A Plague of Heretics (Crowner John Mysteries)

by Bernard Knight

  He pulled himself up on his mound to his full height, his grey-black cloak stretched over his bony arms like some great bat or avenging angel.

  ‘But I and your other law officers will not rest until we have discovered what evil person did this cowardly deed – barricading the door and throwing combustibles to ensure that a man, a woman and two innocent children would be done to death!’

  Another throaty growl of angry agreement rolled across the churchyard as he continued.

  ‘It is not the business of a coroner to probe into why certain acts were committed, but in these hideous and appalling circumstances I feel obliged to say something of what I and probably many of you must feel about the matter.’

  There was a mutter of agreement as he went on speaking, an expression of cold ferocity on his long face.

  ‘No one traps a man and his family in his house and then deliberately sets it alight, just because he is a fuller! You know as well as I do that events in this city in the last few days have shown the animosity that many folk have to those whose religious views do not sit well with their own.’

  There was silence at this, and John could almost feel the guilt that crept over the crowd. He continued remorselessly.

  ‘As King Richard’s coroner, I am not interested in the whys and wherefores of that dispute. I am here to uphold the law, as is your sheriff and his officers. On the quayside last week, only good fortune allowed us to intervene in time before several men were hanged. I do not want to know if any of you were involved; that episode is past!’

  Again there was silence, with only the shuffling of feet and sideways glances to indicate the unease that pervaded the crowd.

  De Wolfe’s voice suddenly became louder and took on a harsher tone. ‘But all of you – and I include myself – should be ashamed to live in a city where an evildoer took the lives of a goodwife and her two infants, over the issue of how Jesus Christ should be worshipped. Let us not be mealy-mouthed about this. There can be no other motive for this foul act, other than to destroy a man for his beliefs, uncaring whether innocent children and their mother perished with him!’

  He glared around the subdued crowd, as if challenging any other explanation.

  ‘God knows, I am no saint, not even a devout enough Christian, yet I remember something of the Gospels. Did not the Good Lord say “Suffer the little children to come unto me”?’

  He raised his fists in the air in a final explosion of frustrated anger.

  ‘Is this how whatever fiend did this terrible act brought little children to Him? Killing innocent mites in the name of some argument about how best to worship God? He must be found and made to pay for his sins!’

  De Wolfe reached the crescendo of his wrath and suddenly his arms dropped to his sides as he slumped into despondency.

  ‘Jury, consider your verdict. I challenge you to find any other decision than wilful murder, though unfortunately against a person or persons unknown!’

  At supper that evening Matilda was unusually subdued. Though it was now normal for her to ignore her husband, especially at mealtimes, John sensed that this was something different. She was not snubbing him with her usual air of dislike and discontent, but seemed more pensive and abstracted. He realised that the inquest had affected her, as it had many people, due to the cruelty of the deaths, but as a childless wife who had never shown any maternal interest, he had never expected her to be so distraught. His attempts to talk to her were met with a shrug or a shake of the head, and he soon abandoned any attempt to lighten her mood.

  John had escorted her back from St Bartholomew’s, together with Cecilia from next door, and whereas Matilda remained in frozen silence, the physician’s wife, tears still wet on her cheeks, quietly praised his handling of the inquest.

  ‘It was a terrible thing, Sir John, but you said what needed to be said. I think it has jolted the consciences of many who heard it, and hopefully dampened this hysteria that has been pervading the city these past few weeks.’

  De Wolfe was afraid that this might have inflamed Matilda’s defence of the anti-heretic faction, but she remained silent, almost as if she had not even heard the words.

  When supper was over, to which unusually his wife failed to do justice, she called for Lucille and soon made her way out again, cloaked and hooded. Breaking her silence, she informed him that she would be at St Olave’s, praying for the souls of the victims from Milk Lane.

  Equally unusual, John did not feel like going down to the Bush that evening and slouched in front of his fire, drinking ale and then wine. He felt depressed by all that was going on: his brother’s illness, the lack of any progress over the increasing number of murders associated with the heresy issue – and now his wife’s strange moods. He wondered sometimes if she was losing her mind, as a result of her brother’s repeated falls from grace, the disappointment over his own abandonment of the Westminster coronership and, not least, his own infidelities.

  As he drank more and more, he slid towards sleep, his thoughts churning in his mind. Would William live or die, could the miracle of Thomas be repeated? How would he cope with Stoke and Holcombe if he did die? Who killed the four heretics? Was it the same assassin in each case?

  Mary came in later to add logs to the fire and shook her head sadly at the sight of him slumped on the settle, a mug of ale spilled on the floor where it had slipped from his hand as he snored the evening away. ‘This household is falling apart,’ she murmured to Brutus as she mopped the flagstones with a rag. ‘Things can’t go on like this. I can see me out of work and living with my cousin before long.’

  The hound opened one watery eye to look at her, but made no reply.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  In which Crowner John is confounded

  Early the following morning Crowner John sallied forth in grim determination. The inquest on the previous day seemed to have cast a shadow over the city and, though the usual number of people were on the streets, there seemed to be a pall of unease hanging over them.

  His object today was to descend upon those whom he thought most likely to be the perpetrators of the awful crime in Milk Lane. All had some connection with the cathedral, and it was towards the Close that he directed his steps on leaving the house. The two bailiffs working for the proctors were certain to be found there, and he assumed that the lay brother, Reginald Rugge, would also be in the vicinity. As to the weird monk, Alan de Bere, he would seek him later.

  John went alone, as he hoped that Thomas was taking his advice and resting in his lodging, while Gwyn was up at Rougemont in case there were new deaths requiring attention.

  At the small building which housed the proctors’ cells, he found both the bailiffs in residence, busy eating their breakfast bread and cheese and drinking small ale. Throwing open the door with no ceremony, he marched in and confronted them.

  ‘I see that unlike so many of our citizens, you made no effort to attend the inquest yesterday!’ he grated. ‘Perhaps you had guilty consciences?’

  The two men stared at him with their food halfway to their mouths, indignation being swamped by anxiety that this menacing figure might do them an injury. Herbert Gale struggled to his feet and stared anxiously at the coroner. ‘I don’t know what you are talking about, Sir John!’ he muttered uneasily.

  ‘You know damned well what I mean,’ snarled de Wolfe. ‘A house is burned down and the whole family deliberately killed! Do you not think it strange that the householder was the one man left from your crusade against heretics?’

  William Blundus glared up at the coroner from his stool. ‘We had nothing to do with that! You can’t come here unjustly accusing us with no evidence.’

  Angrily, John kicked a spare stool across the room to relieve his feelings.

  ‘Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do! I am investigating four deaths, and I intend getting the truth from the most likely perpetrators, for which you are good candidates.’

  Gale, the senior bailiff, had recovered much of his confide
nce and began blustering at the coroner’s intrusion.

  ‘We are just servants of the cathedral. Why should we take it upon ourselves to commit such a crime?’

  John leaned forward and banged their table with his fist.

  ‘Perhaps because you were so dissatisfied with the release of the other heretics, you wished to mete out your own type of justice?’

  The exchange carried on in this vein for some time and became more heated with every minute, but John could get no trace of a confession or unearth any incriminating signs. They obdurately denied both involvement in the deaths and his right to accuse them.

  ‘The canons shall hear of this!’ threatened Herbert Gale. ‘And the bishop when he returns.’

  ‘Then tell them to ask their Archbishop at Canterbury why he introduced coroners two years ago,’ snapped de Wolfe. ‘They will find that it was exactly to investigate events such as this.’

  As he saw that at present he would get nowhere with these men, he marched out with a promise that he would be back as often as it took – an empty threat, but it relieved his feelings.

  He made enquiries in the cathedral precinct and eventually traced Reginald Rugge to the cloisters on the south side of the great building. The lay brother was sweeping dead leaves from the garth, the central area of grass between the arcades on each side. When he saw the coroner loping towards him, he went rigid and gripped the handle of his besom as tightly as a drowning man grasping a floating plank.

  ‘You are supposed to be locked in the proctors’ cells!’ barked de Wolfe. ‘But for your convenient rendering of the “neck verse”, you would be awaiting trial for attempted murder before the king’s justices!’

  Rugge had a hangdog look, laced with defiance, as he knew he was protected by the invulnerable ecclesiastical machine.

  ‘I was released on condition I stayed within the Close,’ he muttered.

  ‘And did you?’ demanded John. ‘Or did you just happen to sneak out on Sunday night with some naphtha and a flask of brandy-wine, eh?’

  Rugge glared at him sullenly. ‘Where would I get such things? I don’t even know what that naphtha stuff is!’

  ‘Last week, I saw you trying to hang men with the same beliefs as the man that died in Milk Lane. Why should I believe that you didn’t make another attempt?’

  Rugge’s temper flared up briefly. ‘Well, I didn’t, see! Though that blasphemer deserved to die, by rope or fire or any other means. A pity about his family, though no doubt they would have had the same evil beliefs.’

  It took an effort for de Wolfe not to strike the man for his callous words.

  ‘You are the one with the evil beliefs, you cold-hearted bastard!’ he shouted, making several clerics walking in the cloister turn their heads. ‘If your guilt is proven, I will come to see you swing from the gallows and cheer at every spasm of your jerking limbs as your poisonous life is choked out of you!’

  The lay brother went pale at the vehemence of the coroner’s words and gazed about, looking for someone to rescue him from this vengeful knight. A young vicar came hesitantly out on to the grass towards them, but John waved him away imperiously.

  ‘Rugge, I will fetch a priest from the castle, a priest with a copy of the Vulgate. And you will swear upon that holy book that you did not leave this precinct on Sunday. Is that understood? If you lie, then as a devout man of the cloth you know you will suffer eternal damnation!’

  As several other figures under the cloister arches were now pointing at him and debating about intervening, John saw no point in provoking them further and left the garth. Outside, on the paths through the Close, he found that he was quivering with suppressed emotion, an unusual state for the normally phlegmatic coroner.

  He felt that Reginald Rugge could well have committed this heinous crime, but there seemed no chance of getting him to confess. John wondered if the man confessed his guilt to a priest, whether any cleric might be so appalled that he would break the sanctity of the confessional. He knew this was a futile hope, but as he was in the Close he decided to seek the opinion of his friend John de Alençon, so made his way to a side door into the great church. It was the time of the morning when Prime, one of the early offices, was in progress, and he stood alone in the huge, empty nave of the cathedral to wait for a break between the prayers and chanting that endlessly praised God behind the ornately carved wooden screen that separated the nave from the quire.

  As he waited, with only chirping sparrows for company, he looked up at the screen and recalled that it was exactly a year since he had had to climb up it, to retrieve the severed head of a murdered manor-lord, impaled on one of the spikes at the top. It seemed as if violence and religion were never far apart, even in Devon.

  The distant chanting eventually ceased and a final benediction allowed the black-robed celebrants to file out of the chancel and disperse themselves in the crossing, where the two great towers flanked the axis of the cruciform building. John walked around the side of the enclosed quire and saw the archdeacon in conversation with several other canons and vicars, some young secondaries hanging around the outside of the group. He waited, and in a moment John de Alençon noticed him and broke away to come to speak to his friend.

  ‘I suspect I know what brings you here, John,’ he said.

  His voice was subdued, and he looked over his shoulder to see if anyone was in earshot, as Canon Robert de Baggetor and William de Swindon were among those to whom he had been talking.

  ‘Yes, this abominable tragedy in Milk Lane,’ growled de Wolfe. ‘There can be little doubt that it was a deliberate assassination – and equally certain that it was because Algar was the only one of those heretics who stayed behind in the city.’

  The grizzled-haired priest nodded sadly. ‘I only wish I could contradict you, John, but any other explanation seems unlikely. My heart is saddened by the thought that differences in faith could lead to such suffering.’

  ‘Not even differences of faith, for surely everyone concerned professes to be a Christian,’ replied the coroner bitterly. ‘It is over differences in how to pursue that faith which makes it all the more tragic’

  ‘I cannot believe that anyone connected with the cathedral could stoop so low as to commit this outrage,’ murmured the archdeacon. ‘But no doubt it is your duty to investigate the possibility.’

  ‘Where else would I look for candidates, other than those who have already plainly exhibited their hatred of these people?’ asked John with suppressed ferocity. ‘It is but a few days since a mob, egged on by the dictates of some of your colleagues, tried to kill a few harmless folk down on the quayside. Only the intercession of your ecclesiastical rules saved two of them from facing trial for murder. Can you wonder that I now come looking at these same people?’

  De Alençon’s shoulders slumped and he gave a great sigh.

  ‘I appreciate your position, John. But what can I do to help? I am in an even more difficult position here, as you know. I am supposed to give a lead in defending the Church in this matter, though you know my heart is not in this particular persecution.’ He looked behind again and saw that the other priests and clerics were moving away. ‘I must go to chapter, John. There is no time now, but come to see me later.’

  De Wolfe nodded, but then held up a restraining hand. ‘One question, John. If the perpetrator of this foul crime confessed to a priest, are there any circumstances where that confidence could be broken, given the outrageous nature of the crime?’

  De Alençon laid a hand his friend’s shoulder. ‘The eternal question, John! The answer is “no”, as that confession is made to God. The priest is but a passive channel to the Almighty, then conveying back God’s absolution to the one confessing.’

  ‘Even if by allowing that man to stay free, it might permit him to repeat his crimes?’

  The archdeacon groaned. ‘It would be a personal decision by the priest. I have heard of only one such instance and then the priest left his vocation, becoming a hermit, as he felt that
he could no longer continue in office after breaking his vow of silence.’ He backed away and lifted a hand in farewell. ‘I must go to chapter, John. I will see you soon.’

  The coroner made his way slowly out of the cathedral, unsure of what to do next. The illness of his brother hung over him all the time, like some dark cloud under which he had to go through the motions of daily life. Even thoughts of Hilda rarely entered his mind these past few days, it being filled with the horror of this multiple crime, as well as concern over his deteriorating relations with Matilda and her odd behaviour since the deaths of those children. He thanked God that at least the added worry about Thomas seemed to have receded and that faithful Gwyn, his rock in this turbulent life, seemed as stable and reliable as ever.

  On the way out of the nave and again as he crossed the Close, he enquired of several clerks and lay brothers if they knew where Alan de Bere might be found. He went again to the proctors’ office, partly to annoy them with his persistence, but neither bailiff was there. He thought of trying St Nicholas Priory, in the backstreets near Bretayne, but decided it was a futile quest to seek Alan there, as he had been ejected by them a long time before. The only other people who might know of him were in the constables’ hut at the back of the Guildhall; though Osric and Theobald were there when he called, neither had anything useful to tell him.

  ‘Not a sign of that crazy bloody monk,’ growled Theobald, the fat constable. ‘No one seems to have laid eyes on him since he was taken from the castle gaol.’

  De Wolfe turned to Osric, the Saxon with an emaciated body and a thin face to match. ‘Were there any sightings of a stranger in Milk Lane that night?’ he demanded.

  ‘I’ve asked everyone in the lane and up and down nearby Fore Street,’ he said nervously, his prominent Adam’s apple bobbing up and down his scrawny neck. ‘Everyone is keen to help, but the trouble is they invent things in their urge to be useful. I’ve had reports of all manner of folk being seen there, from the portreeves to the bishop himself!’