The Medieval Murderers - The Tainted Relic

‘That is impossible to prove…’ warned Michael, thinking the supposition unsound, to say the least.

‘It is very simple to prove,’ countered Seton. ‘No blood-soaked into the True Cross or anything else-came from the Holy Sepulchre. It is a lie, perpetrated by greedy and unprincipled men. Did you see the parchments they claim authenticate the thing?’

Michael nodded. ‘One was ancient, and bore the seal of a bishop.’

‘It probably is old,’ agreed Seton. ‘It was signed by a knight named Geoffrey Mappestone, who then affixed the seal of the Bishop of Durham.’

‘So?’ asked Michael, not understanding the man’s point.

Seton made a moue of impatience. ‘So the Bishop of Durham at that time was not Mappestone, but a man named Ranulf Flambard. Flambard never set foot in the Holy Land-we know about his life from ecclesiastical records-and so could never have set his seal on this document. And if the relic were real, do you not think it would have been venerated at Flambard’s own cathedral at Durham? But no! Andrew’s splinter has been hidden in an obscure priory in Exeter. If you view it with an unbiased, dispassionate mind, you will see the whole thing is ridiculous.’

Bartholomew thought he might well be right. There were enough ‘genuine’ pieces of the True Cross to crucify the King’s entire army, and fragments could be bought for pennies, although to claim this one was stained with Holy Blood made it a little unusual. If Witney was about to expose Andrew and his acolyte as charlatans, however,-and perhaps deprive them of a handsome gift from a grateful Norwich abbey-then it was certainly a good motive for murder.

‘That pair killed my colleague,’ reiterated Seton firmly. He wrinkled his nose suddenly, and looked around him with disapproval. ‘Ever since you arrived, I have been unable to get the stench of fish from my nose. Do you smell it, too?’

‘No,’ said Michael sharply, brushing his shoulder.

‘What do you think, Matt?’ asked Michael, as he and Bartholomew left St Bernard’s Hostel and started to walk to Michaelhouse together. It was almost dark, although the western sky was still tinged pink by the summer sun.

Because it was summer, many folk had been labouring in the fields outside the town, harvesting grain before the fine weather broke. Too much sun meant it had been a poor year for crops, however; granaries were half empty, and there would not be enough to see the poorer folk through the winter. The street along which they walked was baked as dry as fired clay, although the manure that carpeted it meant it was never really hard under foot. The river was unnaturally low, some brooks had run dry, and the entire town stank. Earlier that week, Bartholomew had gone to visit his sister in a nearby village, and when he had returned his eyes had stung and watered from the acrid stench of rotting sewage, festering entrails abandoned by the slaughterhouses, and the rank aroma of unsold fish on the quays. Living in the town, he had not realized how bad the reek had become.

‘What do I think about the cursed-and potentially fraudulent-relic? Or what do I think about Seton’s claim that Witney was murdered?’ asked Bartholomew, glancing up to see the first of the stars begin to twinkle. A soft breeze blew from the south, although it was hot and arid, and did little to reduce the heat.

‘Both. But take the relic first. Do you think it is real?’

‘I have no idea, but I have been offered two fragments of the True Cross this week alone, and there is always someone trying to sell some sacred body part or item once owned by Christ and His saints. Why should Andrew’s be different?’

‘Because of Andrew himself,’ replied Michael. ‘I have been Senior Proctor long enough to gauge a man’s character with reasonable accuracy, and I sense he is telling the truth.’

‘Perhaps he is, but that is not what you asked-Andrew believing in the sanctity of his relic does not prove its case. But Seton was right about the Bishop of Durham: the one who lived during the first of the crusades was called Ranulf Flambard and not Geoffrey Mappestone. I have been to Durham, and I was told about Flambard when I visited the cathedral. That is two suspicious things: the seal does not match the name on the document, and Flambard never went to Jerusalem. He was far too busy doing unpleasant things here and in Normandy.’

‘Then we must agree to differ. I think you are wrong, and Andrew does hold something powerful and holy.’ Michael hesitated, and his next words were blurted. ‘I sensed it when I reached out to take it from him.’

Bartholomew was startled. ‘I had not expected a pragmatic man like you to be convinced by something as ephemeral as a feeling.’

‘Do not scoff at me,’ snapped Michael. ‘It is not easy admitting that I was assailed by a wave of reverence when I saw Andrew’s blood relic, so do not make my discomfort worse. All I know is that I sensed something decent about Andrew, and something strong in his pouch.’

‘That was because he did not let you touch it,’ replied Bartholomew practically, supposing he had better nip Michael’s uncertainties in the bud before they interfered with his investigation. ‘Such tactics work on the feeble minded, but I am surprised you succumbed.’

‘Seton was right,’ retorted Michael irritably. ‘You are a physician and know nothing of theology. But we should not argue when we are unlikely to agree. What do you think about Seton’s claim that the Carmelites murdered Witney?’

Bartholomew considered the question for some time. ‘Urban seems a hot-headed lad, but I do not see him climbing on to a roof to dispatch his victim in so bizarre a manner-nor would Andrew condone it. As far as I am concerned, the evidence suggests that Witney was unlucky enough to be peering up a chimney when a piece of it fell. He was stunned and died inhaling soot. But…’ He rubbed a hand through his hair and sighed deeply.

‘But what?’

‘It is too convenient. A Franciscan argues with two Carmelites and threatens to expose them as charlatans and, shortly afterwards, he is found dead in an accident that is unusual, to say the least. Urban and Andrew just happened to be in the house at the time, while Seton just happened to be out.’

‘So Seton says. Andrew and Urban claim he was with the body when they arrived to investigate the strange sound. Someone is lying.’

‘I am inclined to think it is Andrew.’

‘I think it is Seton,’ countered Michael. ‘Urban is not clever enough to deceive someone of my intelligence-I would have caught him out in any inconsistency.’

‘Not with his master ready to step in and help him,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘You prefer Andrew because he is reasonable, whereas Seton is aggressive, rude and arrogant. But character does not make a murderer or an innocent.’

‘So,’ concluded Michael as they reached Michaelhouse and hammered on the gate to be allowed in, ‘you believe Witney threatened to expose the Carmelites’ relic as a forgery, and they killed him before he could do so. Meanwhile, I think Witney and Seton had some sort of argument that left one of them dead. You say yourself that he squabbled with Big Thomas the other day, so he was clearly a quarrelsome sort of fellow-and he died as a result of it.’

‘How? Did he wait obligingly with his head inside the hearth while Seton dropped a stone down the chimney?’

‘Why not? It is what you envisage Urban doing.’

Bartholomew rubbed his chin, and nodded an absent greeting to the night porter who had opened the gate. ‘It does not make sense, does it? You and I have our suspects, but the reality is that we cannot prove there was a murder. It is more likely-far more likely-that Witney died in an odd, freakish accident.’