The Medieval Murderers - The Tainted Relic

When William Falconer and Peter Bullock met up at Northgate, the Regent Master looked pleased, but was no more forthcoming about his errand. Instead, the two men walked in companionable silence towards Oseney. A trickle of pilgrims preceded them through the entrance to the cloisters of Oseney Abbey. Normally, no-one but the canons and lay brothers would be allowed access to this part of the abbey. But today the church entrance was blocked by a mesh of scaffolding that hung on the western façade. Eudo La Souch’s work was progressing despite the financial straits of the abbey. And because of that, the cloister was open to give access to the church for pilgrims. Bullock looked up and marvelled at the size of the new church. Over their heads rose flying buttresses topped with pinnacles, and the two magnificent towers, the western one of which housed the Oseney Ring of bells. He tipped his head back, and admired the soaring bulk of the tower. It was impressive, even clad as it was in wooden scaffolding, and it stood square and solid against the scudding clouds and pale blue of the morning sky. He thought he saw a bird swooping round the topmost pinnacle, and screwed up his eyes to identify it. It was large, and on reflection appeared to be diving hawk-like towards the earth rather than spiralling round the tower. Its wings were thin and flailed at the air, though, unlike those of any hawk that might stoop for its prey in this fashion. In fact, it was far too large for any bird. Bullock cried out and clutched at Falconer’s sleeve. The Regent Master turned his gaze up to what Bullock saw just as the figure resolved itself into the shape of a man.

‘God in Heaven!’ cried Bullock, just before the flying man crashed through the thatch of the master mason’s lodge, and thumped into the earth below.

Falconer and the constable raced across the cloister, and through the scatter of pilgrims fleeing in the opposite direction. Inside the devastated lodge, lying flat out on the plaster pattern floor, lay the broken body of the master mason, Eudo La Souch. A thin trail of dark red blood leaked from the back of his head following the tracks of the templates scored in the floor. It slowly described the outline of a curved section of a clerestory window.

The cloister suddenly seemed to fill with people. Those pilgrims who had fled the plummeting body were now drawn back inexorably. The gruesome sight of the broken mason was a sharp reminder of the frailty of the human body. And would no doubt act as an additional spur for the pilgrims seeking remission of their sins before the master mason’s fate became their own. Bunched together in the crowd was the gang of workmen and apprentices who until that moment had been employed by Eudo La Souch. Their faces were strained and pale. Unless another master mason was found, and quick, they were out of work. One older man among them, dressed in an apron and blue shirt flecked with spatters of lime mortar, stepped forward from the crowd to get a closer look at his erstwhile employer. He pulled a tattered brown hat off his head, crushing it in his calloused hands. After convincing himself that the body was indeed that of La Souch, and that he was without doubt dead, he turned to the tall, black-clad figure of William Falconer. As far as he could tell, this was a man of authority, who needed putting straight.

‘Impossible,’ he grunted, in an accent as thick as that of his dead master.

‘What’s impossible?’ Peter Bullock cut in quickly, asserting his own control of the situation. The man merely looked up at the tower, and down at the body. Then snorted, shaking his head in disbelief. It was Falconer who answered Bullock’s question, however.

‘I think our friend here is suggesting that it is impossible that the master mason could have fallen accidentally. And I would tend to agree. I saw La Souch shinning up the scaffolding when the bells were being replaced, and he was as nimble and sure footed as a squirrel.’

Satisfied that his opinion had been heard, the builder nodded, stuffed his battered hat back on his head, and went back to his comrades to confer. Falconer saw Robert Anselm pushing through the crowd of pilgrims, some of whom were now on their knees praying. Whether for the soul of the dead man, or their own salvation, Falconer could not quite determine. For a brief moment he also thought he saw a familiar, sharp-featured dark face at the back of the crowd. Then Anselm stood in his way, and the face was gone. The monk gasped when he saw the state of the body, broken by the fall from one of the highest towers in the country. He crossed himself.

‘May God receive his soul. Poor man. There have been accidents before, of course. But nothing as…’ He waved his hand at the horrific sight, apparently unable to find words to describe it adequately. ‘…as this.’

Falconer took the shocked monk’s arm, leading him away from the unpleasant sight.

‘I’m afraid, Brother Robert, that this was probably no accident. La Souch was a master mason, as at home at height as on the ground.’

Anselm frowned, tapping at the earth nervously with his sandalled foot.

‘But wouldn’t that perhaps make him careless? If he truly regarded working at the top of the tower as safe as working below, could he not have tragically misjudged his footing?’

‘It’s possible, I suppose, Brother Robert.’

Falconer was reluctant to concede as much to the monk. But his mind was brooding on the thought that, just when he wanted to see the mason about a mysterious relic, Eudo La Souch had unfortunately plunged to his death.

‘And you think this relic is the key to what is happening here?’

Falconer nodded in response to Peter Bullock’s question. The two men were sitting in the scriptorium of Oseney Abbey, currently devoid of the monks who would normally be taking advantage of the morning light to copy texts for the abbey library. The two rows of high stools stood unoccupied, though the burnished wooden desks were still scattered with papers, and the horn boxes filled with quills. The distant sound of plainsong was all that betrayed where the scribes had gone. A song for the soul of Eudo La Souch. Light streamed in from the scriptorium’s high windows, and across the floor to the men’s feet.

‘It has to be. Firstly, Brother John Barley is murdered after offering what we think may have been a relic to the feretarius of St Frideswide’s Priory, then…’

Bullock interrupted.

‘Though that may have been a cruel jest on Barley’s part. We don’t know that for sure.’

‘If it was a prank, then it went horribly wrong. From Brother John’s point of view. No, I am inclined to think it was genuine. What else was the murderer doing, when John Hanny saw him, as he put it, “making passes” over the monk’s body? What else but searching for something.’

‘Then, do you think he found what he was looking for? If so, why did La Souch die? Unless…’ Bullock’s face suddenly lit up, as a thought struck him. ‘Unless La Souch killed Barley for the relic, took it, and was himself killed in his turn!’

Falconer pulled a face, dousing Bullock’s enthusiasm with cold scorn.

‘Hmmm. I don’t think so, unless we have a string of relic thieves, all queuing up, and prepared to murder in turn for its possession.’

Bullock was disgruntled by Falconer’s careless dismissal, and eager to defend his proposition.

‘Is that so far fetched? A holy relic is a worthy prize indeed, and many would give a fortune for possession of one.’

Falconer suddenly bent forward at this point, tapping Bullock on the knee with a bony finger.

‘And that is what is worrying me about this whole affair.’

Bullock reared back, brushing the offending digit away with the back of his hand.