Paul Doherty - The Mysterium

‘ Pax et Bonum ,’ called a voice. The old war hound collapsed, relieved that he didn’t have to exert himself, as Brother Cuthbert crept out of the door. A tall, angular figure in his shabby Benedictine robe, a grey cord around his waist, stout sandals on his feet, his long neck and small, pert face gave him a bird-like look, heightened by the stiff movements of his arms, hands and legs. Corbett suspected the lay brother suffered severe inflammation of the joints. Cuthbert was old, his white hair shorn on three sides; the little on his pate displaying the tonsure. He was cheerful and welcoming enough, nodding quietly as Corbett introduced his companions, watery blue eyes crinkling in amusement when Corbett expressed regret at the death of Lord Evesham.

‘You’d best come down to the pit of hell,’ he said sardonically. ‘My humble abode below.’

Corbett pointed to the snoring Ogadon. ‘Brother, on the night Evesham was murdered?’

‘The same as every night,’ Cuthbert replied. ‘Compline is sung. My lord abbot has excused me from that, as there are usually corpses to be washed or a recluse to be cared for. Anyway, once it is over,’ he continued so breathlessly Corbett wondered if the man’s wits were sound, ‘a servant brings me a goblet of wine and a platter of food from the buttery. My other guests,’ he gestured over his shoulder, ‘are past all sustenance.’

‘And Walter Evesham?’

‘He had his own food brought, though much earlier than mine: a goblet of wine and a platter. The servant puts the tray on the ledge and. .’ Cuthbert pulled at the rope and glanced up as the bell clanged. ‘You see, not everyone likes to enter a death house,’ he whispered. ‘I go up, collect the tray, then bolt the door from inside.’

‘You secured the door?’ Corbett exclaimed.

‘Yes, yes, come in, come in.’

Corbett and Ranulf followed Cuthbert into the corpse chapel. The lay brother slammed the door shut and drew across the iron bolts at top and bottom. Corbett stared around. It was a truly chilling place now the light had faded. Shadows and shapes flittered around the macabre bundles on the mortuary tables. The only light came from the windows along one wall, nothing more than narrow apertures, their shutters flung back.

‘I close the shutters and bolt the door,’ Brother Cuthbert continued conversationally, ‘then I am fastened in for the night. You see, Domine,’ he drew back the bolts, led them out again and pointed, ‘beyond the chapel, bushes and trees fringe the high wall of the abbey, lofty as that of Troy. On the outside it stands on a ramp of earth; its top is covered with sharp shards of tile and pottery. The wall has to be a good defence against the river along which flow the barges of wickedness oared by pirates and other river monsters.’ Cuthbert’s light blue eyes crinkled, Corbett glimpsed the intelligence and humour there. Brother Cuthbert was not just an old lay brother, but a clever man pretending to be distracted.

‘And your mastiff?’

‘Old Ogadon is not as fierce as he looks. He can tell friend from foe; he growls but would only roar at some footpad slipping through the night.’

Corbett smiled as Cuthbert led them back into the chapel and down the steps into the cellar. The tunnel was narrow, the timbered ceiling just above their heads. The first cell on the right, Cuthbert’s own, was neat and clean. High in one corner of its whitewashed walls was a vent that allowed in a crack of light. The chamber was sparsely furnished: a cot bed draped with a black coverlet edged with silver, a stool, a table, shelves over the bed holding pots, platters and jugs. Crucifixes were nailed against the walls; robes hung on pegs, and from beneath the table peeped a small wineskin. The next cell was a storeroom. The far one, its door leaning against the wall, had been Evesham’s. It was similar to Cuthbert’s, but the table, pushed against the wall, was heavily stained with the justice’s blood.

‘Soaked it must have been,’ Ranulf observed. ‘His throat was cut like a pig’s.’

They looked around. The coverlet and sheets on the bed had been removed, as had the jugs and pots from the shelf above it.

‘Any manuscripts?’ Corbett asked.

‘My guest was reading Boethius’ De Consolatione Philosophiae . It was lying on the bed so it was not stained with blood. Father Abbot had it taken back to the library.’

‘Any other possessions?’

‘Yes.’ Cuthbert scratched his head. ‘A ring or two, a cross on a chain. Abbot Serlo had them washed and sent back to Evesham’s widow.’

Corbett moved to examine the door and lintel.

‘Boethius!’ Ranulf remarked.

‘A suitable choice. The reflections of a minister who fell from power, though Boethius was innocent.’ Corbett turned and smiled. ‘Evesham certainly wasn’t, was he, Parson Tunstall?’

Cuthbert coloured slightly and glanced beyond Corbett as if staring at something else.

‘That will wait, that will wait,’ Corbett remarked and pushed by him to stare down at the table.

Ranulf was right. Evesham’s blood must have splattered out like water, staining the surface; even the two candlesticks standing at each corner were clotted with dried blood. Corbett took a stool, sat down and stared up at Brother Cuthbert.

‘Walter Evesham?’

Cuthbert glanced at Ranulf standing close to him. Corbett gestured with his head. Ranulf patted the lay brother on the shoulder and went to stand in the doorway, whilst Corbett indicated that Cuthbert sit on the end of the bed. The lay brother did so. Beads of sweat wetted his forehead, and the constant licking of lips showed his dryness. A wine toper perhaps? A man who drank to forget?

‘Walter Evesham?’ Corbett repeated.

‘He came here weeks ago. First he sheltered in the guesthouse, then for the last month here.’

‘At his request?’

‘I think so. Abbot Serlo decided it was for the best. You see,’ Cuthbert continued, ‘this is where all who desire a recluse’s life within the abbey come. To be sure,’ he laughed sharply, ‘a rare event. Sometimes one of the brothers simply wishes to be alone for a while.’

‘Did you talk with Evesham?’

‘Sir Hugh, you know I did, at least at the beginning. You’ve heard the story, or at least some of it. Evesham begged for my forgiveness, but if the root be tainted, so is the branch. .’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Evesham was no sinner come to repentance. He was a malignant. He was born wicked, he died wicked!’

‘Do you really believe that?’

‘For the love of God, Sir Hugh, Evesham was caught in his own foul sin, so what does he do? Falls to his knees and assumes sackcloth, ashes, prayers, fasting, contrition and repentance.’ Cuthbert’s flushed face betrayed the hatred curdling within him. ‘He wasn’t worried about his soul or how he spent the last years of his life; he was more concerned about his neck.’ The lay brother paused, licking at the froth on his lips.

Ranulf took a step forward, hand nursing the hilt of his sword.

‘Keep your dagger man, your bully-boy, well away from me, Sir Hugh. I mean you no ill, I am sorry.’ Cuthbert wiped his mouth on the back of his wrist. ‘I am sorry I have tried so hard to hide my anger.’ He struck his chest. ‘My fault, my fault, I have sinned, I have sinned.’ He glanced up, eyes brimming with tears. ‘Sin never leaves you,’ he added hoarsely. ‘Like some loathsome bramble it trails the soil of your soul and its roots dig deep. Please don’t think my anger is guilt. I do not want to be hauled off to some bleak prison, nor to Father Abbot, who kindly gave me shelter when I was nothing but some poor soul drifting on the winds of life.’ He glared at Corbett. ‘I heard how the King’s hawk had arrived. They know about you, clerk, even here at Syon. Our prior says that you are ruthless in the pursuit of justice, that your soul cannot be bought and sold. Now isn’t that praiseworthy in a world where souls come cheaper than apples from an orchard?’