The Grim Reaper

by Bernard Knight

  De Wolfe touched the yellowishgrey plaque. ‘Dried candle-wax. It has some letters on it and a strange outline.’

  ‘Looks like a little snake, with a head and tail. It’s even got an eye and a forked tongue,’ observed Gwyn.

  Thomas was too small to see past the two large men hovering over the cadaver, but his master moved aside and beckoned him forward. ‘Thomas, d’you think these four marks are letters? The first looks like a P, but I can’t make out the others.’

  Gingerly, trying not to get his face too near the body, the squeamish clerk squinted at the dried pool of grease. He saw that letters had been crudely scratched into it with something sharp, like a pin. ‘They must have been done when the wax was still soft, for the lines have melted a little, making it hard to read,’ he murmured.

  ‘Maybe, but that’s certainly a serpent,’ snapped John impatiently. ‘What do you say the letters are?’

  Thomas’s long nose moved a little nearer to the chancel steps. ‘They seem to be P-R-O-V, as far as I can make out,’ he said uncertainly.

  ‘What in hell’s name does that mean?’ growled Gwyn.

  Thomas stepped back from the body thankfully and stood thinking for a moment, looking woebegone in his threadbare black gown, tied around the waist with a grubby white cord.

  ‘Given the two previous biblical messages on the Jew and the woman, it surely can mean only one thing.’

  ‘Which is what?’ barked the coroner, exasperated by his long-winded assistants.

  ‘The other two were from the Gospels, but this must be the Old Testament. “P-R-O-V” must refer to the Book of Proverbs.’

  ‘And what does that tell us?’

  The clerk looked sheepish, as his much-vaunted scholarship was, for once, found wanting. ‘The Old Testament is very large, Crowner. I know almost every word of the new books of Christ, but there are few priests, even great scholars, who can recollect every part of the Old Testament. I will have to refresh my memory.’

  Gwyn gave a loud guffaw, which echoed throughout the empty church. ‘Caught you out at last, have we, Thomas-Know-It-All! I thought you had this religion business at your fingertips.’

  The clerk looked angry. ‘I only have the Vulgate for the Gospels in my bag here. I will have to find the full Bible to study Proverbs.’

  Sergeant Gabriel made an obvious suggestion. ‘This is a church, surely they’ll have one here?’

  ‘Not by any means. Some parish priests can’t even read and many poor churches can’t afford the Vulgate of St Jerome,’ retorted Thomas cynically. ‘St Mary Arches is a cut above many, though, so perhaps they will. I’ll try the aumbry.’

  He looked around the building and limped off to a small door in the north wall of the chancel, bowing and making the Sign of the Cross repeatedly as he cut across in front of the altar. There was a large locker or cupboard behind the oaken door, built into the thickness of the wall, where the priests kept their service books and where the materials for the Sacred Host were stored. The others watched while Thomas rooted about on the shelves, crossing himself repeatedly as his hands passed near the chrismatory for holy oil and the pyx for the reserved bread. Then he backed out and reverently closed the door, holding a heavy leatherbound book. After a low obeisance to the altar, he crossed to the south side of the chancel and sat in the centre of the sedilia, a trio of wooden seats for the priest and his helpers. As he carefully turned the pages, John lost patience with watching him and motioned to Gwyn to lift the body from the steps. ‘Haul him away from this wax. I want to lever it off the stones without damaging it.’

  His officer picked up the dead priest like a baby and stepped down to the floor of the nave. Red wine dripped from the nose and chin, staining the flagstones. Then Gwyn turned him over and laid him flat on his back below the steps.

  Meanwhile, John had carefully slid the edge of his dagger under the plaque of candle-grease and popped it up intact. He opened the pouch on his belt, wrapped the wax in the ragged sheet of parchment that had been left on Aaron’s body and put them away. ‘Now let’s have a proper look at him,’ he grunted.

  ‘Are we taking him to St Nicholas’s?’ queried Gwyn, doubtfully. ‘That miserable prior won’t take kindly to us using his store as a mortuary again.’

  ‘This is a priest, so we’ll have to abide by what the clerics want done with the cadaver. I’ll get the Archdeacon up here straight away.’ De Wolfe called to Osric and told him to go to the cathedral and tell John de Alençon what had happened. Then John turned his attention to the corpse. There was nothing obvious to be seen, apart from the wetness and the reddish suffusion of the face. The lips and cheeks were violet, and a dribble of froth came from the mouth.

  ‘His phlegm is pinkish,’ observed Gwyn.

  ‘It’s no wonder, as he’s been breathing in good red communion wine,’ replied de Wolfe. ‘Let’s look at his neck and hands.’

  There was nothing untoward to be seen there and the coroner rocked back on his heels alongside the body. ‘We can hardly undress him here, in front of the altar of his own church,’ he said. The priest wore his alb, a long robe of whitish-cream linen, with long sleeves, embroidered around the neck and hem. The coroner shied away from hauling it up to his neck to examine his chest and belly. ‘We’ll leave it until the cathedral settles him somewhere more private,’ he decided, getting to his feet.

  In the chancel, Thomas de Peyne also rose and came to the steps, the Vulgate in his hands. For a moment, John thought that the little clerk was about to read a passage to the congregation, but Thomas said, ‘I’ve found it, Crowner. Once again, it’s most apt for the circumstances.’

  De Wolfe and Gwyn stood silently side by side under the chancel arch as Thomas began reading. ‘I’ll just translate the general sense of bits of the later part of Solomon’s Book of Proverbs, for it’s scattered over a page or two.’ The clerk was in his element and his own troubles were forgotten for the moment as he stood in the church with the Book of Books in his hands.

  ‘Just get on with it, man’ grated his master, breaking the spell.

  Thomas cleared his throat and slowly turned the Latin script into Middle English.

  ‘ “Who has redness of the eyes? They that tarry long at the wine. Look not upon the wine when it is red for it bites like a serpent and stings like an adder.”’

  He turned back a page. ‘Here it says, “Oh, my son, take my advice and stay away from whores, for they form a deep and narrow grave.” ’ Thomas closed the book. ‘There’s more advice about staying on the path of righteousness, but the principal message is to avoid strong drink and loose women.’

  De Wolfe stroked the black stubble on his chin. ‘The serpent and the adder certainly fit the little sketch on the wax. This fellow, whoever he is, undoubtedly knows his way about the scriptures.’

  As Thomas limped back across the chancel to replace the book, Gwyn stated the obvious once more. ‘It has to be a priest. No one else would carry on like this.’

  John nodded in agreement. ‘The sooner we get the cathedral heads together over this, the more chance we have of getting somewhere – for, I must admit, I have not the faintest idea where to start.’

  ‘A nd the deaths are starting to come more quickly,’ observed Gwyn. ‘Where does this bloody madman intend to stop, I wonder?’

  The daily Chapter was to be held late in the morning, but before that, the coroner had another meeting with Exeter’s archdeacon, John de Alençon. The senior priest had already met de Wolfe earlier at St Mary Arches, when he had hurried around after being summoned by the constable Osric.

  The ascetic cleric had been greatly distressed to see the body lying in the nave and had himself shriven it and given absolution, with Thomas de Peyne acting as his self-appointed assistant.

  Soon a trio of other canons arrived, having heard the news on the episcopal grapevine, followed by a gaggle of vicars, secondaries and priests of other parishes. Soon the church had more people in it than it did at an average service
and de Wolfe began to despair of performing his legal obligations. ‘Priest or no priest, there must be an inquest,’ he muttered, in the Archdeacon’s ear.

  ‘But not here and now, John,’ replied his friend. ‘The body must be taken down to the cathedral. There is a small chamber off the cloisters that is used as a mortuary when required.’ He looked around at the people milling in the nave. ‘This place must be brought to order – devotions here must be resumed as soon as possible. I’ll get one of the vicars to take charge – he was to be appointed here very shortly anyway, in place of this poor wretch.’

  Leaving Gwyn to supervise the removal of the corpse, the two Johns made their way down to the great cathedral church of St Peter and St Mary, Thomas tagging along unobtrusively behind. The Archdeacon led the way to the Chapter House, a square wooden building just outside the south tower of the cathedral. The ground floor was the daily meeting place of the canons, where current church business was debated, everything from the order of services and choral matters, to finance and the disciplining of errant priests.

  The Chapter was run by the senior canons, and although the bishop was a member, he had no direct control over the business, his remit being the whole diocese of Devon and Cornwall, rather than the cathedral itself – though in practice, his will and word were never challenged. Inside the room contained a quadrangle of benches, with a wooden lectern in the centre for the reading of the scriptures. In one corner, an open wooden staircase rose to the floor above, which was the ‘Exchequer’, the scriptorium and library of the cathedral. It was old, cramped and outdated, and plans were afoot to build a bigger Chapter House in stone, once the bishop had confirmed the gift of part of his adjacent palace garden.

  ‘Come upstairs, we can talk there awhile, before Chapter begins,’ invited de Alençon, leading the others up to the Exchequer. It was a musty chamber, with a number of high desks and stools. There were shuttered window openings in each wall, between which were shelves carrying scores of parchment and a few books, some chained to the sloping reading boards below the shelves.

  Two priests were working laboriously on the diocesan accounts at a couple of the desks and another was reading at a desk. The Archdeacon crossed to a corner furthest from them, and motioned de Wolfe to a stool and took another facing him. The coroner’s clerk melted into the shadows behind his uncle, determined not to be left out of anything even remotely ecclesiastical.

  ‘This is a tragic state of affairs, John,’ began de Alençon. ‘I have sent a message to the Bishop, who says he will receive us later today to discuss this matter. Thank God he is in Exeter for once, because of the arrival of the Justices.’

  De Wolfe perched on his high stool like some great hunched crow, his mantle hanging from his shoulders like a pair of folded wings. ‘The culprit has to be one of your priests, John. He must be stopped quickly, for he seems to have developed a taste for killing. Unless we find him, I doubt this will be the last tragedy.’

  The canon anxiously fingered the wooden cross hanging around his neck. His thin face was furrowed with concern and he passed his other hand through his wiry hair in a gesture of despair. ‘But how can we trap such a madman – for crazy he must be?’

  ‘Crazy and cunning, it seems. Have you no idea who among your flock of clerics might be deranged enough to act like this?’

  De Alençon gave a heavy sigh. ‘I have not the slightest notion, my friend.’

  ‘But you must know every priest in Exeter, if not the whole of Devon,’ said de Wolfe, impatiently. ‘Surely you can narrow down our search to those who are in some way unbalanced in their minds?’

  The troubled archdeacon rubbed his forehead in anguish. ‘Some of these matters involve the confessional, John. That is inviolate, even in murder.’

  ‘I’m not asking you to reveal any detail, only to help me list those priests you consider worthy of investigation. Ones who have some marked peculiarity of character.’

  John de Alençon cast around for some means of assuaging his conscience. ‘Well, naturally the number from whom I personally have heard confessions is very small – all priests have their allotted confessor and the ones that I have taken are few. What I have heard of some priests has come from my administrative role as archdeacon, aided by common cathedral gossip!’

  De Wolfe managed to conceal his impatience. His old friend was sometimes as long-winded as Gwyn. ‘So, can you name a few, John? I must get started soon – this series of killings cannot be kept from the king’s Justices next week. They will not look kindly upon a community that cannot protect its citizens from one of it own priests!’

  The Archdeacon nodded, convinced by the coroner’s appeal to the public good and the possible censure of his monarch’s judges, for like John de Wolfe, John de Alençon was devoted to Richard the Lionheart.

  ‘There are certainly some odd characters among our clerics, John. For example, Adam of Dol, down at St Mary Steps, has a most ferocious notion of Christianity – but apart from that, he seems sane enough. Peter de Clancy at St Lawrence is eccentric in that he shouts every word of the services, instead of speaking or chanting, but that is a far cry from being a multiple murderer.’

  De Wolfe felt that this was not getting him very far in his quest. ‘Do you know every priest here?’ he asked.

  ‘I know their names, certainly, and I have probably met every one, too. But I cannot claim an intimate knowledge of each. As I said, every priest has his own confessor – even the Bishop – and they would be more acquainted with the nature of their charge. But that brings us back to the sacred trust of the confession and you cannot expect to get far along that road.’

  The coroner scowled. ‘Is confession so inviolate that it conceals a killer and puts others of God’s flock at risk?’

  De Alençon turned up his hands in a gesture of supplication. ‘All depends upon the person confessing. If his confessor advises or pleads with him that such a dire sin must be brought into the open, then the subject may disclose it outwith the religious confession. But that would be extraordinarily rare – who is going to put their head voluntarily into the hangman’s noose?’

  There was a heavy silence.

  ‘So how are we to proceed?’ asked de Wolfe.

  ‘Take this matter to the Chapter, when it assembles below. There are many there who know different priests better than I. They can at least offer some suggestions as to who to interrogate – if the bishop allows, of course.’

  De Wolfe bristled. ‘The Bishop allows? He may be able to divert accused clerics from the secular courts to his own, but he cannot stop me asking questions of anyone I choose, priest or not.’

  The Archdeacon smiled wryly. ‘You may find that Henry Marshal has powers you had not guessed at. But let us meet that problem when it comes.’ He sighed. ‘Meanwhile, the urgent task is to place this affair before the members of Chapter. Now that one of our own brethren has fallen victim, you should find that the Church will stir itself to take action.’

  As if to underline his words, John heard the shuffle of feet and the murmur of many voices below, as the canons and their vicars began to assemble for the short service before their daily meeting. De Alençon rose to his feet, but motioned to John to stay where he was.

  ‘We have some chants to sing and prayers to say first, then there will be the usual daily business. When that is done, I will send up for you to join us to discuss this sad affair.’

  He gathered his black robe about him and set off for the steps in the corner of the library. Thomas moved towards his master and whispered urgently into his ear, causing de Wolfe to call after the Archdeacon, ‘Thomas has a caution for us, John.’

  The senior canon stopped and came back to the pair.

  ‘What has that fertile mind of yours thrown up now, nephew?’

  The coroner answered for him: ‘He points out sensibly that for all we know the culprit may be a member of your Chapter.’

  The clerk, looking slightly shamefaced, crossed himself hurriedly, as
if insuring himself against his uncle’s displeasure at what he was about to say. ‘Whoever is leaving these messages must be well versed in the Vulgate, sir. Perhaps someone quite senior in the priesthood is responsible, for it is a matter of regret that many parish priests are unlikely to have that degree of learning.’

  De Wolfe agreed. ‘When we had that problem over treasure in Dunsford church a few months back, it was your canons who helped – especially Jordan de Brent, the curator of this very scriptorium.’

  ‘Not that my master is accusing him of anything, Uncle,’ gabbled Thomas hastily, touching his head, heart and shoulders rapidly as if warding off the very thought.

  De Alençon bobbed his head in understanding. ‘You think that if the miscreant is among us, he might profit by learning of our efforts to unmask him?’

  ‘Yes. We will discuss any possible candidates openly, but if it comes to devising stratagems to catch him, we must guard our tongues. Even if the fellow is not within the Chapter, I’m sure that the famed gossip of the cathedral Close would soon spread the message far and wide.’

  The Archdeacon patted John’s shoulder. ‘I think I have the answer to that – I’ll call you down shortly.’

  De Wolfe sat in a reverie for the next half-hour, while Thomas wandered off and became engrossed in a thick volume of theology chained to a nearby shelf. From below, came the harmonious chanting of the vicarschoral and some choristers, then the mutter of prayers, followed by a series of voices, the content of which was inaudible upstairs.

  As he waited, John wondered what life with Matilda was going to be like for the next few days. Long experience had taught him that when he offended her, she was at first enraged, then ignored him for a day or two. This usually thawed into a period of sarcastic comments about his infidelity, before she returned to her normal state of sulky instability, where any incautious remark tipped her back into fury.

  He suspected that, later today, when she returned from staying with her widowed cousin she would act as if he was invisible, keeping out of his way either in her solar or at church. But de Wolfe also knew that as the judges were arriving next week, she would recover rapidly to take up invitations to dine with the great and good.