Paul Doherty - Murder Wears a Cowl

‘Who is it?’ he asked; his voice testy at being disturbed from the root he was dissecting with a small, sharp knife.

‘We’ll go if you don’t want us, Father!’

The monk turned, a tall, ugly man yet his face was friendly.

‘Hugh! Ranulf!’ Father Thomas’s long horsey features broke into a smile. He rose and clasped the hand of the clerk he had known since their days at Oxford. Corbett gripped the monk’s hand tightly.

‘ Sir Hugh, now, priest.’

Father Thomas bowed mockingly, greeted Ranulf and asked after Maeve. He then turned back to taunt Ranulf, who smiled but did not indulge in the usual banter he so characteristically directed at close friends and acquaintances. Father Thomas pulled stools out.

‘Are you hungry?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ Corbett replied. He hadn’t eaten since the small bowl of meat earlier in the day and he had vomited most of that in the cemetery of St Lawrence Jewry. Father Thomas went to the door, opened it and shouted down the corridor. A few minutes later a lay brother entered with small freshly baked loaves wrapped in linen and two blackjacks of brimming frothy ale.

‘I brewed it myself,’ Father Thomas announced proudly.

Corbett tasted the cool, tangy ale and smiled appreciatively whilst Ranulf murmured his approval.

‘Well,’ Thomas sat opposite him. ‘How can I help, Hugh? More murder? Some rare poison?’

‘No, Thomas, I want you to let me look into the soul of a killer. You have heard of the prostitutes being killed and Lady Somerville’s murder?’

‘Yes, yes, I have.’

‘I understand Lady Somerville called here on the night she died?’

‘Yes, she did that.’

Corbett leaned forward. ‘So, Father, what kind of man haunts whores, slits their throats then mutilates their sexual parts?’

Father Thomas made a face. ‘Hugh, I know digitalis affects the heart, but how. .?’ He shook his head. ‘I know red arsenic in minor doses will ease stomach complaints but, if large doses are administered, it rips the stomach out. How and why, I cannot tell you. So, when it comes to the mind, the brain, the spirit, I am ignorant.’ He drew in his breath, turned and picked up a yellowing skull from his desk. He held it out in the palm of his hand. ‘Look, Hugh, this skull once housed a brain. In the palm of my hand I hold a receptacle which once had the power to laugh, cry, tell stories, sing, perhaps plumb divine mysteries or plan the building of a great cathedral.’ Father Thomas put the yellowing skull on the ground beside him. ‘When I studied at Salerno I met Arab physicians who claimed the human mind, the contents of the skull I have just shown you, the working of the brain, are as much a mystery as the nature of God.’

He rearranged his gown as he warmed to his theme. ‘To put it bluntly, Hugh, these physicians had a number of theories. First, all physical disease comes from the mind. They even argue that people who are cured by miracles actually heal themselves. They also point out that, as the body is affected by what it eats and drinks, the mind is influenced by what it experiences. Some men are born with cleft palates or malformed limbs. Perhaps some men are born with twisted minds with a desire to kill?’

‘Do you believe that, Father?’

‘No, not really!’

‘So, what explains our killer?’

Father Thomas stared at his hands. ‘Let us go back a step. These Arabs maintained the brain, the mind, is moulded by its own experiences. If a person as a child, for example, is brutalised, he will become a brutal man. Now some priests would reject that. They will claim that all evil is the work of Satan.’

‘And you, Father?’

‘I believe it is a combination of the two. If a man drinks wine inordinately,’ Father Thomas grinned at Ranulf, ‘his belly becomes bloated, his face red, his mind hazy. Now, to continue the analogy, if a mind is fed on hatred and resentment, what would happen then?’

‘I am sorry, Father, I don’t know!’

‘Well, the killer of these girls could be someone who has satiated every sexual desire and now wishes to expand his power. He acts as if he has the power of life and death.’

‘So the cutting of their throats is part of the sexual act?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘Then why the mutilation?’

‘Ah.’ Father Thomas raised his eyebrows. ‘That might contradict my theory. Perhaps the killer is someone who has lost his sexual potency or, indeed, can only achieve it by such a dreadful act.’ Father Thomas ran his fingers through his thinning hair. ‘I do not know all the details but I suspect the latter theory is the more correct. Your killer, Hugh, hates women, prostitutes in particular. He blames them for something, holds them responsible and feels empowered to carry out sentence against them.’

‘So the killer is mad?’

‘Yes, probably, driven insane by the canker of hate growing within him.’

‘Would such a person act insane all the time?’

‘Oh, no, quite the opposite. Indeed, such killers possess tremendous cunning and use every trick and foible to draw a curtain over their evil deeds.’

‘So, it could be anyone?’

Father Thomas leaned closer. ‘Hugh, it could be you, it could be me, Ranulf, the King, the Archbishop of Canterbury.’ Father Thomas saw the puzzlement in Corbett’s eyes. ‘Oh, yes, it could be a priest, even someone living an apparently saintly life. Have you ever heard of the Slayer of Montpellier?’

‘No, no, I haven’t.’

‘About ten years ago in France in the city of Montpellier, a similar killer was at large. He slew over thirty women before being captured and you know his identity? A cleric. A brilliant lecturer in law at the university. I do not wish to frighten you, Hugh, but the killer could be the last person you suspect.’

‘Father Thomas,’ Ranulf leaned forward, his inertia now forgotten as he listened to the chilling words of the priest. ‘Father Thomas,’ he repeated, ‘I can understand, perhaps, such a man killing whores; but why Lady Somerville?’

Father Thomas shook his head. ‘Ranulf, I cannot answer that. Perhaps she was the only woman available at the time.’

‘But she wasn’t mutilated?’

‘Perhaps the killer felt angry at the way she helped the victims of his malice or. .’

‘Or what, Father?’

‘Perhaps she knew the true identity of the killer and had to be silenced.’

Corbett put his tankard down. ‘It’s strange you say that, Father, because Lady Somerville kept repeating the phrase, “The cowl does not make the monk”.’

‘Ah, yes, quite a popular one now and rather fitting to your task, Hugh. No one is what he or she may appear.’ Father Thomas rose and tightened the cord round his middle. ‘I cannot help you with Lady Somerville’s death, but wait.’ He went to the door, summoned a lay brother and whispered instructions to him. ‘I have sent for somone who might be able to assist you. Now, come, Hugh, what do you think of the ale?’

They were halfway through a discussion on brewing when a knock on the door disturbed them and a young monk, sandy haired and fresh faced, entered the room.

‘Ah, Brother David.’ Father Thomas made the usual introductions.

The monk gave Corbett a gap-toothed smile which made his freckled face look even more boyish. ‘Sir Hugh, how can I help you?’

‘Brother, on Monday, May eleventh, two women came here, Sisters of the Order of St Martha. Lady Somerville and Lady Mary Neville.’

‘Oh, yes, they came to visit two sick patients, women we had taken in.’

‘And what happened?’

‘They stayed about an hour, chatting and talking, then Lady Somerville said she had to go. Lady Mary tried to stop her, offered to accompany her across Smithfield but the older one, Lady Somerville, said no, she would be safe. She left and that was it.’