Reader, I Buried Them and Other Stories

Reader, I Buried Them

Yes, I was the gravedigger, but my main job was overseeing the wildflower meadow. I’d better correct that. My main reason for being there was to worship the Lord and most of my hours were spent in prayer and study. However, we monks all had tasks that contributed to the running of the place and I was fortunate enough to have been chosen long ago to be the meadow man. If that sounds a soft number, I must tell you it isn’t. Wildflower meadows need as much care as any garden, and this was a famous meadow, being situated at the back of a Georgian crescent in the centre of London. The monastery had once been three private houses. The gardens had been combined to make the two acres people came from far and wide to admire. My meadow had been photographed, filmed and celebrated in magazines. Often they wanted to include me in their reports and I had to be cautious of self-aggrandisement. I had no desire for celebrity. It would have been counter to the vows I took when I joined the brotherhood.

Closest to the monastery I grew rows of vegetables, but nobody except Brother Barry, the cook, was interested in them. My spectacular meadow stretched away beyond, dissected by a winding, mown-grass path. In the month of May we were treated to a medieval jousting tournament, the spring breezes sending the flagged wild irises towards the spikes of purple-helmeted monkshood, cheered on by lilies of the valley and banks of primroses. Summer was the season of carnival, poppies in profusion, tufted vetch, ox-eye daisies, field scabious and foxgloves along the borders. Even as we approached September, the white campion, teasel, borage and wild carrot were still dancing for me. At the far end was the shed where my tools were kept and where, occasionally, I allowed myself a break from meadow management and did some contemplation instead. To the left of the shed was the apiary. If you have a wildflower meadow you really ought to keep bees as well. And to the right were the graves where I buried our brothers who had crossed the River Jordan. When their time had come I dug the graves and after our Father Superior had led us in prayer I filled them in and marked each one with a simple wooden cross. You couldn’t wish for a more peaceful place to be interred.

And that was my way of glorifying God. The others all had their own tasks. Barry, I have mentioned, was our cook, and had only learned the skill after taking his vows. A straight-speaking man, easy to take offence (and therefore easy to tease), he had done some time in prison before seeing the light. Between ourselves, the meals he served were unadventurous, to put it mildly, heavily based on stew, sardines, baked beans and boiled potatoes, with curry once a week. Although my stomach complained, I got on better with Barry than any of the others.

A far more scholarly and serious man, Brother Arnold, was known as the procurer, ordering all our provisions by phone or the internet, including my seed and tools. Being computer literate, he also communicated with the outside world when it became necessary.

Brother Luke was the physician, having been in practice as a doctor before he took holy orders. A socialist by conviction, he combined this responsibility with humbly washing the dishes and sweeping the floors.

Then there was Brother Vincent, a commercial artist in the secular life, who was painstakingly restoring a fourteenth-century psalter much damaged by the years. Between sessions with the quills and brushes, he also looked after the library.

Our Father Superior was Ambrose, a remote, dignified man in his seventies who had been a senior civil servant before he received the call.

You may be wondering why I’m using the past tense. I still live the spiritual life and manage a garden, but it is no longer at our beloved monastery in London. One morning after matins, Father Ambrose asked us all to remain in our pews (for your information, the chapel had been created out of two living rooms by knocking down a wall and installing an RSJ. Not everyone knew this was a rolled steel joist and we had fun telling Barry we were expecting a Religious Sister of St. Joseph). ‘I want to speak to you about our situation,’ our Father Superior said. ‘It must be obvious to you all that our numbers have been declining in recent years. Three brothers were called to higher service last year and two the year before. I won’t say our little cemetery is becoming crowded, but the dead almost outnumber the living now. None of us are in the first flush of youth anymore. Tasks that were manageable ten years ago are becoming harder now. I watched Jeffrey cropping the meadow at the end of last summer and it looked extremely demanding work.’

As my name had been singled out, I felt I had a right to reply. ‘Father, I’m not complaining,’ I said, ‘but if I had a ride-on mower instead of the strimmer, it would ease the burden considerably.’

‘Jeffrey,’ he said, ‘I am discussing much more than your situation. I might just as well have used Barry and his catering as an example.’

‘What’s wrong with my cooking?’ Barry asked.

‘The curry,’ Luke muttered. ‘Oh, for an Indian takeaway.’

‘Did you say something?’ Father Ambrose asked.

‘Trying to think what could be done, Father,’ Luke said.

Ambrose moved on with his announcement. ‘In short, the Lord in His infinite wisdom has put the thought into my head that we should move to somewhere more in keeping with our numbers. This beautiful building and grounds can be used for another purpose.’

He couldn’t have shocked us more if he had ripped off his habit and revealed he was wearing pink spandex knickers.

‘What purpose might that be?’ Luke asked eventually.

‘I know of a school in Notting Hill in unsuitable accommodation, much smaller than this, and in a poor state of repair.’

‘A school?’

‘A convent school.’

‘You’re suggesting they move here?’

‘It’s not my suggestion, Luke. As I was at pains to explain, it came to me from a Higher Source.’

‘Our monastery converted into a school? How is that possible?’

‘It’s eminently possible. This chapel would double as the assembly hall. The spare dormitories would become classrooms, the refectory the canteen, and so on.’

‘What about my meadow?’ I asked.

Ambrose spread his hands as if it was obvious. ‘The playing field.’

I was too shocked to speak. I had this mental picture of a pack of shrieking schoolgirls with hockey sticks.

‘And my studio would become the art room, I suppose?’ Vincent said with an impatient sigh.

‘I see that you share the vision already,’ Ambrose said. ‘Isn’t it wonderfully in keeping with our vows of sacrifice and self-denial?’

‘Where would we go?’

‘I’m sure the Lord will provide.’

‘Do we have any say?’ Barry asked.

‘Say whatever you wish, but say it to Our Father in Heaven.’

This is one of the difficulties with the monastic life. There isn’t a lot of consultation at shop-floor level. Decisions tend to be announced and they have the authority of One who can’t be defied.

We filed out of the pew dazed and shaken. If this was, indeed, the Lord’s will, we would have to come to terms with it.

I returned to my beautiful meadow and tried to think about self-denial. Difficult. I vented my frustration on a patch of brambles that had begun invading the wild strawberries. After an hour of heavy work, I remembered I had recently put in an order for seed for next year’s vegetable crop. If Father Ambrose’s proposal became a reality, there wouldn’t be any need for vegetables. So I went to see Arnold, the procurer. He has a large storage room with racks to the ceiling for all our provisions. There’s a special section for all my gardening needs and beekeeping equipment.

I said what was on my mind.

‘Good thinking,’ he said, looking up from his computer screen. Eye contact with Arnold was always disconcerting because he had one blue eye and one brown. ‘I’ll see if it isn’t too late to cancel the order.’

‘Did you know what Father Ambrose was going to say this morning?’

‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘Has it upset you?’

I knew better than to admit to personal discontent. ‘I don’t like to think about our departed brothers lying under a hockey pitch.’

He shook his head. ‘Those are only mortal remains. Their souls have already gone to a Better Place.’

He was right. I wished I hadn’t spoken. ‘Are you in favour of this?’

‘It’s ordained,’ he said. As the second most senior monk, he probably felt compelled to show support.

I heard the slap of sandals on the floorboards behind me. We had been joined by Vincent, the scribe. He was a more worldly character than Arnold, always ready with a quip. ‘What’s this — a union meeting?’ he asked. ‘Are we going on strike, or what?’

‘Brother Jeffrey is here to cancel his order for next year’s seeds,’ Arnold said. ‘We have to look to the future.’

‘A future without a meadow? That’s going to leave Jeffrey without a garden shed for his afternoon nap.’

‘We don’t know where we’ll be,’ I said, ignoring the slur about my contemplation sessions. ‘Wherever it is, I expect we’ll have a garden.’

‘No problem for me,’ Vincent said. ‘All I need is a small room, a desk and a chair. And my art materials, of course. Do we have some more orpiment in stock?’

‘Plenty,’ Arnold said.

‘What’s orpiment?’ I asked.

‘A gorgeous yellow,’ Vincent said. ‘The old scribes used it and so do I, but modern artists prefer gamboge.’

‘If it’s so gorgeous, why isn’t it used more?’

‘Because it’s the devil — if you’ll pardon the expression — to grind the natural rock into a pigment. In fact, the variety I use is man-made, but based on the same constituents. I’ll take some with me, Arnold. Chin up, Jeffrey. I’m sure there’ll be a little patch of ground for you at the new place. If we leave London altogether, you could find yourself with acres more to grow things on.’

But you never know what the Lord has in store. The concerns we had over moving from the monastery were overtaken by a shocking development. Our Father Superior reported to the infirmary with stomach pains, vomiting and diarrhoea. Some of us suspected Brother Barry’s cooking was responsible, but Brother Luke diagnosed an attack of gastroenteritis brought on by a virus infection. All that could be done at this stage was to make sure the patient drank plenty of fluids. Normally the infection will subside. But poor Father Ambrose didn’t rally. His condition worsened so quickly that we barely had time to administer the last rites.

Was it a virus, we asked each other, or food poisoning? The latter seemed unlikely considering all of us had eaten the same food and no one else had been ill. A post-mortem would have settled the matter, but, as Luke remarked, it wouldn’t have altered anything. Being a qualified doctor, he issued the death certificate and nothing was said to the local coroner. I dug a grave and we buried Father Ambrose the following Monday.

After a period of mourning, we resumed our worship and work. Life has to go on for the survivors. Vincent returned to his restoration work. Barry got on with the cooking, and assured us all that he was using fresh ingredients and regularly washing his hands. Luke, with no patients to tend, scrubbed the infirmary. And I made a wooden cross for Ambrose, carved his initials on it, placed it in position and then went back to caring for my wildflowers. The ever-changing, ever-beautiful meadow was a source of solace. Already the bee orchids were appearing.

There was no debate about installing our next Father Superior. Arnold, through seniority, was the obvious choice. And he had gravitas. We held a token election and he was the only candidate. A well-organised monk I haven’t mentioned, called Brother Michael, took on the mantle of procurer and computer operator.

One afternoon I was in my shed having a few minutes’ contemplation when I was startled by someone tapping on the window. It was Michael.

‘Did I wake you?’ he asked when I invited him in.

‘I was fully awake,’ I said. ‘Meditating.’

‘I’ve been doing some thinking myself,’ he said.

‘What about?’

‘Father Ambrose’s sad death.’

‘He was getting on in years,’ I said. ‘It comes to us all eventually.’

‘But not so suddenly. He was gone in a matter of hours. I was wondering whether he was poisoned.’

I was aghast. ‘Food poisoning was mentioned, but we all eat the same and no one else was ill, so the virus seems more likely.’

‘I don’t mean food poisoning. I’m speaking of murder by poison — as in arsenic.’

‘Oh, my word! You can’t mean that.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Michael said, ‘but I have some information that I feel bound to share with somebody. When I took over the store I decided to do an inventory and there was one item that was new in my experience, called orpiment.’

‘It’s paint,’ I told him. ‘Brother Vincent needs it in his work. It’s a shade of yellow the medieval scribes used.’

‘So I understand. But have you seen the packet it comes in? There’s a warning on the side that it contains poison. I checked on the internet and it’s produced by fusing one part sulphur with two parts arsenic.’

Shocked by this revelation, I tried to answer in a level voice, not wishing to turn our peaceful monastery into a hornets’ nest. ‘I didn’t know that,’ I said. ‘Presumably Brother Vincent is aware of it.’

‘I also looked up the symptoms of arsenic poisoning,’ Michael said. ‘Nausea, vomiting, abdominal pain, diarrhoea — easily confused with acute gastroenteritis.’

‘What exactly are you suggesting, Michael?’ I said, still trying to stay calm. ‘None of us had any reason to poison Father Ambrose.’

‘The motive may not have been there, but the means was.’

‘Let’s not get carried away,’ I said.

‘It’s tasteless,’ he said.

‘You took the words out of my mouth.’

‘No. I’m saying that arsenic has no taste. And if you remember, it was a Friday — curry night — when Father Ambrose died. The orpiment wouldn’t show up in curry.’

‘But no one else was ill. We all had the curry.’

‘If someone meant to poison Father Ambrose, they could have added some of the stuff to his bowl.’

‘But when?’

‘As you know, Barry spoons the curry into the bowls with some rice and then one of us carries the tray to the table. Then we bow our heads and close our eyes for the grace. The opportunity was there.’

Clearly, he’d thought this through in detail and believed it.

‘Are you accusing Brother Barry of murder?’ I asked.

‘Or whoever carried the tray. Or whoever was seated beside Father Ambrose, or whoever was opposite him.’

‘Any of us, in fact?’

‘Well, yes.’ His eyes widened. ‘And when I said just now that there was no motive, I was trying to be charitable. If one thinks the worst, there is a motive — Father Ambrose’s master plan to remove us all to another monastery. No one likes change. Let’s face it, we were all shocked and distressed when he announced it. By getting rid of Ambrose, we would save the monastery.’

I shook my head sadly. ‘Michael, if this were not so silly, it would be a wicked slander. Do I need to remind you of the vow of obedience we all took? It’s unthinkable for any of us to question our Father Superior, let alone cause him harm.’

He appeared to see sense. ‘I hadn’t thought of it like that.’

‘Then I suggest you put it out of your head and don’t mention it to anyone else. I’m going to forget you ever spoke of it.’

A year went past. I cropped my meadow late in August after the seeds had spread and Michael’s alarming theory was as weathered as the bronzed hay. I’m bound to admit I had been unsettled by it. Despite my promise to forget about the conversation, I couldn’t stop myself casting my brother monks in the role of poisoner. Once the seeds of suspicion are sown and growing, they are as difficult to root out as ground elder. Take Arnold, for example. He had attained the highest position in our community through Ambrose’s death and as the procurer he had easy access to the orpiment. Equally, Vincent was in possession of the deadly stuff and although he professed to be indifferent to a move, he’d reacted strongly when it was first mentioned. Luke, with his doctor’s training, probably knew more about the dangers of poisoning than any of us. Barry, as the cook, was best placed to administer the poison, and had been deeply upset by the criticism of his culinary skills. And Michael had benefited from Ambrose’s death and risen to the position of procurer. What was his reason for spreading suspicion of everyone else? Uncharitable thoughts come all too readily when you’re gardening and most of them are best ignored.

Late in October, when the last butterflies had gone and autumn mists were appearing over the meadow, the harmony of our community received another jolt. Arnold, our new Father Superior, had made almost no significant changes to our routine since being called to lead us. Then he announced he would be leaving the monastery for a week on a small mission. From time to time, the calls of family disturb the even tenor of our existence, so we thought nothing of it. In Arnold’s absence, our services were led by Brother Luke. But when Father Arnold returned, he addressed us in chapel and my heart sank, for he stood to one side of the altar, just where Father Ambrose had been when he announced his ill-omened plan.

Arnold cleared his throat before saying anything. ‘You may not all appreciate what I have to say, but hear me out, and when you have had time to absorb it, you will be better able to consider the matter without personal feelings intruding. Six months have gone by since our dear departed Father Ambrose raised the question of vacating this building so that the school could move in. As his successor, I feel bound to give consideration to his last great idea. It had been revealed to him, as he made clear, in the nature of a divine vision. After much prayer, I was moved this week to take the process a step further and I am pleased to tell you I have been to see a building that with the Lord’s help we can transform into a monastery better suited to our numbers.’

After a moment’s uneasy silence, Luke asked, ‘What is it, a private house?’

‘No, a lighthouse.’

‘God save us,’ Barry said in a stage whisper.

‘These days, the warning lamps are automatic, using solar-powered batteries, so there’s no need for a keeper, but the living space is still there,’ Arnold said. ‘The rooms are wedge-shaped, most of them, smaller than the dormitory you’re used to, but they will actually provide more privacy.’

‘I don’t think I’m hearing this,’ Vincent said in a low voice.

‘There are kitchen facilities,’ Arnold went on, warming to his theme and sounding awfully like an estate agent, ‘and a telegraph room that we can convert to the chapel. The building isn’t just a glorified cylinder, you see. There’s a keeper’s house attached and most of our communal activities would take place in there.’

‘Where exactly is it?’ I asked.

‘Off the northwest coast of Scotland.’

‘Off the coast?’

‘It’s a lighthouse, Jeffrey.’

‘Some lighthouses are on land.’

‘This is an island a mile out to sea, a crop of rocks known as the Devil’s Teeth.’

He wasn’t doing much of a selling job to a bunch of London monks. ‘So it’s built on solid rock?’ I said. ‘Isn’t there a garden?’

‘That’s one thing it does lack,’ Arnold admitted.

I was speechless.

‘When you say “kitchen facilities”,’ Barry said, ‘can I run a double oven and two hobs, as I have at present?’

‘I believe there’s a Primus stove.’

‘I don’t believe this.’

‘Where will I do my restoration work?’ Vincent asked. ‘I need a north-facing light.’

‘Top floor, in the lamp room,’ Barry unkindly said.

But there was no question that Father Arnold was serious. ‘Brothers, we must be flexible in our thinking. It can only do us good to adjust to a new environment. Try to come to terms with the concept before we discuss your individual needs.’

We had curry as usual on Friday. Brother Barry’s curries were notable more for their intensity than their flavour, so nothing was unusual when Father Arnold gasped and reached for the water jug. We always drank more on curry night. We smiled and nodded fraternally when he complained of a severe burning sensation in the mouth and throat, extending to his stomach. There was more concern when he retched and ran from the table.

Four hours later our Father Superior was dead.

Brother Luke, who was with him to the end, could do nothing to reverse his rapid decline. The patient vomited repeatedly, but brought up little. Severe stomach cramps, diarrhoea and convulsions set in. He complained of prickling of the skin and visual impairment. Before the end he became intensely cold and was talking of his veins turning to ice. A sort of paralysis took over. His facial muscles tightened and his pulse weakened, but his brain remained active until the moment of death.

You will have gathered from my description that Luke gave us a full account next morning of Arnold’s last hours. A chastened group of us discussed the tragedy after morning prayers.

Barry insisted it couldn’t have been the curry. ‘It must have been the same virus that killed poor Father Ambrose.’

‘Again?’ Michael said. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Why not?’ I said. ‘The symptoms were similar.’

Michael gave me the sort of look you get from a dentist when you insist you brush after every meal.

Then Luke said, ‘I must admit, my confidence is shaken. I’ve never come across a viral condition quite like this. In fact, I’m thinking I should report it to the Department of Health in case it’s a new strain.’

‘Before you do,’ Michael said, ‘let’s consider the other option — that he was poisoned.’

I raised my hand to dissuade him. ‘Michael, you and I went over this before. Speculation such as that will damage our community.’

‘It’s damaged already,’ he said. ‘Aren’t two violent deaths in six months serious damage? I was silent before, at your suggestion, but this has altered everything. We know for a fact that a poisonous substance is stored here.’

‘What’s that?’ Barry said.

‘Orpiment. The pigment Vincent uses is two-thirds pure arsenic.’

‘Vincent?’

All eyes turned to our scribe.

Michael added, ‘It doesn’t mean Vincent administered the stuff. Any one of us could have collected some from his studio or my shelves. I don’t keep the store locked.’

‘And used it to murder Ambrose and Arnold? That’s unthinkable,’ Barry said.

‘Well, maybe you can think of some other way it got added to the curry you serve,’ Michael said, well aware how the words would wound Barry. He wasn’t blessed with much tact.

While Barry struggled with that, Luke asked, ‘What possible reason could anyone have for murdering Father Arnold?’

‘Come on,’ Michael said. ‘Just like Ambrose, he was about to uproot us. None of us wants to see out his days on a lump of rock in the Atlantic Ocean.’

‘So there was motive, means and opportunity, the three preconditions for murder.’ A look of profound relief dawned on Luke’s features. As our physician, he was no longer personally responsible for failing to contain a deadly virus. ‘You must be right. I’m beginning to think we can deal with this among ourselves.’

‘What — a double murder?’ Michael piped up in disbelief.

‘We don’t want a police investigation and the press all over us.’

I added in support, ‘They’ll want to dig up Father Ambrose for sure. Let him rest in peace.’

Barry agreed. ‘No one wants that.’

Michael, in a minority of one, was horrified. ‘We’d be shielding a killer. We’re men of God.’

‘And He is our Judge,’ Luke said. ‘If we are making a mistake, He will tell us. Shall we say a prayer?’

This was the moment when we all became aware that Luke, as the senior monk, was the obvious choice to be elected our new Father Superior. Even Michael bit his lip and bowed his head.

I dug another grave and we buried poor Father Arnold with the others at the edge of the meadow next morning. None of us asked what Luke had written on the death certificate. He was now our spiritual leader and it wasn’t appropriate to enquire. I constructed the cross and positioned it at the head of the grave.

The lighthouse wasn’t mentioned again. Father Luke had more sense. He wasn’t quite as paternalistic as some of his predecessors. He believed in consulting us as well as the Lord and we left him in no doubt that we wanted to remain where we were, in our beloved monastery in the heart of London. Life returned to normal. I managed my meadow and kept the graves tidy. Vincent worked on his psalter. Barry kept us fed. Michael ran the store with efficiency and ordered our supplies online.

It came as a surprise to me one afternoon in January when I was in my shed wrapped in a quilt, indulging in my post-prandial contemplation, to be disturbed by a rapping at the door. Michael was there, hood up, arms folded, looking anything but fraternal.

‘Is something up?’ I asked, rubbing my eyes.

‘You could put it that way,’ he said. ‘The Father Superior wants to see you in his office.’

‘Now?’

‘He’s waiting.’

The office was in the attic at the top of our building. Michael escorted me and said not another word as we went up the three flights of stairs.

Father Luke’s door stood open. He really was waiting, seated behind his desk, hands clasped, but more in an attitude of power than prayer. ‘Come in, both of you,’ he said.

There wasn’t room for chairs, so we stood like schoolboys up before the head.

‘This won’t be easy,’ Father Luke said. ‘It’s about the deaths of Father Ambrose and Father Arnold. Michael has informed me, Jeffrey, that he spoke to you after Ambrose died, about the possibility that he was poisoned with arsenic.’

I said, ‘I think we all agree that he was.’

Michael said, ‘But at the time you told me to keep my suspicions to myself.’

Now I understood what this was about: a blame session. I’d never felt comfortable with Michael, but I hadn’t taken him for a sneak. ‘That’s true,’ I said. ‘It was the first time anyone had suggested such a thing and it was certain to cause friction and alarm in our community.’

‘Go on,’ Father Luke said to Michael. ‘Tell Jeffrey what you told me.’

Michael seemed to be driving this and enjoying it, too. ‘When I took over as procurer, I gained access to the computer and this enabled me to confirm my theory about the orpiment. It is, indeed, a pigment made of sulphide of arsenic that was used by monks in medieval and Renaissance times to illuminate manuscripts.’

I couldn’t resist saying, ‘Clever old you!’

Father Luke raised his hand. ‘Listen to this, Jeffrey.’

Michael went on, ‘However, when I searched the internet for information about the effects of acute arsenic poisoning, some of the symptoms Father Luke reported didn’t seem to fit. Typically, there’s burning in the mouth and severe gastroenteritis, vomiting and diarrhoea — all of which were present — but the second phase of symptoms, the prickling of the skin and visual impairment, the signs of paralysis in the face and body, aren’t associated with arsenic.’

Father Luke said, ‘Symptoms very evident in Ambrose and Arnold.’

Michael said, ‘It made me ask myself if some other poison had been used, something that induces paralysis. I made another search and was directed away from mineral poisons to poisonous plants.’

I was silent. Already I could see where this was going.

‘And eventually,’ Michael continued in his self-congratulatory way, ‘I settled on a tall, elegant, purple plant known, rather unkindly, as monkshood, the source of the poison aconite. Every part from leaf to root is deadly. After the first violent effects of gastroenteritis, a numbing effect spreads through the body, producing a feeling of extreme cold, and paralysis sets in. The breathing quickens and then slows dramatically and all the time the victim is in severe pain, but conscious to the end.’

‘Precisely what I observed,’ Luke said, ‘and twice over.’

‘This proved nothing without the presence of aconite in the monastery,’ Michael said. ‘There are photos and diagrams of the monkshood plant on the internet, so I knew what to look for and where best to search. It prefers shady, moist places. I spent several afternoons while you were taking your nap checking along the edges of the meadow where the water drains, close to the wall. Of course you hacked the tall stems down, so the plants weren’t easy to locate, but eventually I found your little crop. The spiky, hand-shaped leaves are very distinctive. Some of the ripe follicles still contained seeds. Are you going to admit to using it, adding it to the curry?’

Father Luke said, ‘The Lord is listening, Jeffrey.’

I didn’t hesitate long. I’m not a good liar. I hope I’m not a liar at all. If you read this account of what happened, you’ll see that I always spoke the truth, even if I didn’t always volunteer it. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I used some root, chopped small. I made sure I was sitting beside our Father Superior when he spoke the grace. Then I sprinkled the bits over the curry. I couldn’t face life without my beautiful meadow.’

‘So you took the lives of two good men,’ Michael said to shame me.

Our Father Superior shook his head sadly. ‘Now I’ll have to notify the police.’

I said, ‘I’ll save you the trouble.’ I walked to the window, unfastened it and started to climb out.

‘No, Jeffrey!’ Father Luke shouted to me. ‘That’s a mortal sin.’

But he was too slow to stop me.

I was indifferent to his plea. I’d already committed one of the mortal sins twice over. Here on the roof I was at least fifty feet above ground. Below me was a paved area. When I jumped, I was unlikely to survive. If I had the courage to dive, I would surely succeed in killing myself.

With my feet on the steep-pitched tiles, I edged around the dormer to a place where no one could lean out and grab me. Then I climbed higher, intending to launch myself off the gable end.

Father Luke was at the open window, shouting that this wasn’t the way, but I begged to differ.

Up there under an azure sky, on the highest point of the roof, I was treated to a bird’s eye view of my meadow and if it was the last thing I ever saw I would be content. Glittering from the overnight frost, the patterns of my August cut were clearly visible like fish scales, revealing a beauty I hadn’t ever observed from ground level. This, I thought, is worth dying for.

I reached the gable end and sat astride the ridge without much dignity, collecting my breath and getting up courage. A controlled dive would definitely be best. I needed to stand with my arms above my head and pitch forward.

I grasped the lightning conductor at the end and raised myself to a standing position.

And then I heard a voice saying, ‘Jeffrey, don’t do it.’

For a moment, teetering there on the rooftop, I thought the Lord had spoken to me. Then I realised the voice had not come from above. It was from way below, on the ground. Brother Barry was standing in the vegetable patch with his hands cupped to his mouth.

I called back to him. ‘I’m a wicked sinner, a double murderer.’

‘That’s not good,’ he called back, ‘but killing yourself will only make things worse.’

I told Barry, ‘I don’t want to live. The police are coming and I can’t bear to be parted from my meadow.’

He shouted, ‘You’ll get a life sentence. It’s not as bad as you think, believe me. You’ll share a cell with someone, but what’s different about that? The food is better, even if I say it myself. And with good behaviour you’ll be sent to a Category C prison where they’ll be really glad of your gardening experience.’

I was wavering. ‘Do you think so?’

‘I know it.’

What a brother he was to me. I’d never considered the prison option, but Barry had personal experience of it. And he was right. I could pay my debt to society and make myself useful as well. Persuaded, I bent my knees, felt for the lightning conductor and began to climb down.

In the prison where I have been writing this account of my experiences, I am proud of my ‘trusty’ status. Barry was right. I can still lead the spiritual life and I always remember him in my prayers. The governor has put me in charge of the vegetable garden and I have persuaded him to allow me a wildflower section. No monkshood or other poisonous plants, of course. But by May we’ll have an explosion... of colour. And I built my own tool shed. Every afternoon I go in for an hour or so. Even the governor knows better than to disturb me when I’m contemplating.