Paul Doherty - Bloodstone

‘That does not concern us, Sir John.’ Athelstan steadied himself as the barge rocked violently. ‘Not yet. Let us move to the arrow point, to the conclusion then argue backwards. According to the evidence, Sir Robert Kilverby, in good health, locked and bolted himself in that chancery chamber. He never left, no one entered. No trace, as yet, of any noxious substance has been found in that room, but Sir Robert was definitely poisoned.’

‘Could that have happened before he went in?’

‘No. I suspect the potion he took grew in its malignancy. We deduced from those who knocked on the door later that evening that Sir Robert remained hale and hearty. No, that rich man was poisoned by some malevolent potion growing within him. But how and why I do not know. Even more mysteriously, someone took those three keys from the chain around his neck, opened the casket, removed the Passio Christi and put the keys back.’

‘Kilverby could have admitted someone during the evening; such a person could have brought the poison.’

‘But how, Sir John? The wine, the sweetmeats — we have no proof that these were tainted?’

‘She or he could have offered a poisoned cup or a dish of savouries, then taken them away?’

Athelstan steadied himself again as the barge rose and fell on the swell. The four oarsmen, capuchined against the stinging wind, quietly cursed as the surge broke the even beat of their rowing. ‘We have no evidence for that, Sir John. Surely Sir Robert would be suspicious of anyone entering with wine and food? He’d already supped whilst he had his own flagon. He’d insisted on being left alone and, as we heard, he was not to be disobeyed. Moreover, how does that explain the disappearance of the Passio Christi? In addition, Kilverby’s chamber is on a gallery close to the solar; anyone approaching, entering or leaving that chamber would easily be seen. No, Sir Robert was not disturbed. Indeed, knowing the little I do about that family, they would scrupulously watch each other; they all confirm nobody entered or left that room.’ Athelstan sighed. ‘Kilverby was mysteriously poisoned. The Passio Christi was stolen, not violently but by using those three keys which Kilverby guarded so zealously.’

‘And why?’ Cranston murmured. ‘Why has he been murdered now?’

‘That,’ Athelstan retorted, ‘is another mystery. Nor can I detect a suspect. Alesia is wealthy; her father’s death would enrich her further but why hasten it? In truth, she seems a dutiful daughter whilst Lady Helen certainly did not benefit from her husband’s death, nor is Master Crispin scarcely helped by such a dramatic, murderous change in the family’s fortunes.’

‘Did the assassin use the chaos which ensued when the corpse was found to mask their bloody handiwork?’

‘I cannot see how,’ Athelstan shook his head, ‘as I said that family watch each other. Any untoward action, I am sure, would have been observed.’

Cranston took another swig from the miraculous wineskin and began to hum an old marching tune under his breath. Athelstan looked across the river, fascinated by how the curtain of mist would suddenly part to reveal a wherry crammed with goods making its way up to one of the city wharfs or a fishing smack lying low in the water. On one occasion a royal barge broke through, lanterns glowing on its carved prow, the royal pennant of blue, scarlet and gold flapping in the breeze, the oarsmen all liveried, six on either side, bending over their oars, archers clustered in the stern with arrows notched. The mist would then close again and the silence descend. Was that a pale reflection of the spiritual life? Athelstan wondered. Did the veil between the invisible and visible thin, even part? Athelstan closed his eyes and murmured a prayer. He relaxed as the rocking of the boat lulled him into a light sleep and fitful dreaming about what he’d seen and heard that morning.

As soon as they reached the watergate at St Fulcher’s, they recognized some dreadful act had recently taken place. Lay brothers clustered around the quayside or just within the watergate. Cranston leapt from the barge, helped Athelstan out and immediately tried to impose order on the brothers, who gathered around him like frightened chickens. Eventually a young man, face bronzed by the sun, his dark hair neatly cropped to show the tonsure, made his way through the throng. He pushed his hands up the voluminous sleeves of his black gown and bowed.

‘Sir John Cranston, Brother Athelstan, pax et bonum . I am Sub-Prior Richer, librarian and keeper of the scriptorium. Welcome indeed to St Fulcher’s. We have been expecting you but the murder of poor Hanep has been overtaken by another slaying, Ailward Hyde.’ He ushered them through the watergate and pointed to the great black stains on the frozen ground then the splashes of blood on the curtain wall. ‘Murdered most recently — we’ve just removed his corpse to our death house.’

‘How?’ Athelstan asked.

‘A fatal sword thrust to the belly.’ Richer swallowed hard. ‘A killing cut which sliced his vital organs. His screams were terrible. The good brothers working in the gardens have never heard the like before. Father Abbot, indeed our whole community, is most disturbed. Lord Walter and Prior Alexander are waiting for you.’ He led them across what he called Mortival meadow. Athelstan stared around with a pang of nostalgia. The great field with its rolling frozen grass and mist hung bushes and copses evoked memories of his parents’ farm at this time of year, of him running wild with his brother and sisters. How he used to stop to watch the peddler with his emaciated horse come along the trackway at the bottom, followed by the warrener with his sack of rabbits or foresters with a deer slung on their poles.

‘Enter by the narrow door!’

Athelstan broke from his reverie.

‘Sir John?’

‘I was quoting scripture,’ Cranston whispered, plodding behind the fast-paced Richer. ‘We are, my good friend, about to enter the halls of murder yet again. Pray God we enter the narrow door and leave just as safely.’

They continued on up into the abbey precincts. Athelstan caught his breath at the sheer magnificence of the buildings, dominated by the great church with its scores of windows, most of them filled with coloured glass. Soaring buttresses and elaborately carved cornices with balustrades and sills closed in around them. Saints, angels, demons, satyrs, babewyns and gargoyles stared down at them with a variety of expressions on their holy or demonic carved faces. They crossed the sand-packed bowling alley, through gardens of neatly laid out herb and shrub plots, all contained within small red-brick walls, the path winding around them covered in packed white pebbles. Richer pointed out the dormitories, chapter house, guest house, refectory, infirmary and the rest, a bewildering array of grey stone or pebble-dashed buildings. Bells chimed and the stony corridors echoed with the slap of sandals and the murmur of voices. Snatches of plain chant trailed. The air grew rich with a variety of smells, odours and fragrances: incense, sandalwood, burning meat, fresh bread, candle wax and tallow. The tang of soap and the powerful astringent the brothers used to scrub the paving stones permeated the great cloister. They crossed baileys and stable yards, went around duck and carp ponds, hen coops and dove cotes. Athelstan tried to recall what he knew about St Fulcher’s. All he could remember was that the Benedictine abbey, like many of the houses of the black monks, had waxed rich and strong over the centuries, generously endowed by kings, princes and all the great ones of the land. He tried to make sense of his surroundings but his heart sank. The abbey was as intricate and complex as any labyrinth of runnels and alleyways in Southwark. An assassin’s paradise, Athelstan mused, with stairs and steps leading here and there, alcoves for towel and linen cupboards, passageways and narrow galleries abruptly branching off in all directions. Dark recesses and tunnels yawned, ending in broad open spaces full of light. He was increasingly aware of hedges, walls, gates and postern doors as well as steps and stairs leading down into the cellars and crypts. Oh yes, Athelstan thought, a flitting place of many shadows where a killer could hunt and slay as stealthily as any assassin in the darkest forest.