by Ian Morson
‘As you know, the tomb in our chapel holds the remains of Rosamund, the old king's whore. And that is the fate of the licentious – to end up as a bag of bones, unloved and ignored by God. Gilda needed reminding of the rewards of licentiousness, and I was showing them to her. And I shall continue to do what is necessary to ensure good discipline.’
‘Even to the extent of killing someone?’
Gwladys paled, and her hands went to her throat, plucking at the wrinkled flesh that Ann noticed for the first time. That, and her beak-like nose, suddenly made her look like some farmyard chicken about to have its neck wrung. She almost choked over her words.
‘You cannot believe that I killed Sister Eleanor? I am here to save souls, not despatch them.’
‘And did you think Eleanor's worth the effort?’
‘She was a sister in this house for which I am responsible. I would think the value of her soul goes without saying.’
‘Was Eleanor here by choice?’
The abbess sneered, and explained the dead nun's background.
It emerged that Eleanor had been placed in Godstow Nunnery by her family to hide her away from a boy whom they thought an undesirable companion for their precious child. Though a cleanfaced youth, Thomas Thubbs had been no more than a farmer's son with fanciful ideas about his future. When Eleanor had been removed to Godstow, he had fled also. The abbess cackled harshly.
‘His father insisted his son had gone to study at the university of Bologna. But he probably got no farther than the next village. But to answer your question – no, Eleanor de Hardyng had no vocation. That is why I was harsh with her. But I did not kill her. And I will continue to be as harsh with our little Gilda, until everything improper is beaten from her.’
‘Will you let me speak to her?’
Gwladys frowned, and Ann thought she had pressed too far. But the abbess sniffed and agreed. ‘If you think it worth it.’
‘Alone?’
Gwladys nodded curtly, and dismissed the other woman.
Now Ann was faced with a Gilda who seemed able to provide very little information, and her ideas for solving this cloistral murder were running out. She tried one final question. ‘Why did the abbess think you had acted improperly?’
Fresh tears welled in Gilda's eyes, and they coursed stingingly down her ravaged face. She shrugged her thin shoulders. ‘Because I was Eleanor's friend, I suppose.’
‘And Eleanor had behaved improperly?’
Again the non-committal shrug. But Ann was not to be deterred this time.
‘Even after the abbess's arrival? Even recently?’
Gilda's soulful round eyes oozed pain and sorrow. ‘She entertained a secret visitor. At night. But it was only her sister.’ The last part came out as a wail, and Gilda clutched Ann's sleeve.
‘Her sister? And was she here the night Eleanor was killed?’ The sorrowful Gilda looked deep into Ann's eyes, and nodded vigorously.
The day had proved a complete waste of time. After the solemn obsequies for the two dead, the prior and the sacrist had led their brother monks to the priory cemetery. There, on a suitably grey morning with more than a hint of drizzle in the air, the final words were said over the remains as they were lowered into their respective graves. The other monks hurried away to shelter from the rain, but John Whitened stayed behind to supervise the two lay brothers filling in the holes they had dug the previous day. He stood under a tree to keep dry, but similar shelter was denied Ralph and Falconer. In ensuring they stayed out of sight of John Whitehed, but did not lose sight of him themselves, they stood beside the outer wall of the priory. It afforded them little shelter, and as the downpour got worse they got wetter. Watching the earth thudding down on Adam Lutt, Whitehed sighed as if finally believing that the man was dead, and could not return. Eventually, all that remained of both monks were wet mounds in the gloomy cemetery. The sacrist scurried back to the priory church, followed by his shadows.
There he prepared for prime, then obediently sat through Rules in the chapter house. Falconer did not understand how anyone could endure the life of routine that was John Whitehed's. His duties consisted of endlessly tidying the vessels and vestments used in the church. And he carried those duties out with loving care and meticulous attention to detail. While Ralph knelt in prayer in the church to keep an eye on their quarry, Falconer returned to his room to contemplate the other documents in the hidden box. He was excited by recovering the missing catalogue page and reading of an unknown work by Bishop Grosseteste – De infinitate lucis. He knew the bishop's obsession with light and optics, and longed to study this text to see if there were anything new revealed in it. It was a stray ray of sunlight piercing the gloom of the day that showed him something about the catalogue entries he had not spotted before. He held the page up closer to the window, and saw that the shiny surface of the parchment had been dulled in places. After each of the entries relating to Grosseteste's books, there was an oblong patch where someone had scratched out information. No matter. He knew of a simple way of revealing what was lost.
Ralph Westerdale was rather annoyed that the Oxford master did not appear again until after sext, when it was time to eat. Not that the work of keeping an eye on Brother John had been onerous. In fact, he had given no indication of his supposed misdeeds, sticking strictly and devoutly to his routine. Ralph was beginning to wonder if his theft of library books and furtive visits to the Isobel woman were all in John de Langetoft's imagination. But he could not escape the fact of Brother Adam's demanding money from the sacrist, nor his own opinion of Adam Lutt as someone who poked his nose into matters that were not his concern.
‘Thank goodness he didn't know about me,’ he muttered as he sat down on the hard bench that ran the length of the refectory table.
‘Who didn't know about you?’ The tall Oxford master slid easily in beside him, and began to ladle fish stew on to his trencher. The precentor was startled.
‘Oh, I was just thinking that it was lucky Brother John didn't know I was observing him.’
The other monks around him hissed their disapproval at his speaking in the frater, and Ralph pursed his lips. He was surprised at his own facility in lying to Falconer, and felt rather sorry that the deeds of fifteen years ago should have reared up and so sullied his quiet life. He studiously avoided Falconer's eyes and concentrated on the Bible reading that accompanied the repast. He prayed for inner strength.
As they rose from the table, Ralph made to follow John Whitehed, but Falconer indicated that they should go to Ralph's austere office by way of the kitchens. There, Falconer stopped to speak to the cook, who explained that his excellent stew was the result of taking raw fish, putting it in a pot with parsley, minced onions, raisins, pepper, cinnamon, cloves, saunders and salt, and boiling it with wine and vinegar ‘soakingly, till it be done'. Ralph could not believe that Falconer could be so relaxed, when they had a murderer loose in the priory. And one he had insisted until now that they keep an eye on. Having dragged the master away from the cook and his reminiscences of former repasts, he taxed Falconer on this very point. Falconer's reply was a reassurance.
‘Don't worry, Ralph. I don't think John Whitehed is going anywhere in this weather. He will be in the church even now, preparing for the nones service. What I am more interested in is where the “libraria interior” is located.’
Ralph blanched at Falconer's words. How did he know of the secure location where the rarest of the books were kept? And did he know that Grosseteste's books were there? He had taken care to expunge the location from the catalogue before the page had disappeared, scratching out each entry. Was the man a magician?
Falconer must have read his mind, for he explained how it was possible to dampen the surface of a parchment, and, by holding it up to the light, read what had been erased.
‘I could barely make out the words, but I recalled seeing them elsewhere in the catalogue against a few particularly rare texts. So I could assume that Grosseteste's books were equal
ly rare, and deserving of this secure location. Am I right?’
Ralph nodded glumly.
‘So, where is it?’
‘It's a cupboard in the prior's lodgings. You will need his permission to gain access to it, though.’
‘Keep an eye on John Whitehed. I'll talk to the prior.’
For such a large man, Falconer could move swiftly when he wished. Before Ralph could protest, he was out of the door, leaving the precentor to wonder what he would find. This Oxford master had the apparent ability to deduce past events from the dust left behind by deeds best forgotten. If that was what the teachings of Oxford resulted in, Ralph was glad he lived far away from it. The past should remain undisturbed. He sat at his desk for a moment longer, then wearily rose to his feet. He had better continue his surveillance of the sacrist. If the man disappeared while he was brooding in his room, no doubt Master Falconer would see collusion there, and suspect him of complicity in the two deaths. Ralph shivered at the thought, and, hunched against the persistent rain, scuttled off to the church.
The main door was open, and an eerie silence hung over the interior. He should at least have been able to hear some sounds – the clink of vessels on the altar stone, the thump of books. Ralph's heart gave a lurch. Where was Brother John? He hurried up the aisle, the slap of his sandals breaking the stillness. Bowing briefly to the altar, he looked quickly in each of the side chapels. No sign of the sacrist. He rushed into the little room where the prior robed himself for the services. The vestments were neatly laid out, but the room was empty. Offering up a small prayer for help, Ralph hurried out of the side door of the church. Perhaps John was in the dormitory, where he had made a retreat for himself in one corner of the large, draughty hall.
Just as he turned the corner of the dormitory building, something landed with a thump at his feet. He looked down in amazement and saw it was a book. Had it fallen from the heavens, or from one of those cloud-ships that Brother Thady was so fond of talking about? He peered up at the sky, but in the encroaching dusk all he could see was the glimmer of a yellowish moon. The sound of someone descending the stairs brought him to his senses, and he scooped the book up, hiding it in his sleeve. Suddenly the missing sacrist burst out of the gloom of the archway, his eyes on the ground. It was a moment before he realized that Ralph stood in front of him. And with a startled expression on his reddening face, he mumbled something about preparing for the service, and made off towards the church.
Once he had closed the side door, Ralph pulled the book from his sleeve. It was the missing Psalterium Hebraicum.
Falconer could not believe it. To come so far, to be so close, and find the cupboard bare. For that was literally what had happened. He had expected to have to persuade the prior into revealing the secrets of the ‘libraria interior’ on the grounds of scholarship. And if that had failed, to argue with him about Grosseteste's own wish that his library should be open to all. He had been dumbfounded when the prior readily agreed to open the cupboard. He led Falconer into a side room where a pair of sturdy doors were set into a recess in the wall. He took a key from his purse, and put it in the lock.
‘I think you'll be disappointed.’
The comment was thrown over his shoulder as he turned the key. He opened the doors and stepped aside. There was nothing in the cupboard but empty shelves. Falconer gasped with shock, hardly registering the words the prior spoke.
‘The books have been missing for a number of years. Did not Brother Ralph tell you?’
Falconer mumbled thanks as empty as the bookshelves, and left the prior to smirk at his retreating back. In a daze he retraced his steps towards Ralph's office, wondering if all the losses could be attributed to John Whitehed. How had he managed to steal and sell all Grosseteste's books without being noticed? Immersed in these thoughts, he bumped into a figure lurking in the archway under the dormitory. An apology on his lips, he realized the figure was that of Ralph Westerdale. But before Falconer could question him, the monk came out with some fanciful tale about a missing book's miraculous return. Falconer slowed him down, and tried to concentrate.
‘You say it fell from the skies just here?’
Ralph nodded. ‘Do you believe that Brother Thady's cloud-ships exist? That they stole the book, not Brother John?’
Falconer was about to scoff at Ralph's suggestion when he recalled his own vivid imaginings as he was drowning, and merely smiled. ‘Before we assume the fanciful is true, let us eliminate all the possibilities of this earthly existence.’ He peered up at the grey face of the dormitory building. It was blank. But when he produced his eye-lenses, and held them up to his face, he noticed a narrow slit directly above their heads. ‘What's that?’
Ralph looked up to where Falconer was pointing. ‘It lets air into the rere-dorter.’
‘Show me.’
They climbed the stairs to the long, open dormitory, and Ralph led Falconer into the dank chamber where the monks emptied their bowels. From below the circular holes cut in the stone bench that ran along one side of the room, Falconer could hear the splash of the water that carried the waste into the river. A thin chink of light shone down from the slit in the wall that was the rere-dorter's sole access to fresh air. Falconer was able to reach it only by standing on the stone seat, taking care not to put a foot down one of the holes. He could put his hand into the slit easily from that position.
‘Give me the book.’
Westerdale passed him the stolen book, and Falconer slid it into place.
‘Can you see it from down there?’
The precentor said that he couldn't, and Falconer grunted in satisfaction. He looked down at the astonished Westerdale.
‘I think this would make an excellent hiding-place, until you were in a position to retrieve whatever it was you had secreted here. I dare say your thief was used to using it, but in his haste to retrieve it today pushed the book out. And nearly hit you on the head with it.’
He stepped down from the toilet bench, and handed the book to Ralph. He leaned back on the well-worn stone and felt something rough under his palm. Curious, he looked more closely. There was a patch of yellowy grains of sand on the smooth, grey surface. His own boots were bereft of sand, so this was the end of the thief's trail from the book press. A thief who had been out on the bay prior to these activities, and who could have attacked him and Adam Lutt. He realized John Whitehed had been conspicuously absent from the priory at the time.
‘And Brother John appeared shortly after the psalter fell at your feet?’
Ralph nodded.
‘Now he has lost this book, I think you are due for another clandestine visit to your library tonight. But this time we will be ready.’
Chapter Thirteen
The owl hoot that echoed softly round the confines of the cloister reminded Falconer of Balthazar, and the comforts of his own solar back in Oxford. His envy of the barn owl's silent flight had spurred him to experiment with different means of replicating its aerial skill. He had rapidly come to the conclusion that he could not emulate the flapping motion that lifted a bird from the ground, but had tried to master the skill of gliding. He had spent much of the time that should have been devoted to his students studying the birds that populated the river and marshes around his home town. The soaring, still-winged gliding of the herons; the careering stoop of the kestrel; the effortless wheel of the buzzard. The closest replica he could make had been a crude affair of parchment, twig and cord. Launched from the battlements of Oxford's city walls, it had flown for a few glorious moments, then plummeted to the earth, shattering on a rock. Falconer was far from trusting his own frail flesh to a similar device. If only he could speak with Roger Bacon, he was sure he could resolve the problems. Dr Admirabilis, as his friend had been dubbed, had an infuriating way of seeing through the thicket that obscured most scientific problems. He wished the friar were here now.
‘He's here.’
For a moment, the daydreaming Falconer thought Ralph Westerdale was refer
ring to Bacon. Then he realized that he was pointing to a dark shape hovering at the door to the west press. The shape had its back to them, and was outlined by the light of the candle the man held in front of him. He was rubbing his fingers along the upper hinge of the massive door.
From inside the kitchen, Westerdale peered through the crack of the jamb. They had chosen this as their vantage point as they were unlikely to be disturbed, and it afforded a view of both the book press doors. However, the aroma of numerous meals had done nothing for the Oxford master's stomach, which rumbled in protest at the frugal fare it had endured recently. Falconer raised his eye-lenses, and looked over the monk's shoulder. He smiled.
‘He's carrying out a bit of work you've been waiting to have done for some while. You told me you were disturbed last time by the noise of the door hinge. Brother John is oiling it for you. He doesn't want to be disturbed as he was before.’
They watched as John Whitehed completed his task with the tallow from the lamp he held in his hand. He then took a key from his sleeve and inserted it in the lock.
‘I should like to know where he got that key from.’ Ralph was annoyed. ‘I am supposed to have the only one.’
‘Keys can be copied, and you have an ironworks up the valley. Can you honestly say that your key has never been out of your sight in ten years?’
Ralph made as if to speak, then flushed when he saw how easy it might have been to ‘borrow' his precious key for a day. He turned back to observing Whitehed's actions to cover his own embarrassment. The little sacrist had opened the press door and, with a quick glance around to confirm that he had disturbed no one, he slid through the opening.
‘I've seen enough.’ Ralph pulled on the door latch, but Falconer was too quick for him. His massive fist closed over the door frame and stopped it going any further. He pushed it closed, and flattened Westerdale against it.
