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boyfriend, Piers Montague, is with her at the abbey now, although he was not among the guests when Lord Lislelivet carried off the tainted fruitcake. The boyfriend is a photographer specializing in gloomy portraits of ruined monasteries.”
    â€œIs there any other kind?” asked Max.
    â€œNo, I see your point. Not in England, at any rate. They always look so depressing, don’t they, those images? But in a beautiful way.
    â€œAnd then there is himself, Ralph Perceval, the Fifteenth Earl of Lislelivet. A walking advertisement for the sound thinking behind the French Revolution, if you ask me, however much we may despair of their extreme methods. He does not appear to have the same investment of money or reputation in the situation as do the others. What reputation? I hear you ask. But still, what his wife thinks is that he is there on a treasure hunt.”
    â€œCome again?”
    â€œA treasure hunt. It has been rumored that something is buried in the abbey precincts, something of incalculable value. Something Holy Grail-ish. There’s some book just come out that’s sparked a renewed interest. The nuns will have their hands full as it is, dealing with the fortune hunters flocking to their gates. Combine that with poisoned fruitcake and missing charitable donations, and they’ve got a perfect storm of trouble.”
    â€œHoly Grail?” Max repeated. “You are kidding me, right?” It was so—what? So feudal, so archaic. Max could almost feel the centuries begin to dissolve around him. The electric candles in the vicarage seemed to shape-shift into rushlights as he stood incongruously clutching a telephone, his spare modern garb transformed into the long folds of a cleric of the middle ages.
    Cotton had the grace to keep silent while Max turned everything over in his mind. Or perhaps Cotton was busy reading a report on his computer. He was the ultimate multitasker.
    Finally Cotton said, “So, when can you get there? Time really is of the essence, Max.”
    Max Tudor sighed. He supposed the peace and quiet of the abbey might at least give him an idea for his sermon.
    â€œAs soon as I can pack a few things and find someone to cover for me here. I really do need to work on my sermon. More importantly, there’s someone I must visit in hospital. It can’t be put off.”
    His parishioner Chrissa Baker, who had resisted all sane advice and stayed with her abusive husband, had finally fulfilled one of the predictions as to her likely fate and landed in hospital with a broken jaw. Injuries suffered at her husband’s hands, of course. Max was going to bring all his persuasiveness to bear to get her to leave him. He’d already arranged a flat for her to stay for a month and was working on finding her a job in Staincross Minster.
    â€œAll right,” said Cotton. “Bring enough clothing for about three days. You can leave the laptop behind, assuming you have one. This lot is strictly of the parchment-and-quill school of sermon writing.”
    As the “Zed” key on the vicarage computer was currently stuck, Max thought there might be compensations. The malfunction had played havoc with last week’s sermon, which in keeping with the Law of Sod had been about the prophets Ezekiel and Zechariah.
    â€œOh, and Max?”
    â€œHmm?”
    â€œThanks. I owe you a beer.”
    â€œYou owe me a hefty donation to the widows-and-orphans fund.”
    â€œDone. Gladly. I’ll write a cheque tonight.” This was what Cotton liked about Max. He wasn’t above a dab of genteel extortion in a good cause.
    â€œAnd you could come to Morning Prayer once in a while. It wouldn’t kill you.”
    â€œIt might, when the roof of St. Edwold’s caved in on me,” said Cotton.

 
    Chapter 5
    THE PORTRESS
    The portress should be a wise old woman not given to roaming about.
    â€”The Rule of the Order of the Handmaids of St. Lucy
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