Murder Most Holy (16 page)

‘Piss off!’ he shouted.

The figures retreated into the darkness. On the corner stood a woman with three children, their bodies half-covered in a dirty mass of rags, displaying terrible sores and bruises. Athelstan’s hand immediately went to his purse as the woman, bony-faced, her one good eye gleaming, stretched out a birdlike claw. Cranston slapped the hand away and pulled Athelstan on.

‘Keep your money, Brother. Can’t you see she’s a palliard?’

‘A what?’

‘A professional beggar.’

Athelstan looked quickly over his shoulder. ‘But the children, Sir John. Those terrible bruises!’

The coroner chuckled. ‘It’s a wonder, Brother, what people can do with a mixture of salt, paint, potash and pig’s blood.’

‘They are so real.’

‘Brother, look at their bodies. Plump, well-fed – they are not starving children. They probably eat better than I do.’

‘That,’ Athelstan muttered to himself, ‘would be a miracle!’ He shook his head at the sheer guile of the beggars as he followed Sir John down another alleyway. ‘Are we there yet?’

Cranston stopped and pointed up to a dirty sign which swung lazily from the ale-stake thrusting out under the eaves of a tall, three-storeyed tavern. Cranston kicked the door open and they walked into the musty darkness where only a few oil lamps flickered. The few windows were high in the wall and firmly shuttered. The hum of conversation died. Athelstan felt a prickle of fear seeing the raw-faced, mean-eyed, pinched features of the men who sat there; two were asleep, the rest were huddled in small groups, either drinking or playing dice.

‘Hell’s kitchen!’ Cranston muttered.

He drew his sword and dagger as a man rose from the table near the door. Athelstan caught the glint of a knife in the fellow’s hand.

‘How now, me buckos!’ Cranston grandly announced. ‘Some of you may know me. If not, I am sure I will make your acquaintance sooner or later. I am Sir John Cranston, Coroner of the City, law officer of the King. This is my clerk, my secretarius, Brother Athelstan, late of Blackfriars.’ He shot out one podgy hand at the rat-faced man carrying the dagger. ‘You, my lad, will sit down and shut up!’

The fellow did so slowly.

‘What do you fucking want, Cranston?’ someone shouted.

He held up his sword by the hilt. ‘I swear I mean you no ill, though I could return with a few Serjeants and see what this pretty place contains.’

The greasy-faced taverner, wiping his hands on a dirty cloth, scuttled out of the darkness, bobbing and servile.

‘Sir John, you are most welcome.’

Cranston gripped him by the shoulder. ‘No, I’m not, you fat bastard! I want to speak to one person, just speak, and I know he’s here so don’t lie. A man who calls himself Master William Fitzwolfe, late of the parish of St Erconwald’s.’

A deathly silence greeted his words.

‘Ah, well, if you want it that way . . .’ Cranston half-turned to the door.

Athelstan heard a few whispers and a man walked out of the darkness.

‘I am Fitzwolfe, Sir John. I have committed no crimes.’

Cranston beckoned him closer. ‘Oh, yes, you have, my lad, but we won’t go into that now. All we need is a few minutes of your time.’

The fellow stepped into the light and Athelstan gazed in revulsion. At first sight the man looked respectable. He had dark shoulder-length hair and was clean-shaven while his hands and face were soft and white. But he had a mocking sneer on his twisted lips, and his eyes were cold, dead and calculating. He was dressed completely in black leather from head to toe. Athelstan glimpsed the dagger pushed into the top of his boot and the large stabbing knife strapped to his side. It had been a long time since Athelstan had met anyone who gave off such a feeling of menacing evil. Fitzwolfe glanced at him, his lips parting in what he considered a smile.

‘You must be Athelstan, the new priest at St Erconwald’s. How are my beloved parishioners? Six years is a long time. Does Watkin the dung-collector try to tell you what to do as he did me?’ He stuck his thumbs into his sword belt. ‘And Cecily the courtesan? Lovely buttocks, but she was so noisy whilst making love.’

Athelstan stepped forward. ‘You are a thief, Fitzwolfe!’

The defrocked priest spread his hands. ‘Where’s your proof? I left St Erconwald’s. The parishioners looted the church.’

Athelstan drew a deep breath trying to calm the rage seething within him.

‘Come on!’ Cranston said abruptly. ‘Master taverner, you have a room at the back? A buttery, a kitchen? I’ll talk to our friend there.’

The taverner took them into a dirty room with a smoky fire: dirty trenchers and platters littered a grease-covered table on which two scullions were trying to wash up, dipping the pots and pans into a vat of scum-covered water.

Cranston clicked his fingers. ‘All of you out, including you, master taverner.’ He pushed the landlord and his servants back through the door, closed it and leaned against it. He nodded across the kitchen. ‘Open that door, Athelstan, just in case we have to leave in a hurry, and stand there lest Master Fitzwolfe has the same idea.’

The ex-priest, however, sat elegantly on a stool, crossing his legs as daintily as a woman, hands clasped round one knee.

The bastard’s mocking me, thought Athelstan.

‘I’m here of my own free will, Sir John, and if I wish to I can leave. There’s no warrant out for my arrest.’ Fitzwolfe sniggered. ‘Well, not one that’s valid. It’s six years since I left St Erconwald’s.’

Cranston smiled and, drawing his sword, brought the flat edge straight down on Fitzwolfe’s shoulder, making the fellow jump and lose some of his poise.

‘I am going to kill you, Fitzwolfe!’

The ex-priest tried to rise. Cranston forced him back with his sword.

‘You see, I am a law officer and I came in here to ask you some questions. You drew a dagger out of your boot so I killed you. Now, tell me, who’s going to mourn you? Or,’ Cranston put the sword away, ‘you can answer a few questions. Now, what’s it going to be?’

‘Your questions?’

‘When you were a priest at St Erconwald’s did you have flagstones laid in the sanctuary?’

‘Oh, come, Sir John,’ sneered Fitzwolfe. ‘I had better things to do than look after that Godforsaken place!’

‘So it was done before you came?’

‘Yes, that was one of Father Theobald’s bright ideas. Not a very good job, was it?’ Fitzwolfe glanced at Athelstan mockingly. ‘I was forever tripping over the damned things. Mind you, it wasn’t difficult after a skinful of wine.’

Athelstan stared back. This man, he thought, was frightened of neither God nor man. And now he could understand his own unease. He was sure Fitzwolfe was a black magician, one of those lords of the crossroads, masters of the gibbet, who dabbled in the black arts – a common practice for defrocked priests who abused the spiritual power given to them. Fitzwolfe caught his glance and nodded imperceptibly as if he could read Athelstan’s mind. He rose lazily to his feet.

‘Any further questions?’

‘Yes, I have,’ Athelstan declared, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall. ‘I am sure the plate from St Erconwald’s is now melted down and sold but you also took the muniment book containing the church accounts. Now, Fitzwolfe, I suggest you either burnt it or still have it now.’

‘I tore it up.’

‘And the pages?’

‘Some of the parchment I used.’ Fitzwolfe shrugged. ‘It was no use to anyone else. It was full of Father Theobald’s meaningless scribble. Why, what makes you think I should still have it with me?’

‘Because I am sure you regard it as some form of jest, using a church book for your own filthy purposes!’

Fitzwolfe jabbed a finger at the ceiling. ‘You can see what’s left. It’s in my garret at the top of the house.’

Cranston gave a mock bow. ‘What are we waiting for?’

Fitzwolfe shook his head. ‘Not you. I am having no officer of the law poking his nose into matters that do not concern him!’

‘At the same time,’ Cranston replied, ‘I am not having you going up the stairs, disappearing over the roof, and not being seen again this side of Yuletide!’

Fitzwolfe pointed a thumb over his shoulder. ‘The priest can come. You stay outside.’

He led them back into the tap-room. Cranston and Athelstan followed, ignoring the muttered jeers and curses, through a side door and into a dank passageway which smelt of dog urine and was littered with all sorts of dirt. They went up the rickety, slime-covered stairs which wound up through the building.

‘A resting house,’ Cranston whispered.

They passed wooden doors and landings.

‘Bolt holes,’ the coroner continued. ‘Secret passageways, rat tunnels for the human vermin to scuttle along. If I had my way I’d burn such places to the ground.’

‘But you won’t,’ Fitzwolfe sang out ahead of them. ‘Will you, Sir John?’

At last they reached the top. Fitzwolfe produced a key, inserted it into a heavy iron-studded door, unlocked it and pushed it half-open.

‘You stay there, Sir John. Priest!’ Fitzwolfe grinned slyly and beckoned Athelstan forward.

The friar entered, wrinkling his nose at the sweet, sickly smell, straining his eyes to accustom them to the darkness. Fitzwolfe flitted round the room like a shadow. A tinder was struck and long white candles in their brass holders, protected by a metal hood, caught the flame. Athelstan gazed around. A cold shiver prickled at the back of his neck, and for some strange reason he felt out of breath.

‘“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death”,’ he whispered, ‘“I will fear no evil.”’

The room was clean but the walls, floor and ceiling were painted a glossy black which shimmered in the candlelight. In one corner under a small window was a truckle bed, beside it a table which could serve as an altar, and above it an inverted cross, the figure headless and upside down. Athelstan shivered. Were those bloodstains on the table? And what was that strange smell? Strong herbs or tar mixed with something else? Fitzwolfe just stood watching him like a cat. Athelstan shook himself as if trying to clear his mind. The ex-priest seemed to have changed; his face was longer, his skin yellowing, whilst the dark eyes glittered with an unholy malice.

‘The pages!’ Athelstan snarled. ‘You promised me the pages!’

Fitzwolfe shrugged, went to the foot of the bed, unlocked a chest and rummaged amongst its contents. Athelstan looked to his left. There was a leatherbound book chained to a lectern He glanced at it quickly and looked away in revulsion for it was a grimoire of spells and black magic. On the wall behind the lectern were pages like those he had seen in a Book of Hours or Lives of the Saints, delicately edged and brilliantly coloured One depicted a group of people listening to a preacher, but the figure dressed in the robes of a priest had a slavering goat’s head and a huge erect penis jutting out between the folds of his robes. In another, a pig wearing the cope and mitre of a bishop chewed the miniature bodies of people, whilst the third showed the nave of a church. The pillars along the transept reminded Athelstan of St Erconwald’s though the artist had carefully used perspective so it seemed the onlooker was gazing down into a deep pit. At the far end, where the rood screen should have been, glowed a face painted in silver with the red glowing eyes and golden lips of a demon. Athelstan pulled his eyes away. He felt that the air in the room was thick, cloying, oppressive. He looked in the comers and was sure there were shadows deeper than the rest, as if someone or something was lurking there.

‘Come on, Fitzwolfe!’ he snapped. ‘The pages!’

‘Here they are, Brother.’ Fitzwolfe walked slowly back, a piece of tattered yellow vellum in his hand, loosely held together by crude stitching. ‘What’s the matter, Athelstan? Don’t you like my chamber? My unholy of unholies?’

As Fitzwolfe handed the parchment over, a hand cold as ice brushed the friar’s. ‘You are a priest, Athelstan. What do you fear here?’

He jumped at a shuffling sound from the corner.

‘What’s that?’ he queried.

‘Look, Athelstan,’ Fitzwolfe murmured. ‘Look for yourself. Stare into the corner and what do you see?’

The friar did as he was told, turning to confront a real menace, something quite horrifying. Was it a shape? he wondered. Or a shadow? He glimpsed an ivory, rounded shoulder, a perfectly formed breast, hair like spun gold, then heard a low soft chuckle. Athelstan gripped the parchment.

‘These are mine!’ he stuttered. ‘They are mine!’

He almost ran to the door, pulling hard at the handle, but it was locked. Behind him he could feel Fitzwolfe and something else shuffling towards him. He scrabbled at the lock, found the key, opened the door and flung himself out into the passageway even as the door slammed firmly shut behind him. He was sure he heard not only Fitzwolfe sniggering but someone else as well.

‘What’s the matter, Athelstan?’ Cranston grabbed his companion, alarmed at how marble-white and sweat-soaked the priest’s face had become. Cranston shook him again. ‘Brother, what’s the matter?’

Athelstan broke free from his reverie and grabbed the quarter-staff he had left by the wall.

‘Come on, Sir John! This is no place for us. No place for any of God’s creatures!’

Cranston took a step towards the door of Fitzwolfe’s chamber.

‘Leave it, Sir John! I mean that. Just leave it alone!’

He crashed down the stairs, Cranston lumbering after him. Without waiting for the coroner, Athelstan strode back into the alleyway. Cranston, huffing and puffing, came up beside him, rattling out questions which Athelstan ignored. The priest walked as quickly as he could. He was determined to put as much distance as he could between himself and the tavern; he concentrated all his energies and intelligence on remembering the route Sir John had taken. At last they were free of Whitefriars and entering a small street leading up to the Fleet. Athelstan suddenly stopped and leaned against the wall. He was drained and tired, as if body, mind and soul had been buffeted. The coroner peered at him.

‘Only one thing for you, my lad,’ he murmured, ‘Sir John Cranston’s usual remedy for the ills of mind and body.’

He pushed the friar into the dark, welcoming warmth of a corner tavern. Sir John, using his powerful lungs and authority as King’s Justice, soon cleared a space for them near the high-stacked wine barrels, and the prompt delivery of two great cups of claret and a dish of spiced duck. Cranston said they could share this but Athelstan shook his head, sipping the wine greedily, relishing its sweet warmth. He drained the cup so Cranston ordered another, gently removing the pieces of parchment Athelstan still clutched in his hand. The coroner studied them carefully, roaring for a candle so he could see them better.