LITMIR.BIZ

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      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 hadn’t finished with them yet, and it was still speculation that they fitted the doors.

      ‘Yes, they’re the ones. Those locks are over a century old; I must have taken them apart and fixed them a half-dozen times over the last twenty years.’

      ‘Are these the only copies of the keys?’

      The groundsman shook his head. ‘No, those are the ones that hang in the vestry. I have a second set at my house for safekeeping.’

      ‘Are the keys in the vestry accessible?’

      ‘Yeah, they’re hidden and you need to know the code to the door, but the brothers take it in turns to open the chapel for morning service, so everyone knows where they are.’

      ‘What about this key? It was found in the deceased’s trouser pocket.’ Warren flicked to the next image.

      Groundsman squinted, then pointed at the screen. ‘That’s the key to the padlock for the main tool shed. I recognise that red blob of emulsion.’

      ‘Is that also in the vestry?’

      ‘Yeah, although I use my own copy so I don’t know how long it’s been missing.’

      ‘One final thing.’ Warren flicked to the next image.

      ‘Yeah, that’s the petrol can for the lawnmower. It’s kept in the main tool shed.’

      ‘Dear Lord, it would seem that the victim, whoever he may be, might be one of our community.’

      Fisher’s tone suggested that he hadn’t considered that possibility until now.

      ‘I’m afraid that is quite possible, Your Grace – either one of your residents or a regular volunteer.’

      The room fell silent for a moment.

      After an appropriate pause, Warren asked if anyone had checked the whereabouts of everyone living in the house. He also requested a full list of volunteers and regular visitors who might have the necessary knowledge to find the keys to the chapel and undercroft. Identifying the victim was his first priority.

      Before anyone could reply, there came a soft knock at the door.

      Shaw answered it, before announcing the visitor needed to speak to Baines urgently. Warren caught a glimpse of a grey, ankle-length skirt and matching blouse before the door closed behind him.

      A few seconds later Baines returned, ashen-faced. ‘I think that list might not be necessary. Father Nolan didn’t come down to breakfast this morning. Sister Clara says his bed hasn’t been slept in.’

       Chapter 4

      It took less than an hour for CSIs from the Scenes of Crime team working down at the chapel to seal off Father Nolan’s room and do a preliminary sweep for evidence. Tony Sutton supervised the search, whilst Warren continued interviewing Bishop Fisher and Deacon Baines. Until the body found in the chapel was positively identified as Father Nolan and the cause of death determined, it was still regarded as unexplained, and so the room was being treated as a potential crime scene.

      The note was written in a spidery script, on lined paper, and had been placed folded on the dresser. A photograph of it was on Sutton’s tablet computer, sitting on the bishop’s antique desk.

      ‘Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.’

      The seven-word opening refrain was familiar to any Catholic who had ever partaken in the sacrament of confession. Warren felt the slightest twinge of guilt – the typical following statement, detailing how long it was since the penitent’s last confession, would be measured in decades, rather than years, for him.

      ‘Sinned in what way? In a general sense or something more specific?’ asked Sutton.

      Fisher shrugged wearily. ‘I have no idea.’

      ‘Did Father Nolan give any indication that anything may be troubling him?’ asked Warren.

      ‘I shall ask others if he had said anything in public, but I had not heard him say anything openly.’

      ‘What about privately?’ asked Sutton, casually.

      Fisher fixed him with a stare. ‘If you are referring to the holy sacrament of Penance, then you are no doubt aware that the seal of confession is sacrosanct.’

      Sutton looked as though he had more to say, but a glance from Warren stopped him.

      ‘There was an open, empty container of medication next to the body. The part of the label that we could still read indicates that it originally contained Doxepin, which according to the internet is usually given to patients to combat depression and help with sleep. Was Father Nolan suffering with any mental health issues?’

      Fisher paused before answering.

      ‘Father Nolan had struggled with depression for a number of years. I’m sure that his doctor can furnish you with more details.’

      ‘Do you know what lay behind the depression?’ asked Sutton.

      Fisher shrugged again. ‘As I am sure you aware, clinical depression is a medical condition, it does not necessarily have a “cause”. His doctor may be able to shed more light on his condition.’

      ‘Deacon Baines tells me that Father Nolan was 76 years old,’ said Warren, ‘you said that he has been a resident here for eight years. That would make him 68 years old when he retired. My understanding is that priests normally retire at 75 or later, especially if they are physically fit and able to continue in their ministry. Was the depression the reason for his moving here?’

      ‘In part.’

      Warren paused, but no more was forthcoming.

      ‘Thank you for your time, Bishop Fisher. I don’t suppose that you have a sample of Father Nolan’s handwriting?’

      ‘I am certain that we can find one.’ The elderly bishop hesitated before continuing. ‘Will it be necessary for somebody to identify the body?’

      An image of the burnt corpse, with its rictus grin, appeared in Warren’s mind’s eye.

      ‘Unlikely. We should be able to confirm his identity from his dental records and a DNA match from his toothbrush.’

      With nothing more to do until Forensics had completed their search, Warren and Sutton left the

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