by Ian Morson
Now the sun began to break through the heavy clouds, and Falconer almost skipped across the stones where they forded the river. The higher they got the more the land opened up before them, until finally a magnificent vista of snow-topped mountains was visible rising beyond the sparkling sheet that was Thurston Water. Even Ellen Shokburn appeared moved by the sight. Her normally cold features melted into a fleeting smile, as though she were presenting something she owned for admiration. The thought seemed perfectly appropriate to Falconer, for the land might belong to the priory, but not the view and the sense of place. Only those who truly lived in it, and with it, could be said to possess that.
He looked at the woman to share his joy, but the transitory pleasure she had revealed was gone. The permanent veil of hard purpose was drawn over her eyes again.
‘You didn't tell me whom you were seeking here.’
‘Brother Thady. I fear his rantings finally became too much for the prior.’
Falconer thought there was a flicker of fear in Ellen's eyes when he mentioned Lamport's name, but he could not be sure. The woman remained in strict control of her feelings. Still, he could understand it if she did not relish the company of someone as odd as Thady Lamport. His peculiar behaviour might seem on the verge of violence to some, though Falconer doubted that it would ever turn in that direction.
‘Where should I go, then?’
She raised her arm and pointed ahead of them. ‘The cell you want is at the top of this rise, just beyond that rock there – the one that sticks out like a finger. I will wait here for you.’ She sat down on a flat spur of rock, and stared off over the lake.
Falconer nodded, and continued along the narrow path leading round the crag. Scrambling over the rocky outcrop that Ellen had pointed out, he was suddenly struck hard on the chest. He gasped and looked around, rubbing the sore spot where the blow had landed. No one was in sight, but looking down he saw a stone the size of a fist lying at his feet. From the corner of his eye he was aware of a movement in the jumble of rocks to his right, and he instinctively ducked. Another large stone whistled over his head. This time it was accompanied by a hoarse cry.
‘Get away, demon.’
Falconer ducked behind a large rock as a third stone flew past him. He called out. ‘Brother Thady, it's me, William Falconer – the visitor at the priory. I want to talk to you.’
‘You're the devil's spawn. Go away.’ This imprecation was hurled at Falconer along with another stone.
‘Please. I want to talk to you about John de Langetoft. I need your help.’
There was a pause in the rain of rocks, and cautiously Falconer raised his head. He could see Thady Lamport standing in the mouth of a dark and gloomy cave. He had stripped down to a simple loincloth, and his pale, stringy body was outlined by the blackness behind it. Falconer was reminded of Fridaye de Schipedham, and wondered if this remote land called people back to their elemental nature, and away from civilization. Travellers were said to have encountered giants and people with a single eye in the middle of their chest at the edges of the world. The tales did not surprise Falconer now.
The monk dropped the stone he was holding in his hand, and stepped into the darkness of the cave. Falconer clambered over the rocks and, hesitating for a moment at the cave mouth, followed Lamport in. Once his eyes had adjusted to the gloom, he saw that the cell was truly spartan. Beyond the narrow arch of the entrance, the cave opened out into a large vaulted space. Damp stains dribbled down the face of the rock in several places. In one corner was a natural hearth below the funnel of a fissure in the rock that ran upwards like a chimney. There was no fire lit.
Opposite the hearth a flat slab of rock projected from the side of the cave. It served Thady as a bed, but the coldness of its surface was alleviated only by a thin mattress. In the rear of the cave stood a pile of jars and greasy cloths that no doubt contained Lamport's supply of food. The monk himself sat cross-legged on the rocky slab, illuminated by a single candle at his side that had been burning for a long time, judging by the spikes of wax that hung down from the edge of the slab. Thady Lamport's eyes burned feverishly, and his face was even more skull-like than when Falconer had last seen him in the priory. He was mumbling something under his breath that Falconer could not catch – a phrase repeated time and again in time to the rocking of his body.
The cell felt chill and Falconer wondered if Lamport ever lit the fire to ease his discomfort. He leaned over the ashes, and felt them. They were cold and damp. He enquired if he should gather some sticks together, and the reaction was immediate.
‘Leave it. If Adam Lutt can endure without a fire, then I shall too.’
Falconer refrained from saying that Adam Lutt no longer had need of earthly fires to warm him. He stared as Lamport continued to rock his scrawny frame in silence. Then suddenly the monk stopped, and the words poured out of his mouth.
‘You wanted to know about John de Langetoft. I will tell you. John de Langetoft broke his vows. Broke them, yes. He is a sinner, only interested in himself. A sinner – yes, a sinner. He must not become prior. He must be stopped.’
Falconer put his hand on the monk's bare arm, and felt the taut tendons stretched almost to breaking point. He whispered gently in his ear. ‘Brother Thady, John de Langetoft is long dead. He cannot become prior.’
‘Dead?’ The conundrum puzzled Lamport.
‘Yes, dead. He died fifteen years ago – I think you know that, don't you? I saw the drawing in the book catalogue that you made. Brother, did you “stop” him – did you kill him?’
Deep pain registered in the monk's eyes, and he thundered a warning. ‘Thou shalt not kill. Thou shalt not kill.’
Falconer lurched back at the verbal onslaught. He would have to be careful, or he could tip the dangerously deranged monk into a state in which no information would be forthcoming at all. He tried a different approach.
‘What sort of man was de Langetoft?’
Before the monk could reply, Falconer thought he heard a rustling at the entrance to the cave. Maybe Ellen had decided to follow him after all. Thady Lamport must have heard something too, because he turned at the same time. They both peered at the narrow crack that formed the doorway, where a beam of weak light filtered into the cell. But there was nothing there, and no more sounds came.
‘Who would have had a reason to kill him?’
At Falconer's question, a cunning look came over Lamport's face. He grabbed the front of the master's robe, pulling him down until their faces were pressed close together. ‘He knew things, and used them like currency to buy what he wanted.’
Falconer endured the stale breath that emanated from the monk's broken-toothed mouth. ‘What things did he know?’
‘Let us just say that Henry Ussher would never have been prior, if Brother John had had his way.’ Grotesquely, Lamport winked at Falconer. ‘You see, he took the books.’
Falconer's interest was fanned into hot flames by this statement from the madman. He was convinced the books were part of the key to the old murder. Yet how could John de Langetoft be the thief of all the books? Many had been taken after his death. Perhaps Thady was referring just to the missing books from Bishop Grosseteste's collection.
‘The books? Grosseteste's books? Can you remember what they were called?’
‘Called?’
‘Their titles. There is a page missing in the catalogue.’
Lamport hesitated, then closed his eyes and recited, as though turning the pages of the catalogue in his mind and reading the listings on the back of his eyelids.
‘Item 344 – Bishop Robert Grosseteste – De Luce. Item 345 – Bishop Robert Grosseteste – De Sphera. Item 346 – Aristotle – Secretum Secretorum. Item 347 – unknown author – Sapientiae nigromanciae …’ Lamport hesitated and his eyelids flickered. Beads of sweat formed on his brow, though the cell was icy cold. He continued uncertainly. ‘Item 348 … Bishop Robert Grosseteste … De finitate motus et temporis. Item 349 … Bishop Rob … De inf
ini … lucis … nitate … lucis.’
Suddenly, Lamport shook Falconer's grip from his arm, dropped from the shelf and scuttled across the cell like a pallid spider. He crouched in a corner and folded his arms over his head for protection from some unseen assailant.
‘The light – we killed the light. So now there is no light to shine on us.’
Falconer took a step towards the bundle of misery that was Thady Lamport, but was stopped in his tracks.
‘Get thee behind me, Satan,’ the crouching figure wailed, the light in his eyes finally dulled.
Falconer knew the thread was broken, and sat back on the cold slab that was the monk's bed. As Thady sobbed, he pondered on what he had learned. The trouble was, he was not sure how much of the information he could trust. But if at least some of the facts were accurate, they were invaluable truths to which logic could be profitably applied. He was now anxious to return to the priory, and Lamport looked as though he was oblivious of the presence of his guest anyway. The monk was rocking backwards and forwards, muttering the same prayer he had intoned at the beginning. As it got louder, Falconer realized what he was saying. Over and over again, Lamport was reciting the three vows of monastic life – Obedience, Poverty, and Celibacy.
SEXT
Deep in his heart, sin whispers to the wicked man,
Who cherishes no fear of God.
Psalm 36
Chapter Eleven
‘Where have you been all day?’ Ralph Westerdale looked flustered. It was evening, and vespers had passed before he had been able to locate the Oxford master. Falconer smiled enigmatically, and indicated that he had sought a solitary place where he could marshal his thoughts about the deaths of both John de Langetoft and Adam Lutt. There was no untruth there, of course. Just a lack of information about whom he had shared the solitary place with. The precentor was still uncertain, but had to satisfy himself with a disapproving grunt, as though Falconer was some errant novice who had not followed the rules of the order.
‘The prior wished you to see Brother Adam's office. He's there now himself as a matter of fact. Trying to make sense of the accounts.’
Falconer allowed himself to be led to the camerarius's room, though he wished simply to repair to his bed at the end of a tiring day. He regretted having allowed his body to soften under the undemanding regime of a university teacher, and realized how unused he was now to long journeys on foot across uncertain terrain – unlike his earlier years spent traversing parts of the world little known to man. Merchant and mercenary seemed unlikely preparations for a Regent Master of Arts at Oxford University. But then to the younger, keener-eyed Falconer a scholar's life would have seemed an unlikely pursuit. Until he had met Friar Roger Bacon. Then the power of science and logic had literally changed the course of his wanderings. Now here he was, footsore and tired, obeying the command of some self-centred cleric running a remote priory on the edge of the world.
‘Ah, Master Falconer. I am glad you are here. I want to show you something.’
Henry Ussher stood in the doorway of the camerarius's office, his halo of silver hair lit up by the candles that burned inside the room. He took Falconer's arm without questioning where he had been, and guided him inside. At first glance the room was as Falconer had left it on his surreptitious visit the previous day – except the desk had been tidied. No longer were there papers scattered all over it, as Falconer had seen it – it was now orderly with records and ledgers neatly arranged. He assumed that the prior had sorted out the papers, and was curious to know what Ussher wanted to show him. The prior pointed at one of the ledgers.
‘I wanted to show you this as you were curious about poor Adam's demise. I have not moved anything, so you can be sure it is as Adam left it.’
Falconer's eyes did not flicker at the prior's words, which did not fit with his previous assumption. He casually clarified his doubts. ‘And you have not allowed anyone else access to the room?’
‘No. I asked Ralph to lock it last night.’
Westerdale nodded to indicate that he had done so. But his eyes were downcast, leaving Falconer to wonder who had interfered with the papers. Who had something to hide, that Adam Lutt, the blackmailer, had possessed? And what was it that Henry Ussher was keen for him, and only him, to see? At least the last question would be answered.
‘Take a look at that ledger, which records all the income and expenditure of the priory.’
Falconer opened the cover of the ledger, and scanned the first page, puzzled as to what he was supposed to be looking for. The prior leaned over his shoulder and flicked through the stiff pages to the latest entries. He pointed an accusatory finger at one line in particular. ‘There, the entry for the monies paid to the ironworks for the last quarter-year.’
Falconer took note of the figure, which showed a sizeable income from the manufacture of locks and hinges. More than he earned in a year as a regent master.
‘Now look at these papers I took from the ironworks on my last visit – individual records of payments from the sale of goods.’ He thrust a sheaf of battered papers at Falconer, stained with the sweat and metal residues that tainted the hands of the ironmaster. ‘Add them up.’
Impatient at the prior's peremptory tones, Falconer nevertheless added up the figures recorded on each sheet. There was a discrepancy. Lutt had recorded less income than the papers represented. Before Falconer could comment, Henry Ussher drew his own conclusions.
‘Adam Lutt was clearly abusing his position as camerarius, and stealing from the priory funds. He must have been overcome by remorse, and took his own life fittingly at the site of his iniquity – the ironworks. It is a terrible sin that he did so, but in deference to his previous efforts for the community here I propose not to make it known. And I would be glad if you dropped your … investigations here and now, Master Falconer.’
Henry Ussher looked down his patrician nose at the seated Falconer, and swept from the office. Ralph was obviously under instructions to lock the room up again, and looked expectantly at Falconer, the key in his hand. To his consternation, Falconer remained seated at the table, poring over the pile of papers the prior had given him. While the embarrassed monk hopped impatiently from sandal-clad foot to sandal-clad foot, he carefully read the text on each, and even turned them over to examine the blank reverse. After a while, he grunted in satisfaction, and rose from the table.
‘I can see you are anxious to get to your bed, Brother Ralph. I too am tired – I must let you lock the room.’
He stood over the precentor as he once again drew the heavy key from the sleeve of his habit, locked the door, and returned the key to his sleeve. They walked in silence to the dormitory stairs where Falconer surprised the monk by grasping his arm with one hand, and shaking his hand with the other. He thanked him profusely for all his assistance over the books, and promised to limit his attentions to his academic work tomorrow. The bewildered monk did not notice the wry smile on Falconer's lips as he trudged off to the guest quarters.
Try as he might, Falconer could not stay awake. He had sat in the only upright chair in his chamber, but the exertions of the day still overwhelmed him. The first he knew that he had fallen asleep was when his nodding head roused him with a start. He cursed under his breath and peered out of the window, breathing a sigh of relief when he saw it was still pitch-dark. There still might be time to carry out his investigations before the monks stirred for matins. He began to put on the boots he had pulled from his sore feet the previous evening, then decided that they might make too much noise. He slipped down the wooden stairs of his quarters, and gasped as his bare feet touched the icy cold of the flagstones at the bottom. Almost wishing he had risked the heavy boots, he tiptoed softly round the cloister, the soles of his feet aching from the cold.
He mounted the day stairs that took him up to the sleeping quarters of the quire brothers. Gently opening the door, he prayed that the hinges were well oiled. His prayers were answered, and he slipped unheard into the lofty
room that housed the sleeping monks. A mixture of snores, sighs and the threads of regular breathing muffled any noise he made crossing the floor to Lutt's enclosed space. He stopped in front of the door locked by Brother Ralph, and took the key from his pouch.
It had been surprisingly easy to steal it from the precentor, using a technique taught him by one of the more rascally of his students. Thomas Foxton had been incarcerated by Peter Bullock for two weeks for stealing a kerchief from the purse of the vicar of St Aldate's Church. That he had convinced the normally sceptical constable of the childish nature of the action meant he had avoided greater punishment. But Falconer wondered how many more items had found their way into Thomas's hands without their owners knowing. Still, he had been amused himself to learn the trick, and now it had stood him in good stead. Lack of practice had made him rusty, and he had almost dropped the key as his fingers had closed around it. But Brother Ralph had been unaware of his blundering effort.
He put the key in the lock and turned it. In a moment he was inside the office, with the door closed behind him. He groped in the pocket of his robe for the stub of a candle he had brought, and fumbled in the dark to light it with his flint striker and tinder. Shading the small flame with the palm of his hand, he crossed the room to the desk. His hopes of finding any documents relating to Lutt's blackmailing activities were low. His clandestine and hurried visit yesterday had uncovered nothing, and since then the prior had had a chance to conceal anything incriminating. But he had to try. An age spent poring over the papers on the desk revealed nothing, and he slumped into one of the highbacked chairs set against the exterior wall of the chamber. He smelled something odd, and rose out of the chair, sniffing the air. As he moved away from the wall, the smell receded. He turned back to the chair and lifted it away from the wall, taking care not to make a noise. There was a blackened crack in the plasterwork that had been hidden by the chair. He put his nose to it, and smelled soot. Suddenly a stray piece of information came unannounced into his mind, and he almost cried out with joy. He still had a chance.
