by Paul Doherty
‘But it would increase the weight?’ William de Conches spoke up.
‘Yes, but would that be noticed?’ Athelstan replied. ‘Oh we felt it when we tried to raise the coffin this morning, but remember, after the funeral mass and the final blessing, the coffin is lowered into the burial vault. How long does that take, Father Prior?’
‘No more than a few minutes.’
‘The lay brothers would certainly notice the weight but, as it would prove no extra burden in lowering the coffin, they would dismiss it as a momentary fancy.’ Athelstan stopped speaking and went back to stare across the altar. ‘Now the murderer was locked in the church. I suspect that if we examined poor Alcuin’s corpse, we would find his keys missing. The murderer would have taken them and got rid of them later. Anyway, Roger’s return disturbed him so he went back to the alcove. Roger came into the sanctuary through the sacristy. God bless him, he was a half-wit but I have noticed how such people take careful notice of their surroundings. They tend to stare at things as if seeing them for the first time. Roger expected to find his master, he could not, so his consternation increased. He stared around. Something jarred his memory. Perhaps he had always prided himself on counting the number of statues.’
‘Of course!’ Brother Peter exclaimed. ‘Instead of twelve Apostles he counted thirteen!’
‘I would hazard a guess he realised that later. At the time he would go scurrying down the church, through the sanctuary and out into the nave, looking for Brother Alcuin. By the time he returned the murderer had slipped into the sacristy and out of the church.’
They all stared at Athelstan.
‘My clerk,’ Cranston grandly announced, filling himself another goblet of wine, ‘has expressed my own deductions admirably.’
Athelstan lowered his head. When he looked up, both Brother Peter and Brother Niall were nodding in agreement. Henry of Winchester just smiled in admiration. Eugenius looked doubtful but Athelstan caught a gleam of admiration in William de Conche’s eyes.
‘What now?’ Brother Henry asked.
‘I don’t know,’ replied Athelstan. ‘Cranston and I find ourselves at the end of an alleyway with nothing but a brick wall facing us.’ He glanced quickly at the prior. ‘Father, we can do no more. Tomorrow is Sunday. We can stay here a little longer, but on Monday I must return to St Erconwald’s.’ He glared at Cranston. ‘Isn’t that correct, Sir John?’
The coroner drew together his brows and blinked. He was about to protest when Athelstan abruptly took leave of Father Prior, genuflected towards the high altar and stalked quickly out of the church, with Cranston huffing and puffing behind him. The friar refused to speak until they were safely back in the guest house.
‘You are just going to leave?’ the coroner exclaimed.
‘Of course not, Sir John. But the murderer was in that church. We must pretend to be baffled. If we betray the slightest knowledge of Hildegarde or what Brother Paul told us, then someone else will die and I think it may well be me. Come, Sir John, another cup of wine?’
Cranston needed no second invitation but sped like an arrow towards the buttery. From his exclamations of delight, Athelstan realised that Norbert had brought across fresh supplies of mead. Leaving Cranston to his pleasures, Athelstan went quickly upstairs and smiled when he saw the great leather tomes already piled on his and Cranston’s bed.
‘Sir John,’ he called, ‘we shall spend the rest of today and tomorrow on the study of theology.’
Cranston, a brimming tankard in his hands, clumped upstairs and stared round-eyed at what Norbert had brought.
‘We have to go through all of these?’
‘Aye, Sir John, and more.’
Cranston cursed under his breath. ‘Athelstan,’ he pleaded, ‘sweetest Brother, a week tonight I must return to the Palace of Savoy.’
Athelstan turned his back so the coroner couldn’t glimpse the dismay on his face. So far he could see no solution to that problem but if Cranston sensed his failure, there would be no holding the coroner from drowning himself in a sea of despair, not to mention one of claret.
‘Courage, Sir John!’ he called out over his shoulder. ‘I have an idea,’ he lied. ‘But, for the time being, let us concentrate on the problem in hand.’
‘Why?’ snapped Cranston.
Athelstan turned, went over and crouched before him. ‘Sir John, we are dealing with a murderer. We know how he killed, but we still don’t know why. Do you realise, we haven’t a single clue, not a shred of evidence, to lay against anyone? Somehow or other these books contain the answer and I intend to find it!’ Athelstan gripped Cranston’s wrist. ‘And I thank you, Sir John, for what you did in church, taking care of poor Alcuin’s corpse. Your decision not to publicise the manner of his death may, at some later stage, trap the murderer. Believe me, Sir John, we must trap him!’
Cranston mournfully agreed. Norbert brought other books across as well as refreshment to satisfy Cranston’s prodigious appetite. In the main he and Athelstan stayed in the guest house, only leaving for the occasional walk or visit to the church. Father Prior came across to seek assurances that Athelstan would return and, when he received these, left to arrange the proper burial of his two colleagues.
Athelstan and Cranston went through one leatherbound book after another.
‘Look for the name Hildegarde,’ Athelstan ordered. ‘If you find anything connected with that name, alert me at once.’
They spent most of Saturday and the greater part of Sunday morning scrupulously searching each page of the leather-bound volumes. Athelstan rather enjoyed it. He felt he was a student again meeting old friends: St Thomas Aquinas, the sentences of Peter Lombard, the brilliant but sarcastic analysis of Peter Abelard. Each volume contained copies of their work, carefully written out by generations of Dominicans at Black-friars. Sometimes the copyist had written their own commentaries in the margin, now and again adding personal remarks such as: ‘I am cold’, ‘My eyes are aching’, ‘I find this boring’, and, ‘Oh, when will summer come?’ Some scribes had even painted the faces of gargoyles to poke fun at their brethren. The prior of over a hundred years ago must have been a proper tyrant for one copyist had drawn a crude gallows with his superior hanging from it. Cranston soon became bored, constantly going up and downstairs to refresh himself in the kitchen or falling asleep and disturbing Athelstan with his snores. At last, just before noon on Sunday, he announced he had had enough.
‘I’d better return, Athelstan,’ he announced mournfully. ‘I miss the Lady Maude and the two poppets. I am more of a hindrance than a help here. You will return to Southwark tomorrow?’
‘At first light, Sir John.’
‘Then I will meet you at London Bridge as the bells of St. Mary Le Bow toll the beginning of day.’
Armed with his miraculous wineskin, Sir John stumped off and Athelstan returned to his studies. The day drew on, punctuated by the sound of bells and the faint hum of the ordinary routine of the monastery. Father Prior came over to announce that both Brothers Roger and Alcuin would be buried on the morrow after high mass, now the sanctuary had been reblessed and purified. He stood in the kitchen wringing his hands and shifting from one foot to another as his eyes pleaded with Athelstan to bring an end to these terrible events. Athelstan reassured him and the prior left. Norbert brought across some food. Athelstan asked for fresh candles and continued his studies long after sunset. It must have been about midnight when he heard Brother Norbert pounding on the door shouting his name.
‘Athelstan! Athelstan! Quickly!’
The friar opened the wooden shutters and looked down.
‘What is it?’ he called.
The lay brother held up a lantern. ‘An urgent message from Sir John. It was delivered at the porter’s lodge. Brother, you are to come down now!’
Athelstan picked up his cloak, slipped his feet into his sandals and went down.
‘Where’s the messenger?’
‘Oh, he was some young lad. He just said s
omething dreadful had happened at St Erconwald’s and that you were to come immediately!’
‘Saddle Philomel for me. Is the lad still here?’
‘He said he would wait for you outside the Blue Mantle tavern on the corner of Carter Lane.’
Athelstan walked across to the main gate. He felt tired, his eyes ached and he wondered what could have happened. Had the church caught fire, or was one of his parishioners dying? Philomel was brought round, snorting and protesting at this unwarranted intrusion into his rest. A sleepy-eyed porter opened the gate. Athelstan led his horse through, mounted, and rode up the darkened street towards the tavern.
On one side of him rose the dark mass of Blackfriars. On the other a row of houses, all lights extinguished except for the lantern horns placed on hooks above the door. Two members of the night watch walked by, poles over their shoulders. They glimpsed Athelstan’s black and white robes and passed on, chuckling about the strange habits of certain priests.
Athelstan fought to keep his eyes open. He was near the tavern. Then he stopped. Despite the warm night air, he shivered and cursed himself for a fool. Why didn’t the messenger wait in the porter’s lodge? Why choose a tavern long after the beginning of curfew? The friar stopped and stared into the darkness, now fully alert. He sensed something was wrong. What was so urgent that he had to be dragged out in the middle of the night? He leaned forward, ears straining. He heard the clip-clop of hooves in the distance, the discordant yowling of cats, and the squeak and slither of rats as they foraged in the huge mounds of excrement piled high in the sewers.
‘Hello!’ he called. ‘Who is there?’
Athelstan’s eyes, now accustomed to the darkness, tried to make out if there was anyone standing in the shadows on the corner of Carter Lane. He looked up at the sky and idly thought it would be a fine night for studying the stars. A slight breeze sprang up, wafting the stench from the Shambles around Newgate. Should he go on? he wondered. Then he heard it: the slither of leather on the dirty cobblestones and a gentle, scraping, hissing sound.
‘Who is . . .?’ He broke off as he recalled the sound. He had heard that noise before whenever Cranston drew his stabbing dagger from its leather sheath. Athelstan needed no second urging. He turned Philomel round, kicking with all his might. Usually the old war horse would balk into an ambling trot. Athelstan, not the best of horsemen, urged him on, lashing his withers with the reins. He heard footsteps behind him. One or was it two sets of footsteps.
‘Au secours! Aidez moi!’ Athelstan gave the usual cry of someone being attacked on the streets. Yelling at Philomel and shouting the alarm, he charged back towards the main gate of Blackfriars. The footsteps stopped. He heard a muted shout, a click, and he ducked – but the crossbow bolt whirred well above his head. Lights appeared in the windows of the houses and, thanks be to God, the porter already had the gate open. Athelstan dismounted and pushed the old war horse through.
‘Bolt the gate!’ he ordered.
The porter slammed it shut. Athelstan released Philomel’s reins and, as the old war horse charged like an arrow into the nearby garden to eat the delicious flowers, Athelstan crouched, arms across his stomach, trying to calm the panic within him.
‘Is there anything wrong, Brother?’
Athelstan looked at the lean face of the porter and got wearily to his feet.
‘No, no, just forget it.’
Athelstan took a protesting Philomel back to the stables, unsaddled him, made him comfortable for the night and returned to the guest house. He walked warily as if experiencing one of his nightmares. He realised the ambush out in the street had been planned by someone here at Blackfriars. He checked the guest house carefully, even to the jug of wine in the kitchen, bolted the door, made the shutters secure, and went up for an uneasy night’s sleep.
He rose and left Blackfriars early next morning. The attack of the previous evening had aroused the constant, underlying fear in him. Their investigations had implicated someone powerful or vicious enough to hire felons or footpads who would take their lives at the blink of an eyelid, and for a sum much less than thirty pieces of silver.
The sun had not yet risen as he turned into Thames Street and rode down the Vintry and Ropery into Bridge Street. He guided a still protesting Philomel away from the houses, keeping a watchful eye on the darkened doorways and alleyways, especially those leading down from the slums along the banks of the Thames. The wine merchants and cordwainers were still fast asleep, the street deserted except for carts piled high with produce making their way up to the markets. A yawning beadle, resting half-asleep on his staff of office, wished him good morning. A group of whores, their red heads covered by cloaks, slipped back to their tenements in Cock Lane, Smithfield. A pig, crushed by one of the carts, screeched its death agony until a householder, knife in hand, sped from the doorway, cut the animal’s throat and, with a sly wink at Athelstan, dragged the blood-gushing corpse into his house.
‘They’ll eat well,’ Athelstan murmured.
Philomel snorted, tossing his head at the smell of blood.
At the bridge, the city watch still guarded the entrance. There was no sign of Cranston so Athelstan retraced his steps up to Pountney Inn halfway between the Ropery and Candlewick Street, one of the few taverns licensed to remain open before the bells of St Mary Le Bow gave the signal for the start of day. He ordered watered beer and a meat pie and became involved in an angry altercation with the taverner when he cut it open to find two dead wasps inside. Athelstan, still weary and agitated after the attack of the previous evening, finally gave up in disgust. He stalked out of the tavern, collected Philomel and walked back to Bridge Street where he stood watching the traffic pass on to the bridge. The morning was clear, mist free, and the gulls and other birds hunting along the mud flats rose, soared and dipped, filling the air with their screams.
‘Are you a vagrant?’
Athelstan jumped at the touch of a heavy hand on his shoulder. He turned to see Cranston’s bewhiskered face a few inches from his. Athelstan clutched his chest.
‘Sir John, why can’t you be like other men and just say good morning?’
The coroner grinned and narrowed his eyes.
‘You look frightened – whey-faced. What’s the matter?’
Athelstan told him as they led their horses on to the bridge, the friar as always keeping his eyes away from the sheer drop on either side. He had to pause whilst Cranston threw good-natured abuse at the city watch, but otherwise the coroner patiently heard him out. Sir John then stopped, rubbing his chin and staring blankly at the door of the chapel of St Thomas of Canterbury which stood in the centre of the bridge. Behind them a carter flicked his whip.
‘Come on, you great fat lump! Keep moving!’
‘Piss off!’ Cranston shouted back.
Nevertheless, he guided his horse on, making Athelstan repeat once again his description of the attack.
‘And you found nothing in those damned books?’
‘Not a jot nor a tittle!’
Cranston eased the knife in his belt. ‘But someone in that bloody monastery knows what you are hunting for!’
‘I agree, Sir John. I have concluded that myself. My belief is that all murderers are arrogant. Like their father Cain, they think they can hide from God and everyone else. Our demonstration, however, of what happened to poor Alcuin has provoked the assassin to act. After all, Sir John, if we can resolve one problem then perhaps it’s only a matter of time before we resolve another.’
‘Which brings us to the business of the scarlet chamber,’ Cranston added ominously.
‘Patience, Sir John, patience. And how are Lady Maude and the two poppets?’
Cranston turned and spat as they left the bridge.
‘Those boys have prodigious appetites and powerful lungs. They must get it from their mother.’
Athelstan pulled a face to hide a grin.
‘They are getting so big,’ Cranston moaned.
‘And the Lady Maude?
’
Cranston raised his eyebrows. ‘Like a lioness, Brother, like a lioness. She sits like one of those great cats in the King’s Tower, a smile on her face, eyes ever watchful.’ He blew out his cheeks. ‘If I do not extricate myself from this mess, she’ll spring.’ He glared furiously at his companion who was busy gnawing his lower lip.
Lady Maude was so small, Athelstan thought, he couldn’t imagine her as some great cat stalking the mighty coroner.
They entered the alleyways and mean streets of Southwark, Cranston still bemoaning his impending fate. Athelstan looped Philomel’s reins round his wrist, half-listening as he stared around. At first he had hated Southwark, but now he felt that despite the fetid runnels and shabby one-storeyed huts, the place had a vigorous life of its own. Already the little booths were open and in a nearby ale-house someone was singing a hymn to the Virgin Mary. A ward beadle tried to seize a young whore who had been plying her trade on the steps of the priory of St Mary Overy but the young girl raised her skirts, waggled a pair of dirty white buttocks and scampered off, screaming with laughter. They turned down the alley which led to St Erconwald’s. Athelstan heaved a sigh of relief that the church and grounds were empty. No sightseers. Even the serjeant Sir John had sent appeared to have found something more interesting to do and wandered off. They stabled their horses and went into the priest’s house. Athelstan smiled.
‘My parishioners,’ he commented, ‘have apparently heard of my bad temper.’
He gazed admiringly round the kitchen and buttery where everything had been cleaned, swept and polished, even the hearth which now had a pile of pine logs stacked waiting to be burned. A sealed jar of wine had been placed in the centre of the kitchen table and the water tub had been emptied, scrubbed and refilled. Cranston licked his lips when he sighted the wine. Athelstan waved him over.
‘Be my guest, Sir John. But I’d like more water than wine in mine.’
