Paul Doherty: Bloodstone

Athelstan and Cranston waited until the servants moved the door. They then told the household to wait outside and walked into the chamber. Athelstan stared round that comfortable, luxurious room. He crossed himself then knelt and removed the sheet over the corpse lying on its makeshift bed of turkey rugs. Kilverby, an old man with scrawny white hair, had certainly died in agony: eyes popping, throat constricted, his partly opened lips had turned faintly blueish. The skin of his face was slightly liverish, the flesh swiftly hardening.

‘Has he been shriven?’ Athelstan called.

‘No, Father,’ Alesia retorted falteringly.

‘Or a physician called?’ Cranston added.

‘Yes.’ Lady Helen came up into the doorway and stopped at Athelstan’s sign to remain outside.

‘Master Theobald the physician, but he has been detained.’

Athelstan fished inside his leather satchel, took out his stole, put it round his neck then brought out the small phial of holy oils. Lady Helen walked away whilst Athelstan swiftly murmured the ‘ Absolvo te ’ into the dead man’s ear. Afterwards he anointed the corpse on the brow, eyes, nose, mouth, hands and feet as he intoned the funeral prayer: ‘Go forth Christian soul. .’ Once completed Athelstan undid the man’s clothing. Pulling up the quilted jerkin, cambric chemise and linen undershirt, Athelstan felt the belly, hard like a ball of old string. He also noticed the blueish-red stains on the stomach and lower chest.

‘Poison?’ Cranston, who’d been wandering the chamber, came back to stand over him.

‘I think so, Sir John, of the garden variety.’ Athelstan took off his stole and put the items back in his satchel.

‘Hemlock, henbane, belladonna are the most powerful potions and, at the same time, the easiest to disguise.’

‘Well, it’s not in the wine.’ Cranston brought across both the half-filled flagon and the loving cup, still quite full.

Athelstan sniffed at these. ‘No trace, no odour,’ he murmured. He knelt back down and smelt the dead man’s mouth. He caught a highly bitter, rather sour tang.

‘Any food?’ He glanced up.

‘Only these.’ Cranston brought across the small silver dish of sweetmeats. He pulled back the linen covering. ‘One is half eaten.’

Athelstan picked this up and examined it. ‘Nothing but sweetness. I wonder?’ He stared down at the corpse. ‘Was it really poison or just a seizure?’ He crouched and swiftly went through Kilverby’s pockets and belt purse but found nothing untoward. He rose and went round that chamber, a jewel of a chancery with its broad oaken desk, side tables, high-backed quilted chair and stools. Shelves fastened against the walls alongside cunningly crafted pigeon-hole boxes were used to store manuscripts and rolls of vellum. Fossers, chests and coffers stood neatly stacked. Cranston seemed more concerned with these, trying lids and locks. Athelstan crouched before the hearth. The fire was nothing more than white ash but the chafing dishes and small heating pans, perforated to emit spiced smoke, were still warm. Wrinkling his nose, Athelstan uncovered the chamber pot kept in the corner; it contained nothing but urine, no trace that Sir Robert had vomited or been caught by some stomach seizure. Athelstan put this back, washed his hands at the small lavarium and sat down on the chancery chair. The desk in front of him was littered with blank scraps of vellum. The writing tray, a pallet of exquisitely carved silver, contained three luxuriously plumed quill pens, all used. Nearby ranged pots of red, green and black inks, pumice stones, a parchment knife, a sander and scraps of sealing wax.

‘Sir John?’ Lady Helen, eager to exert her authority, reappeared in the doorway.

‘Not yet, my Lady.’ Cranston pointed at the sheeted corpse. ‘Though your husband’s corpse can be taken away, perhaps to your own bed chamber?’

A short while later Crispin and a few servants entered. Cranston supervised the removal of the corpse whilst Athelstan studied the tapestry hanging above the wainscoting. A vision of hell rich with gory scenes of the avaricious swallowing fiery coins, vomiting them up, then being forced to re-devour them under the supervision of a wrathful goblin. A synod of demons watched this torture. They all sat in council around Hell’s dread Emperor enthroned under a purple-black awning. On either side of him clustered night-hags and hell-hounds.

‘Wait!’ the coroner ordered. ‘Don’t move the corpse yet.’

Athelstan broke from his reverie.

‘Lady Helen, Mistress Alesia?’ Cranston called.

Both women, Adam Lestral slipping in behind, entered the chamber.

‘My ladies,’ Cranston made a bow, ‘once again, my condolences. However, His Grace the Regent is not only concerned about the mysterious death of Sir Robert but the safety and security of the Passio Christi.’

‘He kept it here.’ Alesia declared. ‘Always in this chamber. The room is so secure. You’ve seen the door?’ She gestured at the small oriel windows filled with painted glass. ‘Those are too small for entry, and there are no secret entrances or closets.’

‘And which coffer or casket holds the bloodstone?’

‘This one.’ Crispin crossed and picked up a small iron-bound casket with a barrel-shaped lid, three stout locks ranged along its lip.

‘And the keys?’

‘Three separate locks each with its own unique key,’ Crispin muttered.

‘And?’ the coroner demanded.

‘Only Sir Robert kept them.’

‘I know where.’ Athelstan smiled, recalling the jingling as he examined the dead man’s belly. Athelstan crossed to the stretcher, each of its poles held by a servant. He ran a finger round the dead man’s neck and pulled free the chain, undid the clasp and gently drew it away.

‘That should be done. .’ Lady Helen gasped.

‘This shall be done by the King’s coroner,’ Cranston snapped, and took the keys. After a great deal of trial and error, he inserted each into its appropriate lock. Whilst the coroner was busy, Athelstan studied Kilverby’s household gathered in the doorway then gazed round that opulent chamber. He was certain of this: under the cope of night, murder had slipped like some silent fury into this locked chamber and snatched Kilverby’s soul. The Apostate Angel hovered in that wealthy house, brushing them all with his wings. Murder had certainly unfurled its dark banners but how had this bloody mayhem been so cunningly executed? He half expected Cranston’s cry of surprise, echoed by the others, as the coffer lid snapped back.

‘Empty!’ Cranston whirled round. ‘The Passio Christi has gone!’

‘Impossible!’ Crispin blurted out. ‘It was there yesterday, I and others were present when Sir Robert showed it to the two monks from St Fulcher’s. We were there later in the solar when he put it back. I. .’

Athelstan glanced at the others. Alesia stood, her mouth gaping. Helen, face in her hands, peered through her fingers. Kinsman Adam just stared at the open coffer and the empty dark blue samite which once held the bloodstone.

‘His Grace will not be pleased,’ Cranston muttered. ‘He’ll claim treason and vow that someone will hang for this.’

‘We have not taken it,’ Alesia cried.

‘Taken what?’ a voice shouted from the stairwell. Theobald de Troyes, the local physician, shoved his way in coughing and spluttering as he apologized for his tardiness. Unaware of the confusion in the chamber, Theobald pulled back the shroud and stared down at the cadaver.

‘He’s dead!’ he bellowed. ‘And that will cost you five shillings.’ He turned to go but Cranston caught at his costly, ermine-trimmed robe and dragged him back.

‘Master Theobald,’ he said mockingly, ‘good day!’