DCI Warren Jones. Paul Gitsham

      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