Free The Gardens of the Dead by William Brodrick

Friday night long before the Riley trial, a talk about
parents, children and dying.
     
    It was late when Anselm
finished. Larkwood’s owl — heard but never seen — had taken flight, and was
hooting round the spire, permanently baffled by the fearlessness of the
partridge weathervane.
    ‘I
suppose Sylvester told everyone that Inspector Cartwright came here?’ asked the
Prior.
    ‘Not
quite, but the bulk of the message got through.’
    ‘She
believes that John Bradshaw’s death was a revenge killing linked to the Riley
trial, although the mechanics were beyond proving. We decided that Elizabeth
must have come to a similar conclusion, because this was undoubtedly the homicide
to which she’d referred. This, however, was not the only matter we discussed.
It transpired that in the seconds before she died, Elizabeth had made a
telephone call to Inspector Cartwright.’
    ‘Really?
What did she say?’
    “‘Leave
it to Anselm.”‘
    Anselm
frowned and repeated Elizabeth’s last words with incredulity. ‘What the hell
does that mean?’
    ‘She
hadn’t a notion. Presumably you’ll find out after you’ve visited Mrs Bradshaw
and read the letter.’ The Prior rose, indicating that the interview was over. ‘Inspector
Cartwright would like you to call her in due course.
    The cry
of Larkwood’s owl began to fade as it flew west over Saint Leonard’s Field,
leaving behind a charged silence, a sense that something strange occupied the
night sky above the monastery.
     
    Anselm went to his cell
and threw open the window The night was cool and sharp, softened by the smell
of apples. The community had been peeling them before compline, and the skins
were in sacks by the kitchen door.
    Leave
it to Anselm. Was that wise, Elizabeth? What did I
say that made you choose me? Or is it something I’ve done?
    Anselm
breathed in deeply wondering why he’d put the key back in his wig tin.
Generously, the Prior had not enquired. Perhaps it was that word ‘murder’, and
the hopeless search for a rhyme. Whatever the cause, Anselm was altogether sure
that the consequent delay would complicate things considerably Elizabeth had
foreseen many things, but Anselm’s hesitation wasn’t one of them.

 
     
     
     
     
     
    PART TWO
     
    the story of a box

 
     
     
    1
     
    The door opened and Mr
Wyecliffe’s face emerged out of a warm gloom. His brown oval suit seemed to
join his beard and run up his cheeks, stopping just below the small eyes. ‘Sorry,
the light bulb’s just blown. There’s sufficient illumination, however, in my
quarters.’ He led Nick to a sort of hole composed of shelves and files. The air
was stale and still and seemed to have a colour, as though they were immersed
in a yellowish solution carrying a hint of blue from far, far away. Upon a
large, chipped bureau stood a yellow plastic air freshener that kept watch over
piles of paper in disarray.
    ‘I
thought it best we speak outside office hours.’ He blinked and nodded with a
single movement. ‘Can’t say much, mind. Client confidentiality’ He slumped in a
chair behind his desk and said, ‘It was a first-class funeral, if you take my
meaning. Very nice reception. Lovely house. Nice to see the clients invited.
But I am sorry. Dreadful business, if you ask me.’
    ‘Your clients?’
asked Nick.
    ‘Quite
a few One of them ate the ham sandwiches.’ He spoke as though he were tempting
the outrage of a magistrate.
    Nick
said, ‘You specialise in criminal law?’
    ‘Not
really,’ he reminisced, scratching an ear as he leaned back. ‘I’ve followed the
personal injury market. And family work, of course. I’d always done that. Care,
divorce, custody. Always lots to do in that neck of the woods.’ His narrow eyes
seemed to glaze. ‘I sent your mother more dog’s breakfasts than I care to
admit. But she had a knack with parents not disposed to cooperate with expert
assistance.’ He blinked in the gloom, regarding the air freshener. ‘But why do
you