Abbot's Passion

by Stephen Wheeler

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  FISHING FOR ANSWERS

  Fidele’s notebook. I’d forgotten all about it. It didn’t sound very likely but in the absence of anything else I supposed it was a possibility, Fidele did seem to treasure it. I tried to remember when I last saw it. He certainly had it with him when he was in the marketplace that morning but I don’t remember seeing it again after that. It didn’t accompany the body when we transported it down to the abbey. So what happened to it?

  My route back from Heathenmans Street wouldn’t normally take me anywhere near the marketplace but I thought while it was still closed I’d take one last look at the murder site in case the book was there - and assuming it hadn’t been taken to wrap vegetables or to prop up a wobbly table-leg. I entered with caution this time keeping a wary eye on the marshals - I didn’t fancy losing another tooth. But it looked as though I might already be too late. Men were clearing up the mess that had accumulated over the weeks of abandonment and getting the place ready for use again. Reeve Alwyn was there supervising the operation. Spotting me, he came over.

  ‘Ah, Brother Walter. Good news about the inquest.’

  ‘Yes, very good,’ I agreed. ‘The right result, I think.’

  ‘Indeed. What a show! Who was that masked terrier, I wonder? I wouldn’t mind having him on my team. And more good news about the market. The abbot has given us leave to reopen - tomorrow, all being well. If you’re here to buy, brother, you’re a little early. Tuesdays from now on.’

  ‘I’m not here to buy,’ I said. ‘I’m looking for something that might have been lost at the time of the murder.’

  ‘Another tooth?’ he grinned.

  I gave him an indulgent smile. ‘I was hoping I might find the murdered man’s notebook. Has anything of the kind been handed in?’

  ‘A book?’ He shook his head. ‘No-one’s mentioned it. But I can ask.’

  He called a man over. To my alarm, it was the same marshal who had grappled me to the ground the last time I was here, but he gave no indication of recognizing me.

  ‘Thomas,’ Alwyn said to the man, ‘Brother Walter here has lost his book. What does it look like, brother?’

  ‘It’s about so big.’ I held out my hands to indicate the dimensions. ‘Dun coloured leather. You can’t miss it.’

  The man flicked his eyes at my mime then back at me. ‘Monks have books.’

  ‘True,’ nodded Alwyn. ‘And this one belonged to the monk who was murdered.’ His eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘You haven’t been secretly reading behind my back, have you Thomas?’ He winked at me.

  The man stared blankly at the reeve.

  ‘No, perhaps not,’ said Alwyn. ‘Well never mind. If you do happen to find a book, bring it straight to me.’

  The man went back to supervising the muck-clearing.

  ‘Sorry brother. Books aren’t much interest to my men - unless they can use it as a gaming board,’ Alwyn chuckled. ‘Was it important?’

  ‘No. It was just something my brother Joseph said to me, that’s all.’

  ‘Ah yes, the one who came to fetch me the day of the murder.’

  I shook my head. ‘That was Jocellus.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  He was being distracted by an argument that had broken out between one of the marshals and an irate merchant who had just arrived with a cartload of animal skins.

  ‘You said Joseph. You meant Jocellus. Brother Jocellus was the one who came to fetch you, not Joseph.’

  ‘If you say so, brother.’

  The argument with the trader was growing heated and the marshal was beckoning to Alwyn.

  ‘Look I’m sorry, I’ll have to go and sort this out,’ he said heading off. ‘Help yourself to anything you want - books, iron rods, teeth. It’ll all be cleared by this evening.’

  I watched him go with dismay. There was always this confusion over Joseph which I keep having to explain - one of the hazards of having so many brothers none of whom was actually my sibling. But on this occasion he was wrong. It was Jocellus I sent to fetch Alwyn the day of the murder. After all, that was the reason his confession was…

  Oh dear God.

  I quickly found Alwyn again. He was still in the middle of his argument with the fur trader but I couldn’t wait for him to finish. I put my hand on his shoulder and spun him round.

  ‘Alwyn, you said just now it was Joseph came to fetch you the morning of the murder. Are you sure about that?’

  He looked annoyed at being interrupted but answered me: ‘Yes it was Joseph.’

  ‘I mean, are you absolutely certain? Please Alwyn, this is vital. It was definitely my brother Joseph who fetched you and not Brother Jocellus?’

  He frowned at me irritably. ‘Brother, I can tell the difference between a Benedictine monk and a Jewish apothecary.’

  I left Alwyn to his fur trader and ran down the hill as fast as my legs could carry me, my heart pounding in my breast. As I went through the abbey gate the bell for nones was ringing but it wasn’t to the abbey church that I was heading. Instead, I cut across the Great Court to the cellarer’s range which was where Jocellus had his lodging. Like all senior obedientiaries he did not sleep in the common dormitory with the other monks but had his own room where he could meet with tradesmen and others who had dealings with the abbey. I tried the latch. It wasn’t locked. I went in.

  Inside the room was immaculate, enviably so compared with the mess my laboratorium was always in. It was also empty, much to my relief. Jocellus must have gone to the church to sing the office of nones with all the other monks. That would give me a few minutes to find it, assuming it was here. But where would it be? I looked around. It’s an old truism that the best place to hide a tree is in a forest. I hunted quickly along his shelves. Scrolls and parchments but no books.

  Where else? There were few furnishings in the room: a table, a chair, a prie-dieu. The only other item in the room was his bed. No, it couldn’t be that simple, could it? I got down on my hands and knees to look underneath. It was dark in the room and even darker under the bed, but there was something there. My hand touched something hard and covered in sacking. I dragged it out. Even before I got to my feet I knew what it was. Frantically I pulled off the sacking to reveal Fidele’s leather-bound notebook, I recognized it instantly. I sat down heavily on the bed and laid the book on my lap rubbing the front with my hand. It was a beautiful thing, expensively covered in hide and clearly a prized possession of its owner. Even now I hesitated to open it for fear of what might be inside. What secrets did it hold?

  ‘You found it then?’

  I caught my breath and looked up to see Jocellus standing in the doorway. So absorbed had I been with the book that I hadn’t heard him arrive.

  ‘Er, yes,’ I said stupidly. ‘It was under the bed.’

  He nodded. ‘I knew someone would eventually. I was hoping it might be you.’

  My heart had started pounding again so loud that I was sure he must be able to hear it.

  ‘Don’t look so nervous, Walter,’ he said frowning. ‘This is me, Jocellus. What do you think I’m going to do, kill you?’ He came fully into the room and sat on the furthest edge of the bed. ‘I’ll sit over here if you’re worried - is that all right?’

  ‘No - I mean yes. That is I, erm -’ I swallowed. ‘H-how did you know I’d be here?’

  He shrugged. ‘Your place in the quire was empty. I guessed where you’d be. May I?’

  He leaned forward and took the notebook from me. He ran his hand lovingly over the tooled leather cover.

  ‘Beautiful isn’t it? Moroccan leather, I believe.’

  ‘Where did you find it?’

  ‘It was lying on the steps of the market cross. I simply picked it up. No-one noticed. You were all concentrating on the row between Eustache and Hamo. I hid it beneath my robe. Have you looked inside yet?’

  I shook my head. ‘No, not yet.’

  He opened the cover and started turning the pages. I glanced down at th
em quickly reluctant to take my eyes off him for too long. They seemed to contain annotations of some kind, hundreds of them all written in a tiny script.

  ‘It’s another Domesday Book,’ he said in answer to my unspoken question. ‘Except unlike the Conqueror’s great survey this one is written in code. Here, take a look.’

  He turned the book round for me to see. I could see now that the tiny annotations were all written in cipher, but not any sort of cipher I had ever come across before. An odd mixture of swirls and squiggles, all meaningless to me.

  ‘What does it say?’ I said beginning to forget my fear.

  He shook his head. ‘No idea. That’s the point. Only Fidele knew the code. Only he could read it.’

  ‘But you must know what’s in it?’

  ‘Yes of course. Secrets. Information gathered over a lifetime.’

  ‘Gathered how?’

  ‘A myriad of ways. Blackmail, bribery.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Power of course. What else? That’s what all such collations are. Power to the possessor over those inside.’

  I nodded. ‘I take it, then, you’re in there somewhere?’

  ‘Oh everyone’s in here, Walter,’ he said patting the book gently. ‘Me, Abbot Eustache, Samson, the pope.’ He smiled. ‘Even you.’

  That much at least I knew was true. I remembered Fidele consulting the notebook the day he and Eustache arrived. I remembered too how appalled I was to find that so much was known about me and in such detail. It felt as though my very soul was being exposed.

  ‘But why keep it? Surely its very possession incriminates you. Why not burn it - or throw it into the Lark like you did the murder weapon?’ I said, guessing.

  He smiled at that. ‘Yes you’re right, I did take the rod from the chapel. That was your doing I’m afraid. You were asking to view the body. I didn’t know why but it seemed prudent to dispose of the evidence. But not into the river. Into my beloved trout ponds. I kept the notebook as a memento. With the one person who could read it dead it was harmless.’

  ‘So you admit it? You killed him?’

  ‘Of course I admit it,’ he laughed. ‘I’ve admitted it twice already, only no-one believed me.’

  ‘That was because you deceived us.’

  He shook his head. ‘No, I never deceived anybody. You only assumed I’d gone to fetch to Reeve Alwyn, I never said I did.’

  ‘But you let us carry on thinking you did. Except someone else knew the truth.’

  He nodded. ‘Your brother Joseph. Yes, he was the one person who knew for certain I hadn’t gone to fetch Alwyn - because he had. I suppose I should thank him for not giving me away.’

  ‘Thank him how? By setting fire to his shop?’

  Jocellus grimaced at my words. ‘I panicked. It was only meant to be a warning.’

  ‘A warning that very nearly cost a life. And Joseph wasn’t the only one. I assume Alice Nevus recognized you as Fidele’s murderer. No wonder she looked terrified when the three of us turned up. She probably thought we’d gone there to threaten her.’

  He shook his head. ‘I had no idea about Alice Nevus before that visit. She must simply have taken fright and run away. I certainly didn’t threaten her and I’m mortified that you think I could.’

  ‘Unlike Abbot Eustache who you tried to drown in the Lakenheath village pond.’

  ‘No, that wasn’t me either. If you recall I didn’t even go to Lakenheath. There were plenty of others who had no love for the abbot-legate.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘I even thought it might be you.’

  ‘That’s the difference between us, Jocellus. Much as I despise Abbot Eustache and everything he stands for, I could never resort to murder.’

  ‘That’s because you haven’t had long enough to hate.’

  ‘And you have?’

  ‘Oh yes. A lifetime.’

  ‘So now we come to it,’ I said. ‘The real reason for all this. One man’s murder. The near destruction of another. The rape of his wife. A lifetime of hate, you say? In that case you’d better start at the beginning.’

  ‘The beginning?’ he sighed. ‘Well that was God’s fault, of course. Oh, don’t look at me like that, Walter. You with your sheltered, aristocratic upbringing - what do you know about real life? It was because Fidele was born the way he was that much of what followed occurred. And whose fault was that if not God’s?’

  I frowned trying to comprehend. ‘You’re saying you murdered Fidele because he was a dwarf?’

  ‘I’m saying Fidele blamed God for being so. And he was determined to wreak his revenge on what he saw as an unjust world. You think love is the most powerful of human emotions? It’s not. Hate is. It’s what gave Fidele the strength to overcome all his handicaps and succeed - and succeed he did mostly by making himself useful to men like Eustache de Fly. He learned the secrets of others and how to use them.’

  ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘Because Fidele was my brother.’

  I was momentarily stunned by his words, too stunned to say anything other than to let my jaw drop open.

  He gave a lopsided smile ‘Yes, you see? You’re not the only one with an unusual brother. Except unlike Joseph Fidele was my true brother, issued from the same loins, one father.’

  ‘But you’re English,’ I said. ‘Fidele was French.’ And then I remembered how fluent he’d been in the French tongue.

  ‘You have always known me a Jocellus de Brook, but really it’s Brouck. Brouck is a little village in Burgundy where my father was the priest. And my first name isn’t Jocellus, it’s Émile. I only became Jocellus when I took the cowl. Oh dear, now I see I really have shocked you. Yes indeed, my father was a priest when he fathered me. And he was still a priest two years later when he fathered his second son, a withered, half-formed thing that he named Faithful more in hope than expectation that it would survive. But survive Fidele did. I won’t bore you with the details that are all too familiar, but it was obvious to everyone in the village that this second son was a curse. One son born in sin was bad enough, but a second one, and so deformed? It was a punishment from God as clear as day.’

  ‘But your mother. What did she think to all this?’

  ‘My mother?’ He snorted. ‘You mean my father’s housemaid - at least, that was her official role. As the shameful mare of two illegitimate foals she had no say in what happened to us. My father kept me as the whole child but sent Fidele away - out of sight, out of mind. But she did make him give the child to a local family where she would be able to visit him, and no doubt tell him the truth of his background. It was when my mother died that the stories began. Lies, secrets, half-truths. Nobody knew where they came from but they had an effect. That was the start of it. Things started happening. Villagers lost property or legal rights. Many were turned out or made destitute. And then my father lost his position as priest. We had no income. Every post he applied for he was rejected. It seemed like the whole of France was closed to him. We had to leave Brouck. In the end we had to leave France.’

  ‘You’re saying all this was Fidele’s doing?’

  He put his hand up for patience. ‘I said our mother was a housemaid, but she was much more than that. She knew how to scheme. Somehow she got Fidele into the household of the bishop of Amiens and there he rapidly made himself indispensable. When my father learned of it he realised he was never going to gain a living in France. So with my mother dead he brought me here to Suffolk where he had friends. For years we scraped by with half and quarter livings. But he was a broken man. Eventually he died too and I was left alone in the world. It was Abbot Samson who gave me my chance. I became noviced at the abbey and changed my name - a new identity, a new beginning. But then who should turn up ten years later but the little man himself.’

  ‘Fidele recognized you?’

  ‘No, but I recognized him.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘He’s not easy to miss.’

  ‘So you decided on murder as revenge for what happened to you?’ I said incredulously.
‘After all these years?’

  ‘It wasn’t planned. How could it be? I didn’t know Hamo was going to be in the market that day. It was just one more irony that Abbot Eustache should choose me of all people to accompany him. Or maybe it wasn’t an accident. Maybe it was meant to be. Even so I thought it would be all right. Fidele would be here for a few days and then he and the abbot-legate would be gone and everything would return to where it was. But I’d already seen what Fidele could do with you and Joseph, and when I saw the way he attacked Hamo something inside me snapped. As I said, hate is a powerful drug. All the past anger seemed to well up in me and before I knew what I was doing I had thrust that rod through his chest. I surprised myself how easy it was. God was giving me the strength, you see? It was as though he was saying to me, “Here you are Jocellus, here’s your chance. Take it”.’

  I was appalled at his words. ‘You think all this was God’s doing?’

  ‘Of course. How else did no-one see me in the busy market that day? How else did Hamo manage to escape so readily? How else did he win in the arena? It was God’s will. Even my confession made no difference. God was protecting me, you see? I could shout my guilt from the rooftops and still no-one would believe me.’

  I was astounded by his capacity for self-deception. There was clearly no reasoning with him.

  ‘Why are you telling me this now? You could have kept it all a secret. Hamo is free. Your lifelong enemy is dead. You could have destroyed the notebook and no-one would be any the wiser.’

  ‘Because I wish to make confession.’

  I guffawed. ‘I should have thought that was the one thing of which you had had quite enough.’

  ‘No, I mean I wish to confess properly. I desire absolution.’

  ‘For murder?’

  ‘Why not? Christ on the Cross forgave his murderers. “Father forgive them for they know not what they do”.’