The Discourtesy of Death (Father Anselm Novels) by Brodrick William

Author:Brodrick, William [Brodrick, William]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group
Published: 2013-11-06T16:00:00+00:00

27

Anselm stopped in his tracks, frowned and retraced his steps. He’d just closed the outside door to the kitchens – taking a short cut to the river and his route to Mitch’s wherry – when he’d noticed a brother monk on his knees by Larkwood’s flagging Fiat. It was Brother Wilfred, the community’s retiring Guestmaster. Finding human contact a bit of a trial, the Prior had put him in charge of meeting people, organising their stay and generally extending the warm welcome of the Gilbertines. Wilf had become, to his astonishment, a screaming success. Anselm walked over to his side.

‘She won’t start?’ he asked, obviously.

‘I haven’t tried.’

Anselm persevered.

‘Wilf, the thing operates with a key. Stick it in the ignition and give it a turn.’

‘Not until I know it’s safe.’

Anselm sighed. This was one of those thorny subjects: the nature of intercessory prayer – asking for help in the light of what we had to do first. There was a minimum, surely? And even then, with all due respect to God’s knowledge of the internal combustion engine, wasn’t this a matter for the likes of Vincent Cooper?

‘Wilf, give me the key.’

The Guestmaster bowed low, peering under the passenger seat well. Coming to his feet, he looked around nervously.

‘Bede told me not to say anything,’ he murmured. ‘He says you’re raking over some old coals. That we all need to be careful. The whole community’s at risk. Because of you.’

‘What in God’s name are you talking about?’

‘Bede just taps his nose. Reckons the Prior might have picked the wrong man for the job.’ Wilf, always nervous and vaguely guilty, even when other people were at fault, writhed at breaking a confidence. ‘Reckons you’re a bit naive. Can’t see the dangers.’

‘What dangers?’

‘Bede just taps his nose. But he told me to check for a lunchbox under the car. He knows an awful lot of strange things, Anselm. I thought he was all gob and high blood pressure, but he knows how to make a bomb. He says you take a small tube and fill it with mercury … it’s called a tilt switch. Won’t tell me the rest, but he says when you drive on a gradient the liquid flows to the other end of the tube and completes an electric circuit which detonates a fuse and then … bang. You’re up there with Father Herbert who survived Passchendaele.’

Anselm snatched the keys, started the engine and drove the Fiat back and forth, pressing the accelerator and flinging the gears as if his foot were on Bede’s head and his hand tearing at one of his arms. The car thoroughly rocked, he left the door open and ushered Wilf towards the driver’s seat.

‘It’s not that kind of case, Wilf,’ he panted, aping patience. ‘No one’s at risk. The old coals are cinders in the grate. Bede’s still smarting from the fact he never rose higher than junior librarian and van driver for a rural outreach project that dished up books like meals-on-wheels to the housebound.

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