Paul Doherty - Corpse Candle

‘So, Abbot Stephen knew?’

‘Yes, yes he did. He warned me that I would have to make reparation. Replace the money I had taken and end my relationship.’

‘That was compassionate,’ Ranulf interrupted. ‘Many a Father Abbot would have shown you the gate.’

‘Abbot Stephen said that if I truly repented, I would have to do so properly. He did not wish to disgrace me.’ Brother Dunstan held Corbett’s gaze. ‘I was surprised by Abbot Stephen’s compassion. He just stared at me, tears in his eyes.’

‘Did he give a reason for his compassion?’ Corbett asked.

‘He just said we were all sinners and, if there was a God, Compassion was His name.’

‘If there was a God?’ Corbett queried.

‘That’s what he said. I don’t think he was denying the existence of God, just stating that God’s compassion was most important.’ The treasurer took a deep breath. ‘And you, Sir Hugh, will you tell Prior Cuthbert?’

‘I’ll do nothing of the sort.’ Corbett clapped him on the shoulder and got to his feet. ‘I am not your father confessor, nor am I here to judge the morals of the monks. I want to catch a murderer. Brother Dunstan, I want to ask you one question, broken into different parts. On your oath now: the Concilium, it wanted that guesthouse built?’

‘Very much so.’

‘Why?’

‘To attract pilgrims, to increase the revenue.’

‘And what other reason?’ Corbett demanded.

‘To secure a relic so as to increase our fame.’

‘And would they have murdered for that?’

Brother Dunstan did not deny it but gazed bleakly back.

Brother Francis, the archivist, was pleased to have the library to himself. The small scriptorium at the far end was also empty. The rest of the brothers had gone to celebrate divine office before the evening meal. Brother Francis was so excited, and his stomach so agitated, that he had no time for food or drink. He hadn’t told anybody the reason but had sought permission from Prior Cuthbert to absent himself. The librarian now sat at a table and stared round his domain. This was his kingdom with its specially hooded candles and lanterns to diminish the risk of fire. He gazed lovingly at the stacked rows of shelves containing the abbey archives, as well as the manuscripts collected over the years: Augustine’s Confessions and City of God : Beothius’s On Consolation , the sermons of Ambrose, the writings of Jerome and other fathers: the theological treatises of Bernard, Aquinas and Anselm. Brother Francis got up and walked along the shelves. Here were the jewels of the collection: the works of Aristotle and Plato, the speeches of Cicero, the histories of Tacitus and the thoughts of the philosopher Seneca. These had been Abbot Stephen’s favourites, with his love of Roman culture. Brother Francis stopped, closed his eyes and sniffed. He relished the smell of the library, as a gardener did the fragrance of flowers: the perfume of vellum, of leather, ink, beeswax and the sweet-smelling polish which his assistants used on the shelves, tables and floor. Brother Francis liked nothing better than to check everything was in its appointed place. Some of the books were so rare and precious that they were locked away in heavy coffers. He touched the ring of keys on his belt and recalled why he was here. His face flushed. Brother Francis had thought long and hard about these deaths, these heinous murders, which hadn’t just started because of a guesthouse or Prior Cuthbert’s desire to acquire a precious relic.

Of all the members of the Concilium, Brother Francis had served the longest at St Martin’s. He had entered the abbey as a mere stripling. The old abbot had been so impressed by his desire to learn he had sent him to the cathedral schools of Ely and Norwich, as well as the Benedictine house in Oxford. Francis stopped and gnawed at his lip. He must marshal his thoughts carefully, as a true scholar would. Above all, he had to be sure he was alone. Brother Francis went to one of the latticed windows and peered through. The fire arrows had been alarming but surely they had merely been some cruel jape? Brother Francis moved back to the lectern. Didn’t one of those chronicles which described the evil depredations of Geoffrey Mandeville mention how the wicked earl always signalled his coming by fire arrows? So, if it wasn’t his ghost or demon, who was loosing such fiery shafts on St Martin’s-in-the-Marsh?

‘I mustn’t be distracted! I mustn’t be distracted!’ Brother Francis murmured.

He also had to be prudent. Both doors to the library were locked and bolted, the latticed windows were also secure, their handles pulled down. Brother Francis checked the arrow slit apertures. In summer the shutters on the outside of these would be removed to allow in the light. Now, of course, they were clasped firmly shut. Brother Francis picked up his ash walking-cane and tapped at each to ensure this was the case. He returned to the piece of vellum laid out on his writing desk, excited by its blank, creamy smoothness. He sat down, picked up a quill and wrote down Abbot Stephen’s name and three words: ‘the Roman way?’ Brother Francis stared down at what he had written. The murders, he reflected, had begun with Abbot Stephen’s death. What was the tinder spark which had started this conflagration? What did he know about Abbot Stephen? A former knight, the boon companion of Sir Reginald Harcourt? The man who had assisted Lady Margaret to search for her husband only to return and spend the rest of his life as a member of St Martin’s community.

‘I know I have seen it,’ Brother Francis whispered.

He rose to his feet and went to a shelf. Somewhere here, many years ago, he’d found a Book of Hours — or maybe a psalter — which had contained a carefully written poem. Brother Francis had suddenly remembered this earlier in the day and begun his searches whilst the library was still busy. He had used the index but had been unable to trace the exact volume. The brothers had become curious as their librarian took one book down after another. Brother Francis glimpsed one slender volume, pulled it out and caressed the calf-skin cover with its decorative glass studs. He opened the crackling yellow pages only to grimace with disappointment. This was not the one! He found two more and carried them to his desk. He was about to continue his searches when one of the shutters rattled. The librarian absentmindedly cursed the wind and continued with his studies, as the rattling increased. Brother Francis got to his feet and hastened along the gallery to the arrow slit which stood between two latticed windows. Bang! bang! The clatter unnerved him. He grasped his stick, took up a lantern and peered closer. A cold draught of air hit him. Brother Francis put the lantern down on a table and peered through the arrow slit. The shutter had fallen loose. He was about to turn away in annoyance when the arrow, loosed by the bowman outside, sped through the slit and struck deep in his chest. Brother Francis staggered back, clasping the shaft, coughing blood. He slumped to his knees and collapsed onto the hard, wooden floor.

‘So, it wasn’t just a guesthouse Prior Cuthbert wanted?’

Ranulf stared across at Corbett sitting on the bed, his back against the bolsters.

‘Oh, no.’ Corbett shook his head.

Brother Dunstan had left Corbett and Ranulf to summarise what they had learnt.

‘I walked round the church,’ Corbett explained. ‘Every great religious house, be it Canterbury, Walsingham, Glastonbury or even the abbey of St Paul’s, has its relics. St Martin’s has none. People travel across Europe to pay respects to the lance which pierced the side of Christ, a phial of his precious blood or the cloth which wiped his face. Now, Ranulf, you know and I know that most of these relics are spurious, and many others are also growing more discerning.’ He smiled. ‘The best relic is a corpse. Look at the revenues Canterbury receives because they hold the remains of Thomas a Becket. Prior Cuthbert certainly wants to build his guesthouse but, more importantly, he wanted that tumulus opened and the corpse removed to the abbey church. With a bit of luck, and God’s own help, a few miracles would take place. The news would spread through the great trading centres of Lincolnshire, Norfolk, and Ely. Remember our journey to Suffolk?’