Saintly Murders

by Paul Doherty

  ‘It’s terrible, isn’t it?’ Eadwig confided. ‘Such a contrast. Green grass, a fresh spring evening, setting sun, and death strikes: Like an arrow to the heart, eh, Mistress?’

  ‘What was Gervase doing over there?’ Kathryn asked.

  ‘No one knows.’

  Anselm and the other two joined them.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Anselm demanded crossly, glaring at Eadwig. ‘Why are you chattering?’

  ‘Father Prior, I am only trying to help.’ Eadwig got to his feet. ‘I told you already; I raised the alarm. Brother Timothy saw everything.’

  ‘Who is this Brother Timothy?’ Kathryn glanced at the Prior. ‘Can he come down here? I would like to speak to him.’

  ‘Mistress,’ Prior Anselm retorted, eager to reinforce his status, ‘you have no authority here.’

  ‘I have every authority.’ Kathryn sighed. ‘If you want, Prior, I’ll go to the city and obtain confirmation of that. I came here to investigate Blessed Roger Atworth’s death. Now your sub-prior dies, consumed by a mysterious fire. Please bring Brother Timothy down.’

  The Prior reluctantly gave in. Kathryn sat and finished the wine. A small wicker chair was brought and placed before her, and a few minutes later Brother Timothy came hobbling out. He eased himself down in the chair, bony, vein-streaked hands clutching a cane. Bright, pert eyes smiled at Kathryn as he patted his bald head.

  ‘All gone.’ He chomped on his gums. ‘I know I’ve a skull-like face, but my eyes and ears are sound. I remember your father.’ He leaned closer. ‘You’re rather like him and that nurse or maid, Camasina?’

  ‘Thomasina.’

  ‘Ah, that’s right.’

  ‘Brother,’ Kathryn sat on the edge of the seat, ‘tell me what you saw this evening.’

  Brother Timothy had recovered from the shock and succinctly described what had happened. Prior Anselm, Jonquil, and Simon brought across a bench and sat alongside them.

  ‘Why would Gervase walk over there?’ Kathryn asked.

  Anselm shrugged. ‘This is Gethsemane, the friary gardens.’

  ‘But why go into those bushes?’

  ‘The friary grounds were his responsibility.’

  ‘He may have been going to see the Accursed,’ Prior Anselm murmured.

  ‘The what?’ Kathryn demanded.

  ‘Mathilda Chandler.’

  ‘I’ve heard that name.’

  ‘Once upon a time everyone did,’ the infirmarian intervened. ‘Mathilda Chandler was married to Robert the candle-maker in Honeypot Lane. Twenty-three years ago, on the eve of the birth of John the Baptist, the bailiffs were called to Robert’s house. They found him with his throat cut and their four children, the eldest being no more than six, all dead!’

  Kathryn stared at the sombre line of trees and wondered at the terrible secrets they protected.

  ‘Sweet God in Heaven!’ she murmured. ‘She should have been hanged!’

  ‘That’s what the royal justices said. But Mathilda was witless in court. More than that, she escaped her guards and claimed sanctuary here in the friary. “Deranged and moon-struck,” “possessed by a demon,” that’s how the friary chronicle described her. The Sheriff received orders from the Archbishop: If Mathilda Chandler had asked for sanctuary, then sanctuary she would have. A small cell was built in the corner of the friary wall, about six feet high and three yards across. Mathilda was imprisoned within; there’s a gap for her to receive air, light, and other items of sustenance.’

  ‘Is she ever let out?’

  ‘There’s a small door in the cell, but that’s protected by a steel plate. Every so often,’ Simon conceded, ‘the poor woman is taken out and the place cleaned. Brother Gervase was responsible. He might have been visiting her.’

  ‘Is she still witless?’ Kathryn asked.

  ‘Oh no, lucid as a spring pool,’ Simon declared.

  ‘Brother Roger Atworth also visited her. They talked about many things. Roger felt sorry for her. He once confided in me’ – Prior Anselm played with the tassel of his cord – ‘that he would try and get her a pardon, some release from her pain.’

  Kathryn stared across the lawn. A wood pigeon had come strutting out as if the advance guard for the rest of the birds, to spy out and check that the harmony of this hallowed place had now been restored. The sun was sinking, flashes of red across the sky. The shadows of the trees stretched like black fingers over the lawn as the evening breeze strengthened.

  ‘Tell me again, Brother Timothy.’

  The old man turned in his chair and pointed across.

  ‘Brother Gervase came out of the line of trees, hands up the sleeves of his gown. He must have stood for a short while. I saw a tendril of smoke, then his whole body was sheathed in flames.’

  ‘Did he cry out? Did he run forward?’

  ‘I don’t know, Mistress. I looked away. When I glanced back, he had collapsed to the ground, burning from head to toe.’ Brother Timothy turned to the Prior, chin jutting out aggressively. ‘Gervase wasn’t a bad friar. I’ve heard what the brothers say, how he died because he didn’t believe in the Blessed Roger Atworth.’

  ‘That’s nonsense!’ the Prior snapped, getting to his feet. ‘Mistress Swinbrooke?’

  Kathryn held up her hand. ‘Brother Timothy, I thank you. Father Prior, I would like to stay here. I want to go back across the lawn.’

  ‘It’s getting dark,’ the infirmarian warned.

  ‘It’s still light enough to see.’ Kathryn got up and kissed the Ancient One on the brow. ‘But first I must visit your kitchens.’

  She thanked them and walked away. A lay brother gave her directions. Kathryn entered the great stone-flagged kitchen; the friar in charge came bustling over, pot-belly covered by a snowy white apron. He listened to what Kathryn wanted.

  ‘Of course, of course. And you will eat in your own chamber?’

  ‘In a while,’ Kathryn said. ‘But if I could have what I wanted?’

  The lay brother handed over a small wineskin, strips of meat, cut bread, a small pot of honey, and some marchpane, all wrapped in clean linen cloths. He placed these in a small leather sack. Kathryn looped this round her wrist and returned to Gethsemane. Apart from the infirmarian, who was wearing a stole and blessing the spot where Gervase had died with asperges rod and bucket, Gethsemane was deserted. Kathryn nodded at Brother Simon, who continued the ritual, and entered the line of trees. She stopped next to the hawthorn bush and stared back at the friary. She saw a blur, a face pressed against the window on the second floor, and raised her hand. Old Brother Timothy raised his in return.

  ‘So you did see everything,’ Kathryn murmured.

  She placed the leather bag behind her and stood as Gervase must have done, arms folded. She crouched down and sniffed, smelling a slight, lingering perfume. What was it? Soap? Something more acrid? She walked deeper into a small copse. Through the tangle of bushes she glimpsed the far wall of the friary; narrow, manmade tracks led off in every direction.

  ‘If anyone wished to make an assignation,’ she murmured, ‘some friar who wanted to meet his leman, this would be an ideal place.’

  She noticed how the grass was scuffed, and here and there the tangle of briars snapped. The undergrowth ended, and she entered a small clearing, the ground covered by dead leaves and bits of branches. She tapped with her foot; the thin coating of soil covered hard stone, and a short distance away lay a raised wall with steps leading down. Kathryn walked to the top of these. The crumbling, stone steps were manmade. The walls on either side were red, of fire-burnt brick. Kathryn realised she must be standing on the site of the old manor house and all that remained was this wine cellar. She carefully made her way down. The stones were slippery. She recalled the plague of rats and quietly prayed she would meet none of those devil’s minions.

  The door at the bottom was on a latch, no padlock. She lifted this up, pushed the door open, and made her way in, sliding her feet. She felt the side of the wall and grasped a thick, ha
lf-burnt tallow candle; beside it lay a tinder. After a great deal of scraping, the candle was lit, and its wick flared fiercely. Kathryn held it out. The chamber was long and dark; two more steps led down to an earth-beaten floor. The ceiling was of brick, as were the walls; the plaster surface had long crumbled. At the far end were two wooden pillars, and in between them stood a table. Kathryn searched around. She noticed the barrels in the far corner and went and lifted their lids. One was full of old rope; the other had some chains and scraps of metal, rusted and gnarled. Kathryn checked the cellar carefully. Satisfied, she blew the candle out and went back up the steps. Only then did she realise how she had left the door off the latch, and she cursed her own stupidity. She would not return to a place like that without Colum or someone to protect her.

  The light was now fading, but she examined the ground carefully. Someone had been here. She could make out the imprint of sandals. Was it Gervase or someone else? She started as a small, brown, furry body raced across the ground in front of her. At first she thought it was a rat, but then she recalled the white-tipped tail and recognised it must be a stoat. She collected the food and went towards the curtain wall, using it as a guide. The wall was of hard, blackened brick, very ancient but sturdy and thick, about three yards high with a crennelated top. She paused. Distant sounds were audible. She tried to remember the outline of the friary and realised an alleyway must run across the other side. Kathryn continued walking.

  ‘Who’s there?’ the voice seemed to come out of nowhere.

  ‘Who’s there?’ the woman’s voice repeated. ‘You are not a friar. I can smell your perfume. One of my own kind.’

  Kathryn moved aside the branch of a bush. She had reached the far corner. The anchorite’s cell jutted out, a large rectangle of stone with a broad slit high in the wall. Kathryn saw dirty fingers and bright eyes.

  ‘Who are you?’ The voice was softer.

  ‘My name is Kathryn Swinbrooke, physician in the city. I’m a visitor here.’

  ‘A visitor?’ The woman’s voice was soft. ‘But you know about me?’

  ‘I know all about you, Mathilda Chandler.’

  ‘Do you now?’ the voice taunted. ‘That’s an arrogant thing to say, Mistress, about someone you’ve never met.’

  Kathryn smiled in apology.

  ‘You have a strong, good face, Mistress, though you look tired. I’d be wary of some of these friars, with your swelling breasts, long legs, and slim waist. But what are grey hairs doing on a young woman like you? You say you know me. Do I know you? There was a physician once, Swinbrooke; he lived in Ottemelle Lane.’

  ‘I am his daughter.’

  ‘Well, well, well, how this busy world turns. A woman physician!’

  Kathryn walked closer and undid the leather bag. The fetid smell of the cell tickled her nostrils.

  ‘Are you ever released?’ Kathryn asked.

  ‘Once every fourteen days, but I wear the chains – or used to. The good brothers clean my cell and take the rubbish away.’

  ‘I have some food for you.’

  ‘Come closer. I won’t hurt.’

  ‘Stand back,’ Kathryn ordered.

  She heard a rustling and went up against the slit and peered in. The smell was stale rather than offensive. The cell inside looked clean. Fresh rushes lay on the floor. It contained a table, a stool, and a cot bed, a shelf bearing earthenware pots, a small brazier, and, in the far corner, a jakes pot covered with a leather cloth. Two candles glowed in bronze dishes on the table. Kathryn even saw a small, calfskin-bound book lying on a stool.

  ‘Much more comfortable than the castle dungeons,’ the voice declared.

  Kathryn placed the linen cloths onto the ledge and started at the face which suddenly appeared. Chandler’s eyes were dark-blue, her skin surprisingly brown though pitted around the eyes and forehead. Kathryn felt Mathilda’s fingers pressing hers.

  ‘I won’t hurt you, Mistress. I thank you for the food.’

  The linen cloths disappeared. Kathryn heard the sound of eating; then Mathilda came back.

  ‘Marchpane,’ she whispered. ‘It cleanses the mouth, doesn’t it? It’s wonderful to eat something sweet.’

  Kathryn stayed her ground. She had dealt with enough mad people to recognise the signs, but she felt no danger from Mathilda Chandler.

  ‘The friars treat you well?’

  ‘Oh, it varies from season to season. I am sorry Brother Atworth is dead. He made me more comfortable. Thanks to him I have rushes on the floor and more food every day. He called me “Unfortunate,”’ her eyes blinked, ‘whereas the rest call me “Accursed.”’

  ‘And are you?’

  ‘Once I was; now I have atoned. You’ve heard my crime?’

  ‘You murdered your husband and four children.’

  ‘Ah, the same old story. I’ve told it once, I’ve told it again, but no one listens. Yes, I killed my husband. Cut his throat when he was in a drunken stupor. Do you know why, Mistress Swinbrooke? He killed my little ones. Drunk he was, sottish and wicked. He was a candle-maker by trade but drank the profits. I was reduced to taking what he did make and selling them from a tray in the Mercery.’ The eyes behind the slit watched Kathryn intently. ‘I came home one night, a beautiful June evening. The house was quiet. I pushed open the door. My first child lay within, his little head cracked like an egg.’ The woman began to sob.

  Kathryn waited by the slit. Around her was the noise of the copse, the muted evening song of the birds as they prepared for the night, the rustle in the undergrowth; she heard the distant toll of a friary bell echoing those being rung in the city for the hour of vespers. A cart in the lane on the far side of the wall clinked as it trundled by.

  ‘Do you listen for such sounds?’ Kathryn asked.

  ‘They keep me sane.’ Mathilda was now back at the slit, eyes wet with tears. ‘I tell you, Mistress, I found my other bairns killed just as violently. Robert lay fast asleep, drunk as a pig on our bed. I took a knife and slit his throat. When the bailiffs came, I tried to tell them. I suppose the rest you know.’

  ‘Didn’t you protest?’

  ‘Who would believe me?’

  ‘Did Roger Atworth?’

  ‘Yes, he did. He used to hear my confession. I told him about the murder, and he told me about some of the hideous crimes he had perpetrated. Believe me, Mistress, in many ways he was a terrible man: women raped, children killed, men hanged above their own doorways, entire villages burnt and ravaged. I’d confessed to him, and he’d confess to me. He told me how once he had been cursed by a witch to die a violent death; the only thing he could do was prepare for it. He would console me, say that I would go to Heaven whilst he expected to suffer, for millions of years, the agonies of Purgatory. He used to stand where you do, Mistress Swinbrooke, and cry like a child.’

  ‘What was he like?’ Kathryn asked.

  ‘A broken, fearful man who believed the demons were not very far away.’

  ‘Did he ever talk about Duchess Cecily?’

  ‘Oh yes. He said we all had secrets and that included the greatest in the kingdom.’

  ‘Was he a great saint?’

  Kathryn waited.

  ‘No, Mistress, a great sinner who wanted to atone.’

  ‘What did he say to you?’

  ‘I can’t tell you. It’s wrong to break the seal of confession, but he talked of murder, of snuffing mens’ lives out like you or I would crush a fly. He said that in Gethsemane the dead sometimes thronged all about him: all his victims, scores and scores of people staring hollow-eyed.’

  ‘Did he walk here often?’

  ‘Oh yes. He found the company of the other brothers onerous; their lives only reminded him of his sins.’

  ‘And Brother Jonquil?’

  ‘A cross’ – Mathilda laughed sharply – ‘he had to bear.’

  ‘What did he mean?’

  ‘Jonquil is a strange one. He acts the fool, but I don’t think he is. He’s not a friar. He came here some mon
ths ago. He hasn’t taken solemn vows, just simple ones.’ Again Mathilda laughed. ‘As is fitting for a simpleton. Roger Atworth claimed Jonquil was his guardian angel and would say no more.’

  ‘And the other brothers?’

  ‘They vary. Some are kind, most ignore me, a few are cruel.’

  ‘And Gervase?’

  ‘Ah, I have heard of his death. He never spoke to me, never looked me in the eye. He’d bring me food, stand and feed me as if I were a dog.’

  ‘You didn’t like him?’

  ‘I didn’t know him, Mistress; perhaps that was the greatest cruelty, to be regarded as nothing. He’d even belch and break wind as if he was by himself. A man of secrets, Gervase.’

  ‘You could tell me more, couldn’t you?’ Kathryn asked.

  ‘Mistress, I can only tell you what I see and hear.’

  ‘Atworth’s death?’

  ‘Jonquil came and told me. I cried for a while and said a prayer.’

  ‘Do you think he was murdered?’

  ‘I have been immured here for over twenty years, Mistress. I don’t have visions, and no angel of light has ever visited me. I cried for a while when I learnt of Atworth’s death and said the requiem. Perhaps he will find some peace. He did complain of stomach pains, savage gripes, but claimed he had some potion to ease the pain.’

  ‘And this evening?’ Kathryn asked. She started at a rustling close to her.

  ‘Oh, don’t be nervous, Mistress. It’s only my friends the stoats. They like the wall. They build their nests there and play bloody havoc amongst the rabbits and rats.’

  ‘Rats?’ Kathryn asked, distracted.

  ‘Oh yes. One day they weren’t here; the next day they were, impudent and ravenous.’ She tapped the ledge. ‘I leave some small crumbs here for the birds; they are my messengers. I pray to them. I hope they take my words to my little ones.’ The eyes behind the slit smiled. ‘One morning I awoke and saw a rat, like some black-garbed varlet; it had crept to the wall and was eating the crumbs, wedging itself on the ledge here, so intent.’ The eyes disappeared then came back. Kathryn saw a small club being raised. ‘I hit it on its snout. Brother Atworth found the corpse, said it had been burnt by fire. He buried it over there.’