Simon Beaufort - Murder in the Holy City

“You mean that big, gaudy church you dragged us round in Constantinople?” asked Roger, remembering the excursion with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. “Aye, lad, but think how ridiculous a contraption like that dome would look on Durham Cathedral.”

Helbye and Fletcher nodded wisely, and Geoffrey could think of no appropriate response. He followed them through the entrance porch, and into the inner part of the building, where a bare patch of rock was said by the Jews to be the place where Abraham had almost sacrificed Isaac, and from where Moslems believed Mohammed had risen to Heaven. Geoffrey stared down at it-an ordinary lump of rough rock similar to that in other parts of the city-and wondered if the stories were true. Lost in his flight of imagination, it took a hefty push from Roger to bring him back to the present.

“This here is the man who found that monk-Brother Jocelyn,” said Roger, obviously for the second time. “Three weeks ago.”

Geoffrey saw a small man wearing the habit of a Benedictine. He had the whitest skin Geoffrey had ever seen, and he wondered if the monk ever went outside.

“Tell me what happened.”

The man glanced around nervously, and then looked back at Geoffrey with an ingratiating smile that did not reach his eyes. “There is really nothing to tell. It was nearing dawn, and I was lighting the candles for Prime. I saw a man sitting at the base of a pillar, leaning up against it, with his legs out in front of him. It looked dissolute, to be frank, so I went to tell him to go away. When I drew nearer, I saw it was Brother Jocelyn, and I saw a knife protruding from his back. I pulled the knife out to see if I could restore some spark of life to the man, but he was dead. I ran then to fetch the Prior, but by the time I returned, someone had stolen the knife.”

“What was this knife like?” asked Geoffrey.

“Oh, a lovely thing,” said the monk with a wistful sigh. “All silver and adorned with jewels. I should have kept it when I went for the Prior. To hand to the Patriarch’s men, of course,” he added quickly, but unconvincingly.

“How well did you know Brother Jocelyn?”

“Not well, really. He was a secretive man, who seldom spoke. He had occasional duties as scribe for Lord Bohemond on account of his writing being so fine, but most of the time he spent here.”

That was interesting, thought Geoffrey. Perhaps being in Bohemond’s service was the link between the monks and the knights: Guido and John had been Bohemond’s men.

“How long had Jocelyn been a monk here?”

The monk shrugged. “The same length of time as the rest of us,” he said. “None of us were here before Jerusalem fell to God’s soldiers.”

“Did you notice anything unusual about Jocelyn’s behavior before he died? Did he meet anyone or disappear without explaining where he had been?”

The monk shrugged carelessly. “No, I do not think so.”

“Are you certain? The Advocate will not be pleased to hear his investigations have been hampered by lying monks,” snapped Geoffrey, growing impatient with the man’s complacency.

The monk glanced at Geoffrey’s sudden change of tone. “I did not see him meet with anyone …” he stammered.

“But you noticed absences?” pressed Geoffrey.

“Yes, well … perhaps he was called away by Bohemond to do some scribing. I do not know. He did not sleep in his bed the night he died. He … he was nervous and irritable the day before. He shouted at me for letting the inkwells dry out. It is not my fault. Ink dries like water on hot steel in this country …”

“What is going on here?” came a sibilant voice from behind them. Geoffrey spun round, disconcerted that he had not heard the man’s approach. Roger’s dagger slipped silently back into its scabbard as he recognized the Benedictine Prior in charge of the Dome of the Rock.

“We are making enquiries into the murder of the monk, Jocelyn,” said Geoffrey. “The brother here was helping.”

“It sounded more like an interrogation to me,” said the Prior, looking down his long, thin nose at Geoffrey and his men. He nodded at the monk, who scurried away gratefully. “Perhaps I can help you. On whose order do you enquire?”

“On the Advocate’s,” replied Geoffrey, thinking that it was not such a bad thing to be able to cite such an authority after all. He wondered whether Tancred’s name would evoke as much help.

“Our Patriarch has also been investigating,” said the Prior, “and I have already spoken to his men. But I will tell you what I told them. You see how empty the church is now?” He gestured round at the great vacant expanse. “It is always like this, except when our community come here to pray, and even then, we are only ten men. It would be easy for anyone with evil intentions to enter unobserved, and hide among the pillars. When I was called, I found Jocelyn dead, and no sign of a weapon. We made an immediate search, but there was no one here.”

“What can you tell me of Jocelyn?”

“Nothing much. He performed certain clerkly duties for Bohemond, because his writing was so fine. He was a librarian before he came on Crusade.”

“Where?”

“He was an oblate at Conques in France, but he learned his script at Rome when he worked in the library of our Holy Father.”

“Jocelyn worked for the Pope?” queried Roger.

“Our Holy Father means the Pope, yes,” said the Prior with sickly condescension. “And Jocelyn learned his fine hand from the best copyists in the world.”

Geoffrey was beginning to dislike the arrogant Prior. Jocelyn was one of the man’s brethren, yet the Prior seemed remarkably casual about his murder. How was Geoffrey to solve the mystery of poor John’s untimely death if the witnesses were as complacent as was the Prior?

“And what of Sir Guido, who was also found foully murdered within the lands under your jurisdiction. How do you explain that away? Be careful how you answer: the Advocate does not like liars.”

The Prior looked sharply at Geoffrey, and some of the haughtiness went out of his manner. Although the Prior came under the protection of the Patriarch, there was no point in making an enemy of the Advocate. And, the Prior decided, there was something more to Sir Geoffrey Mappestone than to most of the unruly, illiterate bullies at the citadel.

“I found the dead knight three days before Jocelyn died,” he replied. “I often walk the grounds here early in the morning-they are cool and silent, and I like to reflect on the pleasures of God’s paradise in Heaven.”

More like the pleasures of God’s paradise on Earth, thought Geoffrey, noting the Prior’s handsome collection of rings and his fine robe of thin silk.

“And what did you find, as you so reflected?”

“I saw a man lying under one of the trees behind the Dome. I thought he was yet another of your number sleeping off a night of debauchery, but then I saw there was a knife in his back. I called for help, but there was nothing we could do. The man was quite dead. The Advocate’s soldiers came with a cart and took him away.”

“And the knife?”

“They took that too. It was a great ugly thing with a wicked curved blade and ostentatious jewels in the handle. I asked my monks if they had heard or seen anything during the night, but none of them had. I have no idea how the knight-Sir Guido-came to be killed here or why.”

“Had you seen him before?”

The Prior hesitated. “No.”

“If you do not want to tell me the truth here, we can always discuss it at the citadel,” said Geoffrey, keeping his face devoid of expression. He had no authority to threaten one of the Patriarch’s priests with arrest, but it seemed the Prior did not know that. The man paled, glanced at Roger, and flicked his tongue nervously over dry lips.