Murder Most Holy (13 page)

Henry of Winchester laughed softly and turned away, playing with the crumbs on the table.

‘I’ll be pleased just to win the approval of the Master Inquisitor. If I had known my work would have caused such a stir, I might have thought again. You have read my treatise?’

Athelstan shook his head.

Brother Henry looked up at the refectory and grimaced as Father Prior moved towards them.

‘Then I’ll send a copy across to the guest house. Please read it, I would value your opinion.’

The theologian rose, nodded and strode away just as Father Prior, folding back the sleeves of his gown, joined Athelstan.

‘You slept well, Brother?’

Athelstan allowed the fixed smile he had reserved for Brother Henry to fade from his face.

‘Father Prior,’ he whispered, leaning across the table, ‘I want you to search amongst the possessions of Brothers Callixtus and Alcuin. You have the power and authority to do this. If you find anything untoward then please let me see it.’

The prior looked sharply at him. ‘Why?’

‘You were right to bring me here, Father. Callixtus was murdered, beaten over the head with a candlestick. Bruno was killed, and God knows where the corpse of poor Alcuin is hidden!’

The prior’s face paled. He put his head in his hands and rubbed his eyes.

‘You are sure?’

‘As God is my witness, Prior. You shelter an assassin here at Blackfriars. I want that search carried out, and the Inner Chapter must assemble this afternoon so I can present my conclusions to them.’

‘Must a man starve to death?’ Cranston stood in the doorway and bellowed round the refectory, making one of the old friars almost jump out of his skin. ‘By a fairy’s tits!’ He glared at Athelstan. ‘I wake cold and hungry to find you gone and no food served!’

Father Prior raised his hand, clicked his fingers and a servitor appeared with a tray bearing a bowl of deliciously fragrant lamb broth, a pile of white bread rolls and a flagon of ale. Cranston almost snatched the tray from the poor man and slumped down next to Athelstan. The coroner gazed round the refectory, tapping his ponderous girth. He saw Athelstan’s grin, the prior’s astonishment, and the round-eyed amazement of the other brothers.

‘Hell’s teeth!’ Cranston muttered. ‘I forgot about your vow of silence!’

He sniffed the meat and beamed round.

‘Ah, well, apologies to all. Morning, Father Prior, Brother Athelstan.’ He picked up the large horn spoon and attacked the bowl of meat with gusto. He wiped his mouth with the napkin covering the bread, and burped. ‘A good meal,’ he roared for at least half the monastery to hear, ‘is a celebration of the Eucharist. If the good Lord hadn’t meant us to eat-well, he wouldn’t have given us bellies and delicious food to fill them! For, as the psalmist says, “Wine gladdens the heart of men”.’

‘That’s the only line of the psalms he knows,’ Athelstan whispered to the prior.

Cranston, however, continued to eat with relish, the meat, the bread and the beer disappearing in a twinkling of an eye. He made a swift sign of the cross, rose and nudged Athelstan.

‘Come on, Brother, it’s a fine morning. Father Prior, I saw your orchard. Apples and plums, eh? And the beehives are kept there?’

The prior, fascinated by Cranston, just nodded again. Athelstan could only shrug, raise his eyes heavenwards and hasten after Cranston who was now striding out of the refectory across the pebble-dashed path leading down to the monastery gardens. He stopped, put on his beaver hat and squinted up at the mist-covered sky.

‘You wait, Brother, it will be a fine day. Did you resolve my mystery?’

‘I was trying to when you fell asleep, My Lord Coroner.’

Sir John made a rude sound with his lips. ‘And I suppose there’s been no further progress in the pretty mess here?’

‘No, Sir John.’

They walked through the herb garden, past the guest house and into the large orchard which swept down to the boundary wall of Blackfriars. Cranston was busy giving a description of his night’s sleep when Athelstan suddenly stopped, grasping his companion by the arm.

‘My Lord Coroner, look!’

Cranston peered for the mist was still swirling round the trees.

‘By Queen Mab’s buttocks!’ the coroner muttered, taking a step forward. ‘What is it?’

But Athelstan was now running through the trees.

‘Oh, no!’ he groaned, slumping down on his knees and staring up at the white, grotesque face of Brother Roger. The poor half-wit swung from an overhanging branch of the tree, his neck twisted to one side, his hands and legs dangling like some pathetic doll’s.

‘God have pity!’ Cranston shouted from behind him. He grasped his large knife, stretched up and sliced the rope, catching the dead man’s body as if it was light as a child’s and laying it gently down on the dew-soaked grass. Athelsta knelt beside the corpse and whispered quickly into the dead man’s ear whilst sketching a sign of the cross, ‘Absolve te a peccatis . . . I absolve you from your sins.’ He continued with a quick absolution whilst Cranston leaned against the tree and stared at the piece of rope which still swung there, a grisly reminder of the tragedy.

‘What’s the use?’ the coroner muttered. ‘The man’s been dead for hours. His soul’s long gone.’

Athelstan undid the rope from Roger’s neck. ‘We don’t know, Sir John,’ he replied over his shoulder. ‘The church teaches that the soul only leaves the body hours, perhaps days, after death, so while there’s hope, there’s always salvation.’ He knelt back on his heels. ‘Though I think this poor man will surely benefit from Christ’s mercy. A sad end to a tragic life.’

‘He killed himself!’ Cranston observed. ‘He committed suicide.’

Athelstan stared at the angry weal round the dead man’s neck.

‘I don’t think so, Sir John.’ He looked closer at the red-black wound caused by the rope’s chafing. He gently turned the corpse over. ‘Yes, as I thought. Look, Sir John.’ He traced with his finger the mark left by the noose but, just under the jaw, beneath the ears, were two finer cuts, little red weals.

‘What are those?’ Cranston asked.

‘Come on, Sir John, you’ve seen them before.’

The coroner peered closer, turning the body over, trying not to look at the popping eyes, the swollen blackened tongue clenched tightly between yellowing teeth.

‘This poor bastard didn’t hang himself!’ Cranston muttered. ‘He was garrotted! Those red marks are left by a garrotte string.’

Athelstan, who had clambered up the tree and was now loosening the piece of rope left there, shouted his agreement.

‘You’re right, Sir John. The rope here has left a mark but only that caused by the corpse’s weight. If Roger had committed suicide the branch would be more deeply frayed. Even a man who kills himself by hanging fights for life. The branch would bear deeper marks. ‘Athelstan, who was standing gingerly on the limb of the tree, pushed the branch where the rope had hung.

‘What are you doing, friar?’ Cranston roared, as hard, unripe apples rained down on him.

‘You’ll see, Sir John.’

Watched by a surprised coroner, Athelstan grasped the branch with both hands and edged his way over until it bore his full weight. He kept flexing his arm, making the branch dance. Suddenly there was a crack, the branch snapped, and Athelstan almost tumbled on to a surprised Cranston. The friar picked himself up, grinning, wiping his hands and dusting his robe down.

‘It’s years since I’ve done that, Sir John.’ He stared grimly up at the broken branch, then at Roger’s corpse on the grass. ‘We can prove it was murder, Sir John. First, the marks of the garrotte string. The assassin hoped the bruise left by the noose would hide those. Secondly, the branch is not scored deeply enough, which means Roger must have been dead when he was hoisted up there. Finally, if Roger had hanged himself, his body would have twisted and not only marked the branch but probably broken it. He’s heavier than me and they say a hanged man can dance for anything up to half an hour.’ Athelstan scratched his head. ‘No, Sir John, as you would put it, this poor bastard was probably invited here either last night or early this morning before daybreak, and garrotted.’ He paused. ‘You see the problem, My Lord Coroner?’

Cranston blinked. ‘No.’

‘Well, Roger was killed, but how did the assassin climb a tree with a corpse and tie the rope round the branch?’

Cranston looked round, studying the ground carefully.

‘Well, the assassin had the noose already prepared. Roger’s garrotted, the body is lifted up, and the noose tightened round the neck.’

‘The assassin must have been very tall.’

‘No.’ Cranston walked amongst the trees and came back with a stout wooden box about a foot high and a yard across. He placed this squarely on the spot over which Roger’s body had hung.

Athelstan smiled. ‘Of course! These boxes litter the orchard. The brothers use them in autumn when they harvest the fruit. It would be merely a matter of standing on the box, dragging Roger’s corpse up, tightening the noose, taking the box away and, heigh-ho, it looks as if Roger hanged himself.’

‘And, as you have so aptly proved, my dear friar, that branch would have broken if Roger had tried to crawl across it, and would certainly have snapped in his death throes.’ The coroner went and stood over the dead man’s body. ‘Murder,’ he declared, ‘by person or persons unknown. But God wants justice and so does the king! We will find out who, and I would love to know why!’

‘Because Brother Roger saw something in that church,’ Athelstan answered. ‘Hence the phrase: “There should have been twelve”. I wonder what it meant?’

CHAPTER 7

Athelstan and Cranston walked back to the monastery. Athelstan sought out Father Prior and tersely told him of what they had found and the conclusions they had reached.

Anselm’s face paled. Athelstan could see his superior was on the verge of breaking.

‘Why?’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘Why so many deaths?’

‘Tell me, Prior,’ Cranston asked, ‘what would Brother Roger be doing in the orchard?’

‘He often went there. It was his favourite place. He said he liked to talk to the trees.’ Anselm blinked back the tears in his eyes. ‘Roger was a half-wit. He worked in the sacristy; Alcuin was severe but very kind to him. Roger really didn’t do much: a little polishing, sweeping, and picking flowers for the church. He never liked to be in enclosed places. He liked the open air so I never stopped him. When the other brothers gathered in church to sing Lauds, Matins or Evensong, Roger would go into the orchard. The poor fellow said he felt closer to God there than anywhere else.’ The prior banged the top of his desk with his fist. ‘Now the poor soul’s with God and his murderer walks round like a cock without a care. Athelstan, what can you do?’

‘Father Prior, all I can, but I must beg leave. I have to go back to St Erconwald’s.’ His eyes pleaded with the prior. ‘Father, I will return later in the day. I just need to see that all is well.’

‘Ah, yes, the famous relic!’ Prior Anselm answered sourly. ‘God knows why you care, Athelstan! Your parishioners do not heed you.’ He made a face. ‘Yes, I have heard the news. The fame of your mysterious martyr is spreading through the city. If you are not careful the bishop himself will intervene and you know what will happen then.’

Athelstan closed his eyes and breathed a prayer. Oh, yes, I know what will happen, he thought. The bishop’s men will remove the skeleton and transfer it to some wealthy church, or break it up and sell it as relics, whilst the door of St Erconwald’s will be sealed pending an investigation. And that could last months.

‘This first miracle,’ Anselm asked, ‘are you sure it was genuine?’

He made a face. ‘A physician dressed the skin, the man’s a burgess of good repute and claims his arm is now cured.’

Athelstan, his mind distracted, took a half-hearted farewell of Prior Anselm and went back to the guest house, Cranston trailing behind him. The Dominican packed his saddle bag, still thinking about what the Prior had said whilst the coroner fluttered around him like an over-fed chicken.

‘Why are you leaving, Brother? Why go back there?’

‘Because, Sir John, for the time being there’s nothing to be done here and I have business there!’ He looked sharply at Cranston. ‘And I suggest, Sir John, you return home to the Lady Maude. I am sure she will be expecting you.’

Cranston groaned like a mischievous boy who knows he has been caught. ‘By a fairy’s buttocks!’ he breathed. ‘If Domina Maud knows about my wager, she’ll clip my ears!’

Athelstan looked at him squarely. ‘Sooner or later, Sir John, you have to face her wrath. Better sooner than later. Come on!’

They sent for Norbert to lock the guest house and decided not to ride to the city but go by skiff from East Watergate to London Bridge. They found Knight Rider Street and the alleyways which cut off it still deserted. Apprentices, heavy-eyed with sleep, were preparing the stalls while the rest of the city had yet to wake to another day’s business. At East Watergate, however, the sheriffs’ men were busily involved in the execution of four river pirates – grizzled, battered men who were hastily shoved up the ladder to the waiting noose. Athelstan and Cranston looked away as a mounted pursuivant gave the order for the ladders to be turned, leaving the bodies of the pirates to dangle and dance as the nooses tightened, cutting off their breath. Athelstan closed his eyes, muttering a prayer for their souls. The executions brought back bitter memories of that ghastly apparition Athelstan had seen in the Blackfriars orchard. He looked back at the row of black scaffolds, their arms jutting out above the river. He heard a shout as relatives of the river pirates ran forward and jumped on the still jerking corpses, dragging them down roughly until a series of sharp clicks indicated their necks had been broken and at last the corpses hung silent. The sheriffs’ party, although they protested, did nothing to stop this act of mercy. The pursuivants declared that justice had been done and moved off.

‘At last,’ moaned Cranston, ‘we will be able to get a skiff.’ The sailors and boatmen who controlled the traffic along the river had assembled in small groups to watch the executions of the men who attacked their trade. Now they drifted back to the steps leading down to the wharf. Cranston hired the fastest, rowed by four oarsmen, and soon they were out in mid-river pulling through the mist towards Southwark Bank. They had to stop and cover their noses and mouths as they passed one of the great gong barges unloading mounds of rubbish, dead animals and human refuse into the middle of the fast-flowing river. Other shapes slipped by them: a barge full of soldiers taking a prisoner down to the Tower, a Gascon wine ship making its way slowly up towards Rotherhifhe. Near Dowgate, a large gilded skiff full of revellers, young courtiers clad in silks with their loud-mouthed whores, was being rowed back to the city after a night’s revelry in the stews of Southwark.