Murder Most Holy (21 page)

Lady Maude was so small, Athelstan thought, he couldn’t imagine her as some great cat stalking the mighty coroner.

They entered the alleyways and mean streets of Southwark, Cranston still bemoaning his impending fate. Athelstan looped Philomel’s reins round his wrist, half-listening as he stared around. At first he had hated Southwark, but now he felt that despite the fetid runnels and shabby one-storeyed huts, the place had a vigorous life of its own. Already the little booths were open and in a nearby ale-house someone was singing a hymn to the Virgin Mary. A ward beadle tried to seize a young whore who had been plying her trade on the steps of the priory of St Mary Overy but the young girl raised her skirts, waggled a pair of dirty white buttocks and scampered off, screaming with laughter. They turned down the alley which led to St Erconwald’s. Athelstan heaved a sigh of relief that the church and grounds were empty. No sightseers. Even the serjeant Sir John had sent appeared to have found something more interesting to do and wandered off. They stabled their horses and went into the priest’s house. Athelstan smiled.

‘My parishioners,’ he commented, ‘have apparently heard of my bad temper.’

He gazed admiringly round the kitchen and buttery where everything had been cleaned, swept and polished, even the hearth which now had a pile of pine logs stacked waiting to be burned. A sealed jar of wine had been placed in the centre of the kitchen table and the water tub had been emptied, scrubbed and refilled. Cranston licked his lips when he sighted the wine. Athelstan waved him over.

‘Be my guest, Sir John. But I’d like more water than wine in mine.’

Sir John bustled about in the buttery.

‘The buggers have done a good job here, too. Everything’s neat.’ He served Athelstan, then himself. ‘You are going to resolve the mystery of your skeleton?’

‘Of course, Sir John. You know that’s why I returned to Southwark.’

Cranston pulled a face. ‘What will you do?’

‘I don’t know. I’ll just wait and see.’

‘It’s murder,’ Cranston announced.

‘No, Sir John, we only think it is.’

The coroner’s hand fell to his wallet and he shuffled his feet.

‘What is it?’ Athelstan asked sharply.

Cranston produced a small scroll of parchment.

‘The messenger returned yesterday evening from Boulogne.’ He tapped the parchment. ‘The fellow travelled fast for I paid him well.’ Cranston gave a great sigh, unable to gaze directly at Athelstan’s watchful face. ‘It’s bad news,’ he murmured. ‘The French do not have Benedicta’s husband.’

Athelstan turned away and stared at the wall. Sweet Lord, he thought, and what do I feel? What did I really want?

‘Oh, bugger!’ Cranston shouted.

Athelstan turned to see Bonaventure slide like a shadow through the door, purring with pleasure. He looked beseechingly up at Cranston. Sir John retreated.

‘Bugger off, you bloody cat!’

Athelstan, glad of the distraction, picked up the battered torn cat, stroking it carefully, even though Bonaventure still stared appealingly at the coroner. The cat’s fur was sleek and clean.

‘You’ve been well fed,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘I know your type – the professional beggar. Go on now!’ He put the cat outside the door and closed it firmly.

‘Well, what are you going to do?’ Cranston barked.

‘I’m going to check the church and say mass. Sir John, you can serve as altar boy. Even though you have broken your fast, I’ll absolve you.’

They went across to the church, Athelstan exclaiming in pleasure as he stepped into its cool darkness for it, too, had been swept and cleaned now the workmen had gone. Fresh rushes lay on the nave floor, the rood screen had been replaced, and what delighted Athelstan most of all was that the sanctuary had been finished. The new flagstones glowed white and Athelstan admired the precision and care of the masons. The altar too had been cleaned whilst someone, probably Huddle, had given the rood screen a thorough polish. Even in the poor morning light the rich dark wood gleamed.

‘Very good!’ Athelstan murmured.

‘It’s still here!’ Cranston shouted from the transept, and Athelstan heard the lid of the parish coffin being opened.

‘But the thieving bastards have made their mark! Four of the finger bones are missing and three of the toes! Some bugger is making a profit from selling relics!’

Athelstan chose to ignore the coffin. Whoever the skeleton had been, he knew she was a murder victim. Someone who had been killed in the last ten to fifteen years. Whilst Cranston tramped round the church Athelstan opened the sacristy door, dressing in gold chasuble and stole because the church’s liturgy was still celebrating Easter and the miracle of Pentecost. He filled the cruets with wine and water and couldn’t help smiling at the way his parishioners, probably marshalled by Watkin and Benedicta, had cleaned the dust from everything. He put a cloth across the altar, brought out the huge tattered missal and, with Cranston kneeling piously before him, made the sign of the cross and began mass. Of course Bonaventure turned up but behaved himself, sitting by a suspicious coroner like the holiest cat in Christendom.

A good ‘cat-holic’ Athelstan thought, but kept a straight face and continued with the mass, giving Sir John communion under both rites. The coroner emptied the chalice in one gulp.

Afterwards Athelstan divested in the sacristy, Cranston, lounging at the door, watching him.

‘None of your parishioners has turned up,’ he remarked.

‘That’s because they don’t know I’m here, Sir John.’

The words were hardly out of Athelstan’s mouth when Crim burst into the sanctuary.

‘Father, I saw the door open.’ His dirty face screwed up in disappointment. ‘I would have served mass for you!’

Cranston glared down at him, brows knitting, but Crim stared cheekily back and poked out his tongue.

‘Look, Crim, will you run me an errand?’ Athelstan intervened briskly. ‘Sir John, the letter? You know, the one from Boulogne?’

Cranston handed it over and Athelstan studied it quickly. The Dominicans in Boulogne sent him fraternal greetings. They ministered to the prisoners’ camp in the fields outside the city where they’d made careful investigation but found no trace of any prisoner fitting the description or name Athelstan was searching for. He folded the note, took a penny Out of his wallet and crouched before Crim.

‘Take this to the Lady Benedicta,’ he said. ‘On no account must you lose it.’ He seized the boy by a bony shoulder. ‘Do you understand?’

‘Yes, Father.’

‘Off with you!’

Crim left as quickly as he had entered.

‘Should you have done that?’ Cranston asked. ‘Why not tell her yourself? Art thou afraid, monk?’

‘No, Sir John, but there are some things best left alone. I think Benedicta will want to mourn in private. But, come, we have other business.’

‘Where?’ Cranston barked.

Athelstan indicated with his hand that Cranston should sit on the altar steps beside him.

‘I have to thank you, My Lord Coroner.’

‘For what?’

‘For telling me the difference between a genuine beggar and a false one.’

Cranston eased his bulk down. ‘What on earth are you talking about, monk?’

‘Just listen, Sir John. I am going to tell you what will happen.’

CHAPTER 11

Athelstan locked the doors of the church and, with Cranston swaggering behind him and Bonaventure following for some of the way, they threaded through the alleyways of Southwark to the house of the carpenter, Raymond D’Arques. His wife, her face crumpled with sleep, answered Athelstan’s impatient knocking and led them into the kitchen. She went to the foot of the stairs and called for her husband. D’Arques came down, swathed in a robe, his unshaven face lined with anxiety.

‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan, good morrow.’

‘Good morrow, Master D’Arques,’ Cranston replied.

‘The business at the church?’ the fellow asked wearily. ‘Please,’ he waved to stools round the table, ‘sit down.’ He turned to his wife. ‘Margot, some ale for our guests.’

They sat in silence till the tankards and a basket of bread were placed before them. Despite appearances, Athelstan sensed the couple’s deep agitation.

‘Enough is enough,’ he began quietly. ‘I have not come here to play games with you, Master D’Arques. You know that the skeleton found under the altar of the sanctuary of my church is not that of a martyr. Why? Because you put it there. About fifteen years ago, Father Theobald asked for the sanctuary to be paved. Now, he was a poor priest and the revenues of St Erconwald’s are a mere pittance. So instead of hiring from the Guild, he bought the services of a young carpenter who was also prepared to do some mason’s work. That carpenter was you.’

Athelstan paused and Raymond put his face in his hands whilst his white-faced wife pressed a clenched fist to her mouth.

‘I know this,’ Athelstan continued, ‘because I have seen the muniment book: payments to a carpenter, Raymond D’Arques, and for the stonework to a mason who used the initials A.Q.D., a device used to hide him from the prying eyes of the Guild.’ Athelstan sipped from his tankard. ‘During the work on the sanctuary, for reasons yet unknown, you killed a young woman, either by suffocation or strangulation, and buried her in a hole beneath the altar. You then gave up your mason’s work, determined the crime would never be laid at your door. You became solely a carpenter and took every step to ensure you never used your old mark, A.Q.D., the rearranged initials of your last name. Master D’Arques, am I correct?’

The man looked up and Athelstan felt a surge of compassion at the look in those staring eyes.

He continued, ‘You thought your crime would go undetected or, if the skeleton was discovered, the blame would not be laid at your door. However, you heard the news of a new priest arriving at St Erconwald’s. A Dominican who acted as a coroner’s clerk and was also determined to renovate the church. You kept a wary eye on St Erconwald’s and when I began renovating the sanctuary, plotted your scheme. You arranged that miracle.’

‘How?’ his wife cried out.

Athelstan saw the guilt in her eyes.

‘Oh, come!’ Cranston snorted. ‘The news of the skeleton’s being found and rumours of its being the remains of a saint played into your hands. Indeed, you prepared yourselves for just such a possibility. After all, you’d had years to prepare, reflect and plot. Now, any professional beggar can dress his body in the most terrible wounds to fool even the most skilled physician or apothecary, never mind old Master Culpepper. A good, upright citizen comes to him with an infection of the arm, so he dresses it. You bide your time, wash your arm, go down to St Erconwald’s, and heigh-ho, a miracle is worked.’

‘Others had cures!’ she snapped.

‘Yes, I considered that,’ Athelstan replied. ‘But nothing substantial. The human mind is mysterious in its working. Ailments did clear up – colic and mild infections – helped, of course, by the outrageous claims of the professional miracle-seekers who love to profit from popular hysteria. I tell you this, Mistress D’Arques, if I took the stool I am sitting on and claimed it was fashioned by St Joseph, you would hear the most marvellous stories about the miracles it could work.’

He shook his head. ‘My parishioners wanted the skeleton to be the remains of a martyr or some great saint. The counterfeit-men saw it as a source of profit. The sick would seek any cure, and the human soul is insatiable in its search for wonders and marvels.’ Athelstan sipped his ale then pushed it away. ‘When I reflected on what had happened, when I searched the records, when I saw the state of the skeleton and the Lord Coroner’s judgement on how that woman died, I knew she had to be a victim of murder. Your husband laid those sanctuary stones and it is no coincidence that the miracle story originated with him.’

D’Arques lifted his head and clutched his wife’s hand.

‘You are correct, Father. Some fifteen years ago I was a young carpenter, a parishioner of St Erconwald’s. I loved old Father Theobald and, after his fall in the sanctuary, offered to do some work there. I bought the stones and in a moment of pride carved the mark “A.Q.D.” and told Father Theobald that I could lay them without his paying heavy costs to the Guild.’ D’Arques wetted his lips. ‘I forgot, you know, that I’d put “A.Q.D.” on the stone.’ He stared down at the table. ‘Now at the same time,’ he continued, ‘I met and fell in love with Margot Twyford, the daughter of one of the powerful merchant families across the river. However, I was a young man and the blood beat hot in my veins. There was a prostitute, a whore called Aemelia. She must have been about eighteen or nineteen summers old. I often used to pay her for her services. She heard about my courtship and began to taunt me. She asked for money in return for her silence so I paid. She came back for more. I refused so she crossed the river, sought out Margot and told her everything.’

‘I sent her packing!’ D’Arques’s wife snapped, her eyes blazing with fury. ‘I told her I’d see her boiled alive in hell rather than give up Raymond.’ Her fingers curled round those of her husband.

‘I thought that was the end of it,’ he continued. ‘But one evening, at the end of a beautiful summer’s day, she came into the sanctuary where I was working and asked for more silver. I refused. She told me about seeing Margot and said tomorrow she would cross the river and tell my betrothed’s father. She would proclaim the news for all to hear. I pleaded with her not to but she laughed, baiting me.’ D’Arques closed his eyes. ‘The image still haunts me: Aemelia walking up and down, hips swaying, arms folded, her painted face twisted with hatred. Father, I went on my knees, I begged her, but she just laughed. She stepped backwards and fell. The next minute I was on top of her. I had my cloak in my hand and forced it across her face. She struggled but I was young and strong. I held her down. She gave one last terrible lurch and lay silent.’ D’Arques gulped from his tankard. ‘I thought she had swooned but she just lay there, white-faced, her eyes staring. Father, what could I do? I couldn’t walk through Southwark with a corpse in my arms. And why should I hang for a murder I did not wish to commit? Now, during my work in the sanctuary I’d discovered a pit beneath the altar where the foundations of an older building had been. I stripped Aemelia of her clothes and laid her there with a wooden cross in her hands.’ D’Arques rubbed his face. ‘The rest you can guess. I laid the sanctuary stones myself.’ He smiled weakly at Athelstan. ‘The flags were not properly laid due to my lack of skill and eagerness to finish the task quickly.’ He pressed his wife’s hand. ‘I confessed all to Margot. No one missed Aemelia. Time passed. Father Theobald died and that bastard Fitzwolfe became parish priest. I could not abide the evil man so I attended another church, St Swithin’s.’