The Medieval Murderers - House of Shadows

‘But why should there be any suspicion?’ persisted de Wolfe.

Robert shook his head sadly. ‘There were several factors, Sir John. Firstly, she was an honoured guest, a lady of high rank, and was to be wedded the next day, so what on earth was she doing in the cellarer’s storeroom?’

He wiped a kerchief over his worried face, as if he was sweating.

‘Furthermore, none of us could understand why she was lying face down, with her head almost touching the bottom step. If she had fallen down the stairs, how could she have ended up in that posture?’

He stopped and looked at John almost appealingly.

‘And it has to be said, coroner, that there had been some discord among the party that accompanied Christina. That cannot be overlooked!’

De Wolfe sensed that the prior was in the grip of some strong emotion, and a sixth sense told him that it was time to create some diversion.

‘Perhaps it would be best if we were to view the scene of this unfortunate happening,’ he said gruffly. In addition to the prior’s acute discomfiture, John could hear Gwyn’s stomach rumbling and felt it would be a good time to break off for some sustenance. Robert Northam took the hint and sent them away with his chaplain to meet the monk who was in charge of the guest accommodation. He was waiting outside the prior’s parlour, a younger man with a smooth olive face and jet-black hair which suggested his origins in the south of France or even further afield.

‘I am Brother Ferdinand and I will attend to your wants while you are staying with us,’ he announced in a low sibilant voice. ‘No doubt you wish to eat without further delay.’

He glided off in front of them and they retraced their steps through the cloister walk to the cellarer’s building and the refectory where guests and visitors were fed. It was a large, square room with a long table flanked by benches, capable of seating at least a dozen people. It was empty, and to Gwyn’s relief the lectern from which the Gospels were read aloud during regular mealtimes was unoccupied. Ferdinand invited them to be seated and went off to the nearby kitchen to organize their victuals.

‘Odd sort of place, this priory!’ rumbled Gwyn. ‘What the devil do they do here all day? It must take a mint of money to keep going.’

Thomas glared at him. ‘What do they do? They praise God, what d’ you think they do? And between times they meditate on life and heaven and earth.’

‘Bloody waste of time, I reckon,’ growled Gwyn. ‘At least in places like Buckfast Abbey back home, they breed thousands of sheep and cattle and till the soil and keep bees for honey and mead.’

The perennial argument between them over religion was cut short by the arrival of two lay brothers with aprons over their habits, one of them bearing pitchers of ale and cider. The second servant, an arthritic skeleton, stumbled in with a large tray, which he set on the table. Thick trenchers of stale bread carried slabs of fatty bacon surrounded by fried onions. A wooden platter of roasted chicken legs was accompanied by a dish of boiled beans, dried from last autumn’s crop. Another bowl contained hot frumenty, wheat boiled in milk and flavoured with cinnamon and sugar. The potman came back with a large wheaten loaf, a pat of butter and a slab of hard cheese on a wooden board. Pottery mugs appeared for the drink, then the two minions vanished back into the kitchen.

Conscious of their surroundings, Thomas stood and chanted a short Latin grace before sitting down to eat for the first time since he set foot on the ship in Dawlish.

‘When you have eaten, Brother Ignatius will return for you, Sir John,’ hissed Ferdinand before leaving them in peace to eat their fill.

‘Maybe this is not such a bad place after all!’ conceded Gwyn, eyeing the pile of food with relish.

His friend the clerk was not so enthusiastic. ‘Much as I enjoy being in another of God’s houses, there is something about this place that troubles me,’ he said, his peaky face looking about him uneasily.

‘You mean this eating chamber?’ said Gwyn through a mouthful of bacon.

‘No, the whole establishment. There is a feeling of anguish about it, somehow, which I can’t explain. It is not a happy place.’

‘The prior looked more than a little drawn,’ agreed de Wolfe. ‘But I suppose it is wearying to have the Chief Justiciar breathing down your neck after some favourite of the king is found dead!’

He tucked into his food enthusiastically as, like Gwyn, he had the old soldiers’ philosophy of always eating, sleeping and making love whenever the opportunity presented, in case it might be their last chance. By the time they had finished, it was mid-afternoon, calculated by the paling of the light seen through the solitary window opening, with its half-open shutter. The patch of sky was grey, and a cold breeze came into the unheated chamber.

‘Must be freezing outside,’ observed the coroner’s officer, wiping the last of the ale from his moustaches. ‘I wonder where they’ve left this cadaver for the past week or so?’

He was soon to find out, as the prior’s secretary returned at that moment and ushered them out into the corridor of the cellarium.

‘I would like to see the place where this unfortunate lady was discovered,’ said John, deciding that it was time for him to show his authority a little more strongly.

‘Then you have not far to go, Crowner,’ replied Ignatius smoothly.

He led them outside into the inner court, which they had entered an hour or two earlier, and walked along the wall of the building for a few yards. As Gwyn had prophesied, it was bitterly cold now, with a north wind whipping down towards them, a few flakes of snow twisting in its grip. Shivering, Thomas limped along in the rear, wishing he had not left his cloak in the dormitory. However, they were soon inside again, as Brother Ignatius opened another door and led them into a dark alcove. A tallow dip burned on a ledge and, feeling alongside it, the monk produced two candles, which he lit from the weak flame of the floating wick. Handing one to the coroner, he kept the other at shoulder height and cautiously advanced into the dark to pull the bolt back on another heavy door.

‘Be careful here, Sir John, or you’ll suffer the same fate as that young girl.’

When his eyes had grown accustomed to the poor light, de Wolfe saw a flight of stone steps going down into the Stygian blackness below. The chaplain preceded them and cautiously they trooped down the precipitous stairway, the stone walls of which were barely wide enough for Gwyn’s massive shoulders. Thomas, as inquisitive as ever, counted twenty treads from top to bottom, each two hands’ length deep, the angle being very steep. On the packed earth floor below, Ignatius had stopped and turned to face the bottom of the stairway, his candle held high.

‘This is where she was found, Crowner. Spread-eagled on the floor, face down and arms outstretched. Her head was about there!’ He placed the toe of his sandalled foot a few inches from the bottom step.

‘You saw her yourself?’ asked John. When the monk agreed that he had been one of the first to respond to the lay brother’s agitated call for help, the coroner dropped to a crouch at the spot. At first, Thomas thought a sudden urge to pray for Christina’s soul had overcome his master, but then he saw that de Wolfe was holding his candle close to the ground and was searching the damp floor where the body had lain. After a few moments he clambered to his feet.

‘Nothing to be seen there. I gather you saw no blood at the time?’ Ignatius shook his tonsured head. ‘None at all, sir. She looked as if she were asleep, what could be seen of her face. Her clothing and nether garments were not disarranged.’