Michael Jecks - The Chapel of Bones

‘Why not William too?’ Simon asked.

‘Because, he was the man who paid me. If he betrayed me, he’d betray himself. As he did today,’ Matthew said bitterly.

‘So you let the stone fall?’ Thomas said.

‘You had a rope about your wrist. I thought that were I to release the stone, it must drag you down and kill you. I was panicked. I didn’t know what else to do!’

‘And Saul?’ Simon said.

‘He shouldn’t have been there,’ Matthew said resentfully. ‘He ought to have been in the works, not hiding under the walls. I didn’t know he was there, not until I saw the legs sticking out from under the rock and realised it had crushed someone.’

‘So Thomas had no part in Saul’s death?’ the Coroner said.

‘He was only the intended victim,’ Simon agreed.

‘Which hardly makes him culpable,’ Sir Peregrine nodded. ‘Very well.’

‘Except we still do not know who was the murderer of Henry and the Friar, and the would-be assassin of Sir Baldwin,’ Simon pointed out.

‘Wasn’t that him too?’

‘No, I had nothing to do with their deaths. Saul’s death was an accident, and you can’t make me confess to the others. They were nothing to do with me!’

‘And the sun doesn’t rise in the east,’ Sir Peregrine said, smiling.

Jeanne had called for some wine to help Sara’s recovery, and she was glad to hear the steps at the door. It opened cautiously, and she saw Stephen standing there, holding a jug and some cups on a tray. He proffered the tray to Edgar, who glanced at Jeanne, busy with the sick woman, then set his sword at Baldwin’s feet and took the tray. Even as he turned to take it to Jeanne, she saw the pale face of Stephen looking at Baldwin, not even shooting a glance at Sara, and she wondered why. It wasn’t important, she told herself, taking a moment to reflect on the importance of Edgar in her life. Without him, her husband would certainly be dead already, because his trusted servant had been at his side in almost all the dangerous situations he had experienced during his life. Edgar was the most devoted, loyal and obedient servant she had ever known.

Which was why, as she saw the cudgel and guessed the truth, there was only time to gasp before the blow fell and Edgar dropped like a stunned ox. He collapsed on the shards of the cups, and when she saw the red liquid seeping over the floor by his head, Jeanne couldn’t help but open her mouth and scream and scream …

John Coppe was still outside, thinking of little but where the next coin might come from, but when he heard that cry, he hoisted himself to his feet. Jan was nowhere to be seen, and there were few people walking about in the Close at this time of day, so John was unsure at first what to do, but he could identify the cry of a woman who needed help. He hobbled with his crutch over to the door, but when he pushed at it, it seemed jammed. Unbeknownst to him, Edgar’s body lay against it and John couldn’t gain enough leverage to open it.

Instead, he opened his mouth. John Coppe had been a sailor, and a man who has had to bellow over roaring wind and thrashing seas learns to make himself heard. He bawled the ancient call for the Hue and Cry at the top of his voice:

‘Out! Out! Out! Help! Murder! Out! Out! Out!’

In the Dean’s hall, Coppe’s cries were just loud enough to penetrate the thick hangings and solid walls, and Simon set his head to one side as he listened a moment. His mind was still on the man in front of him, however, as he asked sarcastically, ‘If not you, who else could have wanted to silence Henry and Nicholas and Baldwin?’

‘How should I know? All I know is, it wasn’t me!’ Matthew wept.

Simon looked over at the Coroner; Sir Peregrine grinned at Simon. ‘I’ve often seen this sort of thing before. A man realises he can’t get away with his crimes and decides to surrender himself for a lesser crime. It won’t work here, though.’

‘It is a shame,’ the Dean sighed. ‘Matthew has been a good servant of the Cathedral. After all, that is what we do here. We are all servants of the Cathedral itself.’

Simon gaped at him in horror. Now he realised who was responsible for the murders! Even as his mind made the leap, he recognised John’s hoarse bawling, and with a muttered oath he span on his heel and bolted from the room.

‘What on …’ Sir Peregrine murmured, and then grabbed Matthew’s arm. ‘Not you. You’re going nowhere.’

Wymond was already hurrying after Simon, wondering what the screams might signify. He hurtled through the front door and gazed about him wildly until he caught sight of the Bailiff’s sturdy body running off towards the Fissand Gate. He immediately set off in pursuit, wondering whether he should have strung his bow.

Jeanne threw herself over Baldwin’s body with a fresh scream even as Stephen reached for the sword. As his hand touched the hilt, she grabbed at it and managed to catch the blade, pulling it from him. The brightly burnished steel cut into her palm, but she refused to acknowledge the pain, shrieking as loudly as she might to gather help. Somehow she must keep this fiend from her husband.

The sword clattered on the floor, and now Sara was screaming as loudly as Jeanne. Jeanne lunged for the hilt, but as she did so, Stephen swung a fist at her. His face was set in a white, determined mask. He looked petrified, but resolute. Jeanne felt the same, but seeing his own terror helped her to conquer hers. She ducked and his blow missed, but she also released the sword. It span away, out of reach beneath the table. They both went for it, Stephen on all fours, clambering over Edgar in his haste, while she scrambled across the floor, shards of broken pots and cups slicing her knees. A great splinter lanced up into the ball of her thumb, but she paid it no attention, her hand reaching out to take up the sword again.

This time his fist found its mark. While she stretched, oblivious, a blow thundered into the side of her head. It was like the first time she had been drunk: the very room appeared to whirl about her, and nausea bubbled in her breast, ready to spew forth. She tried to clear her head, but her arms and legs were formed of lead. There was a mistiness in the room, and a strange silence which made little sense. That was when his fist hit her in the eye.

Through the fog she could see Stephen. He stood near Baldwin, the sword held aloft in both arms, ready to strike, but his eyes were on Jeanne. Later, she thought he might have been pleading for forgiveness, or begging her to try to understand … but she could never be truly sure. He turned away from her, and prepared to deliver the coup de grâce.

But then she saw her husband’s good arm rise up, and with the little strength remaining in him, Baldwin stopped the blow from falling. And as Jeanne saw that, she was aware of the door opening, juddering against Edgar’s body, and Simon pelted in. He stopped and gaped for an instant as he took in the scene.

Behind him, Wymond, the experienced brawler of a hundred tavern scuffles, didn’t hesitate. He shoved Simon from his path, then poked his unstrung bow like a pike into Stephen’s face. The Treasurer gave a shriek of agony and dropped the sword. Wymond stepped to the side, and as Stephen’s hands went to his ruined eye, he swung his heavy bow. It cracked across both Stephen’s forearms, and he howled as an arm broke; then it swept back one last time, and smashed into his throat. Stephen fell to the floor, gurgling and thrashing as he desperately tried to take in air, but as he lay there, Edgar crawled to him, placed a hand on his brow, and ran a dagger over his throat. In the spurt of blood, Stephen’s movements became more panicked for a while, but then gradually ceased.

At last he lay still, just as Thomas shoved his way in through the door and saw Sara, her face and torso smothered in blood. He gave a great roar of pain and grief, and ran to her, putting his face in the corner of her neck as he wept.