Murder Most Holy

by Paul Doherty

  ‘No mystery,’ he bellowed, ‘is beyond my wits! If a problem exists,’ he added, quoting his help-meet Athelstan, ‘then it is logical that a solution must also exist.’

  ‘Nobody denies that!’ Gaunt slapped him on the shoulder, pushing him gently back in his chair. The coroner saw the Regent’s sly smile, glimpsed the young king’s pitying stare and the flash of triumph in Cremona’s glittering eyes.

  ‘The solution is known?’ Cranston asked.

  ‘Of course!’ Cremona replied. ‘As is customary, I shall choose one person – such as His Grace the King. If your theory is incorrect, he will, after solemnly swearing to silence, be shown part of the solution.’ Cremona laughed. ‘Though no person has yet offered a solution, not even an incorrect one.’

  Gaunt turned to the Italian nobleman. ‘My Lord,’ he said silkily, ‘you have issued the challenge and Sir John has picked up the gauntlet. We wait with bated breath for your mystery.’

  Galeazzo, Lord of Cremona, pulled back his silken sleeves and stood up, his robes billowing about him, exuding a faint delicious fragrance unknown in England.

  ‘Your Grace the King, My Lord of Lancaster, and you other noble English lords and barons – the lavish hospitality of my host has deeply impressed us and will never be forgotten.’

  Galeazzo leaned on the table, threw one significant look at Cranston, then turned back to address the hall. His speech was perfect though his mellow voice was tinged with a slight accent.

  ‘I will not waste your time. The hour is late and we have all drunk deeply.’ He moved his hands and the rings on his fingers caught the brilliance of the light and flashed like the clearest stars. ‘Sir John Cranston has accepted my wager, a challenge to solve a problem no one has yet fathomed. Only I myself, and I have written the solution down in a sealed document. I have posed the problem to doctors in Paris, lawyers in Montpellier and professors in Cologne and Nantes, but to no effect.’ Galeazzo paused and drew a deep breath. ‘Many years ago my family owned a manor house outside Cremona – a large, three-storeyed building of great age and sinister reputation. Once, when I was a boy, I spent Yuletide there with my aged aunt, its owner.’ He smiled around the assembled company. ‘No matter what the place or its reputation, when the Yuletide log is burnt and we Italians celebrate Christ’s birth, an evening banquet is held.’ He laughed. ‘Not as lavish as this one but, as is customary, once the wine jug circulates, every guest has to tell a ghost story.

  ‘Now, I remember that evening well. It was the coldest Christmas anyone could remember. A biting north wind brought sheets of snow down from the Alps, the manor house was cut off by deep drifts and icy roads. Nevertheless, we had warm fires and plenty to eat and revelled in this time of shadows. Outside no sound was heard except the moaning wind and the haunting howls of the wolves as they came down from the mountains to hunt.’

  Galeazzo stopped and looked around. Cranston admired his prowess and skill: his audience was no longer aware of this lavish hall on an English summer’s evening but thinking of a lonely haunted manor house in faraway Cremona. Nevertheless, the coroner was anxious. He wished the Italian nobleman would come to the point so his own wily brain could seize upon the problem posed.

  ‘Once the storytelling ended, my venerable aunt was challenged by one of the guests. Were there not ghosts in that very house? At first she refused to answer, but when the guests insisted, explained about the scarlet chamber – a room at the top of the house kept barred and locked because anyone who slept there died a violent, mysterious death.’ Galeazzo stopped and sipped from a mother-of-pearl-encrusted goblet.

  ‘My Lords, you can imagine what happened. Everyone was full of wine and itching with a curiosity which had to be satisfied. To cut a long story short, my aunt was urged to show the guests the room. Servants were summoned, torches lit, and my aunt led us out of the hall and up the great wooden staircase. I was only a small boy and went unnoticed amongst the others. Now, I knew the top storey of that ancient manor house was always barred but this time servants removed the padlocks and chains and my aunt led us up a cold, deep staircase.’ He stopped speaking and shook his head. ‘I will always remember it: the rats slithering and squeaking, the moonlight shining on the motes of dust. We reached the top of the staircase and turned. The guests milled about, their excitement now tinged with fear for it was dreadfully cold and dark. Servants went ahead and lit the flambeaux jutting out from the wall: the passageway came to life and all eyes were fixed on the door at the bottom. Barred, padlocked and chained, it drew us like some awful curse.’ Again Galeazzo stopped, sipped from his wine cup and smiled quickly at Cranston.

  ‘The door was unlocked and we entered a small square chamber. I mean a perfect square. There was a table, a stool, a fireplace, a small lattice window in the far wall, but the chamber was dominated by a huge fourposter bed. What really made us catch our breath was when my aunt ordered the torches lit and candles brought in. The room positively flared into life. Believe me, everything – the floor, the ceiling, the walls, the carpet, the bed – everything was bright scarlet, as if drenched in fresh blood.’ Galeazzo paused, leaned forward and selected a grape from the bowl.

  ‘The mystery!’ one of the guests shouted from down the hall. ‘What is the mystery?’

  Cranston stared down the table. Gaunt slouched, his eyes half-closed, a slight smile on his face as if he knew what was coming next. The young king, like any child, sat round-eyed and open-mouthed. Yet Galeazzo, like the born storyteller he was, played his audience for a while. He chewed slowly on the grape.

  ‘Now,’ he said, ‘the mystery begins. One of the guests challenged my aunt. He declared he would spend a night in the room fully armed. He would take no drink or food. A thorough search was made to ensure there were no secret passageways or trapdoors. After that the room was cleaned, fresh bolsters and linen put on the bed. Some sea coal was brought up and a fire lit in the grate. We all left that young man, that very foolish young man, to his night’s sleep.

  ‘The next morning broke cloud-free, the sun shone and a mild thaw set in. So, before breaking our fast, we all went out into the snow for it is a rare phenomenon around Cremona. We had a brisk walk and someone wondered how the young man fared. We knew the scarlet chamber was at the front of the house and, looking up, saw him staring down at us. We waved and went back into the house. Only after we had eaten did we notice that the young man still had not appeared so servants were sent to the scarlet chamber. A few minutes later one of them came rushing back, his face white, his eyes filled with terror. He shouted at my aunt to come, and we all followed. We entered the scarlet chamber. The fire had died in the grate. The bed had been slept in but the young man was standing by the window.’

  ‘I tell you no lies, sirs, the man was dead. He stood with mouth gaping and eyes staring, as we had seen him from the front of the house. He had tried to open the window, digging his nails deep into the frame. All I can say, sirs, is that on his face was a look of absolute horror. One of the guests, a physician, confirmed that something evil, something terrible in that room, had stopped the young man’s heart with fright.’

  Galeazzo stopped speaking and turned to Sir John. ‘You have my drift, Lord Coroner?’

  ‘Yes, My Lord.’

  ‘You have questions?’

  ‘Was the room disturbed?’

  ‘In no way!’

  ‘Were there any secret passageways or tunnels?’

  Cranston called out his questions in a loud voice so all in the hall could hear and Galeazzo answered in a similar fashion. The Italian turned to the assembled company, hand waving.

  ‘I swear, on my mother’s honour, no one had entered that room. There were no concealed doors or windows. No food or drink were served. The sea coals were from the stores, and the candles the young man brought to the room had been used in the hall below.’

  Cranston stared at him in disbelief and once more wished Athelstan was here.

  ‘Was it some demon, some evil spirit?
’

  ‘Ah!’ Galeazzo, Lord of Cremona, addressed the hall. ‘My Lord Coroner asks if the room was possessed of some demon. My aunt thought so and sent for a holy priest from the nearby church to come bless and exorcise the room. This venerable father arrived late in the day. He blessed, he exorcised, every corner but with no visible result. So we left him there. He said he would pray, and locked the door behind us.’

  Galeazzo turned and smiled at Cranston’s expression. ‘My Lord Coroner, I am sure you suspect what happened next. It was late in the evening before my lady aunt realised the venerable father had not reappeared so servants forced the door and found the priest lying dead upon the floor – on his face the same look of horror as on the young man’s who had died earlier.’ Galeazzo stopped to bask in the ‘oohs’ and ‘ahs’ of his audience.

  Gaunt fingered his lower lip; the young king had now forgotten his hated uncle and watched the Italian nobleman attentively.

  ‘My Lord,’ the king cried in a shrill voice, ‘what happened then?’

  Galeazzo smiled. ‘My lady aunt would not be satisfied. She called for two of her retainers, hardened warriors, one of them a good swordsman, the other a Genoese expert with the crossbow. They were bribed with gold to spend one night in the room. The men accepted and took up their posts that same evening. The door was unlocked as we’d had to force it to discover the body of the priest. The swordsman slept on a chair, the Genoese on the bed. In the middle of the night we were all wakened by a terrible scream.

  ‘This time I was barred from going but my aunt later told me that when she entered the scarlet chamber, she found the swordsman on the floor, a crossbow bolt embedded deep in his chest, whilst the Genoese, still clutching his arbalest, lay sprawled near him. He had died the same way as the rest, but something evil in that room, some demonic force, my aunt concluded, had forced this soldier to kill his own companion before he too perished.’

  Galeazzo suddenly clapped his hands. ‘My aunt had done all she could. The corpses were removed, masses sung, and the scarlet chamber once again locked and barred. The years passed. I became a young man. Then, one day, an archivist from a local monastery heard of the terrible story. He demanded an audience with my aunt and said he could resolve the mystery of the scarlet chamber.’ Galeazzo shrugged. ‘Your Grace, fellow guests, I can proceed no further.’ He shook his head at the angry grumblings from the guests who felt cheated of a good story. ‘I leave that to the subtle wit of My Lord Coroner.’ He looked squarely at Cranston. ‘Sir John, do you have further questions?’

  Cranston shook his head disbelievingly. ‘Four people died in that room and no one entered? No food or drink were given? And when there were two, one killed the other?’

  Galeazzo smiled and nodded.

  ‘Unbelievable!’

  ‘My Lord Coroner,’ Cremona announced for all to hear, ‘what I tell you is the truth!’

  Suddenly the young king rose to his feet. “The challenge has been given and accepted!’ he piped. ‘But, sweet Uncle, and My Lord of Cremona, there must be justice. How long has Sir John to solve this mystery?’

  ‘Two weeks,’ Galeazzo replied. ‘Two weeks from tonight I shall return to this hall and Sir John must present his solution.’

  Cranston smiled at the young king for publicly supporting him. ‘How will I know the solution I offer is the correct one? My Lord, I mean no offence but there may be six solutions, all correct?’

  Galeazzo stroked his silky, black moustache. ‘No, Sir John,’ he murmured, and snapped his fingers at a retainer standing behind him. ‘The documents!’

  The squire handed them over. One was a roll of parchment which Galeazzo handed to Cranston.

  ‘This relates the mystery. You will find it as I have described it.’ He picked up a square piece of vellum, sealed with four purple blobs of wax. ‘This is the solution.’ Cremona handed it to the king. ‘Your Grace, I entrust it to your care so no foul play can be suspected.’

  A hum of approval rose from the hall. The young king clapped his hands in glee whilst Gaunt grinned at Cranston.

  ‘Two weeks, My Lord Coroner,’ murmured Gaunt, and gripped Cranston by the arm. ‘Don’t worry, Sir John. If you lose the wager, I will pay the debt.’

  Cranston’s jaw dropped at the terrible trap he had blundered into. It was not merely the loss of the gold or the disgrace of losing the wager, which he surely would; Gaunt had used this as a subtle device to please his Italian guest and, more importantly, to get the coroner into his debt. Cranston had the ear of the mayor, sheriffs and leading burgesses of London. The coroner was a man respected for his integrity and blunt criticism of the court. If he accepted Gaunt’s money he would be in the Regent’s debt and, within a year, would be regarded by everyone as Gaunt’s creature. Cranston’s rage boiled within him. He had to bite back a scathing reply and instead clenched the edge of the table until his fingers hurt, deaf to the conversations going on around him. He caught and held the Regent’s gaze. Cranston drew a deep breath.

  ‘My Lord of Lancaster, I thank you for your generosity, but I will not need your money. I will solve the mystery.’

  Gaunt smiled and patted him on the arm.

  ‘Of course, Sir John. And I am going to enjoy hearing your solution.’

  Gaunt turned to converse with his young nephew. Cranston could only sit, seething with anger at both himself and the subtlety of princes.

  The banquet ended an hour later. Cranston collected his beaver hat and wool-lined cloak from a page boy and stamped through the narrow streets to the nearest tavern. He ordered a separate table, two good candles and the biggest jug of ale the tavern could furnish. For an hour he re-read the mystery posed by Cremona and, the more he read, the deeper his depression grew. At last, full of ale and self-pity, he left the tavern and made his lugubrious way home. Not even the prospect of seeing Maude’s cheerful face or his little poppets, Francis and Stephen, could penetrate the coroner’s deepening gloom.

  Brother Athelstan rose early. The previous night had been clear and he had enjoyed studying the heavens with Bonaventure, the ever-growing church cat, squatting beside him watching him curiously. Afterwards Athelstan had taken his telescope and charts back to the only lockable chest in the priest’s small house, gone across to St Erconwald’s to chant Vespers with Bonaventure still beside him, then back for some light ale, a piece of bread smeared with honey, milk for Bonaventure, and so to bed.

  Brother Athelstan felt pleased with himself and softly sang a song from boyhood as he washed, shaved and donned his black and white robe. Beside him faithful Bonaventure stretched and yawned, licking his whiskers with his small pink tongue in hopeful expectation of a dish of fish and a bowl of milk. Athelstan re-arranged the small towel, looping it over the wooden lavarium, and crouched to stroke the cat, scratching it softly between its ears until Bonaventure purred with pleasure.

  ‘You are getting fat, master cat. The more I see of you the more I think of Cranston.’

  Bonaventure seemed to smile and snuggled closer.

  ‘You are getting fat, Bonaventure,’ Athelstan repeated. ‘And I am not feeding you this morning. You will have to hunt for your breakfast.’

  Athelstan gazed round his small, sparsely furnished bedchamber. He tidied the horsehair blanket on his trestle bed, emptied the water he had used out of the window and jumped as he heard an angry grunt from below. He looked down and found Ursula the pig woman’s fat sow staring up at him. Athelstan quietly swore and slammed the shutters closed. He hated that bloody pig: it seemed to have an almost demonic intelligence. As soon as the cabbages and other vegetables Athelstan had carefully planted began to sprout, that damned animal would come lurching along to help itself.

  ‘I wonder if Huddle would build a fence?’ Athelstan murmured. He shrugged. But there again, he had other jobs for Huddle and, despite the pig’s forays on to his small vegetable patch, Athelstan felt a small glow of triumph. Today, Sunday, the sixth after Easter 1379, the workmen would begin work
on converting the sanctuary. They would take down the rood screen, lift the cracked, water-soaked flagstones and lay new ones, carefully cut and painted black and white. Athelstan didn’t care if it was Sunday, it was the best day for work and most appropriate for the beginning of a major attempt to beautify God’s house.

  Humming the song, he checked that the coffer containing his astrological charts and telescope was firmly padlocked and went down the rickety stairs into the kitchen. Bonaventure, tail held high, followed as reverently as any acolyte at holy mass. The kitchen was as bare as Athelstan’s bedroom, containing a few cupboards, a table and some stools. A small fire still glowed in the hearth, slowly warming a pot of soup Athelstan had been cooking since Friday. Benedicta had advised him that stock from meat should not be discarded but boiled for a number of days, spiced and allowed to bubble until it provided the most appetising of soups. Athelstan, a hopeless cook, was delighted with the succulent smells now filling the kitchen. He went into the small scullery, cut himself a crust of bread and poured a cup of watered wine. Bonaventure followed him in and looked pleadingly up.

  ‘No milk, Bonaventure,’ Athelstan snapped.

  The cat purred and brushed against his leg.

  ‘All right.’ Athelstan relented. He picked up an earthenware pitcher and poured the cream into a bowl on the floor. He admired the black sleekness of Bonaventure as this lord of the alleyways, this one-eared king of cats, daintily lapped at the milk. Bonaventure likes his milk, Athelstan thought, as Cranston likes his wine. The friar walked absentmindedly back into the kitchen, sat on a stool and gazed into the dying embers of the fire. He wondered how the good coroner was faring for he, like Sir John, had been mystified by the Regent’s invitation, Cranston being no friend of the court party.