The Canterbury Murders

by Maureen Ash

  Gianni returned his attention to Maud Cooper as Miles explained the reason they had come. “The injury that took your sister’s life and any other wounds on her body must be examined, in the hope that by doing so we may discover the identity of the person who killed her.”

  His words were met with a look of shock from both of the women. “Neither I nor the lad will be present while the inspection is carried out,” he hastily assured them, motioning to Clare. “Our companion will, for decency’s sake, perform the commission.”

  Maud looked at him with a dazed expression. She was a little younger than her dead sister, perhaps approaching forty years of age, and with a frame that, although plump, was not as muscular as her sibling’s. Her countenance had a rather vacuous quality and she dithered for a moment until, finally realizing that Miles had been sent by the king, she overcame her confusion and agreed to the request. “King John has been most kind,” she said in a tremulous voice, “and is, I think, truly grieved for Molly’s death. It is my duty to obey his command.”

  Edith Bottler now spoke. She was older than Maud and possessed of far more self-assurance. “We have just finished washing and laying out the body ready for wrapping in its shroud, lord,” she said to Miles, “and I can tell you for certain that apart from the terrible wound that took Molly’s life, the only other marks on her flesh are a deep bruise on her spine and a few smaller ones on her shoulder. The rest of her poor body has not been despoiled, thanks be to God.”

  “Then there will be no need for a full disrobing,” Miles said thankfully. Speaking once again to Maud, he added, “But even so, it will still be necessary to view the injuries, and also to examine her clothing.”

  Maud, stifling a sob, gave a brief nod and Miles and Gianni left the room with the priest as Clare, misgiving written large on her face, came forward. As the knight passed her, he whispered softly, “Take courage and remember that Lady Nicolaa is depending on you.”

  Maud, still sobbing, remained seated on the bench, but Edith rose and went to stand on the other side of the bier. She had taken notice of the sempstress’s aversion and gave her a kindly look as she said, “I have laid out many a body in my time and, if you wish, will disrobe Molly for you.”

  Clare accepted the offer gratefully and, as Edith removed the strip of cloth that had been laid across the murdered woman’s neck, felt her gorge rise. The slash across the throat had been a vicious one; it had gone so deep that it had cut through cartilage and muscle, almost severing the spine. Edith, supporting the corpse’s head, gently removed the loose linen headdress that had been placed over Molly’s hair and then, with a hand under the dead woman’s chin to keep the head steady, turned the body on its side. A single braid of thick dark hair fell aside as she did so and Edith pointed to a huge bruise just below the nape of the corpse’s neck. The mark was about the width of a hand wide, and just as long.

  “See there, mistress,” Edith said. “It’s as though someone hit her with a club afore they cut her throat.” She moved her finger to point at some fainter marks on the corpse’s left shoulder. There were only a few of them, round and evenly spaced, as though made by the fingers and thumb of a hand.

  “Maud was told that her sister was found with her head hanging in a tub of water she had been making ready for the king to bathe in,” Edith remarked. “I reckon someone came up behind her as she was going about her duties, hit her on the back with a club of some sort and then held her by the shoulder while he used his knife on her throat. After that, she must have fallen forward into the water.”

  Clare nodded. Edith’s calm assessment steadied her, and as Clare considered it, she thought the explanation made sense, except that it did not look as though a club had been used. If one had been, she thought, the assailant would have been far more likely to have smashed it onto the victim’s head and not her back. Pointing to the bruises on the corpse’s shoulder, she said to the other woman, “Or the bruise could have been made by the pressure of her assailant holding her down with his knee while he grasped her there, to keep her from struggling while he dealt the death blow. She looks to be a strong woman; I do not think she would have been easy to overcome—hence the need to pin her down.”

  “Aye, you’re right,” Edith said with a glance of respect. “I never thought of that. You’re not as fainthearted as you look, mistress.”

  Taking a few deep breaths to steady herself, Clare helped return the body to its original position and then said a prayer for the dead woman’s soul while Edith replaced the headdress and strip of linen. She then moved from the bier and went through the dead woman’s clothing, which was lying in a neat pile on a stool, alongside a cloth sack which Edith told her contained Molly’s few belongings.

  The washerwoman had been wearing a plain grey gown of thickly woven material and a white head-cloth when she died. Both were still damp from contact with the bathwater, especially the head covering, and stained with blood. On the floor underneath the stool was a pair of sturdy boots, large in size and well worn, and a pair of thick knitted leggings which had been neatly rolled up and placed atop the footwear. In the bag that contained Molly’s belongings was another gown of almost the same shade of grey as the other, a spare head-cloth and a comb carved from bone. At the bottom were a few little keepsakes that the washerwoman must have collected over the years—a pewter medal bearing the image of Thomas Becket, a pretty little seashell with an iridescent hue on the inner surface and a brightly coloured peacock feather. Each had been separately, and carefully, wrapped in small squares of white linen. A lump formed in Clare’s throat as she examined them, imagining the pleasure the dead woman must have felt in handling her little mementos, and she reverently replaced the wrappings before laying them aside. She searched once more through the folds of the clothing in case she had missed anything, but still found nothing of significance, not even in the capacious pocket fitted into the skirt of the gown she had been wearing when she was killed, which contained nothing but a tiny sliver of scented soap and two silver pennies.

  After thanking Edith for her assistance and expressing sorrow to Maud for the loss of her sister, Clare left the death house. Miles and Gianni were waiting outside alone, the priest having returned to the church. They listened with full attention as she told them of the bruises she had seen on Molly’s body.

  “If your assumption about the manner in which she was subdued is correct, it is certain to have been a man who killed her,” Miles said. “The washerwoman was strongly built, and I doubt whether another woman, even if she took her by surprise, would have been able to overcome her.” Gianni gave a confirming nod and scribbled something on his tablet for the knight to read.

  Miles read it and then looked at Clare, who was not literate, and said, “We need to ask Mistress Cooper some questions about her sister; whether or not she had any enemies here in Canterbury or mentioned any quarrels she may have had with others in the king’s household. Do you think she is composed enough to speak to us now?”

  “She is very upset at the moment,” Clare replied. “I think it would be best to wait until her wits are clearer. In her present state, she may forget something that is important.”

  “Very well,” Miles said. “I will find the priest and ask him where she lives, and also if he will kindly inform her that we will visit her tomorrow.”

  As Miles and Clare went up the path to find the cleric, Gianni trailed behind, his mind working furiously over what they had learned. It was not much, he had to admit, and although he had admonished Miles for being impatient, he now felt the same way himself. In an attempt to ease his disappointment, he touched the wax tablet at his belt, its wooden cover smooth and familiar under his fingers. Perhaps while he made a written report of today’s findings, he thought, he might discern something that had been missed. He recalled the previous investigations when he had accompanied the Templar and how his former master took plenty of time to mull over the facts. He als
o remembered that Sir Bascot had always said that it was necessary to ask God for guidance and not to rely on intellect alone. Comforted by the thought, Gianni resolved to follow the Templar’s example and, as he entered the church in Miles and Clare’s wake, he fixed his eyes on the crucifix above the rood screen and sent up an earnest plea for heavenly assistance.

  Chapter Ten

  The Templar knight who was occupying Gianni’s thoughts was in closer proximity than the lad, or anyone else connected to the murder investigation, realised. Two months earlier, Bascot de Marins had been assigned to a temporary post at Temple Ewell, a small preceptory near Dover castle set high on the cliffs overlooking the Narrow Sea, the main function of which was to provide a transit point for Templars being sent overseas. The preceptor of the commandery had broken his leg during a tussle with a fractious stallion, and Bascot had been sent to assist him until his injury healed. That time had now come and although Bascot had enjoyed the busy atmosphere of the coastal enclave, he was looking forward to returning to Lincoln, a town he had come to consider as home. He would also be pleased to again be near Gianni, a lad he loved like a son. Although they did not see each other often, there was a strong bond between them, and Bascot hoped that during the forthcoming season of Christ’s Mass, their respective responsibilities would be eased enough to allow them to attend one of the services in Lincoln cathedral together.

  Just after Terce on the morning following Gianni and Miles’ visit to St. Alphege’s, Bascot was in the bail of Temple Ewell with the preceptor, Henry Verdun, waiting for a groom to bring out his mount for the return trip to Lincoln, when the two men heard a frantic fluttering of wings overhead. Looking up, they saw a pigeon land in front of a coop built alongside the walkway on the northern palisade and, with a desperate flutter of wings, scuttle inside. In the sky above a hawk circled, but as soon as the pigeon disappeared from view it wheeled away, flying high up into the sky to resume its search for prey.

  “That was a narrow escape,” Verdun exclaimed, “both for the pigeon and the message it carries. The communication must be an urgent one; otherwise, it would have been sent by land. Will you wait here, de Marins, while I see what it is?”

  The preceptor started across the ward, limping slightly on his recently mended leg. The use of pigeons to carry messages—a speedy means of communication learned from the Arabs—was extensive in Outremer, especially when a fortress under attack had need to send an urgent request for support, but was not prevalent in England where the more conventional means of a rider on horseback sufficed for most despatches. Bascot hoped that the message did not contain disastrous news about any of the Templar ships that had recently left the port.

  As Verdun reached the bottom of the ladder that led to the top of the ramparts, one of the guards on the palisade descended, holding the tiny scrap of parchment that had been attached to the pigeon’s leg. He handed it to the preceptor who, after reading it, walked back to where Bascot stood.

  “I think you had better see this,” Verdun said, handing the paper to Bascot. The parchment had been scraped so thin it was almost translucent. On it was a brief message in miniscule writing. “De Marins to report to Canterbury castle immediately to assist King John in murder investigation. Advise progress.” It was signed by Thomas Berard, the London master of the Order.

  As Bascot scanned the message, the Temple Ewell preceptor studied his companion, trying to gauge his reaction to the command. De Marins was a knight in his late thirties, of medium stature and wearing a patch over the socket of his missing right eye, a legacy from the eight years he had spent as a prisoner of the Saracens in Outremer. The preceptor had found him to be taciturn, but not unfriendly, and had come to respect and like him during the short time Bascot had been at the enclave. Verdun had heard, from some of the brothers who had passed through Temple Ewell on the way to the Holy Land, of de Marins’ exceptional ability at finding the perpetrators of secret murder, and it seemed this talent was once again required. But Verdun was also aware that, like many of his confreres, Bascot did not hold King John in high regard, and that secondment to royal service would not be a welcome duty.

  “The king must have sent a request for your assistance to London,” Verdun commented. “Master St. Maur is in Scotland at the moment, so it would have been received by Thomas Berard. I recently wrote to tell him that my leg was almost healed and I would be able to resume my duties soon. That must be why he sent the message in such haste, in the hope it would arrive before you left to return to Lincoln.”

  Amery St. Maur was the master of the Templar Order in England and, as such, held the highest office in the country. Thomas Berard, master of the London enclave, was St. Maur’s second-in-command. While the Templar Order did not owe fealty to John, or to any other earthly monarch, it was within their discretion to aid the king if the cause seemed worthy. It would appear that Master Berard had decided to comply with John’s request.

  Bascot nodded, making no comment, but Verdun could see the aversion in his pale blue eye. But whether the command was to his liking or not, he was duty bound to obey.

  ***

  As the Templar started on his journey, completely unaware that Gianni and Nicolaa de la Haye were in Canterbury, John was ensconced in a chamber in the priory guesthouse, a pile of parchment on the table beside him. His accommodations were very comfortable. A wide bed with a soft mattress sat in one corner, and there was a large fireplace filled with blazing logs to ward off the cold and an antechamber fitted with an oaken table, padded chairs and settles. This guesthouse was the most prestigious of the three provided for the comfort of pilgrims and visitors, the other two comprising less salubrious quarters; the one on the eastern side, next to the piscina that provided fresh fish for the refectory table, had smaller living quarters and less bounteous fare at table, and the almonry, in the northwest corner of the precincts, had only one large communal chamber for the accommodation of those of poorer means. At the moment he was the only occupant of this particular guesthouse, for William Marshal, with a perversity that seemed suspicious to John, had elected to stay in the less comfortable one beside the piscina, saying that he had need for no more than a pallet on which to lay his head, and that one of its narrow cells would suit him admirably. John had not been pleased at the earl’s decision to keep apart from his company and decided it might be wise to make an effort to heal the breach between them. The earl was a popular figure with the rest of the nobility and John would need his support at Oxford.

  Pulling his thoughts away from the untenable conjecture that Marshal might be considering defection, John took another sip from his wine cup and glanced once again at the message he had received that morning. It was a letter from Thomas Berard, master of the London Templar preceptory, and in it Berard informed John that permission had been given for Bascot de Marins to assist in the murder investigation and that as he was at present in the Temple Ewell commandery, he should arrive in Canterbury that very day to take up the task.

  John, pleased that his request had been granted, and also to learn that de Marins would be in the town so soon, made a mental note to direct the clerks of his exchequer to send the promised donation to the Order with all despatch, so as to ensure their continuing cooperation.

  Turning next to the other sheaves of parchment that lay underneath the letter, John perused the pages once again. Sent by Nicolaa de la Haye early that morning, they contained a copy of the information that her household knight and young secretarius had gathered from interviewing the townhouse servants and viewing the corpse. The king felt a pang of sorrow as he read the detailed notation of the injuries on Molly’s body, but he agreed with the covering note Nicolaa had appended, that none of the information seemed to give any clue to the identity of the murderer or the motive.

  He rose from his seat and began to pace. It was his hope that this v
illain had no connection to Arthur and the quarrel John had with his nephew earlier that year. But if it proved otherwise, the murderer must be dealt with quietly and swiftly, for public knowledge of the terrible aftermath of that incident could turn his nobles against him and thereby have a disastrous effect on the forthcoming council at Oxford. He must make every effort to ensure that while the investigation was in progress, any incriminating facts linked to Arthur’s sad fate were kept privily. With de Cornhill, this would have been a simple matter. The sheriff’s vast estates were in John’s gift, and the risk of losing them would have compelled de Cornhill’s cooperation. But de Marins, not bound by the bonds of fealty, and possessed of a rigid moral rectitude, would be impervious to any such coercion. John would have to trust that the risky gambit he had decided upon would overcome this difficulty.

  The king reached for his goblet, took a swallow of wine, and tried to relax. If it was God’s will, he would navigate a safe path through this latest trial. He had not only his own wits to aid him, but also the considerable intelligence of the one man he had taken into his confidence, the wily and formidable Hubert Walter, archbishop of Canterbury and chancellor of England. He prayed that would be enough.

  ***

  It was just after Terce that Gianni and Miles left the Watling Street townhouse to go to the home of Molly’s sister, Maud Cooper, hoping she might have some relevant information about the slain woman. They were not disappointed. Barely an hour had passed before they were on their way back to Watling Street in a buoyant mood, eager to tell Lady Nicolaa what they had discovered.