The Medieval Murderers - The First Murder

Without apparently any understanding of the word stealth , the two sheriff ’s men thundered up the rickety staircase to a room tucked under the eaves of a house. Not even a deaf man could have failed to hear their coming and when they burst in, the alchemist was frantically trying to squeeze himself out through the impossibly small window. Where he imagined he could go next was anyone’s guess, since only a bird could have escaped that way, but the soldiers didn’t waste time asking questions. Their instructions were to take the prisoner back to the sheriff at the castle, what happened to him after was not their concern.

‘Go with them,’ Will whispered to Stephen. ‘Find out what he says to the sheriff. It’ll give me time to search this room.’

He glanced round at the vast array of boxes, jars, charts and scrolls that were crammed onto every shelf, and the many more lurking between the curiously shaped flasks that steamed and bubbled over candle flames and small braziers.

‘The hand must be in here somewhere,’ Will said. ‘He’s evidently a man who likes to keep his possessions close, but it could take me a month to search through this lot.’

‘I should douse those flames first,’ Stephen warned. ‘That pot looks near to bursting open.’ He hastily backed away from a vessel that was wobbling alarmingly as clouds of greenish steam belched out of it.

But after several hours of methodical searching, even examining the walls for any concealed hiding place as well as the mysterious contents of the flasks, Will was reluctantly compelled to admit the bones of St Withburga were not in the room. He had discovered the silver sword concealed in a roll of bedding, and a desiccated mouse squashed behind a chest, but otherwise nothing. He was forced to conclude that if the alchemist had indeed stolen the hand, it was no longer in his possession.

Subprior Stephen confirmed this as soon as they met up again. ‘Nicholas confessed to the murder, in fact he seemed quite proud of it. Even the news that he killed the wrong man didn’t disturb him. He showed no remorse at all. It was as if the killing of Luke meant no more to him than the squashing of a beetle compared to the importance of his work. I’m certain he believes that no one would dare to execute a great alchemist like him over something so insignificant.’

‘But did our alchemist mention the hand?’ Will asked.

Stephen grimaced. ‘I managed to persuade the sheriff to leave us alone for a few minutes and questioned him, but he was adamant he didn’t steal St Withburga’s hand. In fact he was scornful of the very idea he should need it. He also claimed that Luke’s corpse still had both hands when he left. I’m inclined to believe him. He’s so arrogant; he would certainly have boasted about the cleverness of the theft if he had committed it.’

‘Then that brings us back to Martin again,’ Will said grimly. ‘Though I still can’t see how he could have done it. I’m beginning to think the townspeople might be right and thanks to that wretched play there is a demon at work.’

The two monks left Cambridge without the alchemist. Having decided that Nicholas was a dangerous lunatic, the sheriff was not going to risk having him escape from the two monks, or being rescued by his friends, if indeed a man like that had any. But the sheriff refused to spare men to accompany them to guard the prisoner, saying that if the prior wanted the alchemist returned to Ely he should send an adequate number of men to fetch him, otherwise he would remain safely locked up in the castle to await the next assizes.

Stephen and Will broke their journey at Denny Abbey, knowing they would not reach Ely by dark. The ancient causeway track across the waterways and sucking mires was dangerous enough by day, but only a man who longed for death would venture upon it at night. When they set off shortly after dawn the following morning, to their great relief a brisk wind was whipping across the bleak wetlands. It cut through their robes, but at least it blew away the thick mists that so often curled over the marshes.

The track was an ancient way constructed to take man and beast dry-shod across the sucking marshes and black expanses of water. But over the centuries the causeway had sunk in places, so that mud and water oozed back over it, and the last hot dry summer had cracked the bridges, making some of them so perilous that Stephen and Will were forced to dismount and gingerly lead their horses across on a long rein, as the wood creaked ominously beneath them. But the state of the track wasn’t the only thing that made them nervous. The tall reed beds, and the patches of willow and birch scrub, made the perfect cover for cutpurses and robbers. The monks’ cowls and tonsures would not protect them. Everyone knew that Ely Priory was wealthy, and monks travelling that road might well be carrying heavy purses or other treasures.

Stephen kept looking ahead of him to catch his first glimpse of the cathedral rising above the fenland. At any other time he would have been eager to see it, knowing he was in sight of a good meal and bed to rest his aching backside. But on this occasion, he found himself dreading his return and the inevitable interview with his superior. As Prior Alan had reminded him before they left, this whole sorry business had been his fault and he did not look forward to having to report yet another failure. But at least they had recovered the sword. Prior Alan must surely be a little cheered that such a sacred object was once more back in the hands of the Church.

It had begun to rain, and the wind was lashing it so hard against them that even their oily woollen cloaks were becoming sodden. However low a man’s spirits are, being cold and wet are certain to drive them still lower. Ahead of him Stephen saw Will dismount and start to lead his horse over another of the rickety bridges. With a sigh, he prepared to do likewise.

Will was halfway across the bridge when both monks heard the cry. The words were so faint that neither of them could make them out, but the voice was unquestionably human.

They stared around, but saw nothing except the reeds, which towered high above them and the sluggish black water in the ditch. This was just the kind of place an ambush might be set.

Will hesitated, uncertain whether to cross or go back. But it was plain he’d have to continue, for if he tried to turn his horse on the creaking bridge they would probably both end up in the water. As quickly as he dared he pulled the horse forward and Stephen prepared to follow him the moment Will’s horse was on solid ground, for it was well known that outlaws would try to separate travellers, making attack easier.

Just as Will’s horse cleared the bridge they heard the cry again.

‘Help me! Of your mercy, help me.’

‘I think it’s coming from under the bridge,’ Will called.

He hastily tethered his mount to a birch tree before stepping back onto the bridge. He peered down through the gaps in the warped planks.

‘There’s someone under there. I’m sure I can see something moving. Who’s there? Are you hurt?’

‘Mud, can’t pull my leg out… so cold.’

‘It might be a trap,’ Stephen warned. He stared round wildly, trying to peer into the reeds to see if anyone was lurking, waiting to rush out at them. His heart almost stopped as he heard something rustling, but it was only a moorhen.

Will leaned as far over the side of the bridge as he dared. ‘I see him! He’s just under this side… God’s blood, I think it’s one of our own brothers.’ He straightened up. ‘He’s up to the armpits in water. God knows how long the poor fellow has been struggling in there, but he must be numb with cold. If we knot the cords from our habits together, I can try to loop them around him and get one of the horses to pull him out.’