LITMIR.BIZ

       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

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