Blood on the Shrine Read online

  BLOOD ON THE SHRINE

  By Chris O’Donoghue

  A DI Sonny Russell mystery

  First published in 2018 by Boghopper Books

  Copyright © Chris O’Donoghue 2018

  The right of Chris O’Donoghue to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright Design and Patents Act 1998

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval system, in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher,nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or over other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A catalogue record of this book is available from

  The British Library

  ISBN 978-1-91069-378-0

  Typesetting in Minion Pro by Edward Sturgeon

  Cover Illustration © Paul Harwood

  “Every man at the bottom of his heart believes

  that he is a born detective.”

  John Buchan

  “Do you find it easy to get drunk on words?”

  “So easy that, to tell you the truth, I am seldom perfectly sober.”

  Dorothy L Sayers – Gaudy Nights

  My thanks go to my wife and soulmate, Greer, for her continuing support and expertise in editing my manuscript and to Paul Harwood for the great job he has done in designing the cover of the book.

  Chapter 1

  Shrine - a holy or sacred place that is dedicated to a specific deity or similar figure of awe and respect in which they are venerated or worshipped.

  THE ROBED figure was seated bolt upright on the meditation cushion. He was perfectly still, a thick grey blanket swaddling his body from his neck downwards. Candlelight reflected off his shaven head; his eyes were closed, his face impassive. All was serene, except… for a scarlet trickle that ran from his exposed neck, flooding into the coarse material, turning the dark fabric darker.

  -0-

  ‘I’m not sure this is a good idea,’ Russell mumbled to himself as he peered through the windscreen of his car at the large flakes of snow, lazily falling. ‘Either travelling in this weather…or the destination,’ he added gloomily.

  Detective Inspector Sonny Russell was driving across the county to a Buddhist retreat centre. It had been an unusually mild winter but spring was taking its time in getting going. He had set off from his railway carriage home near Collinghurst in brilliant sunshine. That was more than an hour before. Gradually, as he drove through the country lanes, the sky had darkened, the cloud cover had thickened and, surprisingly, snow had begun falling. At first it was just a light swirling mist but now it was coming down as if it meant business.

  ‘I wonder how much further it is?’ he said out loud, bringing the car to halt at the side of the road. He peered at the map, folded on the passenger seat. ‘What was the name of that last village I passed through? Ah, Buxted.’ He ran a finger along the map, tracing the route. ‘Got it! Looks like I’m nearly there. If I continue along this road… for about half a mile…then turn right up Chillies Lane - strange name - it’s about a mile further on.’

  The flakes were becoming thicker and the light was going from the sky. Russell switched on the headlights, creating twin cones of twisting white. The snow was settling on the Tarmacked surface of Chillies Lane, indicating that his was the first vehicle to pass this way since it had started falling. ‘Too late to turn back. Have to press on. Must be nearly there.’ He leaned forward over the steering wheel, rubbed a circle in the condensation that was forming on the screen and peered myopically forward. ‘Have to look out for the sign, SHAMBHALA, whatever that means.’

  Visibility was down to a few feet. He was keeping the car moving slowly, fearful of driving off the road. Suddenly a large white sign with black lettering appeared on the right. Russell turned the wheel, the car crabbed sideways and slithered to a halt in front of a large brick house. He sat back in his seat and exhaled loudly. ‘Phew! Made it. Right, let’s see what I’ve let myself in for.’

  -0-

  It had been Superintendent Vic Stout’s idea. Russell had been sitting in his boss’s office discussing the last big case they had handled. Three Waffen-SS officers had been brutally murdered by a pair of vengeful German brothers named Müller. One of them, Ludwig, was in custody, awaiting sentence, while the other, Wolfgang, was still at large. It had been a challenging and exhausting case. Partway through Russell had been suspended and Weeks, his DC, kidnapped. He had been lucky to escape with his life. By way of a ‘reward’ Stout was sending Russell away for a break. He was aware of the Inspector’s interest in eastern philosophy, discovered when he was serving in Asia during the war, and that he had developed a curiosity about Buddhism. Stout knew just the place to send him.

  ‘I think you could do with a couple of days of peace and tranquillity,’ he said. Russell was suspicious. It wasn’t like his boss to be so generous. ‘You need to get away, somewhere peaceful, where you can leave your police work behind. I’ve had a splendid idea!’ This conversation had taken place in the summer of the previous year. Instead of getting away then, Russell had been given more than enough work to keep him busy for the next nine months. So, it wasn’t until early spring that he could take up the Super’s dubious ‘reward’.

  Before he left Stout shook his hand and wished his DI a good break. But as Russell left his office and closed the door behind him, the Superintendent muttered under his breath: ‘Yeah, enjoy yourself, with all the other misfits!’

  -0-

  ‘Do you think he’s all right?’ Sanghaketu asked anxiously, peering round the door to the shrine room. The speaker, robed in maroon, looked to be in his mid-twenties or early forties – it was difficult to tell. His domed head was neatly shaved and the skin on his face was smooth, almost without a wrinkle. His cornflower-blue eyes were clear and sparkled in the candlelight.

  ‘I don’t know. How long has he been there?’ Vidyatara replied. He too was dressed in maroon. Also shaven headed, he looked all of his 60 years. His skin was drawn back across his skull, accentuating his high cheekbones and sunken eye sockets. He had the look of a man who’d had a life in the outside world before joining the order. They were half of the four-man team that lived at the centre and looked after the retreatants.

  ‘He was there when I came to do my practice after lunch. I think he’s been sitting since then.’

  ‘Should we be worried?’ A shadow passed across Vidyatara’s face.

  ‘I’m not sure… He’s a very experienced meditator.’

  ‘But he’s been sitting an awfully long time. What time is it now?’

  Sanghaketu pulled back the cuff of his robe to reveal an old wristwatch almost unreadable through a heavily scarred glass. ‘Umm, Just after five.’

  ‘Perhaps give him another hour then.’

  ‘Very well, I will go back and look again.’

  Vidyatara took a deep breath, then exhaled noisily. ‘Anyway, I think someone has just turned up for the retreat. I suspect they may be the last as the snow is starting to settle. Let us go and meet whoever it is.’

  -0-

  Booked for the weekend meditation retreat, Russell was looking forward to it. Unusually for a policeman he was a vegetarian of many years standing and with his interest in Eastern philosophy he was intrigued to see how those, far more committed to an alternative lifestyle, lived. The Shambhala retreat centre had been set up initially to provide a refuge for monks fleeing the Chinese invasion of Tibet in October 1950. The benefactor was Gareth Temple, an English barrister, who had a deep interest in Mahayana Buddhism and had written several books on the subject. In the 1930s he had travelled
extensively in Tibet, living among the people. He so loved the country that he wanted to help the exiles as much as possible.

  The building that Shambhala occupied had been built in the 1880s as a vicarage with schoolroom attached. It was a substantial brick structure, pleasing to look at, with decorative pegtiles on the upper elevations and ornate bargeboards on the gable ends. When the barrister had bought it, just after the war, it was in a rundown condition. But, with a cash injection and the labour of enthusiastic exiled monks, it had been turned into a refuge for them as well as a retreat centre for lay people who had an interest in Tibetan Buddhism. The donations from a steady stream of retreatants had provided a useful income.

  The upper floor of the main house had been converted into dormitory rooms, and downstairs there was a kitchen, dining room and two lounges. An attached cottage provided accommodation for the four resident monks and the annexe, where the village children had been taught, became the shrine room where meditation took place. This had a raised dais at one end with a life-sized image of the Buddha in gleaming gold. Fresh flowers and candles added to the calm and welcoming atmosphere. A mound of circular cushions was piled neatly on the floor and two piles of folded blankets were lined along the wall, ready for use by the meditators.

  -0-

  Russell was greeted at the front door by the two monks who smiled warmly. Each clasped his hands together and bowed to the visitor. ‘Welcome to Shambhala.’ Sanghaketu said. ‘I do hope you have had a good journey.’ His voice was light with a distinct accent.

  Russell stamped the snow off his shoes. ‘Not bad thanks, until the last half hour, when the snow started.’

  ‘Have you come far?’ Vidyatara asked. His voice was more guttural, each word carefully enunciated.

  ‘From Collinghurst, on the other side of the county. About an hour and half away. Are there many of us?’

  The two monks exchanged a glance. Vidyatara spoke. ‘We were expecting 15 or 16 but as the weather seems to be getting worse I think it could be only 12.’

  ‘Oh.’ Russell raised his eyebrows. ‘Is that a problem?’

  Sanghaketu chuckled. ‘No. One or one hundred, it does not matter. All that counts is the intent,’ he said enigmatically.

  Vidyatara picked up a clipboard from a side table. ‘Could I have your name, please?’

  ‘Of course,’ he smiled, ‘I’m Sonny Russell.’

  ‘Thank you.’ The monk peered at the sheet on the clipboard then underlined a name. ‘Ah. The policeman,’ he said, knowingly.

  Russell nodded and smiled. ‘Perhaps best if you don’t mention it to the others.’

  ‘I understand. Now, please come with me and I will show you to your room.’ He inclined his head to Sanghaketu, who set off along the corridor, then led the way to the bottom of the staircase. ‘Please would you take off your shoes?’

  ‘Oh, of course.’ Russell bent and untied his laces. ‘Is this part of your religion?’

  Vidyatara smiled. ‘No. We have just had a new carpet fitted.’ He led the way up the staircase. Russell followed and soon they were on a landing with several doors opening off it. The monk showed him into a room that contained four single beds, with a small cupboard next to each one. ‘This is where you will sleep,’ he said. ‘You will be sharing with another man.’ He looked down at his clipboard.’ His name is Laurie. You will meet him later.’

  ‘What about the other two beds?’ Russell asked.

  ‘I doubt the others will make it in this weather.’ Russell walked over to the window. The snow was falling heavily now. The light was almost gone but he could just make out the grounds, fast disappearing under a quilt of white. ‘Supper will be in half an hour. We will ring a bell. The bathroom is at the end of the corridor.’ Vidyatara bowed and backed out of the room.

  When he had gone, Russell looked round the room. It was the plain side of spartan but he felt quite comfortable with it. Leaving his bag he walked to the bathroom to freshen up.

  A little later he found this way down to the dining room. There were half a dozen plain tables, some laid for supper, with four wooden chairs arranged round each one. In the recessed fireplace sat a solid looking stove, an orange glow shining through the glass front and warmth coming off its iron body. A handful of men and women were standing or sitting, quietly chatting. Russell stood slightly awkwardly, just inside the door. Then one of the women broke off from the conversation she was having and walked over to him, holding out her hand and smiling. ‘Hello, my name is Helen.’ She was as tall as Russell, with shoulder-length dark hair, pale skin and round spectacles.

  He took her hand, which was slim and warm and introduced himself.

  ‘Is this your first visit?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes. Is it yours?’

  Helen gave a sweet smile and spoke softly. ‘Why yes, but I felt like I was coming home when I stepped through the door. It was as if a big weight was lifted off my shoulders.’ She smiled again. ‘You do know the food is vegetarian, don’t you?’

  Russell grinned back. ‘That’s one of the reasons I was keen to come. The only decent vegetarian food I get normally is when I cook it myself.’ The ringing of a bell in the hall briefly put a stop to the conversation.

  Helen invited him to sit at the table with her. ‘Oh, and this is Laurie. I believe you are sharing a room.’ Laurie stood and they shook hands. He was small and neat with hair that looked as if it had been cut using a pudding basin, or by a monastery barber - unusual for man in his middle years. However, his smile was pleasant and as they sat Russell felt comfortable in their company.

  -0-

  Sanghaketu gingerly pushed open the door of the shrine room. Slipping his feet out of his sandals he walked noiselessly across the wooden floor, approaching the still seated figure. As he grew closer his anxiety increased. ‘Tara Rinpoche…’ he called out quietly. No response. He coughed. ‘Tara Rinpoche.’ Louder this time. Still nothing. Reaching out he touched the man’s cheek. It was cold. Moving in closer still he gently shook the seated man’s shoulder. There was no reaction. Sanghaketu was scared.

  Tara Rinpoche had been like a father to him; guiding and nurturing when he first came to the retreat centre. When, a few years earlier, Sanghaketu had fled Tibet, he’d left his Gompa, and all the monks he’d trained with. The men, young and old, had not only been companions during the long hours of meditation and study, but many of them had become close friends. Some had stayed in defiance of the Chinese invasion while others had fled to other countries. Sanghaketu had met Gareth Temple when he was travelling in Tibet. He had been entrusted with the task of escorting the Englishman round the Gompa and showing him the ancient scrolls that contained the texts which had been handed down, reputedly from when the Buddha had first shared his experiences with his followers. At first the monk was wary of the Englishman, not quite trusting a foreigner who was able to speak their language. But in time, the man’s obvious enthusiasm and respect for the teachings had won him over and they developed a mutual understanding.

  So, when the Chinese soldiers were marching towards his home, he escaped, first to India, where he stayed for a few months, then to England, where he helped set up what was to become Shambhala. Sanghaketu grew to love the Sussex countryside and although he missed the wilds of Tibet, he was glad to be away from the winds and the biting cold of winter. The snow that was now falling heavily reminded him of home but it wasn’t the weather that was making him sad, but his fear for his friend and mentor. He hurried out of the shrine room, looking for Vidyatara. He found him in the dining room, eating at the same table as Russell and Helen. He bent and whispered in the monk’s ear. Vidyatara got up quickly from his chair, nodded to the others and followed his companion.

  ‘What is it Sanghaketu?’

  The other man was pale and shaking. ‘It’s Tara Rinpoche. I think he’s… dead.’ His voice quaked.

  ‘Show me.’ They hurried out into the cold, crunching through the fresh snow that had built up on the path and entered the
shrine room. The only light was from two candles that cast glittering reflections on the golden Buddha. Kicking off their sandals they made their way across the room. Vidyatara crouched down by the seated figure and touched his neck. He felt dampness and quickly withdrew his hand. He held it out towards the candle, palm upwards.

  Sanghaketu gasped. ‘Blood!’

  Vidyatara exhaled noisily. ‘What does this mean?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He paused, thinking. ‘The policeman. Perhaps we should tell him.’

  ‘Yes. That would be wise. Go and fetch him… But don’t alarm the others.’

  -0-

  ‘Is there anything brighter than candles in here?’ Russell had been dragged away from a most enjoyable vegetarian meal and lively conversation with good company so was a little annoyed. He was standing in the dimly lit shrine room, looking down at the still figure. Sanghaketu walked back to the door, flicked a switch and the room was suddenly flooded with electric light. Russell crouched and peered at the man. He reached out and touched the top of the blanket that was wrapped round him. Holding his hand up to the light he could see fresh blood on his fingers. Leaning forward he peered at the man’s neck. Reaching out again he ran his forefinger gently down the flesh. ‘Ouch!’ He pulled his hand back quickly and rubbed finger and thumb together. ‘Something sharp.’ He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and moved even closer. Holding the cotton fabric between his fingers he put it on the man’s neck and plucked something from it. He held it out and the two monks leaned in closer. ‘Glass.’ The thin shard was less than half an inch wide and about an inch long.