A Maze of Murders

by Paul Doherty

  Colum pulled a face, his deepset eyes twinkling in amusement; they were still heavy with sleep and Kathryn couldn’t resist her teasing.

  ‘It was Thomasina.’ Colum yawned. ‘Chattering like a magpie and dressed like one, in black and white, that’s all I can remember this morning, Thomasina whirling round the kitchen like a tempest.’

  ‘She’s nervous,’ Kathryn murmured as her gaze returned to the painting on the wall.

  Colum Murtagh rubbed his face and studied Kathryn out of the corner of his eyes. He had worked hard the previous day training a young stallion out at the stables. Full of fire and light, the horse had a mind of its own. As do you, Colum thought. Sometimes he felt nervous about Kathryn. She was not hot tempered or sharp in speech, it was more her serenity. She stood there, garbed in a dark blue dress with white bands round the neck and cuffs, sensible brown leather walking shoes on her feet; her black hair was combed back and hidden behind a starched white veil which fell down to her shoulders. The veil, braided with small ave beads, framed Kathryn’s face, emphasizing her large, lustrous eyes, the creamy texture of her skin and that mouth which he loved to kiss, now so tight-lipped. She was looking at the painting but her mind was apparently elsewhere. Kathryn shifted her gaze and winked at Colum.

  ‘A beautiful church.’

  She moved away further down the nave to the door of the chantry chapel of St. Michael and stared through the grille. The silver chain still hung from the ceiling, its hook-clasp empty. Both the receptacle and the lustrous ruby it once held were gone as if they were plumes of smoke. Kathryn closed her eyes and breathed in, savouring the fragrant smells.

  ‘Quite a mystery.’ Colum came up beside her.

  Kathryn walked around the three-sided chantry chapel. The wooden screens soared up, each side covered with carved scenes from the bible: Mary and Joseph on a tired-looking donkey fleeing to Egypt, angels hovering above them. Christ being tempted by Satan. An angel offering Christ a chalice during his agony in Gethsamene. Kathryn caressed the wood as she walked round.

  ‘As hard as iron!’ she exclaimed. She tapped the floor, examining the dark grey flagstones.

  ‘Some secret entrance?’ Colum asked.

  ‘Perhaps.’ Kathryn shook her head. ‘Though I think not.’ She stood back, gesturing with her hands. ‘Here we have, Colum, a stout box built in the side of the church, three sides wood, the fourth being the stone wall overlooking the cloister garth. We have already examined that, hard stone with a stained glass window, not a crack or peep exists. Inside, three thick oaken screens. The only possible way into that chapel is through this door.’

  Kathryn walked closer, kicking aside her cloak which she had laid on the floor. She peered through the wooden grille, then examined the iron clasps at the top and bottom of the door as well as the heavy lock, the work of some craftsman from the city.

  ‘According to reports,’ she sighed, ‘the Lacrima Christi was on display yesterday. Prior Barnabas and Brother Ralph the infirmarian kept the vigil before it between Vespers and Compline. During that time the Lacrima Christi was stolen.’

  ‘It could be that thief.’ Colum yawned. ‘The one crouched like a mouse in the Mercy Chair. He’s a pickpocket, he sought sanctuary.’

  Kathryn laughed. ‘I have met Laus Tibi! He’s good at filching purses and pockets but no, this is beyond him. It’s too subtle.’

  She broke off as the door leading to the cloister was thrown open. Luberon, the kind but pompous clerk to both the Corporation and the Archbishop of Canterbury, came waddling in with all the power he could muster. One hand grasped his writing satchel, the other fingered the gold chain round his neck. He was dressed in a cote-hardie of dark murrey and the way he waddled reminded Kathryn of an angry duck. Luberon’s round, shaven face was slightly red, his protuberant eyes even more popping, whilst his snub nose wrinkled like a ferret smelling a rat. Shoulders twitching with annoyance, he glared officiously at Kathryn. He banged the heel of his boot against the floor.

  ‘At last!’ he trumpeted. ‘They’ve come!’

  ‘Mistress Swinbrooke, we were delayed.’ Prior Barnabas, pushing back his cowl, came round the clerk to greet them.

  ‘The brethren were in a meeting,’ he explained. ‘We cannot be summoned like boys from a school hall.’

  ‘Father Prior, it’s good to see you.’

  ‘And this is Brother Ralph my infirmarian.’

  The second friar was a short, pasty-faced young man, his sandy hair cropped close. Kathryn noticed how his fingers were stained with yellow and blue and she wondered what potions the infirmarian had been mixing. Something poisonous? The ring finger on each hand was sheathed in leather; herbalists and apothecaries used these fingers to mix noxious substances.

  Prior Barnabas coughed and Kathryn shifted her gaze to his harsh face. A kindly man, she thought, but a strict disciplinarian, with his beaklike nose, prim mouth and hard eyes. Prior Barnabas’s face and hands were darkened by the sun. A friar, she thought, who had spent some time in Outremer, perhaps the Holy Land? Or one of the Order’s houses in Provence or Sicily?

  ‘I . . .’ Prior Barnabas jangled the ring of keys he held. ‘I am not too sure why . . .?’

  ‘I have explained once,’ Luberon intervened.

  ‘Then explain again!’ Prior Barnabas snapped.

  ‘I’ll do that,’ Colum offered.

  He undid his war belt and laid it on the floor. Prior Barnabas tutted in annoyance, as weapons were not to be worn in church.

  ‘My name is Colum Murtagh. I am King’s Commissioner in Canterbury.’

  ‘But the theft of the Lacrima Christi . . .?’

  ‘The theft of the ruby,’ Colum interrupted tersely, ‘is a matter for the Crown. The Archbishop and city council have decided that. It was on loan from Sir Walter Maltravers.’

  ‘And he’s a member of the King’s Council,’ Prior Barnabas added wearily. The Prior’s gaze shifted to Kathryn. ‘I know you, Master Murtagh but . . .?’

  ‘Mistress Swinbrooke is a physician and an apothecary of the city,’ Luberon gabbled. ‘She holds an indenture with the Archbishop and with the Crown. She, too, is commissioned to investigate certain matters.’

  Prior Barnabas had taken an apparent dislike to Luberon, and jangled his keys noisily.

  ‘Father Prior.’ Kathryn stepped closer. ‘The Lacrima Christi has been stolen, that is what is important.’

  ‘But how?’ The Prior’s face relaxed. He gazed at Kathryn. ‘Mistress, follow me.’

  He walked across to the chantry chapel of St. Michael, pulled back the bolts, inserted a key and turned the lock. The door opened smoothly. They followed him inside. Kathryn looked around. The three wooden screens were carved in the same manner as outside. The door was thick and heavy and hung on four leather hinges, riveted to the lintel. The stone wall behind the altar had been whitewashed, a painting of an adoring angel on either side of the silver crucifix which stood in the centre of the altar. Above this the large door-shaped window was full of brilliant stained glass depicting Michael the Archangel’s victory over Satan.

  ‘The walls are secure,’ she murmured.

  Kathryn knelt down. The entire floor, as well as the altar steps, were covered with ruby red Turkey rugs neatly stitched together to cover every inch of the floor. Kathryn relished the carpeting’s warm softness and the thickness of its texture; a quick glance told her that this had not been disturbed. She went and stood on the bottom altar step and examined the silver chain. This hung at eye level and rose up into the darkness where it was fastened to a clasp in the wooden roof.

  ‘This is beautiful in itself,’ she whispered.

  The chain was finely wrought. She touched the tip of the hook on which the receptacle had hung. It was strong, the point of the hook sharp.

  ‘Prior Barnabas?’ she asked. ‘The ruby?’

  ‘It was placed in a golden receptacle, the same colour as itself,’ the Prior explained. He demonstrated with his hand, finger and thumb exten
ded. ‘There was a backing, a piece at the top and a piece at the bottom. The ruby was wedged in between, then hung on that silver chain, clearly displayed for those who wished to pay their devotion.’

  ‘And the ruby itself?’ Kathryn asked.

  ‘About the size of a large pigeon egg. It weighed just over four ounces,’ Prior Barnabas explained. ‘After Matins,’ he continued, ‘the ruby was removed from its coffer.’ He pointed to the iron-bound chest just within the doorway.

  Kathryn went and crouched down to look. The coffer was of the hardest wood reinforced with steel bands, and had two locks.

  ‘The coffer can only be opened,’ Prior Barnabas explained, ‘by myself and one other brother: each lock is different.’

  ‘So, the ruby was put on display after Matins?’ Kathryn touched the box. ‘And placed back here just before Compline?’

  The Prior agreed.

  ‘But last night?’

  ‘The Lacrima Christi was there,’ Brother Ralph squeaked before clearing his throat. ‘It was there, I saw it. I went back to my prie-dieu, Prior Barnabas was with me. I prayed for a while then I got up once more to look at it. It glowed in the dark, like a mysterious fire. It was ruby-red.’ He smiled. ‘Well, of course, it would be but there was a darker red inside, two jewels in one.’

  ‘Why did Sir Walter Maltravers lend it to you?’

  Prior Barnabas spread his hands. ‘Sir Walter is a good friend to the city churches. The ruby, I believe, came from Constantinople. Sir Walter never explained how it came into his possession. Anyway, last spring he came here to celebrate the Maundy Mass. I explained we had no relic; by then I knew about the Lacrima Christi. Sir Walter kindly agreed that, during the pilgrimage season, the sacred ruby could be displayed at Greyfriars for the benefit of the faithful.’

  ‘And you have told Sir Walter of its loss?’

  ‘I sent the messenger myself but Sir Walter will not be disturbed on a Friday.’ Prior Barnabas blinked. ‘Tomorrow, I fear, I will face his wrath. Yet it is not our fault.’

  Kathryn got to her feet and walked back to the silver chain.

  ‘How did you know Sir Walter owned the Lacrima Christi? He did not proclaim it to the city?’

  ‘I discovered that,’ Brother Ralph said proudly. ‘Just after the feast of the Epiphany. Sir Walter fell ill, he asked for certain powders. I spent three days at Ingoldby Hall. He’d suffered a bad attack of stomach cramps. Anyway, Sir Walter showed me his manor. It contains a small chapel to Mary the Virgin. He opened his coffers and I saw the Lacrima Christi. I have never seen anything so beautiful. Sir Walter was very pleased with my medication. I gave him a herbal potion distilled from bilberries and explained the benefits of eating fruit with each meal.’

  Kathryn smiled; the infirmarian was apparently a skilled leech and apothecary.

  ‘So, he loaned the Lacrima Christi out of friendship?’

  ‘You could say so,’ Prior Barnabas intervened. ‘He said we could hold the ruby from the feast of St. Mary Magdalene until Michaelmas when it had to be returned.’

  ‘And now it has gone?’ Colum asked. ‘Will your Order pay compensation?’

  ‘How can we?’ Prior Barnabas sat on the altar steps and stared up at his visitors. ‘We kept it secure. We guarded it. And there’s the legend . . .’

  ‘What legend?’ Luberon snapped, coming to stand over the Prior. ‘What legend’s this?’

  Kathryn leaned across and tapped the clerk on the shoulder, gesturing with her head that he stand back. Luberon forced a smile and did so. He just didn’t like these friars. He carried the Archbishop’s commission and he resented having to click his heels before this austere Prior.

  ‘There is a legend,’ Prior Barnabas laced his fingers together, ‘that when our Saviour was scourged at the pillar he wept bitterly. His bloody sweat and tears fell to the ground, so sacred they formed precious stones which were later collected by an angel.’ He ignored Luberon’s sharp bark of laughter. ‘According to the legend, each of these tears will be gathered up by God’s own messengers.’

  ‘And you think that happened here?’ Luberon could not help himself. ‘Are you saying St. Michael came down and whisked it off to Heaven?’

  ‘What other explanation is there?’ Prior Barnabas riposted. ‘Master clerk, look around this sanctuary chapel, gaze at the floor, stare at the roof, the window; there is no secret entrance. Put Brother Ralph and myself on oath.’ He gestured at the door. ‘No one came through that door yet the ruby has gone. The Lacrima Christi has disappeared.’ The Prior got to his feet. He winced, rubbed his right thigh and swayed slightly. ‘I am sorry,’ he muttered. ‘But, as you grow older,’ he smiled, ‘the body protests.’

  ‘Have you talked to that thief?’ Brother Ralph asked.

  ‘We have,’ Kathryn and Colum chorused together. ‘Laus Tibi saw nothing untoward,’ Kathryn added. ‘He could not have been involved in this mischief.’

  ‘Mischief?’ Prior Barnabas’s head shot forward like a chicken’s, the muscles on his scrawny neck tight. ‘Mischief!’

  Kathryn stood her ground. ‘I don’t believe, Father Prior, that St. Michael swooped into this chapel and stole the ruby. If the good Lord wanted a precious stone, I doubt he’d steal it from a church.’

  Again Luberon laughed.

  ‘This chapel was robbed,’ Kathryn continued more softly, ‘by a subtle thief who planned his mischief and carried it through. Now, in the hours before the Lacrima Christi went missing, did anything suspicious happen? Come, come, Father Prior.’ Kathryn placed her hand over his. ‘You are a priest, a theologian. Ignore the legends: this is the work of man, not God.’

  The Prior relaxed.

  ‘I just don’t know,’ he shook his head, ‘how I am going to explain this to Sir Walter. But, Mistress, nothing suspicious happened. The pilgrims come in, they pass by the grille, they place a coin in our sack. Some stay to light a candle at Our Lady’s altar, some want to gossip, others cluster round the rood screen when we sing Divine Office. Sir Walter came.’ Prior Barnabas glanced up. ‘Yes, Sir Walter and his chaplain Father John. They came here late yesterday afternoon. Sir Walter insisted on being treated like any other pilgrim. He paid a silver coin and stared through the grille. The only thing I noticed was, when he walked away, he was crying. He tried to hide it but I could see him wipe his cheeks. Father John was patting him on the arm as if to comfort him.’

  ‘And you don’t know the reason why?’

  Prior Barnabas stared at this young woman’s eyes. How old was she, he wondered? In her 24th, 25th summer? He racked his memory. And hadn’t she been married? There was a story but he had forgotten it. Prior Barnabas, despite his bluster, felt uneasy. Were Mistress Swinbrooke’s eyes blue or grey? Her gaze was certainly steady. She looked soft and graceful yet he suspected this masked a steely nature and sharp wits. Prior Barnabas hid his own nervousness.

  ‘Well, Father?’

  Prior Barnabas swallowed hard.

  ‘I know nothing, Mistress, of Sir Walter’s mood.’

  ‘This thief?’ Colum walked to the door of the chantry chapel. ‘With the strange name?’

  ‘Laus Tibi’s a pickpocket, a cutpurse,’ the Prior explained. ‘Terrified out of his wits.’

  ‘I can see why.’ Colum spoke over his shoulder. ‘There are bailiffs camped outside every door of this church.’

  ‘The Mayor is determined,’ Luberon spoke up, ‘that the pilgrim trade does not suffer from felons and thieves. The bailiffs want Laus Tibi hanged as a warning to the rest.’

  ‘He’ll stay here the forty days,’ Prior Barnabas explained. ‘We’ll give him some food and a crucifix. He’ll take an oath to abjure the realm and walk to Dover.’

  Colum stared across at a vivid wall painting depicting two demons raking the coals of Hell. Aye, he thought, and the poor bastard will never reach the port. Colum knew the law. If Laus Tibi left the King’s highway he could be arrested and hanged out of hand, the bailiffs would see to that. Laus Tibi’s onl
y protection would be to join a band of pilgrims, but who would show him mercy?

  ‘What would any thief do with the Lacrima Christi?’ Colum asked.

  ‘It might be sold abroad.’ Luberon mopped his face with a dirty kerchief. ‘Many would pay good silver for it.’

  Kathryn stared up at the light coming through the window. She’d had a busy day with a long line of patients and pilgrims wishing to buy herbs and potions. She had helped Thomasina with the brewing. Wulf, the foundling boy, her little apprentice, had spent the day fighting with Agnes the maid. Kathryn really wanted to sit in the cool of her herb garden but Colum had been most insistent that she came here. She glanced at the two friars. Brother Ralph seemed uneasy.

  ‘I am sorry I couldn’t come earlier,’ Kathryn apologised. ‘But Master Murtagh was out at King’s Mead and I had many patients. Did anything else happen on the day the jewel was stolen?’

  ‘We did close the shrine,’ Father Barnabas explained, ‘between the hours of two and four o’clock in the afternoon. The number of pilgrims declined due to the heat of the day.’

  ‘And the Lacrima Christi?’ Kathryn asked.

  ‘It was put back in its coffer in the presence of a number of the brothers.’

  ‘And taken out in the same company,’ Brother Ralph added.

  ‘Why?’ Kathryn asked. ‘Was that usual?’

  ‘Tomorrow is the feast of the Transfiguration,’ Prior Barnabas explained. ‘The following day is Sunday, with Masses until well after noon.’

  ‘And?’ Kathryn asked.

  ‘We decided to close the church for two hours so the brothers could sweep and clean in preparation for the great feast as well as for the Masses on Sunday.’

  ‘But during that time the Lacrima Christi was locked away?’

  ‘It was locked in the coffer,’ Prior Barnabas confirmed. ‘This chantry chapel was also cleaned. Afterwards the door was locked, bolted and guarded by two of our lay brothers.’ He half-smiled. ‘Each armed with a stout cudgel.’