Simon Beaufort - Murder in the Holy City

“I am not certain you understand,” he said, putting a beringed hand to his breast, “but I think he came here on occasion to walk. The Dome is very fine, and the courtyard and gardens here are most pleasant in which to stroll.”

“And how many times did he come?”

The Prior gave him an unpleasant look. “Recently, two or three times a week.”

“Did he meet anyone here. Did you ever see anyone with him?”

The Prior shook his head. “Never. He was always alone. He looked … bereaved.”

Guido had been bereaved. Geoffrey, being one of a mere handful of knights who were literate, had read a letter to Guido two months before telling him his wife had died after a long illness. So, if the Prior was telling the truth, which Geoffrey thought he probably was, Guido came to the peace of the Dome of the Rock to mourn, away from the raucous atmosphere of the citadel.

“Do many knights come here?”

The Prior shook his head. “Not really. Perhaps they feel it is still too mosquelike to be a church.”

In view of Roger’s words moments before, Geoffrey imagined that must be true, although attending any church-mosquelike or otherwise-was not a high priority on the entertainment lists of most knights.

“It is a pity it is underused,” he said, looking up at the delicate latticework around the gallery. “It is a very fine building. Peaceful, too.”

The Prior softened somewhat. “It is peaceful. Much more so than the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. That is said to be the holiest place in Christendom, but it has the atmosphere of a marketplace.”

Geoffrey had to agree. They spoke a while longer and took their leave, stepping out from the cool of marble into the blazing heat of midday that hit them like a hammer. The light reflected from the white paving stones around the Dome and almost blinded them. Eyes screwed up against the glare, they walked back the way they had come and headed for the market near St. Stephen’s Street, where Brother Pius had died in the house of a butcher.

“That first monk we spoke to was scared to death,” said Roger. “Still, at least you persuaded them both to tell the truth in the end.”

Geoffrey began to assess what the Prior had told them.

“So Brother Jocelyn went missing the night before he died-he did not sleep in his own bed. And he was nervous and irritable all that day. It sounds to me as if he knew he was in some danger. Which means he also knew why.” Deep in thought, Geoffrey drummed his fingers on the hilt of his sword as they walked. “So he was obviously involved in something sinister. Perhaps something he learned from his duties as scribe.”

“Perhaps he had planned to go whoring the night he died, and was nervous and irritable the day before because it was a risky thing for a monk to do,” suggested Roger practically.

It was possible, Geoffrey supposed. But it did not explain why Jocelyn had died. Unless his killer was a prostitute who went round murdering knights and monks using daggers with jewelled hilts. He sighed, and thought about their next visit-to the scene of Pius’s murder in the house of a butcher in the Greek Quarter.

“Brother Pius, the third to die, was a Cluniac from Spain. As far as is known, he had never been to France, had nothing to do with John or Guido, and did not work for Bohemond.”

“Here! Wait a minute,” said Roger aggressively, stopping in his tracks and spinning round to face Geoffrey. “What are you implying? Just because you are Tancred’s man, doesn’t mean to say …”

“Easy!” said Geoffrey, raising his hands against Roger’s tirade. “I am not saying Bohemond is responsible, only that it is possible that these deaths might be an attack against him-John and Guido were in his service, and now we know Jocelyn occasionally acted as scribe for him.” He took Roger’s arm and began walking again. “It is the only real clue we have so far. We must look into it.”

Roger conceded reluctantly, and they walked the short distance to the Greek market. Trading in the street dedicated to selling meat was beginning to slow down in readiness for the usual period of rest during the heat of the afternoon. The air was black with the buzz of flies, and the smell of congealing blood and sun-baked meat was so powerful that Geoffrey felt he dared not inhale. He tried to breathe through his mouth like Roger, but this meant he could taste the foulness in the air as well as smell it, which made it far worse. They located the stall of the goat butcher who had discovered the corpse of Brother Pius easily enough: Tancred’s scribes had written that Yusef Akira’s shop was the one with the oldest, blackest bloodstains in front of it, and possessed the filthiest canopy. It was not difficult to identify.

Resisting the urge to wrap a cloth around his mouth and nose, Geoffrey entered the shop. It was little more than a windowless cave, with several ominous hooks in the ceiling above a gently shelving floor with a hole in the middle. Geoffrey thought his eyes were playing tricks when the floor seemed to move, but a closer inspection indicated that it was crawling with flies and maggots feasting on the drying blood. Fletcher, who had followed him in, beat a hasty retreat, and even Roger stood only in the doorway and would not enter. Geoffrey shifted his feet uncomfortably and longed to leave. He saw his dog chewing on something enthusiastically, and hoped whatever it was would not make him ill. The dog was not pleasant when it was unwell.

In the midst of the filth, a man sat on a stool with his back against the wall to draw on its coolness. He snored softly with his mouth agape, oblivious to the flies that crawled across his face. Geoffrey kicked gently at the stool and watched Yusef Akira return slowly to the land of the living, accompanied by some of the most disgusting noises known to man. Akira drew a grubby hand across his jowls and eyed the knights blearily.

“What do you want?” he slurred in Greek. “Bit o’lean meat? I got some nice stuff round the back.”

“No,” said Geoffrey quickly, also in Greek, not wanting to venture farther into Akira’s domain. “We need information about the death of Brother Pius.”

“Oh, that,” said Akira, turning sullen. “It’ll cost you.”

“It will cost you if you do not answer our questions,” said Geoffrey, hooking one foot under the leg of Akira’s stool and tipping it over. Akira tumbled to the floor and then leapt to his feet with his hands balled into fists. He took one good look at Geoffrey’s chain mail and sword, made a quick and prudent decision, and became ingratiating.

“What do you want to know? I already spoke to the Patriarch’s men.”

“I am aware of that,” said Geoffrey mildly. “But now you will talk to me. Tell me what happened three weeks ago when you discovered the body.”

“Oh it was a revolting thing,” Akira began in a howl. Geoffrey braced himself, wondering what could revolt Akira more than the living hell of his business premises. “I comes from me bed chamber upstairs, and there he was, dead on me floor.” He gestured with his hand to indicate where the body had lain near the door.

“How did Pius come to be there?”

“He was dead!” wailed Akira. “With a great carved knife sticking out of his back.”

“But how did this happen?” pressed Geoffrey. “How did he come to be dead in your …” He gestured around him, wondering what word would best describe it.

“How do I know?” said Akira belligerently. “Old Akira was asleep all night. I comes downstairs at dawn to prepare me shop, and there he was.”

“Was the door open? Did you lock it before you went to bed?”

“’Course I locked it,” said Akira indignantly. “I got valuable stock here. The door was open-ajar-when I came downstairs that morning. And that monk was here, bleeding all over me floor.”