Fisher will probably be in his office, I can get Rodney to join us there.’ He pulled out an iPhone, and gave Warren an amused glance. ‘It is the twenty-first century, Chief Inspector. We even have wireless broadband.’

* * *

The house was even bigger up close than it appeared and Baines was clearly very proud of the community he had helped build.

‘We have twenty-eight bedrooms spread over three floors. At present we have nineteen residents, not including Bishop Fisher. We are also fortunate to have Father Boyce, a trained medic, who helps care for our sicker brothers when the care assistants go home for the day, and Sisters Clara, Angela and Isabella who assist Father Boyce and are responsible for cooking and cleaning. The remaining rooms are guest rooms for visiting relatives. The Langton family liked to entertain and so the kitchen and dining room are big enough for us all to eat together as a community.

‘Below us is the basement. The Granadians were well-educated by the standards of the day, and very keen diarists. They recorded everything that happened, no matter how inconsequential. Nobody is really sure why. Howard Langton was very keen to preserve these records and so he made the basement secure and dry. We have been working with a local historian to write a history book, and those original records have been invaluable, providing a remarkable insight into day-to-day life at the abbey.’

The inside of the building reminded Warren of many of the stately homes that he and Susan had toured with her parents, keen members of the National Trust. The ceilings of the entrance hallway were easily fifteen feet high, the walls painted bright red, with gold edging. Wide, south-facing windows filled the room with bright, early morning sunlight.

‘Is this house open to the public?’

‘No. We considered it, but in the end we felt it would be too disruptive for some of our residents.’

The wooden floors creaked as Baines led Warren deeper into the house, pointing out the small room used by the community for their daily worship.

‘Don’t you use the chapel?’

‘No, we attend Mass there on a Sunday and take it in turns to lead the service on weekday mornings, but the local lay congregation is too small for us to justify the cost of opening it up at other times, especially very early in the morning or last thing at night for divine office. Besides which, it’s a bit of a trek for some of our less-mobile brothers, especially in the winter.’

Warren couldn’t blame them. He’d not noticed any lighting on the paths and could only imagine what it would have been like in the dark, with the trees pressing in on all sides and the rustle of unseen animals in the bushes … He pushed away the thought, repressing a shudder.

Bishop Fisher’s office looked much like Warren would expect. The walls that weren’t hidden by six-foot wooden bookcases filled with academic-looking volumes, were the same red as the hallway outside. The faint smell of furniture polish mingled with fresh coffee. The bishop himself sat behind a large wooden desk, opposite a picture of the current pope and a small, porcelain statue of the Virgin Mary. An elderly looking desktop computer and an even older inkjet printer took up only a small proportion of the available desk space.

Portraits of earlier popes covered a wall to his right. Warren recognised Pope Francis, Pope Benedict XVI and Pope John Paul II. The remaining images probably represented others that had also held the position of Bishop of Rome since Bishop Fisher’s own ordination.

Bishop Nicholas Fisher trembled slightly as he stood, his back stooped. Nevertheless, his handshake was firm and his gaze steady. He wore the first dog collar that Warren had seen since arriving that morning; Deacon Baines’ thick fleece jacket hid his.

‘Welcome to St Cecil’s, DCI Jones. I’m sorry that it is under such sorrowful circumstances. I understand that it is believed to have been a suicide?’

‘Thank you for seeing me, Your Grace. We are keeping an open mind at the moment, however it is looking that way.’

The bishop shook his head. ‘Such a terrible affair. Let us hope that he has found peace from whatever was troubling him. If there is anything we can do to help his loved ones at this time, please don’t hesitate to let us know. We will of course be praying for his soul.’

‘That’s very kind, Your Grace. In the meantime, I wondered if it would be possible to question the residents and staff to see if anyone saw anything?’

‘Of course. I spoke to about half of the residents at breakfast this morning, nobody mentioned seeing anything. I will arrange for anyone who thinks they may be of assistance to speak to you.’

‘What about staff who live off-site, such as the groundsman? Do you know who was present last night, or who may have been in the grounds?’

‘Gabriel can get you a full list, but I believe the volunteers who help in the abbey visitor centre typically go home about five-thirty?’

Baines nodded. ‘And they use the old infirmary gatehouse exit behind the house, rather than the public entrance, so they wouldn’t have gone past the chapel anyway. The same goes for the carers that tend to Fathers Kendrick and Ramsden during the day – they’d have been here until about 8 p.m. – I’ll get their contact details for you.’

A quiet knock on the door signalled the arrival of the groundsman.

Rodney Shaw was a fit-looking middle-aged man, dressed in a grubby green fleece and black corduroy trousers.

‘I’ve been planting bulbs ready for the summer,’ he said, by way of an apology for not shaking Warren’s hand.

He’d finished work at his normal time of 5 p.m. the day before, then headed to his small flat on the other side of Middlesbury. He’d been watching the end of the news, and planning on an early night when his mobile phone had rung.

‘Deacon Baines called me as soon as he was called, and I arranged to meet him here. At first I assumed that it was just kids.’ He shrugged. ‘It wasn’t until I got there and saw the ambulance that I realised that it was a bit more serious. I had no idea that some poor bastard had died in there. Excuse my language, Your Grace.’

‘The doors to the chapel and the undercroft had been locked. These keys were found with the deceased. Do you recognise them?’ Warren showed the man a photo on his phone of the keys retrieved from the scene. Forensics hadn’t finished with them yet, and it was still speculation that they fitted the doors.

‘Yes, they’re the ones. Those locks are over a century old; I must have taken them apart and fixed them a half-dozen times over the last twenty years.’

‘Are these the only copies of the keys?’

The groundsman shook his head. ‘No, those are the ones that hang in the vestry. I have a second set at my house for safekeeping.’

‘Are the keys in the vestry accessible?’

‘Yeah, they’re hidden and you need to know the code to the door, but the brothers take it in turns to open the chapel for morning service, so everyone knows where they are.’

‘What about this key? It was found in the deceased’s trouser pocket.’ Warren flicked to the next image.

Groundsman squinted, then pointed at the screen. ‘That’s the key to the padlock for the main tool shed. I recognise that red blob of emulsion.’

‘Is that also in the vestry?’

‘Yeah, although I use my own copy so I don’t know how long it’s been missing.’

‘One final thing.’ Warren flicked to the next image.

‘Yeah, that’s the petrol can for the lawnmower. It’s kept in the main tool shed.’

‘Dear Lord, it would seem that the victim, whoever he may be, might be one of our community.’

Fisher’s tone suggested that he hadn’t considered that possibility until now.

‘I’m afraid that is quite possible, Your Grace – either one of your residents or a regular volunteer.’

The room fell silent for a moment.

After an appropriate pause, Warren asked if anyone had checked the whereabouts of everyone living in the house. He also requested a full list of volunteers and regular visitors who might have the necessary knowledge to find the keys to the chapel and undercroft. Identifying the victim was his first priority.

Before anyone could reply, there came a soft knock at the door.

Shaw answered it, before announcing the visitor needed to speak to Baines urgently. Warren caught a glimpse of a grey, ankle-length skirt and matching blouse before the door closed behind him.

A few seconds later Baines returned, ashen-faced. ‘I think that list might not be necessary. Father Nolan didn’t come down to breakfast this morning. Sister Clara says his bed hasn’t been slept in.’