Murder Most Holy (24 page)

Late in the evening, just before sunset, Pike and Watkin returned to St Erconwald’s, the former having procured a sheet of canvas, a pinewood coffin and some rope. In a pathetic ceremony the skeleton of the former whore Aemelia was placed in its shroud and laid before the altar. Athelstan, accompanied by an inquisitive Bonaventure, went back to the church, lit the candles and, wearing a purple cope, began the funeral ceremony. Pike and Watkin stood on either side of the poor remains as Athelstan invited the angels to come out to welcome this person’s soul. He was careful not to name the woman. He passed incense over the coffin and blessed it with holy water then, followed by Watkin and Pike acting as pallbearers, took it to the shallow grave in a far comer of the cemetery. In the fading light Athelstan read the final prayers. He blessed the grave and, picking up a lump of clay, threw it down so it rattled like raindrops on the wooden lid. He then took off his cope and helped Pike and Watkin to fill the grave in.

‘Shall we leave it like that?’ Pike asked.

Athelstan wiped the muddy clay from his hands and looked sad.

‘No, no, it would not be right. Tomorrow, Pike, ask Huddle to fashion a cross. Something simple.’

‘Shall a name be carved on it?’

‘No.’ Athelstan stared up at the darkening sky, watching the evening star glow like a diamond in the heavens. ‘Tell Huddle to carve: “Sweet Jesus, remember Magdalene”.’

‘He won’t know what that means,’ Watkin objected.

‘Who cares? Christ will.’

Early the next morning Athelstan met Cranston on the comer of Bowyers Row. They entered a tavern where the landlord defied city regulations about opening and closing times. Cranston insisted on breaking fast and, though Athelstan quietly cursed, he felt it was neither the time nor place to object. The lord coroner had lost his ebullience of the previous day and Athelstan suspected he had already been at the miraculous wineskin. They breakfasted on ale and oatcakes, the coroner moodily chewing his food while staring into the middle distance.

‘Damn My Lord of Gaunt!’ he breathed.

Athelstan touched him gently on the hand. ‘Sir John, I do not wish to be questioned but I believe I have a solution.’

The change in Cranston’s face was marvellous. His eyes became alive with excitement, his morose look disappeared in a grin which seemed to stretch from ear to ear. He roared, snapped his fingers for more ale and nudged Athelstan furiously, trying to make him tell what he had deduced. But when the friar refused to be drawn, Cranston fell back into a sulky silence.

‘I cannot tell you yet, I must be certain. Until then I insist on keeping secret what I do know. After all, Sir John, you drink deeply.’

‘Bollocks!’

‘Sir John, you do, and if in your cups you began to boast, it might prejudice the whole solution.’

‘The young king himself holds the solution in a sealed document.’

‘Sir John, it has been known for such documents to be changed.’

‘Tits and bollocks!’ Cranston replied.

‘Such comments, Sir John, are not helpful and show little gratitude for what I have done.’

‘Gratitude! Gratitude!’ Cranston mimicked cuttingly. He lifted his tankard, drained it and flung it on the table, half-turning his back like a sulky boy.

‘How are the poppets?’ Athelstan asked mildly.

‘Lovely, lovely lads!’ Cranston breathed.

‘And the Lady Maude? As sweet as ever?’

Cranston threw one wicked glance across his shoulder and Athelstan knew the source of Sir John’s discomfort.

‘I see,’ the friar concluded.

Sir John made a snorting sound and turned back.

‘Athelstan, I am sorry. I feel like a bear with a sore head.’

He chose not to disagree.

‘You received my second message?’

‘Yes, and within the hour the city’s swiftest messenger was riding north with a change of horses. I have done all I can there.’

‘Then, Sir John, let us see what we can do at Blackfriars.’

To all intents and purposes, despite the dreadful deaths which occurred there, the monastery seemed back in its usual serene routine. The porter let them in and Brother Norbert greeted them warmly, handing their horses over to an ostler and leading them across to the guest house.

‘All the books are there now,’ he announced proudly. ‘Every single one, though I think the brothers know that you are searching for something.’ The young lay brother smiled at Cranston. ‘And there’s mead, ale and wine for you, Sir John. I think your search is going to be a long one.’

He was correct. In the upstairs chamber, more vast leather-bound volumes awaited them. Cranston moaned and shot like an arrow down to the buttery. Athelstan washed his hands and face and immediately went back to his search, with the occasional assistance of Sir John.

As night fell Athelstan asked Norbert for more candles and immersed himself in his studies, taking only occasional respite to snatch some food or a sip of watered wine. He fell asleep poring over the books and awoke, back and shoulders aching, to continue his search. The next morning he said mass soon after dawn, returned to the guest house and, trying to ignore Cranston’s snores, wearily picked up another volume to begin leafing through the parchment pages. Cranston woke up, claiming he had a raging thirst. Athelstan nodded absent-mindedly whilst Sir John washed, changed, went across to the refectory then returned, describing in great detail what he had eaten. Athelstan ignored him so the coroner, sulky and protesting, picked up one of the small volumes, muttering in a loud whisper.

‘Hildegarde! Hildegarde! Damn Hildegarde!’

At noon Father Prior and other members of the Inner Chapter came over to see them. They had all recovered from the shock of the discovery in the sanctuary and stood in a cold, rather distant huddle in the kitchen, refusing to sit down or accept anything to eat or drink. William de Conches and Eugenius stared scornfully at Athelstan. Henry of Winchester adopted an air of studied patience to hide his exasperation, whilst Brother Niall and Peter made their anger at the long delay in the proceedings most apparent.

‘We can’t stay here for ever, Brother Athelstan!’ Peter insisted. ‘This matter has to be concluded. A judgement reached on Henry’s thesis. Brother Niall and I must return, whilst the Master Inquisitor and his assistant have a long journey to make.’

Athelstan stared at the prior but Anselm was cold and impassive.

‘All I want, Athelstan,’ he replied, ‘is this matter resolved, so the house can go back to its normal routine.’

‘And what about those who died?’ Cranston barked. ‘Bruno, Alcuin, Callixtus, Roger? Their blood stains the earth and cries to the heavens for vengeance.’

Anselm’s eyes softened. ‘Sir John, you are right and I stand corrected. I asked you to come here. I asked Athelstan for his help but, before God, I will be honest, I am beginning to regret that decision. Perhaps this is a mystery that cannot be solved. The bible does say, “Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord”.’ He shrugged wearily. ‘Perhaps we should leave it in the good hands of the Lord.’

‘Nonsense!’ rasped Cranston. ‘God works through us in this vale of tears! We are his eyes, his nose, his mouth, his feet!’ He pushed himself in front of the group of Dominicans. ‘Justice,’ he continued, ‘must not only be done, but be seen to be done. Four men have been slain. Oh, aye, Father Prior, they may have been Dominicans but they were also Englishmen, subjects of the Crown. ‘He jabbed a finger to his chest. ‘This matter will be finished when I decide it is finished!’

Eugenius clapped his hands mockingly. ‘A pretty speech, Sir John, but I am not your subject. My loyalties are to the Father General in Rome and to the Pope in Avignon. For all I care you can investigate these matters until hell freezes over, but I shall be gone!’

Cranston smiled sweetly at him and Athelstan closed his eyes.

‘Listen, you little fart!’ The coroner took a step nearer and stared down into Eugenius’s puce-coloured face. ‘I don’t care who you are or where you come from. You’re in England, you’re in my city. You can trot down to Dover and you’ll find you have no licence to board a ship: in this country that is an indictable offence!’

‘You threaten us, Sir John!’ William de Conches snapped, pulling Eugenius back a step.

‘Threaten?’ Cranston looked at him in mock wonderment, eyebrows raised. ‘Did I threaten? I didn’t threaten, Master Torturer.’

‘I am an Inquisitor!’

‘You’re a nasty pain in the arse!’ Cranston continued. ‘You break men’s bodies so you can get at their souls. You’re both little shits!’ His hand went to the hilt of his dagger and both Inquisitors, despite the fury in their faces, decided silence was the better part of valour.

Cranston glanced at Anselm then at Brother Niall and Peter. Athelstan just bowed his head. He knew the coroner’s temper was both hot and unpredictable. Once Sir John had the bit between his teeth, he would tell anyone (except the Lady Maude) what they could do with their opinions. Prior Anselm stepped forward.

‘Sir John,’ he threw a meek glance at the coroner, ‘in a way you are right.’ He turned and looked at his colleagues. ‘Four of our brothers lie dead. My Lord Coroner, Brother Athelstan, let us compromise. If this matter is not finished, if the mystery is not resolved by Sunday evening, we are free to do what we wish.’

Athelstan spoke up quickly before Cranston could make a bad situation worse. ‘Father Prior, we agree. Don’t we, Sir John?’

‘Bollocks!’

Athelstan smiled falsely at his brothers.

‘My Lord Coroner is always open to persuasion.’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘Father Prior, I thank you for coming.’ He opened the door. ‘It’s best if we leave matters as we have decided.’

Once they were gone Athelstan collapsed in a heap on a stool.

‘For the love of God, Sir John, must you speak so bluntly?’

‘Monk, it’s for the love of God that I do.’

‘Sir John, you were too harsh.’

‘Bugger off, priest!’

Cranston grabbed his miraculous wineskin and stomped back to the stairs.

‘Sir John!’

‘What is it, frightened friar?’

‘I thank you for telling the truth. You are a good man, Sir John.’ Athelstan smiled. ‘God forgive me, but I’ll never forget the look on the faces of those two Inquisitors. When Father Prior regains his composure, I think he will be grateful too.’

Cranston glared back at him. ‘All I can say to you, monk, is this law officer’s most favourite legal maxim.’

Athelstan cringed. ‘Which is, Sir John?’

‘Sod off!’

‘Oh, Sir John.’

‘Oh, Sir John, my arse!’ Cranston roared. ‘One of those bastards tried to murder you, or had you forgotten that?’ And he continued up the stairs.

A few minutes later Athelstan joined him but Cranston had his nose stuck in one of the books, noisily turning the pages over, aided and abetted by generous swigs from the miraculous wineskin. Athelstan continued leafing through his own volume.

‘Hell’s tits!’ Cranston breathed. ‘Brother, look at this!’

Athelstan hurried over. The coroner’s stubby finger pointed to where seven or eight pages had been hacked from the book.

‘That’s recent!’ the coroner announced. ‘And it was done in a hurry.’

Athelstan studied the torn shreds. He noticed that the edge of the page still held in the binding was rather dull and faded but, where the cut had been made, the parchment was pure and white. Athelstan picked up the book, ignoring Cranston’s protests and questions. He took it over to his own bed and sat cradling it in his lap. The volume which had held the torn pages was an old one, containing the minor works of certain writers. He finished leafing through it, closed it, and stared at the bemused expression on Cranston’s face.

‘Whatever we were looking for,’ Athelstan muttered, ‘our assassin has already found.’

‘When?’ Cranston snapped. ‘The library has been watched over the last few days!’

‘I don’t know. Perhaps when he killed Callixtus. He may have watched the old librarian stretch out for a certain book before pushing him. Anyway,’ Athelstan continued wearily, ‘I suspect the pages from this book are at the bottom of some sewer or burnt to a feathery ash.’

He blew out his lips and sighed. ‘Just let’s pray, Sir John, for two things. First, that the messenger we have sent to Oxford is successful and, if he is, that what he brings back will resolve this matter once and for all.’ He lay back on the bed. ‘I’ll sleep for a while, Sir John. Please ask Brother Norbert to take these back to the library. We can do no more for the time being. Let’s rest. Tomorrow night we must go to the Palace of Savoy.’

When he received no reply from the coroner Athelstan struggled up on his elbow and found Sir John already asleep, sitting like a big baby on the edge of the bed, his head twitching, lips smacking. Athelstan got up, made the coroner as comfortable as possible and, going back to his own bed, fell asleep.

CHAPTER 13

Brother Norbert roused them late in the afternoon asking if everything was all right. Athelstan, sleepy-eyed, mumbled his thanks and told Norbert the books could be returned to the library.

‘Did you find what you were looking for?’

Athelstan rubbed his eyes and yawned. ‘Yes and no, Brother.’ He smiled at Norbert’s puzzled expression. ‘All I can say is we have to wait for a while, Sir John and I.’ He looked at the coroner who sat on the edge of his bed, yawning like a cat. ‘My Lord Coroner and I now have other business to attend to.’

Cranston and he then washed themselves and helped Brother Norbert and other lay brothers take the rest of the volumes back to the library. Afterwards they both went for a walk in the orchard. They closed their minds to what they had seen during their last visit and enjoyed the sweet, fragrant smells of the ripening fruit.

‘We can proceed no further in the business here,’ Cranston observed, ‘until our messenger returns from Oxford. I have left instructions with Lady Maude that she is to send him to wherever we are.’ He stopped and looked squarely at Athelstan, his face drained of its usual bombast and cheeky arrogance. ‘Brother, tomorrow, at seven in the evening, I am to return to my Lord of Gaunt’s hall with the solution to the puzzle set by the Italian.’ He grasped Athelstan by the shoulder. ‘I trust you, Brother. I think you have a solution. I
know
you have a solution. Please trust me with it.’ Cranston held up one huge, podgy hand. ‘I swear on the lives of my poppets that I shall keep a closed mouth and not divulge what you tell me to anyone.’