A Cold Act Of Murder...

Murder!
Murder!
Murder!

That single repetitive thought reverberated around his head and merged into a dreadful cacophony with the whooping jeers of the oblates as they pelted one another with snowballs in the abbey garden. Their laughing screams of excitement whipped through the precinct and he trembled as he thought of another discordant scream.

He stood immobile in the cloister, frozen more by fear and indecision than any chill that permeated his habit. His gaze darted from the door of the warming house before sliding back to the church where the scaffold-clad east end rose up like a beacon in the bitter sunlight.

Tiny flecks of snow blew through the traceried canopy of the cloister walk and dusted his tonsure and face. He blinked as they melted and formed wintry tears upon the warmth of his skin. Yet otherwise his expression remained remote, as if instead of the blinding whiteness that covered the cloister garth he was watching some internal conflict.

So absorbed was he that he did not even register the stench that had caused such recurrent comment by the other brothers. The stream which they had diverted to run under the reredorter had frozen many days before, causing the removal of the fetid waste to halt until warmer weather brought with it a thaw. So engrossed was he that he did not even feel the snow that clung to the bottom of his habit. The iced clumps gripped grimly to the wool before slowly resigning themselves to melting into drips that fell uncomfortably into the monk’s boots. So tormented was his soul that he could not even delight in the delicate icicles that glittered luminous amongst the dark stone. Their brightly flashing surface as variously coloured as any stained glass.

Perhaps the monk felt the change in the wind as it sent a wave of snow tumbling off the gable, for he stirred himself. His mind made up he gazed bleakly at the church, unable to see the beauty in the sculptured stone or the snow swathed trees that framed it.

When he moved, he moved with sudden speed, causing little pockets of snow to spray messily across his path. With a firm hand he clasped the handle, the cold of the metal prickling at his skin, and he gave a determined push.

He barged into the warming house his presence and the cold air that swept in behind him muting the cheerful clatter of conversation. Most of the other brothers had gathered in this, the warmest room in the abbey, its large fireplace providing a hospitable welcome during the winter months. The vigour of his entrance had woken even the most senior brothers who slumbered in the corners of the well-appointed room. Standing framed in the doorway the monk knew he was now the unwelcome centre of their attention. His voice was over-loud in the hushed room and he could not disguise the quiver of anxiety in his expression.

“You must come quickly Father Abbot. There’s been a murder.”