Murder Most Holy

by Paul Doherty

  ‘If you men only knew the labour and travail of a woman preparing herself for the day.’

  ‘In your case, My Lady,’ Cranston gallantly answered, ‘it is truly a case of painting the rose or gilding the lily.’

  Benedicta leaned forward, her eyes rounded in mock innocence. ‘Sir John,’ she whispered, ‘you are a veritable courtier and a gentleman.’

  Cranston preened himself like a peacock. He was in his element. He had eaten a good meal, drunk the richest claret, and was now being complimented by a beautiful woman. The coroner drummed his fingers on his broad girth.

  ‘If I were single and ten years younger . . .’

  ‘There’d be a lot more food and drink about!’ Athelstan answered tartly. But all he got in reply were wicked smiles from both Benedicta and an ever more expansive Sir John.

  Benedicta dabbed her cheeks one final time with the powder puff, Athelstan watching the fine dust rise in the air.

  ‘Oh, sweet Lord!’ he whispered.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing, Sir John. Benedicta, may I borrow that powder puff?’

  She handed it over and, whilst she teased him, Athelstan examined it carefully, squeezing it between his hands until a fine dust covered his robe. Cranston leaned closer, wrinkling his nose.

  ‘You want to be careful when you go out, Brother. You smell like a molly-boy!’

  The friar apologised and handed it back to Benedicta then rose, dusting his robes carefully.

  ‘Sir John,’ he announced, ‘we have to go. Benedicta, inform no one of what I have told you but let my parishioners know that I will celebrate mass tomorrow and wish everyone to be there. I have an important announcement to make.’

  ‘Where are you off to, Brother?’

  ‘Back to my church, Sir John.’

  Cranston shook his head. ‘Oh, no, monk, we have work to do.’

  ‘Sir John, I must return.’

  Cranston rose and stuck out his chest. ‘Do you think, while we’ve been running backwards and forwards to Blackfriars, the city sleeps? There was a death last night near the Brokenseld tavern on the corner of Milk Street. The body now lies in St Peter Chepe and a judgement has to be delivered.’

  Athelstan groaned.

  ‘Come on, Brother.’ Cranston linked his arm through the friar’s. ‘Let’s collect our horses and go.’

  Shouting fond farewells to Benedicta, Cranston hustled his tight-lipped colleague through the door and back into the streets of Southwark. They collected their horses from St Erconwald’s, Philomel even more obdurate and obstinate for it had been a long time since he had travelled far and done any work. They made their way down to the bridge, Athelstan trying to hide his displeasure whilst Cranston, burping and belching, fed his good humour with generous swigs from the miraculous wineskin. He beamed around, hurling abuse at the stall-holders who now had their booths piled high with fripperies, girdles, cups, tawdry rings, sets of false stones, buckles, pater nosters and small cut throat knives. Other stalls displayed food, large gleaming slabs of meat and fish – some fresh from the river, the rest at least two days old and stinking to high heaven.

  A group of urchins played football amongst the stalls. A cut-purse, looking for easy profit, caught Sir John’s eye and fled like a rat up an alleyway. At the stocks near the entrance to the bridge, two water-sellers were being forced to stand holding leaking buckets above their heads which any passerby could fill, usually with the dirty fluids from the sewers or thick pools of horse urine. Athelstan glimpsed some of his parishioners: Pike the ditcher, mattock and hoe slung across his shoulder; Watkin on his dung cart, making his way down to the riverside with his cart piled high with rotting refuse. Cecily the courtesan was standing in the doorway of a tavern and promptly disappeared when she caught sight of Athelstan. They all looked subdued, rather frightened, and the friar was pleased that tomorrow he would settle the matter of the mysterious skeleton once and for all.

  They crossed the crowded, noisy bridge, Cranston using his authority to force a way through, up Bridge Street, Gracechurch, past the richly painted houses of the bankers in Lombard Street and into the Poultry. The air here was thick with feathers and the smell of birds being gutted, the flesh doused in water, the giblets burnt or roasted on great open fires. Even Cranston had to stop drinking and cover his nose. They entered the Mercery where richer, more ostentatious stalls and booths stood, their owners dressed in sober, costly gowns and shirts, leggings and boots. At last they were into Westchepe. Cranston looked longingly at the Holy Lamb of God tavern but Athelstan was determined to get the business done and return to Southwark; he wished to concentrate on an idea which had occurred to him in Benedicta’s house.

  They tied their horses at the rail outside St Peter’s and entered the musty darkness of the church. A group of nervous-looking men, marshalled by a beadle, stood round a table at the entrance to the nave on which lay a body covered by brown, dirt-stained canvas sheeting. They shuffled their feet and whispered nervously amongst themselves as Sir John made his grand entrance.

  ‘You’re late!’ the red, fat-faced beadle squeaked.

  ‘Sod off!’ Cranston roared. ‘I am the King’s Justice and my time is the King’s! Now, what do we have here?’

  The frightened beadle pulled back the leather sheet. Cranston made a face. Athelstan wrinkled his nose at the sour smell from the corpse of an old man lying on the table, a terrible gaping wound in the crown of his head, blood caked thick and black in the grey-white hair.

  ‘His name’s John Bridport,’ the beadle announced. ‘He was passing a house situated between Honey Lane and Milk Street.’ The beadle pointed to a frightened-looking man. ‘This is William de Chabham. He had a plank of wood projecting from his workshop on the top floor of his house. He’s a saddler by trade and dried his leather work on the said plank. ‘The beadle looked nervously at Cranston. ‘To cut a long story short, Sir John, the plank became overloaded, slipped, fell, and smashed Bridport’s head.’

  ‘It was an accident!’ the white-faced saddler pleaded.

  ‘Where’s the plank?’ Sir John asked.

  The beadle pointed at a huge, thick wedge of wood lying beneath the death table. Athelstan, who was using the top of the baptismal font as a desk, carefully summarised the details on a piece of parchment which he would later hand to Sir John.

  ‘Brother Athelstan,’ Cranston clicked his fingers, ‘would you examine both the victim and the plank?’

  Athelstan, cursing under his breath, ordered the plank to be pulled out. He examined both this and the head of the corpse carefully.

  ‘Well?’ Cranston asked.

  ‘My Lord Coroner, it appears that John Bridport died in the way described.’

  Sir John grasped his cloak between his hands, and drew himself up to his full height.

  ‘Saddler! Did you have authority or licence to have the plank projecting from the window?’

  ‘No, My Lord Coroner.’

  ‘Did you know your victim?’

  ‘No, My Lord Coroner.’

  ‘Master beadle, is William de Chabham a man of good repute?’

  ‘Yes, Sir John, and he has brought these others who will stand guarantor for his good behaviour.’

  Cranston scratched his chin. ‘Then this is my judgement. This is no murder or unlawful slaying but an unfortunate accident. You, master saddler, will pay a fine of ten shillings to the Court of Common Pleas. You will take an oath never to use such a plank again and pay whatever other compensation is necessary.’

  The saddler winced, though he looked relieved.

  ‘And the plank, Sir John?’

  ‘That is to be fined five shillings and burnt by the common hangman.’ Cranston stared down at the corpse. ‘Does Bridport have any relatives?’

  ‘No, Sir John. He lived alone in a tenement off the corner of Ivy Lane.’

  ‘Then his goods are to be seized.’ Cranston smiled falsely at the beadle. ‘Bridport is to be given honourable bu
rial at the parish’s expense. You have that, Brother Athelstan?’

  ‘Yes, My Lord Coroner.’

  ‘Good!’ he trumpeted. ‘Then this business is done!’

  Athelstan handed over the transcript of the inquest in Milk Street, politely refused Cranston’s invitation to a drink in the Holy Lamb of God, and made his way back to Southwark. He stopped at the booths in Three Needle Street and bought a roll of sponge-like material and in Cornhill ajar of face powder. The old lady behind the stall grinned and winked knowingly at him.

  ‘Everyone to their own, eh, Father?’

  The friar bit back a tart reply and led a now sleepy Philomel down Gracechurch towards the bridge. He spent the rest of the day concentrating on the conundrum of the scarlet chamber, using the materials he had bought as he tried to replicate the story in every detail. At last, as the light began to fade, he went out for a short walk in the cemetery, staring into the west as the sun dipped in a red ball of fire. He felt a small glow of satisfaction and praised the beauty of Lady Logic. He had been through the conundrum time and again. There could be only one solution to the mystery, but what would happen if he was wrong?

  ‘Father! Father!’

  Athelstan looked over to see Cecily the courtesan standing warily at the lychgate.

  ‘What is it, Cecily?’

  ‘Father, I was only having a cup of wine in the tavern.’

  ‘There’s no sin in that, Cecily.’

  The girl moved towards him. She tried to walk demurely but Athelstan hid his smile at the way she flicked her flounced skirt and leaned forward, displaying her ample bosom in its tight bodice.

  ‘Father, I have been sent by the rest. We are really sorry about what happened and will all be at mass tomorrow. Benedicta has told us you have something very important to say.’

  Athelstan smiled and touched her gently on the arm.

  ‘You are a good lass, Cecily. I’ll see you at mass tomorrow.’

  The girl tripped away. Athelstan stared at the skies. Should he study the stars? The night would be cloud-free. Perhaps he might see one shooting through the heavens like Lucifer in his fall to hell. ‘There again,’ he murmured, ‘perhaps I’ll fall myself!’ He felt sleepy and tired, and remembering the attack of the previous night, stared round the deserted churchyard. He’d be glad when tomorrow’s mass was over and everything could return to normal, but until then it might be best if he kept within his own house. He went in, locking the doors and shutters firmly. ‘It’s a fine night,’ he said to himself, ‘and Bonaventure will be either courting or hunting.’ He realised there was no food in the kitchen so went and sat down, wondering if he would discover anything new when he returned to Blackfriars. His eyes grew heavy. He doused the candle and went upstairs to bed.

  Everyone appeared for mass the next morning. Mugwort rang the bell like some demented demon. Ursula turned up, sow in tow, followed by Watkin, Pike, Huddle – the latter gazing appreciatively round the new sanctuary. Benedicta was more composed than the previous day. She whispered to Athelstan not to be too harsh, whilst Pike reminded him that he was to hear confessions that day. Athelstan concealed his dismay behind a bright smile. Of course, he had forgotten about that! The great feast of Corpus Christi would soon be upon them and all his parishioners liked to be shriven of their sins so, after mass, he announced he would be in church all day in the west transept; the curtain would be put up and he would hear their confessions.

  Once all his parishioners were assembled, he quietly explained about the skeleton.

  ‘These are not the bones or remains of a saint,’ he began. ‘Dear children, you must trust me. Sir John and I have discovered the truth. They are the remains of a woman murdered many years ago.’ He shrugged. ‘That is all. Now, Watkin, do you accept what I say?’

  The dung-collector, squatting amongst his innumerable brood, nodded solemnly.

  ‘Very well,’ Athelstan continued, ‘you will take some of the profit which you assuredly raised and buy a proper shroud of thick linen. Pike, you will dig a grave, and this evening I will bless this poor woman’s remains and commit them to the soil. That will be the end of the matter.’

  ‘What about the cost of all this?’ Pike shouted.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Athelstan answered, ‘the monies will be repaid.’

  ‘And the miracle?’ Ursula screeched. ‘What about the miracle?’

  ‘Only God knows, Ursula, but if there were miracles, perhaps St Erconwald is responsible?’

  A murmur of approval greeted his words.

  ‘Father.’ Watkin stood up, moving sheepishly from foot to foot. ‘We are sorry, truly sorry, for what has happened but we meant well.’ He produced a large leather purse from beneath his grimy jerkin. ‘These are the profits.’ He nervously weighed the purse in his hand. ‘We have had an idea, Father. Well, the sanctuary’s done so we thought paint should be bought and Huddle depict a scene, a truly large painting, of the visit of the Virgin Mary to her cousin Elizabeth after Jesus’s birth.’

  ‘Do you all agree?’ Athelstan asked.

  A chorus of approval rang out.

  ‘Then Huddle can begin immediately. Crim, I want you to take a message to Sir John Cranston.’

  ‘You mean old Fatarse?’

  Watkin’s wife gave the lad a slap across the back of his head.

  ‘Sir John Cranston,’ Athelstan continued. ‘You will tell him he should return to Blackfriars. I shall meet him there at first light tomorrow. Now,’ he began to disrobe in front of them, ‘Watkin, buy the shroud. Pike, you’d best start now because the soil is hard. For the rest, I shall take, as Sir John says, some refreshment and then hear confessions. Oh!’ He turned back to them. ‘And don’t be surprised – a mysterious donor wishes to give us a large statue of St Erconwald for the new sanctuary.’

  CHAPTER 12

  On that surprising note, the meeting broke up and the parishioners drifted out of the church while Athelstan went to finish divesting. He locked the sanctuary door but left the church open. Huddle was already standing in the sanctuary looking dreamily at a bare wall.

  ‘Think carefully,’ Athelstan called.

  ‘Don’t worry, Father. I’ve been mulling over this for months.’

  Athelstan nodded and hurried down the alleyway to a cook-shop where he knew he could buy a fresh pie and a jug of ale. By the time he had returned, Watkin had cleared one of the transepts and cordoned off a corner with a long ash pole with a thick purple curtain hanging from it. He had also moved the sanctuary chair with its quilted seat and back to one side of the curtain for Athelstan to sit on whilst the church’s one and only prie-dieu was placed at the other side for the penitents. For a while Athelstan knelt at the foot of the altar steps and prayed for the grace to be a good confessor. He always heard confessions before the great liturgical feasts of the church: Christmas, Easter, Pentecost, and Corpus Christi in mid-summer. Those who wished to be shriven would kneel just inside the porch of the church and wait for their turn. Athelstan had insisted on this so no one could overhear what the penitent was saying. Mugwort came in and Athelstan assured him all was ready so the bell began to toll, inviting those who wished, to have their sins absolved.

  Athelstan sat for the rest of the morning and early into the afternoon listening to his parishioners’ confessions. The usual litany of sins, not dissimilar to his own Athelstan quietly concluded: the use of bad language, obscene thoughts, theft from the market, sleeping during mass, and drunkenness. Occasionally Athelstan heard something new: a father lusting after a son’s wife; the use of faulty scales in trade. He sat back and listened to them all, now and again asking soft, gentle questions. At the end, he would lean forward and urge them to be more charitable, kinder, purer in mind and heart. He would set a small penance, usually some charitable task or the saying of prayers in church, pronounce absolution, and the penitent would depart.

  The only relief were the confessions of children which Athelstan always loved for they made him laugh – squeaky
little voices with their list of petty sins. One of Tab the tinker’s daughters made Athelstan laugh out loud for the poor girl had allowed one of Pike’s sons to kiss her, throwing her into agonies of guilt. So intent was she on blurting out this misdemeanour, she threw herself down on the prie-dieu and instead of saying, ‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,’ feverishly began, ‘Kiss me, Father, for I have sinned!’

  Athelstan calmed her down, pointing out that a kiss on the lips, no matter for how long, was not a serious matter, and sent the girl away happy. He heard the trip of more footsteps and a reedy voice behind the curtain piped up: ‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.’

  Athelstan smiled and put his face in his hands as he recognised the voice of Crim his altar boy.

  ‘Father,’ continued Crim in a hushed voice, ‘I have refused to eat my onions.’

  Athelstan nodded gravely.

  ‘My mother had cooked them specially.’

  Athelstan breathed deeply to stop himself laughing.

  ‘What else is there, lad?’

  But Crim had fallen strangely silent. ‘Father,’ he stammered, ‘I have committed fornication six times.’

  Athelstan’s jaw fell. He felt the hair on the nape of his neck curl. In the bishop’s precepts to confessors, the corruption of young children was not unknown and was considered a most grievous moral offence. Athelstan pulled the curtain back and stared at Crim’s dirty, startled face.

  ‘Crim,’ he whispered, ‘come round here!’

  The boy tottered round.

  ‘Crim, what are you saying? Do you know what fornication is?’

  The boy nodded.