Blood Brotherhood (24 page)

Change the pattern a little, and say that the murderer
had
been blackmailed, that Brother Dominic had already begun to put the pressure on. Did that make the pattern more satisfying? Yes, a little. And yet — in a matter of days, how little pressure could have been applied! But the Bishop had said, ‘frenzied . . . crazed.' As a result of months or years of screw-turning, this might be possible. But could a blackmailer work his victim up to such homicidal passion in a mere couple of days?

Look at the pattern again. A slaughtered lamb; a slaughtered brother. Various irrelevant matter presented itself to his mind:
Isaiah —
‘like a lamb to the slaughter'. Brother Dominic must have lain there like a sacrificial victim. ‘All we like sheep have gone astray.' One of us most horribly astray. He pulled his sermon-making brain back to the present, and to the pattern: the lamb and the brother.

And no connection between them? None whatsoever?

That was what they had been ignoring. That was what,
sitting back in abstract contemplation, it seemed impossible to swallow. On one and the same night the Bishop of Mitabezi goes out and butchers a lamb, and on the same night, quite independently, one of the delegates creeps down and disembowels Brother Dominic. It was incredible. The coincidence was just too great. They had been so staggered by the horror of the Bishop's action, and perhaps also by the desire politely to ignore it as a temporary aberration, that they had numbed their minds to the fact that these two things could not be entirely unrelated.

But what was the consequence of relating the two things? That they had been too hasty in dismissing the Bishop of Mitabezi as a suspect? The Bishop of Peckham had been very sure that the trance was genuine, but could it have been self-induced after the murder of Dominic? Or what if one of the brothers, or Father Anselm, out on the moors illegally at night should have seen poor Mitabezi at work on the lamb, and taken advantage of it? Or what if one of the delegates had?

Ernest Clayton got up and looked out of his window. The ritual slaughter had taken place at the far corner of the barn, round the front — at the point farthest away from Ernest Clayton's window: he had himself inspected the pool of blood seeping into the earth at that point. From his own window the front of the barn could not be seen — the barn was built at a 45° angle to the guest wing, and he could see only the side and the back. That would mean that only the rooms at the other end of the corridor could possibly get a view of the front of the barn — at most the last three rooms. The room at the far end was Randi Paulsen's, but he felt sure she could be ignored: he had heard the sound of her drawing her wardrobe across the door as he went to the lavatory on the night of the murder. She could hardly have risked pulling it back in the middle of the night. The next two along were Stewart Phipps and Bente Frøystad. Further than that he felt sure he need not go: the next rooms would certainly not get a view of the
front of the barn.

Was this the answer: that one of these was meditating
something
— what? revenge? ‘vigorous counter-measures'? — and that he or she saw the Bishop at work and decided to seize the opportunity? Accepting this as a hypothesis, he tried to follow it through. Donning a monk's habit (Clayton had heard of the discovery — but where on earth had the murderer got it from? There was none in his room) he or she had crept down the stairs and done the deed. Intending further action to incriminate the Bishop of Mitabezi indisputably in the murder, the killer had first gone out to burn the incriminating habit in the incinerator. He or she had then been prevented from further action by the discovery of the body and the presence of Father Anselm and the Bishop of Peckham around the scene of the crime. The murderer had then been forced to wait outside until — when? — probably until the Bishop and Anselm had discovered the lamb by the barn, or until they had gone to the gate to let in the police. Then he or she had scuttled into the building and gone to their room. The intention of incriminating the Bishop of Mitabezi had thus badly misfired, due to the premature finding of the body and the calling of the police.

He considered this new pattern: did it stand up? Yes, as an outline it did. But only so far, no further, for it took no account of motive, or the murderer's state of mind. The latter could be guessed at from the condition of the victim's body: it was a safe conjecture that after the murder he or she was hardly in a psychological state to carry any plan through coolly.

But who? Ernest Clayton got up, and went into the corridor. There could surely be no objection to his going into the rooms of his fellow delegates, now that they had removed themselves and their belongings from St Botolph's. He walked up the dark corridor towards the stairs, and with an odd mixture of resolution and reluctance he pulled open the third door from the end. The sun, flooding through
the window, blinded him for a moment, but when he had blinked he saw in a flash that from this room you could not see the front of the barn. Suddenly he felt very happy. He had not wanted to think Bente Frøystad capable of murder.

He went on, less reluctantly, to Stewart Phipps's room. But here again the drenching sunlight instantly told him he was wrong. It was just not quite possible to see round to the front of the barn. Only if the Bishop of Mitabezi had stood some distance away from the building could Stewart Phipps have seen what he was doing, and this the pool of blood by the barn made certain had not been the case. Ernest Clayton felt well through him a great wave of disappointment: for this knocked his theory on the head. For the life of him he couldn't think up any way Randi Paulsen could alone have shifted that wardrobe silently from across her door.

He strolled nevertheless into her room. From here, yes, one could get a perfectly adequate view of the front of the barn, and the blood-stained corner whence the little lamb had been despatched to find out who made him. And yet — it was impossible!

‘It's the only one you can see the barn from,' said a voice from the door. Ernest Clayton, hackles rising, spun round from the window. It was Inspector Croft.

‘So I see,' said Clayton. Then, with an unmistakable tinge of disappointment in his voice, he said: ‘You had the same idea, did you?'

‘Yes, but only a few minutes before you,' said Croft kindly.

‘There's no reason to feel disappointed on my part,' said Clayton with a wry smile, ‘since the idea was such a dud.'

‘And why a dud?'

‘Oh — perhaps you hadn't heard,' said Ernest Clayton, rather keen to prove his powers of deduction. ‘Miss Paulsen was terribly upset at finding there were no locks on the door, and we had to push this wardrobe in so she could
be protected from our rapacious intentions. I suppose she
could
have faked things by pulling it in some other direction, rather than across the door, but I must say I was on my way to the bathroom at the time, and I went past the door: I feel pretty sure she wasn't faking it, and I'm quite sure she couldn't have shifted it silently later.'

Croft paused with an actor's sense of effect.

‘There was no need for her to fake it, or move it later at night,' he said. ‘You are ignoring one thing.' He went to the door and pushed it open. ‘The doors open
out
ward here. She had only to leave a small gap, small enough to squeeze herself out of, and then there would be no need to move the wardrobe again.'

He allowed time for Ernest Clayton to swear silently to himself before throwing open the door of the wardrobe. Piled high on two of the shelves Ernest Clayton saw the brown habits of the monks of St Botolph's.

‘And that's what she used to keep the blood off her,' said Croft.

L
UNCH OVER
, Ernest Clayton fetched his suitcase, and together he and Father Anselm strolled out of the Great Hall and across the lawns towards the main gate. Just as at table, with others present, they had talked about anything but the murder, so as they continued out in the sunlight neither seemed particularly anxious to approach the subject both had most in mind.

Putting his little suitcase down for a moment, Ernest Clayton looked around for the last time at the rough stone walls, and the sheep grazing out on the moors. ‘It's a lovely place,' he said. ‘I can understand your wanting to stay here.'

Father Anselm smiled in his remote way. ‘Recent events have certainly cured me of any desire to leave,' he said. ‘I shall stay here quite happily until I die.'

Ernest Clayton threw a sideways glance in his direction, and then decided to approach a subject that had been troubling him.

‘I remember your saying when you spoke of Father Jerome,' he said, ‘how you complemented each other — he other-worldly, spiritual; you the organizer. That seems an ideal arrangement. I wonder whether you and Brother Dominic were not, perhaps, too much . . .
alike.
That's a point which might be worth thinking about when you give any recommendations as to your successor.'

There was no freezing-over of Father Anselm's face. ‘That's a very good point,' he said. ‘It's something I'll bear in mind.'

They had reached the gate. They turned and shook hands silently, expressing no formal regrets at the parting, then
Father Anselm opened the gate, bowed the Reverend Clayton out, and shut the gate, softly but firmly.

There was by now no great crowd of reporters around the outside of the gate. They had been told of the ruse by which the delegates had escaped their gentle attentions, and they had made a great fuss about ethics, but eventually they had gone off, their tempers ranging from the disgruntled to the bloody-minded, to dip their pens in vitriol and write pieces that went as far as they dared in the direction of murky suggestion and unsubstantiated slur. Only one was left — a dogged little man who made it a principle not to believe a hundred per cent of what he was told, and who had noticed that when all the reporters had charged off in the direction of beer and sandwiches there was still one car left by the gate. The emergence of Ernest Clayton seemed like a reward for his perseverance.

‘Have you any statement about the murder?' he asked breathlessly. ‘Can you tell our readers what's been going on in there? Would you like to deny some of the rumours?'

‘I know nothing about rumours, and I don't see how anything at all reliable could have got out of the Community,' said Ernest Clayton, getting into his car. ‘It's not been quite the sort of week I anticipated, of course, but in my profession one learns not to be surprised by anything.'

And he drove off, while the reporter began composing a story for the
Sunday Grub
which began ‘ “Nothing can surprise me now,” said a middle-aged vicar as he emerged dazed and shattered from behind the heavily bolted doors of the murder monastery.'

Driving away over the stupendous purple vulgarity of the moors, and driving resolutely past any would-be hitch-hikers, Ernest Clayton felt more at peace than he had done for a long time. It had been a difficult decision to make, to go along with the Bishop, and it could well be that it had not been the
right
decision — but at any rate it was not the safe, predictable decision. They had chanced their arm, and that in itself was exhilarating. Given the chance again,
he hoped he would have the courage to accept Father Anselm's second alternative, and be satisfied with his resignation without sticking out for an ostentatious cleansing of the Augean stables.

Ernest Clayton creased his forehead slightly as he tried to remember the exact wording of Father Anselm's promise to resign.

It was some miles farther down the road before Ernest Clayton began seriously to doubt whether Father Anselm had made any such promise at all.

• • •

At the door of the little study which had served as a centre of the murder investigation, Inspector Croft, watched in the background by Sergeant Forsyte, took his leave of Father Anselm. It was odd, but he felt almost apologetic.

‘I think it's very likely,' he said, ‘that we shan't need to bother you again at all. I hope things will be cleared up in a few days, and I don't at the moment foresee the need for any more work actually within St Botolph's. Of course, there will be an inquest, and eventually there may be a trial . . .'

‘Naturally, naturally,' murmured Father Anselm.

‘Meanwhile I hope that things will be able to get back to normal reasonably quickly.'

‘I hope so. The symposia always cause some disruption to routine, and of course much more so this time.'

‘Of course. It must have been a shattering thing to happen, as far as all of you were concerned. Do you in fact find that it is a good idea to combine these symposia with the sort of life you lead here for the rest of the year?'

‘No — on the whole I don't,' said Father Anselm firmly. ‘I have had my doubts for some time, and I feel sure that after this the Church authorities will raise no objection if from now on we quietly let them lapse.'

‘I'm sure that's wise,' said Croft. And then, speaking as one who saw too much of ‘the world' and its dingiest side, he added: ‘Because I'm sure it is the calm of the life you
lead here, left to yourselves, that is really valuable. In your way you seem to me to do very remarkable work. I hope you'll keep it up.'

‘I intend to,' said Father Anselm, bowing gravely.

‘Sly old fox, that,' said Sergeant Forsyte, as they both withdrew from the presence.

‘You really are unpleasantly cynical sometimes, Forsyte,' said Inspector Croft, irritated.

• • •

In ‘White Gables', Chislehurst, at half past six in the evening, the telephone rang. James Grimwade, just back from the City, in which he was Something, went on calmly chewing his evening meal, but his wife got up to answer it, rather reluctantly: James didn't indulge much in conversation when he got back from the office, but she did like to sit there and see that he got a good meal into him.