Michael Jecks - The Chapel of Bones

Clearly he’d been stabbed in the back; there was no doubt of that. There was a neat tear in the material of his cloak and cote-hardie, and when Baldwin lifted the material and peered underneath, he could see the blood. Whoever had stabbed this man had managed to hit the right mark with the first blow: the blade had entered below the shoulderblade and must have punctured the heart at the first attempt. There was blood, but not much, and Baldwin was reminded of bodies he had seen before; when the heart was stabbed, often it would stop profuse bleeding, as though without the heart the body ceased to function.

Without moving the body, Baldwin studied the ground all about. There was dirt on the floor — hardly surprising given the amount of mud outside. No man could entirely clean his shoes before entering. Some of this now had formed dust, and Baldwin could see that there were the marks of many others. It would be impossible to tell which belonged to the killer or killers, and which had already lain there before this fellow had died. Then again, probably many Cathedral men had come in here to view the body. They too would be responsible for making their own prints. The dust couldn’t help him.

He crouched and studied the dirt nearer the body, wondering whether the man could have been killed elsewhere and brought here — an unlikely possibility, but Baldwin preferred to reject no idea until he had evidence to justify its dismissal. Studying the ground nearer the body, there was nothing other than the mess of footprints and scuffmarks.

Rising from all fours to squat, Baldwin sighed. There was no possibility of learning anything from this corpse. Too many men had been here over the last couple of days, probably first of all making sure that he was truly dead, more entering to gawp and speculate. He’d seen it all too often before at murder scenes; people couldn’t resist coming to see what had happened. All he could hope was that the man who found the body would be a more or less reliable witness. The body had been moved several times, probably, and Baldwin would like to know how the corpse had lain when it was first found. Looking at the way the man was lying now, he wondered if he had been like this, face down, feet pointing back to the door, head in the chapel itself.

Time, he thought, to study the dead man, and he rolled the body over.

He was perhaps six or seven years older than Baldwin himself, about sixty. His belly was proud proof of his wealth if nothing else. His stomach was well-rounded, and his jowls would have made a bloodhound jealous. For all his girth, he was not an unattractive fellow, from what Baldwin could see. Although his eyes had closed as though he was sleeping, Baldwin could see that his features were pleasingly regular and there were laughter lines at either eye, making him a cheerful companion. And yet there was also a set of wrinkles at the side of his mouth and at his forehead which spoke of recent worries. It was possible that Baldwin wouldn’t have seen these if he had studied the face in daylight, but here with the flickering yellow torch flame, the man’s face was thrown into stark relief. Clearly he had been worried about something before he died. Concern was etched onto his face like a pattern carved into leather.

Baldwin stood, staring down at the dead man. He glanced at the novice with the torch, a slightly green-faced youth who appeared to be gazing with fascination at a point on the wall some feet above Baldwin’s head.

‘Sir Baldwin?’ the Dean called. ‘Have you — er — discovered anything?’

Baldwin decided not to offer his observation that the man was certainly dead, and instead walked out to join the Dean.

‘He was definitely murdered. He could not have inflicted such a wound on himself with any ease.’

‘Of course he was murdered!’ snapped a voice.

The Dean gave the speaker a rather irritated look. ‘You — um — remember our Treasurer, Sir Baldwin? This is Stephen.’

‘I recall you well, Master Treasurer,’ Baldwin said smoothly. He hadn’t liked the Treasurer on the previous occasions they had met, and saw no reason to alter his opinion now.

‘Did you learn anything useful in there?’ Stephen demanded.

‘I should like to talk to the First Finder,’ Baldwin said after a moment. ‘What sort of a man is he? A stable sort? Intelligent, or prey to fancy?’

‘It was a fellow called Paul. I do not think that he is — um — prone to fancy, no, although I have to admit that he is new to his role as annuellar. Perhaps he could be a little … ah … unreliable? We are fortunate, however, because he called for help as soon as he found the body, and the man who — um — went to him was Janekyn Beyvyn, our porter from the Fissand Gate. He is not prey to dark imaginings. A more sensible fellow you could not — ah — hope to meet.’

‘I am glad.’

‘Do you think you can learn who actually committed this terrible crime, though?’ Stephen blurted out. ‘It’s revolting to think of that poor soul’s corpse in there waiting until the blasted Coroner can be bothered to make his way here. The man responsible should be made to pay for this dreadful abomination. To slaughter a man in a holy chapel! It beggars belief!’

‘I agree,’ Baldwin said, but he felt, as he looked at the men before him, that he could not and should not deceive them. He sighed. ‘Yet I fear that even were Simon Puttock with me, this matter could prove to be beyond our powers of investigation. There is nothing in there to show who might have killed him. Perhaps I can learn more from the man’s family. Was he married?’

‘Yes, with a daughter, I fear,’ Dean Alfred said.

Baldwin shook his head slowly. It was one of his constant fears that he would die too soon and not see his child Richalda grow to graceful maturity. All he hoped was that, should he die, she would at least hold fond memories of him. As would his widow. That thought suddenly sprang upon him, and he had a sense of complete loss, perhaps a recognition that he had already lost Jeanne’s love. The idea was appalling. ‘I …’

‘You are well, sir?’ the Dean asked solicitously. ‘You have blenched.’

‘I am fine,’ Baldwin stated firmly. ‘Very well, then I must speak to this novice and the porter you mentioned, and then, perhaps, you could have a man guide me to the widow?’

‘Of course.’

‘I sent a messenger to Tavistock to ask the good Abbot whether he could release Simon for a few days to help me here,’ Baldwin started tentatively. ‘I do not suppose you have heard anything from Abbot Champeaux about that? A messenger could have arrived here by now, I should have thought.’

‘No, I have heard nothing. Ahm — perhaps someone will come here later today?’ the Dean said hopefully.

‘Perhaps,’ Baldwin said. He glanced at the chapel a last time and unaccountably felt a shiver pass down his spine.

A Charnel Chapel could hardly be thought of as a friendly, welcoming place: it was a storage area for those remains which would not naturally dissolve. The bones of many men and women lay inside there, under the ground, all higgledy-piggledy. It wasn’t surprising that the place should acquire a strange atmosphere all of its own. Of course Baldwin knew full well that he was not in the slightest fanciful, not like Simon; Baldwin was no romantic fool who heard ghosts and witches at every turn.

Yet he was aware of a curious shrinking sensation as he looked at the chapel, as though it was truly built upon death, and death would come here once more.

The German should be with them some time soon. Mabilla took a deep breath and rubbed her temples.

‘Mother, this is the right thing to do,’ Julia said once more.