Joseph had long ago told me the history of the Jews in England. Until a hundred years ago there had been none at all. It was the Conqueror who brought them over from Normandy in order to finance his extravagant building programme of castles and cathedrals. This was because the Church banned usury – the practise of charging interest on loans. The Jewish faith also banned usury but they somehow managed to circumvent the prohibition. However, useful though the Jews were to the Crown they could never become citizens since that required the taking of a Christian oath which no Jew could do. So instead they were privileged ‘guests’ of the King - a nebulous status that placed them under his personal protection and exempted them from the normal taxes, tolls and fines that everybody else had to pay – one cause of resentment by their tax-paying Christian neighbours. However, this royal ‘protection’ was a double-edged sword since by owning the man the King also owned his property and, crucially, all his assets when he died. I had no doubt that that was the real reason for King John’s interest in this case, for if a Jew could be shown to have committed the murder of this boy then his assets would be forfeit and revert to the Crown. And if this Isaac ben Moy was half as wealthy as his illustrious brother-in-law then it would be a sum well worth a king’s attention.
‘Here we are,’ said Jocelin guiding us round a corner. There was no mistaking which house we were looking for. A small crowd had gathered outside a very grand-looking residence set in its own grounds. But as we approached it was clear that the house was less the attention of the gawpers than was the curious pantomime that was being enacted in front of it. Four women, dressed identically in white pinafores and coifs, were kneeling in a semi-circle facing the house, holding up their hands in supplication and muttering in some incomprehensible language. The gawpers, mostly young men, were mimicking the women’s prattle, but however provocative the men tried to be the kneeling women took no notice of them whatsoever. Indeed, they acted as though they were in some kind of trance.
Overseeing all of this was a captain of the King’s guard, a sturdy-looking man in his late forties who was stationed in front of the house entrance with a bemused expression on his face. This, doubtless, was Justiciar Geoffrey’s man and so it was him I approached.
‘Good day to you, Captain. I am Master Walter, the physician at the abbey. Erm - who are these women?’
The captain shrugged. ‘Nought but harmless gabblers. Foreign by the sounds of them.’
‘Not so harmless if they draw this much attention to the house,’ I said, mindful of Samson’s instruction to try to keep the investigation discreet so as not to arouse emotion, particular religious emotion. To little avail it seemed. The Holy Stable in Bethlehem could have lent its star to hover above the spot and the location would not have been more obvious. If I did not believe in such things I would swear there was a conspiracy to make my job as difficult as possible.
‘Can’t you get rid of them?’ I asked the man.
He shook his head. ‘My instructions are only to keep the house clear of the curious. Long as they do no more than pray, as far as I’m concerned they can remain.’
I pouted my irritation. ‘Has anyone else been?’
The captain counted them off on his fingers: ‘The Sheriff, a couple of rabbis, some of the monks from the abbey.’
I was angry particularly about the monks. They should have been told I was in charge of the investigation and ordered to stay clear. ‘They had no authority,’ I told him haughtily. ‘Any of them. Who did you let in?’
‘None of them. Not even the Sheriff – I’m Lord Geoffrey’s man and he said to let no-one in.’ He looked me up and down. ‘And you won’t get in, neither.’
I drew myself erect. ‘I am the Abbot’s personally appointed examiner. I need to see the body as soon as possible.’ I looked about me. ‘Where exactly is the body?’
‘Where it’s always been. Inside the house.’
I was appalled. ‘You mean the boy is still lying where he fell? This is an outrage!’
‘Aye, well he can stay there till he rots for all I care. My orders are no-one gets in or out, not even the body, and that’s what I’ll do until Lord Geoffrey himself tells me otherwise.’ He eyed me warily.
I smiled back. ‘For your information Lord Geoffrey isn’t here anymore. I saw his horse disappearing up the London road not an hour since. I’m afraid you’re on your own, my friend.’
I was pleased to see that that knocked the wind out of his sails a bit. I nodded my satisfaction and squinted at the building.
‘What about the family? Surely they’re not still in there?’
‘Aye, that they are. All five of ’em. Too scared to leave, poor bastards. Not sure I’d risk it neither, specially with this lot out here.’ He nodded toward the kneeling women. To my annoyance I saw that Jocelin was in animated conversation with them.
‘Oh, Brother Jocelin!’ I called. ‘Could you spare us a few minutes of your time?’
He looked over his shoulder and nodded without interrupting his discourse.
‘Now brother, if you please.’
He finished his conversation, made a quick sign of the cross over the women and came over. ‘F-fascinating!’ he said breathlessly. ‘Absolutely f-fascinating. D-do you know who they are?’
‘No, I do not,’ I sniffed.
‘Knielers,’ he said. ‘The Sisterhood of the Passion of Christ, to give them their proper name. B-but Knielers is how they are generally known. It’s a D-dutch word meaning to kneel, you see? B-because that’s what they do: Kneel and pray.’
‘I’d noticed.’
‘A-and they talk in t-tongues,’ he continued enthusiastically. ‘They claim it’s the Holy Spirit speaking through them. Can you believe that? Absolutely f-fascinating. Heretics, of course, they’ll all end up on the scaffold. But f-fascinating n-nonetheless.’ He smiled back at them.
‘Well, what are they doing here? And how did they know where to come? The boy’s been dead less than twenty-four hours and Holland is at least two days sail away.’
‘They claim they saw a vision,’ enthused Jocelin. ‘A week since. A boy dressed in white and flanked on either side by Saints Robert and Edmund. That’s how they knew where to come. A week before the boy was killed. Think of that. You see what this means? It’s a miracle. The first miracle.’ He turned his gaze once more to the women, the light of wonder shining from his eyes.
*
We did eventually manage to get past the captain but only after I made Jocelin go back to the abbey and return with Abbot Samson’s seal of office confirming my authority. While I was waiting for him to return I had time to reflect on what had just occurred.
Jocelin was convinced that what we had just witnessed was a miracle, and on the face of it I had to admit it was the only explanation. How else did these women - these Knielers - manage to get here so soon or even to know where to come? They would have had to start on their journey before the boy was even dead. Miracles do occur, of that I have no doubt. I have myself witnessed dozens of cures of the human body inexplicable other than through the intercession of the saints. But the question was, had a miracle occurred in this case?
There was one other matter that was worrying me. While I waited outside the house I had the distinct feeling that I was being observed - watched. It was just a feeling, I put it no stronger than that. I could see no-one lurking about. But it gave me an uncomfortable sensation in my neck. However, I could not concern myself with any of this for now. My duty was to the dead boy. All else must wait.
Jocelin returned at last and presented the seal to the captain who in spite of his earlier protestations gave it little more than a peremptory glance before letting us through the gate and up to the street door.
*
We were admitted by a short, stocky woman in her mid-fifties dressed in a maid’s uniform of a vintage not seen in my mother’s house since I was a boy. She did not speak or even smile but ushered us through to a large central hallway.
In
side the house was dark with every shutter closed. It took a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the gloom but when they did I saw we were in a well-ordered and tastefully-appointed hall. The place reeked of understated opulence. Pride of place was given to a large bound copy of what I assumed must be the family’s holy book covered in Hebrew script. Such a thing I knew would be enormously valuable, at least as valuable as the house in which it stood, and demonstrated as few other things could the very great wealth of the family who possessed it. Crouching almost invisibly by the staircase in the midst of all this sumptuousness were the silhouettes of five human beings.
‘God bless all in this house,’ I said stopping myself just in time from making my usual sign of the Cross.
‘Amen,’ came a man’s voice, and I stepped toward the speaker extending my hand in greeting.
‘Good day to you, sir. I am Brother Walter and this is Brother Jocelin. I hope you will forgive this intrusion but we come with the authority of the Abbot to investigate…this unfortunate matter.’
‘There is no need of delicacy, Brother Walter, we know why you are here. I am Isaac ben Moy and this is my wife, Rachel. These are my children, Jacob, Jessica and Josette.’
I saw before me a man in his mid-forties and the wife perhaps a decade younger. The children, two girls and a boy, were all young, the girls probably eight or nine, the boy older, thirteen or fourteen. They all looked terrified and my instinct – indeed my desire – was to put them at their ease.
‘Do not fret, sir. I intend only to remove the body once I have inspected it and then you should be free of the affair,’ assuming, I could have added but did not, you are not the murderer. He nodded and walked over to one of the windows over-looking the street. It was shuttered like all the rest but he peered through the slats at the four Knieler women who had resumed their semi-circular vigil and were chanting their unintelligible burble again.
‘I suppose we can hope they will leave with the body,’ he sighed. ‘Each hour they remain the crowd grows more curious. The longer they are here the chance increases of someone doing something foolish.’
At this Moy’s wife let out a sudden sob. ‘Foolish? You say foolish! Murderous is what they will be.’
‘Rachel,’ her husband held out his hands imploringly. ‘This is not the time -’
‘No!’ she spat. ‘I will speak. Foolish you say? Foolish is to tether the lamb to the lion and expect it to live. Foolish is to remain here when all our friends have left. Foolish is to trust in the King’s protection when there is no protection for the likes of us. Foolish is to think your money will save you from these goyim.’ She shot me a look of contempt. I must say I was taken aback by the sudden ferocity of her attack and felt my back stiffen a little.
Moy smiled embarrassedly at me then turned back to his wife. ‘Chick, the brothers do not wish to hear this.’
But she would not be silenced. ‘No, but they will hear while hearing is possible.’ She raised her head proudly and defiantly pointed to the window. ‘Those women out there are only the beginning. Others will come and not to prattle and pray but to stone and to murder, and then all your precious money will not save you.’ She spat with contempt.
‘Wife, silence now, that is enough!’ he shouted finally losing his patience. The little girls started to cry and the boy stared at his father angrily clenching and unclenching his fists.
Rachel drew the girls towards her stroking their hair. ‘Hush, do not cry, all will be well. Mummy is just upset that’s all,’ and she began to rock the girls in her arms.
Moy turned to me. ‘I could not leave. My business is in the town. Besides, with the King here –’
‘I can have the guard increased once we’ve gone, if that will reassure you,’ I suggested not knowing if I had the authority to fulfil such a rash offer.
Moy smiled sardonically. ‘That will simply draw more attention to us.’
I had another suggestion to make: ‘I do not wish to sound impertinent but have you thought of leaving now and going to stay with your family? Your brother-in-law in Norwich, perhaps?’
He held out his arms to indicate the many priceless artefacts in the hall, and no doubt the many others which I was sure were elsewhere in the house. ‘And just how much of this do you think would be left when we returned? Besides, I am a suspect in a murder case. Will the authorities allow me to leave now?’
Of course he was right. Even if Samson let him leave, the Sheriff of Suffolk would arrest him as soon as he left the jurisdiction of the Abbey. I was not as good at this as I thought.
‘In that case,’ I said hastily, ‘the sooner our business here is concluded the sooner we can leave you in peace.’
Moy nodded. ‘I will show you the body.’
‘There is no need,’ I said trying to save his anguish. ‘One of your servants can do it.’
He gave a wry laugh. ‘They were the first to leave – after they informed the Beadle about the body.’
‘Oh, but surely -’ I indicated the street door.
Moy nodded. ‘We still have one loyal servant - Matilde. She is a Christian but she is devoted to the family. Her family came over from France with mine fifty years ago and they have been with us ever since. She would never leave the children. But I’m afraid she would not be much help to you – unless you can speak French. Her English is poor.’
I doubted if she spoke the French that I was familiar with and I didn’t trust my northern French enough to question her.
‘In that case, sir,’ I said, ‘I would be grateful if you could now show us the body.’
Chapter 8
THE CASKET
‘You mean this is the body?’
I was appalled that it should have been left lying out here on the household midden like a discarded child’s doll and glared accusingly at Moy. But then I realised that was unjust. It wouldn’t have been his decision to leave the boy’s body but a directive from higher up – the Sheriff’s office perhaps, or even Earl Geoffrey himself. But at times like these it is not a matter of logic.
The flies and the smell notwithstanding, Jocelin immediately dropped to his knees next to the corpse and taking out a small crucifix began quietly to recite the prayers for the dead. The sound of his trembling but determined voice was pathos itself. I should have joined him but frankly I was too overcome with emotion to do anything but stare. I could only admire his heroism at bending so close to the pile of filth on top of which was this single broken jewel – a child’s body.
By the time he had finished I was in command of my own emotions enough to be able to place my hands on his shoulders and raise him up. As I did so I saw that his cheeks were awash with tears.
‘Go inside the house, brother,’ I told him. ‘I will call you if I need you.’
‘Yes brother,’ he sobbed. ‘Thank you.’
In my professional career I had seen many dead bodies often in worse condition than this, but a child’s death is always the most terrible. I doubted if Jocelin had ever seen anything so ghastly and I was annoyed at myself for not foreseeing the possibility and preparing him. When he had gone I gently lifted the sheet in order to expose the body fully. As I did so there came a sudden blood-curdling cry. Startled, I looked up to see a woman’s face hovering above the fence, a face of utter misery and despair. Before I knew what was happening the woman had scaled the fence with astonishing facility and was even now laying her fists into Moy with such ferocity I was amazed he was still managing to stand. He did nothing to stop the blows other than to protect his face which was already spewing blood in every direction. And now all was confusion as the garden was suddenly filled with people shouting and wailing. Through the middle of it I heard a voice of authority I recognised:
‘Hold now! Stop that! Stop I say!’
It was the captain of the guard who had abandoned his post at the front of the house in response to the woman’s scream and had rushed through the house towards the source of the commotion. He in turn was followed by half
the street. Now the captain placed his arms around the screaming woman and was holding on for all he was worth and still he was having trouble containing her seemingly super-human strength so determined was she to get at Moy. Could there be any doubt that the woman was the mother of the murdered boy?
‘Captain,’ I said urgently. ‘There is danger here of mob riot. We need more men.’
‘What would you have me do, brother?’ he scowled breathlessly. ‘Let her go?’
The situation was impossible. I got between Moy and the men in the crowd and tried to reason with them but far from calming them my efforts seemed to inflame them more. I was being pushed back steadily towards the stricken Moy who was now lying on the ground and apparently resigned to his fate. In a very few moments he was likely to be smothered to death by the numbers if not first being beaten to a pulp and possibly myself with him and I was powerless to prevent it.
And then – a true miracle. Cutting through the shouting and the cursing was a lone voice singing, incredibly, the twenty-third psalm. At first it had no effect but gradually as the singing grew closer so the passion in the crowd began to subside until all that was left was Jocelin walking slowly through the middle of the crowd holding aloft his crucifix in both hands for all to see, the image of the Christ glinting in the sunshine. He stopped before the stricken Moy and faced the mob which had now turned back into a group of ordinary men once again. One by one they went down on their knees so that by the time Jocelin got to the last lines of the psalm, Surely goodness and loving kindness shall follow me all the days of my life he was the only one still standing and his the only voice still to be heard - the only voice, that is, other than the quiet sobbing of the grief-stricken mother who was now being cradled like a child in the arms of the captain.
*
Within minutes order had been restored. The moment the captain had abandoned his station outside the house Rachel Moy had sent her son, Jacob, to run as fast as he could to the abbey to fetch back soldiers who were now dispersing the crowd. The murdered boy’s mother, at last subdued, was kneeling before the corpse of her son, oblivious to the flies and the stench and making no sound now at all. Even the tears on her face had dried to streaks. It was as blank as a sheet of parchment. Isaac Moy was sitting on a rock a discreet distance away while his wife bathed a cut above his left eye repeating over and over, ‘You see? You see?’
Unholy Innocence Page 7
