The Dalwich Desecration

Book 4: Colin Pendragon Mystery

by Gregory Harris

Genres: Historical Fiction; Mystery; Historical Mysteries; Private Investigators

Synopsis

Master sleuth Colin Pendragon and his trusted partner, Ethan Pruitt, leave their familiar cosmopolitan London for rural Sussex County, where the bucolic peace has been shattered by the murder of a monk…

At the request of his father, Pendragon and Pruitt travel to the town of Dalwich, where a gruesome crime has desecrated the hallowed halls of Whitmore Abbey. The abbott has been slaughtered in his cell with multiple stab wounds and his tongue cut out. Although Father Demetris, the local bishop's associate, has faith that the killer must be an outsider from the village, Pendragon considers no man above suspicion--including the brooding brothers of the order.

But before Pendragon and Pruitt can make much progress in their investigation, a second corpse is found--a barmaid who has been mutilated in the same way as the monk. Now they must determine if there is a connection between the butchered Benedictine and the victim from the village. Whether the killer comes from within the walls of Whitmore Abbey or without, it will be up to Pendragon and Pruitt to illuminate--and unravel--a deadly mystery before more lives are lost…

Praise for The Bellingham Bloodbath

"An incredibly pleasing mystery . . . the author nails it yet again." --Suspense Magazine

Release date: April 1, 2016

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

Even with my head buried deep inside the large armoire in the second bedroom of our flat, I could still manage to hear Colin railing at poor Maurice Evans. The good man had only just received the nod from Scotland Yard that morning informing him that he had been chosen to transitionally replace his former superior, the late Inspector Emmett Varcoe. This meant that, for the time being, Mr. Evans had earned the wholly convoluted title of “Acting Inspector.” It had apparently been determined that, while he might not yet be good enough to actually be the inspector, it was perfectly appropriate to have him carry all the duties and responsibilities therein. Which is what had brought him to our Kensington flat to suffer Colin’s diatribes mere hours after the announcement of his novel sort of non-promotion. I only hoped that his paycheck had been adjusted to properly reflect the newly won hazards he now faced.

“. . . careless misstep . . .” I heard Colin scolding in between the sound of discordantly clanking metal, alerting me to the fact that he was hefting his dumbbells about even as he upbraided poor Mr. Evans. I knew it to be less an attempt to improve his physique than to assuage his own frustrations at having allowed Charlotte Hutton to slip away before he could prove her complicity in our last case. For though she had appeared to remain above reproach throughout our investigation, she had, in the end, proved to be the mastermind behind the murder of five men and her own young son in a cruel plot to appropriate extraordinary sums for herself. And one of those men killed was Maurice Evans’s superior, Inspector Varcoe.

Seizing the pair of boots I had been fumbling for, I stood up and tossed them on the bed next to the nearly filled trunk just in time to hear Acting Inspector Evans say something about cooperation. The word made me cringe as it was our uncharacteristic cooperation with the Yard that had led to the shooting death of Inspector Varcoe. It also levied the first black mark on Colin’s otherwise unblemished record for resolving cases. So I was not the least surprised when I heard Colin rapidly fire back something about “incompetence,” “foolhardy,” and “bloody disgraceful.” What I did not know was whether he was referring to the unfortunate Inspector Varcoe, Maurice Evans himself, or the whole of Scotland Yard.

I eyed the trunk, taunting me from atop the bed, and knew I would have to come back to it. Never mind that we had been summoned without delay to the small Sussex town of Dalwich to investigate the mutilation and murder of the abbot there. I could tell that if I didn’t quickly intervene between Colin and Mr. Evans, we were bound to end up at cross-purposes with the Yard again. Giving the trunk a final guilty look, I headed out to our parlor at the front of the flat.

“. . . utmost respect for you and Inspector Varcoe . . .” Colin was carrying on without a great deal of conviction. “But the two of you, in fact, the whole of your blasted Yard, failed to fulfill the expectations placed upon you by your constituency.”

“My constituency . . . ?!” Acting Inspector Evans sallied back as I came into the room, the poor man appearing as perturbed as I knew Colin to be. “It isn’t as if we are elected officials. We aren’t the Parliament, you know. Most of us are just trying to earn our way to a decent pension before our knees give out.”

“And that,” Colin groused, “is the first honest thing you have said this morning.” He was sitting on my hard-backed desk chair curling his dumbbells as though trying to fan a fire. The poor seat shuddered and groaned as he raised and lowered the metal plates with smooth fluidity, his muscles bulging against his damp undershirt in an obvious attempt to cow Mr. Evans.

“You will forgive our informality,” I muttered even though I was properly clothed. “And if you break my chair,” I said to Colin, “I shall be quite bloody well peeved.” I glanced back at Mr. Evans and was pleased to find him biting back a grin as I sat down across from him. “Has he even offered you any tea?”

“Stop being nice to him when I’m trying to make a point,” Colin protested as he began swinging the dumbbells behind his head in a further display of his irrefutable upper-body strength.

“I’m certain your point is already well made. I heard most of it myself from the back room. Besides, I don’t know why you think he deserves your grief, it’s not like he was in charge of the Connicle investigation. Even now he’s only managed to boost himself into some transitory sort of hinterland. Acting Inspector, isn’t it . . . ?” I ribbed.

“Well, I’ll not take the blame for Charlotte Hutton’s disappearance.” Colin continued to carry on as he dropped his dumbbells onto the floor and popped out of the chair. “Can we please get some fresh tea up here, Mrs. Behmoth?” he called down the stairs as he toweled his face and arms and stalked over to the fireplace. “Your Yard lost track of her, which allowed her to siphon those funds into Swiss accounts that we can’t get a bloody read on. And that has left a stain on my reputation.” Just saying those words caused his brow to cave in, his annoyance as fresh as if the event had just happened a moment before. “So, now I am left to set this Hutton business to rights when Ethan and I must leave in two hours’ time to investigate this ghastly slaying of an abbot. A case, I might add, that my father has personally asked me to undertake.” He turned away and stared into the fire, shaking his head from side to side.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Pendragon. I only came because I thought we could work together against Mrs. Hutton. To set that case to rights. Perhaps I was being foolish.”

I was stunned by Maurice Evans’s smoothness as he stared at Colin’s back with grave earnestness, and wondered where he had learned to be so polished. “Work together . . . ?” Colin scoffed as he turned back around and glared at Mr. Evans, though I could see that he was enticed by the man’s diffident words. “Your Yard has already dragged me into its mire, and given that we have to leave town I don’t see as I have much choice.” He swept one of his pistols off the mantel and began quickly disassembling it. “So, tell me, what in the ruddy hell is your Yard doing to locate Mrs. Hutton?”

“Well, ain’t that a fine way a speakin’ ta comp’ny,” Mrs. Behmoth blurted as she reached the landing with a fresh pot of hot water and a plate of biscuits. “’E sure as shite ain’t got the silver tongue of ’is father,” she added as she moved to the table and refilled the teapot with the water from her tray before setting the plate of biscuits down.

Mr. Evans snickered and I found I could barely stop myself from doing the same. “I like to think that every man has his own good qualities,” he managed to say after a moment.

“The only good qualities they got is the ones the women who bring ’em up give ’em.” She turned and headed back to the stairs.

“Such insight,” Colin snapped at her, the pieces of the pistol he’d been working on spread out on the mantel beside him. “Thank you so much.”

Mrs. Behmoth stared back from the landing, the tea tray hanging from one hand and the empty water pot in her other, her eyes fixed on Colin. “Yer welcome,” she fired back before trundling off down the stairs.

Colin’s expression soured as he quickly reassembled the pistol and came over to his chair to sit down. “I feel like she just took credit for the whole of my upbringing. Not that there isn’t a fair amount of truth to it,” he grumbled as he shoved the pistol beneath his seat cushion and leaned forward to pour us all more tea, fixing his gaze on Mr. Evans. “Ethan and I will indeed help you solve the disappearance of Mrs. Hutton and bring that ghastly woman to justice, but we will expect your lot to do your part.”

A lopsided smile swept across Mr. Evans’s face. “It will be an honor to have your aid,” he answered at once, and I knew he meant it. “I shall propose the arrangement to my superiors at once. I am certain they will be as grateful as I am.”

“And just how do you propose that we begin to hunt for this woman?”

Mr. Evans appeared to ponder the question a moment, but as he did so I caught the glimpse of a thought already well formed and knew he had come here with a specific idea in mind. “Well . . . ,” he started to say, his tone a touch too solemn, “we are going to need someone to speak with the Swiss authorities. The only way I can conceive of flushing Mrs. Hutton out is to allow the Yard some latitude in accessing her accounts at Credit Suisse, which is the last place her financial maneuverings led us.”

“But that will require a trip to Geneva,” I spoke up. “We can’t possibly do that now.”

“Zurich, actually,” Mr. Evans corrected, tossing me a pointed look that momentarily confused me. “Credit Suisse is headquartered in Zurich. It is easier to get to than Geneva, but perhaps a visit would not be required at all. . . .” He let his voice trail off and that was when I realized what he was up to. It wasn’t Colin’s help he was seeking, it was that of his father.

“I haven’t the time to go to Zurich now,” Colin reiterated with a frown, and I rather pitied Mr. Evans in that moment because I knew Colin would never arrive at the conclusion he was seeking. “Really, Mr. Evans, isn’t that a task better handled by the Yard?”

“I’m afraid you give the Yard too much credit, Mr. Pendragon.”

“Oh . . . I hardly think you can accuse me of that,” Colin shot back.

“What you are really looking for,” I cut in, anxious to lead Colin to the heart of the request, “is something of a more . . . diplomatic assist. Isn’t that it?”

“Precisely.” Mr. Evans practically crowed his relief. “A point of entrée with the Swiss authorities to get us started. And after that”—he smiled with an eagerness that I found disconcerting—“the two of you would be like a part of the Scotland Yard team itself.”

“I don’t fancy being an actual part of your team.” Colin dismissed the idea as he went back to sipping his tea.

“It’s just a turn of phrase,” Mr. Evans delicately backtracked, waving a hand through the air, his gray eyes alive with equal parts desperation and determination. “I meant more like an adjunct of the Yard. A critical one. Like the head. You’d be like the head of Scotland Yard with access to all of the Yard’s resources and information, but you wouldn’t actually be part of the Yard. You’d be above it. Like . . . the head . . .” Poor Mr. Evans finally ran out of steam with a look that bordered on embarrassment.

“Do you hear yourself?” Colin asked, one eyebrow arcing skyward.

Mr. Evans shook his head and rubbed his brow before looking back at us. “I don’t need to. I’ve been practicing this folly for two days.”

It was enough to get Colin to crack a smile. “You are a cheeky one, Maurice Evans,” he muttered. “Better that you should just come right out and say what you mean. That works best for me.”

“Oh . . .” I cut in with a chuckle, “I’m afraid there is an endless parade of victims of your unabashed forthrightness who would disagree.” I turned back to Mr. Evans. “Better you should continue your folly.”

Colin slid a look of mock offense to me as he set his teacup down before settling his gaze on the acting inspector. “I suppose Mr. Pruitt is not wrong. I am hardly the man to convince a government, a corporate institution, or even a canine to alter its ways. I simply haven’t the patience for it. As Mrs. Behmoth so willingly pointed out, I may be a diplomat’s son, but I am not a diplomat. Which leads us to the true purpose of your visit here this morning. . . .”

“I was trying so hard to be discreet,” Maurice Evans lamented.

“A sorry waste,” Colin repeated. “Mr. Pruitt and I will stop by my father’s estate on our way to Victoria Station. He is bound to know at least one or two of the Swiss Federal Council members. I shall ask him to lend us a hand in getting some information about Mrs. Hutton’s accounts at the bank. If anyone can do it . . .” He did not need to finish the sentiment as he polished off his tea. “But as I said before, I will insist that you and your Yard do your own diligence while we are away. I find it impossible to believe that there are not some channels of diplomacy already open between your lot and the Swiss Department of Justice and Police. I shall expect you to needle the appropriate conduits to get whatever you can. Don’t expect me to settle this Hutton affair and share the accolades with you Yarders unless they are well earned.”

“I would not accept it any other way,” Maurice Evans answered at once. “You have my word that I will be doing whatever I can to help prod the Swiss authorities while the two of you are gone. It is the least of what I owe Inspector Varcoe.”

Colin flinched slightly, but I don’t believe Mr. Evans caught sight of it. “Of course,” was all he said.

“And just what is this case you’re off to investigate?” Mr. Evans asked.

“The abbot of a small monastery was found stabbed to death in his room two mornings ago. An extraordinarily blood-soaked scene from what little we have heard. But most disturbingly we are told that his tongue was cut right out of his head. It has never been found.”

“How awful,” Mr. Evans gasped. “That’s a hell of a way to silence a man.”

“Indeed.”

“But who the bloody hell would kill a monk?” He looked from Colin to me, the very thought of the repugnant deed wholly evident on his face.

“Who,” Colin repeated, “and why . . . ?” He yanked out his pocket watch and gave it a quick glance. “I’m afraid we haven’t the time to deliberate it as we really must be going if we are to stop by my father’s on our way to the station.”

“I just need a minute. . . .” I bolted up, abruptly reminded of the yawing trunk still waiting for me to finish with it. I did not miss Colin’s cocked eyebrow as I hurried past him, nor his last directions to Mr. Evans as he led him downstairs.

“You will send me a telegram if you should learn or hear anything while we are away,” he was instructing Mr. Evans, “and you will not make a move on Mrs. Hutton unless I am right beside you. I shall have your word on both things.”

I did not hear Maurice Evans’s reply. But then I didn’t need to.

The cell—for that was how the priest had referred to it—was small, sparse, windowless, and scrupulously clean. The very sight of it was both astonishing and disheartening. I could not believe how austere a place it was—though I could not now recollect what else I had expected to find in a monastery—and as I scanned my eyes around the pristine little space I appreciated Colin’s distress at discovering that the monks had taken it upon themselves to obliterate all signs of the horrendous murder that had taken place here only sixty hours before. The harsh tang of lemon and lye was the sole remnant of something gone awry, though for all I knew this was the standard by which this monastery maintained itself, assuming the brotherhood believed the old adage of cleanliness and godliness.

“The only crime that I can see,” Colin said, his voice taut with displeasure as the three of us stared into the cell, “is that you have allowed the scene of this assassination to be so completely eradicated. And this when you say you have kept the room locked since the morning of the murder. I am . . .” He shook his head and did not bother to finish his thought, which seemed the best course of action given that we were speaking to a cleric.

“Oh no, Mr. Pendragon.” Father Nolan Demetris quickly spoke up. “It was not me. I wasn’t here on Tuesday. I live in Chichester and serve under Bishop Fencourt at the cathedral there. I only arrived myself this morning once we had gotten word that you and Mr. Pruitt were coming. The bishop sent me to ensure that the two of you get acclimated and access to everything you require.” He hesitated before clearing his throat. “Most of the brothers here are not used to dealing with people from outside, you understand.”

Colin turned to the dark-haired priest with a scowl. “Then who was it who purged this cell, and whyever was it done?”

“It had to have been one of the senior monks. Probably either Brother Clayworth, Brother Morrison, or Brother Silsbury.” Father Demetris scrunched up his doughy face with evident embarrassment. He looked to be a man in his later middle years who was cursed with soft, rounded features. His frame appeared to be lithe from what I could detect of the way his black cassock hung from his curved shoulders, and he moved with a hesitancy that made me suspect he had lived the bulk of his life in deference to others. This was clearly not the type of man who aspired to anything more than he had long ago achieved. “As to why it was done . . . ?” He tilted his head sideways like a pup listening for the sound of its master’s voice. “I’m afraid you will need to ask those senior-most monks at supper. I can only surmise that such a scene left unattended was too much for their sensibilities. The only reason you will have the opportunity to view the abbot’s remains tomorrow is because Bishop Fencourt forbade the brothers from laying the poor man to rest. He knew an examination of the body . . .” Father Demetris left the rest of his statement unsaid, making it clear how uncomfortable he felt at the thought of Colin and me examining the remains.

“An examination of the corpse is crucial if there is no autopsy performed,” Colin bothered to explain, though neither of us relished the thought of having to do such a thing.

“An autopsy . . . ?” The priest paled with a stern shake of his head. “Oh no, an autopsy would never be allowed.”

“So I was informed,” Colin muttered flatly as he turned back and gazed into the cell.

The diminutive space was lit solely by two oil sconces hanging one on each side wall and a single oil lamp on a small, square table shoved into the far corner of the room. The room stretched back no more than twelve feet at the very most and looked only half again as wide. Other than the little table and the homemade-looking wooden chair pushed up beneath it, there was only a single-sized bed—really nothing more than a wood-sided cot—a tall, round stand across from it upon which sat a white porcelain bowl, though its matching pitcher was conspicuously absent, and a square cutout bit of plain rug made of some sort of reed or fiber at the bedside. There were no windows, no adornments of any kind, and nothing to suggest any but the most rudimentary levels of comfort.

“This is where Abbot Tufton slept for the last ten years of his life,” Father Demetris said with obvious pride.

The very thought of it astounded me. There were years I lived in meager surroundings myself, but they had been transitory at best and nothing that matched the severity of what I was now looking at. Still, to Colin’s point, other than the curious absence of the pitcher atop the stand, it was impossible to tell that anything untoward had ever taken place here.

“The asceticism of these monks is startling,” Colin muttered as he slowly entered the space.

“These men are Benedictine monks,” Father Demetris explained. “Their devotion to God is absolute.”

“So it would appear,” Colin said as he gently ran a hand across the tabletop, his eyes continuously roving throughout the room.

“Once a novitiate accepts the Benedictine vows, he enters his community and, for the greater part, leaves the outside world behind. It is a profound and admirable dedication.”

Colin knelt down and began studying the plank flooring in an ever-expanding arc, curling the small prayer rug back as he did so. “It is certainly bleak,” he mumbled.

Father Demetris looked momentarily taken aback before finally letting a thin smile touch his lips. “This way of life is not for everyone. Even a man of faith can have his doubts now and then.” He released a small sigh. “I suppose that’s a part of the human condition.”

“A condition, is it?” Colin said as he stood up and glanced around one last time, his eyes raking across every inch of the space as though determined to find the one speck that had been overlooked upon which the entirety of this case might turn.

“More of a curse, I sometimes think,” Father Demetris responded solemnly.

His grim answer surprised me, but I kept quiet as I watched Colin snuff out the three lights before backing out of the cell, his gaze remaining intensely focused inside despite the immediate and utter blackness. The priest pulled the door shut, oblivious to Colin’s vacant stare, yanking out his key and swiftly re-bolting it.

“You say this door has been locked since the morning of the murder?” Colin asked again, his brow well furrowed and his deep blue eyes marred with obvious displeasure.

“Yes,” the priest answered, turning and leading us back through the stark, narrow hallway with its low ceiling pressing down upon my head. “As soon as the bishop received word of what had happened he ordered the room locked and the abbot’s body preserved.” He flicked his gaze sideways at Colin. “I believe his second wire was to your father.”

“I only wish he had ordered the cell left untouched,” Colin grumbled. “An investigation is infinitely more difficult when all signs of it have been so thoroughly wiped away.”

“I am sorry for that.” Father Demetris cringed ever so slightly. “You can imagine we have no protocol for such a thing. Even a locked door is entirely out of character for a monastery.” He tipped a small shrug. “It feels enough that these men have not been allowed to bury their abbot. . . .”

“It is not enough when it comes to the solving of their abbot’s murder,” Colin fired back impolitely. I tossed him a scowl and he clamped his mouth shut even as he returned my harsh gaze.

We remained silent as we followed the priest back toward the front of the monastery. Each hallway we traversed was punctuated by only the minimum amount of light from smoke-stained glass sconces interspersed too infrequently along the way. Their thick, oily scent permeated the claustrophobic passageways and stifled the air, putting me in mind of the opium clubs I had spent too much of my youth inside. I wondered why they had yet to convert the monastery to gas. It was eminently safer than these oil lamps that continuously needed their wicks trimmed and oil pots refilled, and all I could surmise was that perhaps it had to do with their austere way of life.

We passed a small door off a side entry and, though it was closed, I could hear the low, sonorous cadence of male voices chanting some indecipherable litany from behind it. It was clear we had come abreast of the chapel. I found the tone mystical, almost otherworldly, and yet it also seemed to contain an edge of something darker, something vaguely foreboding.

“Here we are, then,” Father Demetris announced in his quiet manner as we rounded the end of the hallway, turning into a slightly wider passage where the brooding ceiling thankfully lifted several feet above my head. “We shall talk here in Abbot Tufton’s office until called for supper.”

He swung the door wide onto the first vaguely pleasant-looking space I had seen since our arrival almost an hour before. The room was a suitable size, big enough to hold a large desk of dark, almost black wood ornately carved in a bacchanalian fashion with cherubic faces, a tendril of vines, and small bunches of grapes. A huge, overstuffed chair sat behind it covered in a deep burgundy fabric with a nap that appeared to be velvet. Facing the desk were two plain, straight-backed chairs that I was certain would be as uncomfortable as the abbot’s looked inviting, and behind those sat a plaster-fronted fireplace painted dove gray that held the faces of eleven men in relief, five on one side, six on the other, that I decided must be meant to represent the apostles, sans Judas. The best feature of the office, however, were the two narrow leaded-glass cathedral windows that rose up along the opposite wall from where we stood, letting in a veritable ocean of colorful, prismatic light.

Father Demetris gestured us to the harsh-looking chairs as he settled himself behind the desk. “It doesn’t seem right to be sitting here,” Father Demetris said, and indeed, he did look ill at ease. “Abbot Tufton was only the second man to lead this pious brotherhood since Whitmore Abbey was consecrated thirteen years ago. His predecessor served just eight months before he was called home by the Heavenly Father, so it was Abbot Tufton who formed the community you see here today.”

“Where did the abbot serve before coming to Whitmore Abbey?” Colin asked.

“Mostly Ireland. John Tufton spent time in several dioceses under several different bishops. He was highly regarded, even as a young man. He was invited to spend time in the Papal States studying under His Holiness Pius the Ninth right out of seminary. A remarkable feat for one as young as he was.” A wistful sort of grin flitted across his lips. “He could have risen much higher in the church, but this was his calling. This is where he knew he belonged. Bishop Fencourt considered Abbot Tufton his monastic blessing.” Father Demetris looked infinitely sad as he said the words.

“How many monks live here?” Colin pressed ahead, and I knew he had no intention of getting caught in such sentimentality.

“Thirty-three, not counting the abbot. It is a small order, but then the town of Dalwich cannot claim more than five thousand residents itself. I don’t think the whole of Sussex County is even half a million.”

“Still . . .” Colin gave a slight smile. “That’s a fair amount of souls to save for such a small band of men.”

Father Demetris shook his head. “I’m afraid you confuse these monks with missionaries, deacons, and vicars. The brothers of Whitmore Abbey do not conduct services for the public, nor do most of them have much contact with any laypeople beyond these walls. They are monks, Mr. Pendragon. They are here solely to dedicate themselves to prayer, divine contemplation, and devotion to God. They are a rare and august breed of acolyte, you see. Very few receive such a calling or are up to the challenge of accepting it if they do.”

“Of course,” Colin muttered with a note of irritation, and I suspected he was annoyed at having made such a fundamental error. “Have all the men who live here now been here from the beginning?”

“A good many, but not all. The church built an additional dormitory about three years ago. It can house ten additional monks, but for now there are only three brothers living there. As I said before, this is not a life for everyone.”

“Quite so.” Colin nodded curtly. “And are those three monks the last to join the monastery?”

“Precisely.”

“How long did you know Abbot Tufton?”

“I knew John almost forty years. We spent quite a bit of time together in seminary back in Dublin. I considered him a dear friend.” He released a labored sigh. “He will be sorely missed.”

“Your fond memories do him fine honor.” I spoke up even though I found the priest’s sorrow keenly distressing. While I understood how he would miss his friend, I had thought he would be held fast by his surety of the afterlife.

“When did you and Bishop Fencourt learn of Abbot Tufton’s murder?” Colin cast me an arched eyebrow as he prodded the conversation right back on point.

“We received a telegram on Tuesday, not an hour after the abbot’s body was discovered. We were told that Abbot Tufton had failed to appear for morning prayers so one of the brothers had been sent to check on him.” He shook his head and turned his gaze to the windows, the pained look on his face in marked contrast to the warm hues of the setting sun filtering back through. “They tell me it was a terrible scene.”

“Who told you?” Colin pushed.

Father Demetris glanced back at him. “Brother Morrison and Brother Silsbury. And poor Brother Hollings, of course, the young monk who found him.”

“Of course,” Colin repeated perfunctorily before pressing the matter as I knew he would. “What exactly did Brother Hollings find?”

“They said the abbot was collapsed across the floor of his cell with one arm stretched out as though he were reaching for something while the very life force drained out of him. A horror,” he tutted as his eyes drifted back to the leaded-glass windows. He remained transfixed for several moments before finally continuing. “There was no mistaking what had happened. Brother Hollings said the walls were so streaked with blood that he didn’t even enter the cell to check on John but just turned and ran to fetch Brothers Morrison and Silsbury.”

“Why them?”

“They’re the senior members of the community along with Brother Clayworth. Brother Silsbury attends to the infirmary. He is not a doctor, but he is a man with some knowledge of health and healing.”

“And what did they determine when they went b. . .