Read an Excerpt
A Demon Summer
A Max Tudor Novel
By G. M. Malliet St. Martin's Press
Copyright © 2014 G. M. Malliet
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-250-02142-7
CHAPTER 1
ABBESS JUSTINA
The community as a whole shall choose its abbess based on her goodness and not on her rank. May God forbid the community should elect a woman only because she conspires to perpetuate its evil ways.
—The Rule of the Order of the Handmaids of St. Lucy
The bell rang for Matins in the middle of a dream, as it often did. Just as she would enter deep sleep—the scientists had a name for it, she could never recall what—Abbess Justina of Monkbury Abbey would be awakened by the bell. This was seldom a welcome interruption, for Abbess Justina was given to pleasant dreams, more often now dreams of her childhood and young girlhood, dreams in which she would be reunited with her family.
It was just before the hour of four a.m. in June, millennium Domini three.
She rose from her narrow bed and dressed by candlelight, first sluicing cold water over her face. Long habit made short work of putting on her habit. It was a costume whose basic design had not changed much over the centuries: atop her sleep shift of unbleached muslin came a black tunic that fell to the tops of her feet, tied at the waist by a cord, and over that was worn a scapular of deep purple—an apron of sorts that draped from the shoulders, front and back, falling to below the knees. The fabric at her wrists was smocked in a pretty diamond design halfway to the elbow, to keep the voluminous sleeves in check. For all its antique quirkiness, it was a practical garment, suitable for work and contemplation, the fabric handwoven on-site of wool from abbey sheep. On ceremonial occasions and in chapter meetings, she would carry her staff of office with its little bell as a symbol of her authority and her right to lead. Otherwise her garb was identical to that of the women in her care.
Nothing in her costume was made of leather, not even her sandals, just as nothing in her diet came from the flesh of four-footed animals. In summer, out of doors, she wore wooden clogs. Meat was forbidden except in cases of illness, when the Rule of the Order of the Handmaids of St. Lucy allowed it for those recuperating.
The abbess still marveled at herself, at times—that she, such a clotheshorse in civilian life, such a devourer of women's style magazines, given to obsessing over the latest hair products and adornments, had adapted so readily to the habit. Coco Chanel would probably have said the classics never go out of style.
Well, it was difficult to say what Coco might have made of the clogs.
Now Abbess Justina's hair was cut straight across the nape; every few months or so she would wield the scissors herself, chopping away without the aid of a mirror. She wrapped her shorn head tightly in a linen coif, pinned at the crown, a bit like Katharine Hepburn's in A Lion in Winter. Over that was draped a black veil, held in place by a narrow woven circlet meant to represent a crown of thorns. She tied a linen wimple like a baby's bib around her neck. Pinning the coif and attaching the veil took some minutes, the pins stubborn in her swollen fingers. The headgear was worn back from the forehead to allow half an inch of hair to frame the face, the single concession the order had made to modernity. In medieval times a wide starched headband would have sat atop the coif fitted so tightly around face and neck. Truth be told, in those days the headdress might have been adorned with pearls and gemstones, for the nuns of yore had on occasion had a little trouble keeping to their vows of poverty, not to mention chastity and obedience.
Abbess Iris, who had ruled just before Justina, had been the one to decide on the need for a change of habit, modifying the traditional style. The color of the scapular was the major innovation—the deep blue-purple of the iris, as it happened. Of course it all had to be done with the bishop's approval. The poor man had been absolutely flummoxed at having to pronounce on women's fashion. He was shown several sketches, like a magazine editor being presented with the new fall line, and vaguely pronounced any of them suitable. The deep purple he thought a slightly racy departure from the centuries of black but he did not demur.
Dear Abbess Iris. A flamboyant but wise character. Now long gone and buried in the cemetery of Monkbury Abbey.
Pity, thought Abbess Justina, she'd done away with the style that covered much of the head, for it would have hidden the gray hair and jowly neckline that had come as one of the booby prizes of late middle age. But at least the coif and veil still prevented one from looking like a Persian cat as the gray hair gained its ruthless hold, like kudzu. If they'd had to change anything, she thought they might have shortened the skirt length, for she still had strong, shapely legs, the product of a youth spent climbing the Welsh mountains like a billy goat. Nun or no nun, one liked to present a pleasing and vigorous appearance to the world.
Following timeless ritual, Abbess Justina reverently kissed a large wooden cross before draping it round her neck to lie flat against her chest. Around her shoulders she now buttoned a hooded mantle. In choir she would pull the hood over her head, for warmth, and for privacy. It also was wonderful for hiding the expression. A strategic bend of the neck and tuck of the chin and one could be as private as a turtle pulling in its head. These little things, these momentary escapes into solitude, were what made living in a community possible.
Learning how to put all this on without the use of a mirror was one of the biggest challenges of the life. She had yet to see a novice who didn't need extra time in the morning to get all the bits and bobs attached in the right order.
That and mastering the Great Silence. And learning to loosen family ties. And any other number of things that made people wonder why they bothered, these crazy women who chose to live in the middle of nowhere, working and singing and praying. There was no answer to that, but the single-word answer that could be given was Joy. We do it for Joy.
Sometimes she caught a glimpse of herself in the plate-glass window in the kitchen: she liked taking a turn at kitchen duty now and again, even though she was exempt from chores because of her position. It kept her humble. It also gave her access to the thrum of what was really going on in the convent. Interplays and tensions and little personality conflicts that could grow into internecine warfare if not closely watched. Lately there had been undercurrents, of that she was certain. They seemed to date to the time of the earthquake, she thought, registering the irony. That had been a year ago, almost to the day, and measuring just over five on the Richter scale, it had rocked the abbey from side to side in the most terrifying way. For who in England was used to earthquakes?
But the "emotional" undercurrents seemed to be connected with the appointment of the new cellaress, an unpopular choice in some quarters, she knew. The sisters had formed an attachment to Dame Meredith in that role, but of course there was no question of her being able in her weakened condition to carry on that heavy responsibility. And of course forming attachments of any sort had to be discouraged.
There was also some tension surrounding the new novice, although whether she was the cause or the result wasn't clear. She was not adjusting well to the religious life, which was never a completely easy transition for anyone. Posttraumatic stress disorder they called it now. PTSD. And no wonder, given Sister Rose's history. The new postulant, as well—Abbess Justina had serious reservations about the new postulant, Mary Benton. Vocations were so rare nowadays. She supposed it was possible they had, unwittingly, lowered the standards somewhat, allowing Mary to sneak past.
Still, what was clear was this: There was great change afoot at Monkbury Abbey. What was uncertain in Abbess Justina's mind was whether all that change would prove to be for the good.
CHAPTER 2
MAX TUDOR
Most willingly and in all humility shall the followers of St. Lucy heed the voice of authority, avoiding disobedience, which leads to sloth and chaos.
—The Rule of the Order of the Handmaids of St. Lucy
A few weeks after Abbess Justina's reluctant awakening, as the days stretched lazily toward the time of the summer solstice, Max Tudor, the vicar of St. Edwold's Church in Nether Monkslip, also woke early. To be sure it was not nearly so early as the ordained rising time of the abbess and the other nuns at Monkbury Abbey, but Max was still bleary-eyed from last night's tryouts and rehearsals for the Christmas ensemble band, and to him it felt like the crack of dawn. To say the least, the tryouts had not gone well, becoming an occasion for umbrage, hurt feelings, and the occasional stifled sniffle. Max knew he had no one to blame but himself—in the bulletin enlisting participants he had, in a moment of typical good-hearted optimism, specifically stated that all ages and skill levels were welcome to participate.
The results were predictably appalling, but there had been moments of a sort of goofy charm, especially for the parents who had invested heavily in some expensive instrument or other for their offspring. Who knew there were so many nascent trombone players in the small world of Nether Monkslip? Or that cymbals were making such a comeback? Die-hard music lovers found excuses to leave early, but Max was duty-bound to stay, an expression of astonished delight pasted onto his face. Even he, being somewhat tone-deaf, grasped intuitively that this was not the sort of music designed to soothe the savage breast.
Still wondering how he might diplomatically break the news that there might not after all be room for everyone who wished to participate in the band, Max dressed quickly, discovering in the process that his best cassock had not come back from the dry cleaner's, leaving him with a choice between a torn cassock and one with yesterday's egg down the front. As he was to learn later, his housekeeper Mrs. Hooser had forgotten to hand in his order when Fred Farnstable came by to collect the dry cleaning. Fortunately the vestments he wore for the service would cover the spillage, but he'd have to return to the vicarage to change into civilian clothes before starting his morning rounds. He had promised to drop in on Mrs. Arthur at the urging of a social worker from the school in Monkslip-super-Mare, who suspected Mr. Arthur had begun using the children's lunch money to finance his rounds at the local pub.
He made toast and carefully boiled an egg in the vicarage's archaic, stone-floored kitchen. After a quick glance at the headlines (a Shiite group calling itself the "League of the Righteous" was operating is Iraq; one had to admire the staggering humility in the choice of a nom de guerre), he set off along Church Street to take the early service. The day was warm and sunny, with flowers spilling from window boxes wherever he looked, the weather nicely cooperating to lift his mood.
But the morning was not done with him yet. He and the acolyte looked high and low in the St. Edwold's vestry but could not find the gluten-free wafers. Mrs. Penwhistle was allergic to gluten, and as she was a regular at the early service Max always made this concession for her. Finally, Elka Garth at the Cavalier had to be prevailed upon to provide a small loaf of gluten-free bread for Max to bless.
On his return to the vicarage an hour later, he found a note on his desk in Mrs. Hooser's scrawling hand: "Call your Bishop."
Oh, fine, thought Max. The bishop seldom rang unless he had a bone to pick. In fact, he rarely telephoned at all. Which is what made this sudden directive rather alarming. Max considered asking Mrs. Hooser if she knew what the man wanted but was stopped by the utter futility of the idea. Mrs. Hooser's weakness—her refuge, in fact—was that she lived in a state of blissful unawareness: she simply did not notice much of anything that went on around her.
He put the note aside for the moment, in favor of the even more dreaded task of going over the accounting books for St. Edwold's and the two other churches in his care. There was an unexplained spike in expenditures under the "Misc" column. He saw it was for antibacterial wipes and realized it was for the OCD family group that had started meeting at St. Cuthburga's in Middle Monkslip. There were the normal expenses for facial tissues for the Al-Anon meetings, where a certain amount of tearful sentiment was to be expected. Max had always thought it interesting the AA meetings, by way of contrast, went through far fewer tissues.
This minor sort of expense was meant to be offset by donations from the group members themselves, but times were hard and the donations voluntary, so Max had become adept at shoving money from one fund to another to cover the cost. He also had been known to dip into his own pocket when all else failed. He couldn't allow a few pounds to keep anyone from getting the help they needed.
Having exhausted all diversions, and knowing it couldn't be delayed forever, he reached for his phone to call the Bishop of Monkslip.
* * *
A few steps away from the vicarage, Elka Garth worked behind the counter of the Cavalier Tea Room and Garden. Her cotton sweater was smeared with flour and blueberries, and it was buttoned crookedly, possibly because the top button was missing, anyway. She had tied back her hair in a bright paisley scarf to keep it out of her eyes as she worked, and she had made a rare experiment with makeup. With her eyelids dusted with lavender to go with the purples and reds in her scarf, she looked, thought her friend Suzanna, lounging over her second cup of coffee, rather pretty, if in a hectic sort of way. Almost as if she were planning a night on the tiles—which was out of the question, if one knew Elka.
It was too bad she led such a difficult life, keeping the shop and her son alive single-handedly, but the beauty of the woman was that she seldom complained. She just created her glorious pies and biscuits and her marzipan creatures—the tiny owls and geese and hedgehogs and mice lovingly crafted and generally sold online, to be shipped off in their little individual nests of glittery paper—and somehow in this endeavor reality seemed to get pushed aside, to be dealt with on another day. Her current passion was for perfecting a shortbread recipe that incorporated dried lavender flowers.
Elka's young assistant Flora was either contributing to or mitigating the chaos in the kitchen, it was difficult to say. But in any event Flora's apron, unlike her employer's, always was pristine, devoid of flour or batter.
Elka seemed to have a talent for surrounding herself with young people who did not like pulling their own weight, thought Miss Agnes Pitchford, watching the scene with her gimlet-eyed stare. Miss Pitchford, long retired after terrorizing generations of youth in the village school, sat near a window of the shop, reading that day's news and maintaining a running commentary on the inbred foolhardiness of Britain's elected leaders. Miss Pitchford was an anachronism, a throwback to the era of the sedan chair—a living testament to a time when elderly spinsters were borne about in boxes to attend missionary teas and strew their visiting cards about the village. They might make the occasional brief stop to administer relief to the ungrateful poor of the village, but more often their aim was to attend a private Bible exposition or violin solo or some similarly gay and carefree pastime. That they did all this dressed head to toe in draperies and scarves and hats with feathers and netting and hatpins and other impediments to comfort, regardless of the season, was probably a testament to their inner and outer fortitude. England was built upon the steely backbone of such stalwarts as Miss Pitchford and her kind.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from A Demon Summer by G. M. Malliet. Copyright © 2014 G. M. Malliet. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
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