The Medieval Murderers - The First Murder

Cuddy and John, in turn, insisted that the culprit was Henry for, unlike him, they had been in the company of the other players drowning their sorrows half the night and had then walked home in each other’s company to their families, never leaving their hearths again until it was time to perform the play. Besides, they were God-fearing, honest Ely men, which all the neighbours would swear to, while for all anyone knew, Henry might have murdered a dozen men before he arrived in Ely.

Prior Alan had long held the belief that any man in Ely would murder his own grandmother and sell her hide for leather if he thought he could get away with it. And the more he listened to the tale of the stolen money, the more certain he became that since all of the actors had been cheated of their money they had all colluded in the murder, for had they not already admitted they had spent the night drinking together?

But when the prior sent men to the houses of the other players, they discovered the rest of the actors had taken full advantage of the delay and had already slipped out of Ely, assisted no doubt by the local boatmen, who were firmly convinced, as were all the locals, that Henry was the killer, and certainly not one of their own.

On hearing the news Prior Alan uttered an oath that would have made a whore blush, for if the fugitives were hiding out in the marshes or were in a boat halfway down the river concealed under empty sacks, it would take weeks to round them all up and a good number of men too, men he could ill afford to spare with the crowds of pilgrims pouring daily into Ely. But at least he’d had three of the murdering wretches safely under lock and key, and if the crowd no longer had The Play of Adam to divert them, they would soon have a hanging to entertain them instead.

‘Father Prior, the stench is definitely getting stronger,’ Will de Copham said anxiously. ‘We can’t continue to ignore it. Even old Brother Godwin remarked on it and you know he sat on some dog dung the other week and didn’t even notice the stink of that.’

Strictly speaking, of course, it was the sacrist’s job to maintain the fabric of the cathedral, but as custodian of the cathedral, Will was not only responsible for security but also for maintaining good order. He already had enough problems on that score without the lay brothers refusing to keep watch near the shrine because the stench was making them sick.

‘But the smell cannot be emanating from the tomb of St Withburga,’ Prior Alan protested. ‘She’s a holy saint and saints’ bodies emit the sweet perfume of the rose of heaven, not the stench of corruption. Are you sure it’s not simply the odour of the pilgrims themselves? I saw one with such a stinking sore on his leg even his fellow pilgrims were gagging. Perhaps the smell lingered.’

Will shook his head. ‘Most pilgrims stay longest at St Etheldreda’s shrine, for she’s the one they most favour. If it was the pilgrims themselves, the smell should be worse there. Even the perfume of incense is no longer masking the stench. If we don’t do something soon, rumours may begin to spread that St Withburga is no longer at ease in her tomb and wishes to return to Dereham.’

The prior winced. St Withburga’s body had been taken from her grave in Dereham almost four centuries ago and brought to join her sisters in their tombs at Ely, but even after all these years the Dereham folk still regarded this act of piety as theft and regularly sent demands for her return, not least because of the valuable income this would bring from the pilgrims.

Having been sacrist himself for many years, Prior Alan was nothing if not a pragmatic man, and distasteful though it might be to disturb the resting place of a saint, he knew the pilgrims would soon cease to come if the shrine to which they came for cures made them want to vomit.

He sighed, pressing the tips of his fingers together, then finally nodded. ‘I dare say it’s nothing more than a family of mice that have crawled inside and died, or even a rotting eel that some wicked little brat has managed to push through a hole just to annoy his elders. But you and I will investigate tonight after the cathedral is closed. None of the monks or lay brothers must be present. The slightest hint of anything amiss and gossip will be all round the town before dawn, most of it wilder than a rabid wolf. The townspeople are already so anxious about the pestilence they will take anything as a sign of ill omen. There’s been quite enough upset with the murder of that player Martin; I want nothing more to agitate the people or the priory.’

The cathedral was in darkness save for the candles on the altars and those flickering around the tombs of the saints. Will had placed a few lanterns on the floor to illuminate the shrine, but in a position where they would not shine out through the windows. It was vital that the townspeople did not notice any unusual activity in the building. The gold, silver and jewelled offerings that normally adorned the tomb had been carefully collected and now lay in a heap on a piece of cloth, glittering in the flickering candlelight like a pirates’ hoard.

Working in silence, the prior and custodian together pulled away the back panel of the shrine, which allowed access to the inside, so that coins pushed through the holes could be removed. Prior Alan pressed a cloth to his nose. There was no mistaking it now that they were so close, the stench was coming from somewhere inside. He kneeled down, moving the lantern so that the light fell in turn into each corner of the tomb as he searched for rodent corpses or anything else that might account for the smell, but he saw only candle wax, the glint of a few coins and eons of dust scuffed by the sandal prints of the monks who had over the years squeezed in to retrieve the offerings.

He was just struggling to his feet again when Will tugged on his sleeve. ‘Look, Father Prior,’ he breathed, ‘the coffin’s been disturbed.’

Alan raised his lantern so that the light fell on the top of the stone coffin. The lid was still in place, but it had been twisted slightly at an angle so that the top corner lay open just a couple of inches. As soon as he bent over the gap Prior Alan was left in little doubt that the stench was coming from inside.

He crossed himself, and muttered a prayer for forgiveness to St Withburga for the offence he was about to offer. Then placing both hands against the stone lid, he pushed it. The rasp of stone on stone seemed to echo off the dark walls and for a moment he hesitated, unnerved by the ominous sound.

Then he gestured impatiently to Will, who had taken a few paces back.

‘Bring your candle, I need more light. Stop looking so fearful. It’s a saint not a revenant buried in this coffin.’

Reluctantly Will stood behind him and raised his lantern so that the light from the candle glowed yellow inside the hollow stone. The saint’s bones were wrapped in a cloth that had turned brown with age. Carefully, Prior Alan eased the rotting fabric aside. The bones and skull were still covered in strips of parchment-like skin and strands of grey hair. But there was something else in the coffin, something lying where St Withburga’s desiccated hand should have been. It was a human hand, a right hand, but it was not the hand of a saint. This hand had been severed at the wrist, and the rotting flesh was covered in a stinking mass of writhing maggots.

Prior Alan sat in the great carved chair in his solar, and pressed his fingers to his throbbing temples. Subprior Stephen and Custodian Will de Copham slumped opposite him, gazing equally morosely into mid-space. The bells for prime and for the early Mass for the servants had long since rung, but none of the three of them had moved.

‘You’re sure that is the hand of the dead actor, Father Prior?’ Will asked.