Man, I get it. This is a very rural part of Italy, and there aren’t many guys out here who have the discretion and ability needed to solve the string of gruesome murders rippling across the countryside. Those devilish multi-stage codexes that all revolve around arcane knowledge of minor verses in the Book of Revelations won’t solve themselves. However, some of us are in it for the monk-ing and not the “reluctantly helping to investigate a crime despite the suspicion it draws upon themselves”-ing.
Lord knows I would love to help you, a grizzled Italian priest/detective slightly perturbed by the goings-on in the Church and struggling with his faith, to close the case, but I enclose this scroll to you to note that I’ve got a lotta shit on my plate right now. Calligraphy, mostly.
I am, indeed, aware, that there are bodies constantly turning up in the catacombs and cloisters and phenomenally spooky libraries which make up 80 percent of my living space, but I became a monk to read super old books, which I now can’t get more than five pages into because there keeps being the sound of various murders in the adjoining monks’ cells. Despite all the turmoil, I remain confident that nothing will happen to me as I have lived a life without sin.
Can’t a nun help you? They love to investigate, they’re so nosy.
What’s more, I am not the only person available that can help you. Everyone at the abbey is a monk, they can all read Latin and have a lot of time on their hands. There’s even like 10 monks here who are more gruff and world-weary than I am! I’m only 28, despite my withered face and baldness, and I took up the cloth in order to pursue my hobbies, in complete silence and with zero ladies.
Perhaps you should ask Father Domenico, who literally has a degree in criminology from the only university that exists in this time period, if he can help! Talk to me if you wanna, like, grab lunch or something when you’re on a break from the case. I’m a very good conversationalist for a monk.
Stop busting into my chambers saying, “Padre, Padre, there’s been another murder and its foul stench lays its cursed imprint on us all!” Let me stop you right there: I don’t care. I’m perfectly happy in my own role at the abbey, which consists of chillin’, hangin’, and calligraphy. I am simply not hyped about solving a murder in the same way that I am hyped about playing on the abbey’s pick-up soccer team.
Don’t assume all monks are determined to root out the cultist sects lurking inside of the abbey’s placid walls. Some of us don’t think about any of that shit, and just like writing big squiggly letters. I don’t assume all grizzled priests/detectives are struggling with their faith, although obviously you are. Frankly, I find it baffling that you would even ask me to act as your trusted confidant, as I am very stupid, and would be of little help to a case of this magnitude.
Now, I bring this scroll to a close, as I must return to my duties. Another super old book calls my name, and then I’m probably just gonna chill until it’s time for evening vespers. Maybe crack open a cold glass of wine. Stare out at the peaceful Italian sunset as the shadows begin to encroach. One shadow in particular, which appears to be walking towards me. Wearing a curious mask and holding a ceremonial dagger of some kind. Oh God! Send someone to investigate my murder! Not me, though, I’m chillin’!