Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine 12/01/12 Read online

  "Sorry to hear that. But I wouldn't worry too much. Most of the careless hunters are new to the sport. Trying it for a lark. They get discouraged pretty fast and give it up. You might advise the monks to stick to the front side of the monastery during hunting season. I saw one of the monks walking about back here on my first search. It'd be safer in the front. More open than it is back here, so hunters are less likely to make fatal mistakes."

  "Good advice." Abbot Joseph smiled. "Keeps the monks out of your hair too."

  Scanton stiffened. "Oh, look. I wasn't trying to suggest anything like that. Matter of fact, before I started searching, I asked one of the monks at the monastery if anyone minded my strolling about. He said not, as long as I was quiet and didn't disturb anything."

  "And I'm sure you haven't disturbed anything."

  Scanton frowned again. "No. I haven't."

  "Well," Abbot Joseph said, "please carry on then. I must go inside." He turned and walked toward the monastery. A hotel, he thought. A mountain resort. He resolved to ask Abbot Peter if he knew anything about the building's past.

  "Indeed, the building was once a hotel," Abbot Peter confirmed, as he and Abbot Joseph sat in Abbot Peter's cell. "I believe that it was called The Glen Top Hotel. I know little about it, but that it catered to some pretty privileged and wealthy people. I can hardly imagine a magnificent stone building such as this being built for or affordable to working people." Abbot Peter grimaced. "Of course, we monks now occupy it. And unless, like St. Francis, one is willing to beg, money is still a necessary evil. Hence, our plan to produce facsimiles of illuminated manuscripts."

  "And with the proceeds continue to run a school for kids of all classes, help the homeless, and sell your extra food and bread for good prices."

  "Yes, we do all that, but we are still privileged, aren't we, to live in this wonderful building."

  "I see nothing wrong with beauty, so long as it is put to good use." Abbot Joseph lost himself in thought for a moment. He remembered a monk, back in his own monastery in Arizona, who had loved beautiful objects: loved them because they enhanced his sense of his own grandeur. He had lost his life and, surely, his soul over his obsession.

  Startled, Abbot Joseph came out of his reverie and assured Abbot Peter that he was all right. "But I am afraid that I didn't quite catch what you were saying."

  "Only that there is a historical society downtown in Wilkes-Barre. I am sure that they have materials on the building." Abbot Peter smiled. "And Brother Leo told me how much you like rummaging in archives, so go tomorrow if you wish."

  Abbot Joseph nodded. "Indeed, I do like research, and archives, and books. I should have been very happy on the island of Lindisfarne in Northern England copying the gospels. Of course, I have no talent in painting, but my calligraphy would pass muster, I believe."

  "So the monks you have been teaching tell me. But do return tomorrow in time for evensong. Our monks have been preparing some special hymns for you and Brother Leo, who has been working very hard on his flower beds."

  "While I have spent my time wandering about your beautiful grounds. I did meet someone in the area back of the monastery today. A Mark Scanton. He was searching the grounds with a metal detector."

  "Ah, yes. I have met him. He has found some artifacts from the hotel days." Abbot Peter reached inside his desk, pulled out a cup, and handed it to Abbot Joseph. "He gave me this teacup he found."

  Abbot Joseph took the cup and turned it about in his hands. "Fine china," he said, rubbing a finger down the gleaming white porcelain, then read the gothic lettering inside a delicately ornate bow: "Glen Mountain Hotel."

  "Ah, yes," Abbot Peter said. "Glen Mountain. That is where we are."

  Abbot Joseph cradled the cup. "Quite beautiful," he said. "One can almost see through the porcelain, so fine it is. I shall be most interested in what the Glen Mountain Hotel was like in its day."

  At the historical society a thin young man with a long straight nose and dull gray eyes brought some books and pamphlets out for Abbot Joseph and dumped them on the desk. "There's more," he said. "Want them all now?"

  Abbot Joseph looked down at the mound of material. "I believe this will do for now."

  "You're a priest or something, aren't you?"

  "A monk."

  "A monk. You from that monastery up the mountains?"

  "I am staying there at the moment, yes."

  "So what's your possible interest in the old hotel? Place closed down decades ago."

  Abbot Joseph felt a flare of annoyance and a sharp remark readied in his mind. He rejected it and decided on neutrality. "Nothing important."

  The young man stood by silently for a moment.

  Abbot Joseph drew the top book to himself.

  "So you're not looking for something in particular?"

  The resolve on neutrality faded away. "Is there something in particular I should be looking for?"

  The young man turned and walked back to his desk.

  Abbot Joseph watched his hunched back, then opened the book. He spent the next hour reading and studying pictures. Occasionally, he looked up to find the young man staring at him. Occasionally, Abbot Joseph smiled. The young man lowered his eyes.

  Abbot Joseph examined the pictures of the hotel's occupants. Men in tailored suits; women with feathered hats and heavy necklaces draped over lace blouses, some with furs draped over their shoulders, the eyes of the dead creatures shining; little girls with bows in their hair; little boys in suits, mocking the camera with tongues sticking a little out, lips drawn down or eyes opened as wide as possible. Abbot Joseph chuckled.

  The pictures were of tennis games, garden parties, hunting parties.

  Indeed, this had been no hotel for the working-class. Built in 1883, with money from the Reading and Lehigh Railroads, the Glen Mountain Hotel had brought up its clients from Philadelphia. Their names, listed below the pictures, were not unfamiliar to anyone who had ever had an interest in railroads, as Abbot Joseph once had: Gowen, Jessop, Blair. Abbot Joseph doubted that any of the clients had ever left the mountaintop to go into Wilkes-Barre below or ever took a carriage ride into the small coal towns where the miners and their families barely eked out a living.

  Abbot Joseph turned a page and studied the next picture. This group of people was clearly not from moneyed families. The women, hatless, wore dark blouses and skirts; the men wore suits, but hardly the tailored suits of the guests. This was the working staff. Not warranting names, the employees were identified merely as staff.

  Abbot Joseph felt that slow creep of alarm, arising from some primeval instinct. He turned to find the young man staring over his shoulder.

  "Workers," the young man said. "Probably Italians and Poles. Most of them weren't allowed too near the guests. The guests had their own personal servants. Italians and Poles weren't acceptable, except as cleaning staff or cooks or maintenance people, maybe as food servers when needed. They wouldn't have been allowed to stay at the hotel either. No Catholics." The young man laughed, mirthlessly. "Bigots."

  "So you have some knowledge about the hotel?"

  The young man shrugged. "I read too." He laughed again. "Bet the place is full of the ghosts of the guests, howling at the very idea of monks in their rooms."

  "So," Abbot Joseph said, "what's your interest in the place?"

  The young man looked sullen. "No interest. It gets pretty boring around here. So I sometimes read the books before I reshelve them. I try to guess why people are interested in particular topics. Like you. I'm guessing you maybe found some old artifact up there and got curious. Right?"

  "Are there artifacts to be found?"

  "How would I know?" The young man walked back to his desk.

  Abbot Joseph squinted and read the name on the desk. George Serini. No, Abbot Joseph thought. Mr. Serini didn't just read about the hotel. He knows about it. In a personal way, a way that has made him angry. Some family stories, Abbot Joseph guessed. Maybe resurfacing with the revival of the
building. Scanton had mentioned recent articles about the old place. Abbot Joseph made a mental note to look them up.

  He drew more books toward himself and looked up the name Serini in the indexes. Nothing.

  He pushed the books aside and reached for the newspaper clippings and pamphlets. He flipped through them quickly, then stopped at one of them. "Diamond ring missing at Glen Mountain Hotel."

  "We will be closing in fifteen minutes," a woman whispered. "We'll need to start collecting materials shortly."

  Abbot Joseph stared at the headline, then consulted his watch. "I hadn't realized it was near five," he said. He closed the file folder of news clippings with reluctance. "I had better leave now. Can this material be put aside for me? I'll return tomorrow."

  "Yes, of course." She pulled pen and paper from a pocket. "Just write your name on this slip of paper."

  Abbot Joseph did so.

  He found it hard to concentrate on evensong, beautiful though the singing was. He found it hard to sleep as well. Scanton had said that he had found a ring, but one of little value. Was it, in fact, the missing diamond ring that Scanton had found? If so, why was he still looking? Did he think that more valuable articles were waiting to be found? Or had the missing diamonds been recovered many years ago? Abbot Joseph tossed about in his bed. He glanced at his clock. Four thirty A.M. He wondered what time the historical society opened. Why hadn't he thought to ask. Surely they would be open by ten. He would get there by that time.

  The woman who had taken his name yesterday brought him the file folder of clippings. The young man was nowhere in sight.

  Abbot Joseph asked about him.

  "Lawrence has taken the day off," the woman said.

  Abbot Joseph settled down to the clippings. He plowed his way through pictures of tennis parties, card games, picnics with butlers and white table- cloths, costume parties, and other events by which the rich entertained themselves.

  Finally, he came to a picture of a garden party: ladies in boas, large hats, and jewelry, enjoying tea, served by women in blue uniforms. A second picture had a fuzzy close-up of a woman's hand, adorned by a large diamond ring. The article accompanying the picture told the story of the ring, apparently lost sometime at this party, or, the article implied, somehow stolen by one of the serving women. The ring had never been found. This time, the serving staff warranted names, among them a Louisa Sereni. It was apparently the woman whom Louisa had served who had lost her diamond. Louisa had come under suspicion of having found and pocketed the ring. She had been fired.

  Sad story, isn't it?" The librarian, balancing some books in her arms, looked down at the newspaper.

  "Indeed."

  "She committed suicide, you know."

  "Louisa Sereni?"

  "Yes. She couldn't get another job. She became, well, disturbed, let's say. Left a daughter behind."

  "You seem to know a good deal about the case."

  The woman nodded. "The daughter was Lawrence's mother. You know, the young man who works here."

  "Does he know about his grandmother?"

  "Oh, yes. His mother told him everything. Lawrence told me he used to go up to the place and walk around. I think it was painful to Lawrence just to see the place getting some publicity when the monks moved in. Afraid the old story might surface again." She shifted the books. "I'd better get these reshelved."

  Abbot Joseph turned back to the paper and studied the servers, among whom, he thought, squinting at the fuzzy pictures, was a woman who resembled the young man who had taken the day off.

  Abbot Joseph sat back. So this explained the young man's bitterness about the hotel. Abbot Joseph leaned over the picture again, studying the setting. The party had taken place in the back of the hotel, the grounds a maze of flower beds and fountains of water. If the owner of the ring had taken it off for some reason, put it down, and not noticed that it had fallen from the table, it could easily have been accidently kicked into one of the fountains or trampled into the soil.

  Abbot Joseph thought about the ring Scanton had found. Not valuable? Perhaps not. People were always losing rings, cufflinks, change. It was understandable that Scanton pursued his hobby there. But none of this, of course, explained the shot fired at Brother Leo or the disturbance of the flower bed. Or did it? Was Lawrence the culprit? Angry and bitter? Was Scanton the culprit? Maybe he had found the missing diamond and didn't want anyone to know. Or maybe he feared that Brother Leo, in the process of digging, would find it. But Brother Leo had been in the front of the monastery when the shot had been fired.

  Abbot Joseph sighed. Perhaps, after all, the shot had been fired by a careless hunter who had also trampled through the flower bed.

  Whoever the culprit was, his identity would have to wait. Abbot Joseph needed to get back to the monastery. He had promised the artist monks that after lunch services he would talk more about illuminated manuscripts today.

  "Birds," Abbot Joseph explained, "in Christian art were used as symbols of the soul, the spiritual, because they were able to lift themselves up from the earth, the material. You will sometimes also see bees in the margins of medieval illuminated manuscripts. The bee represented diligence, order, and work. Pretty obvious why."

  He explained a few more animal symbols, then noticed one of monks in front of him drawing a bee. He decided it was time to move on to the flowers.

  "Laurel," Abbot Joseph explained, "symbolized eternity to the medieval mind. "Possibly," he said, "because in ancient times, laurel wreaths were placed on the heads of victors in contests. So the laurel came to mean triumph, and for the Christians, that meant achieving eternity with God. Of course, laurel leaves never wilt. So that, too, makes them an appropriate symbol for eternity." Abbot Joseph smiled. "I needn't show you a picture of laurel. You've got magnificent mountain laurel bushes surrounding the monastery. You have holly, too, and that symbolized, with its thorny leaves, Christ's crown of thorns. You all know the symbolism of the lily and, no doubt, the rose."

  The four monks in front of him nodded.

  "And olives symbolize peace."

  "The olive branch, of course," one of the monks said. "But why the olive and its branch for peace?"

  "Well," Abbot Joseph said, "I've read that the olive requires a very stable environment to flourish. So perhaps, that's why. But," he admitted, "I can't testify to the truth of that. Brother Leo could certainly tell you."

  "Speaking of Brother Leo," one of the monks said. "I believe that he wanted some help in his new flower beds. He planted some flowers this morning in back of the monastery and wanted to complete the bed before dark. Perhaps we should all help him."

  Abbot Joseph smiled. Even the most intelligent of his students back in his college teaching days had not been able to produce so smooth and gentle a hint that the lecture had gone on for long enough. "Of course," Abbot Joseph said. "I'm sure we could all use a little fresh air."

  The rustle of the papers as the monks gathered together their notebooks and pens transported Abbot Joseph again back to his teaching days, lecturing on the poetry of Gerard Manley Hopkins, George Herbert, and others. How he had loved it. Being an abbot had its pleasures, too, but administrative duties could prove deadening. He realized how much he was enjoying his stay in this eastern mountain monastery.

  Outside the door of the lecture room, Abbot Joseph and the four artist monks were about to head toward the back entrance when Brother Leo burst through the door.

  "It has happened again," he said, distraught. He ran his hands through his grayish brown hair, standing it up on end.

  "Were you shot at again?" one of the monks asked in horror.

  "No, no. Not that."

  Abbot Joseph put a hand on Brother Leo's shoulder. "Tell us exactly what happened."

  "The flower beds I planted this morning. Just this morning. My poor flowers. Someone has trampled them again."

  "Brother Anselm," Abbot Joseph said. "Perhaps you would kindly take Brother Leo into the kitchen. I think a nice
glass of wine would help. And Brother Stephen, please go tell Abbot Peter what has happened. Brother George, take all the notebooks back into the library. Brother Michael, please accompany me outside."

  Three of the monks dispersed to their tasks. Abbot Joseph and Brother Michael headed outside. The sun was still fairly high in the sky, but its slanting rays had elongated the shadows of the trees, creating a crisscross pattern over the fields. From where they stood, Abbot Joseph and Brother Michael could see the flower beds. The plants had been yanked out of their places and strewn about.

  "This is no careless hunter," Abbot Joseph said. "Someone has deliberately destroyed Brother Leo's beds. We must tell Abbot Peter to call the police."

  They were about to turn back into the monastery when Brother Michael grabbed Abbot Joseph's arm. "Look," he whispered, pointing to the edge of the woods.

  A dark figure had emerged: a monk.

  "Who could it be?" Brother Michael asked. "No one, except Brother Leo, would be out at this time."

  Abbot Joseph stared, then shoved Brother Michael against the monastery wall. "Get down," he ordered, dropping to the ground. He pulled Brother Michael down beside him.

  "What is it? What is it?" Brother Michael's voice was hoarse.

  "I'm not sure. What is the monk carrying? Can you tell?"

  "I don't know."

  "By his side," Abbot Joseph said.

  "There is someone else." Brother Michael pointed to the woods directly across from where the monk stood.

  "I know who that is," Abbot Joseph said. Suddenly, he realized what was going to happen. He jumped up and shouted, just as the shot rang out.

  The figure Brother Michael had pointed to dropped to the ground.

  "Go inside," Abbot Joseph said. "Get help. Call an ambulance. But keep down."

  Abbot Joseph scrambled along the wall of the monastery. He kept an eye on the monk who was moving slowly from tree to tree toward the fallen figure.

  Abbot Joseph paused, looked about, then crawled, as fast and as low as he could, toward the edge of the wood. Now and then, he stopped to check where the monk was.