Simon Beaufort - Murder in the Holy City

Geoffrey glanced down at the floor involuntarily, and forced his eyes away before his mind could register its horrors. “Had you met Brother Pius before?”

Akira’s eyes became sly. “Maybe, and maybe not.”

“And maybe I will ram your head down that hole in the floor if you do not answer,” said Geoffrey sweetly.

Akira considered. Geoffrey was a tall man and looked strong and fit. Akira decided he could probably do what he threatened. “Yes,” he said reluctantly. “Brother Pius came to buy meat every Monday. He lived with four other monks next to the Church of St. Mary. I didn’t know him well, you understand, but I recognised him.”

“And what of this dagger in his back?”

“Now there was a curious thing,” said Akira. “It was a lovely item indeed. I sees it before I recognises Pius. I was quite shook by finding a corpse on my floor, so I runs out into the street to raise the alarm, thinking to retrieve the dagger later. It would help me greatly in me business, to have a good cutting implement like that. But while I was out raising the alarm, someone comes in and steals it.”

“Did you see who it might have been?”

“I did not,” said Akira vehemently. “Or old Akira would have paid him a visit and got the dagger back. The monk would have wanted me to have it, don’t you think?”

Geoffrey was sure such a consideration would not have crossed Pius’ mind, and if it had, the monk would doubtless not have felt comfortable that the weapon used to murder him should be applied with equal vigour to herds of goats.

Gratefully, Geoffrey escaped from the stench of the meat market to the peaceful street in which the Church of St. Mary, Pius’s home, stood. Fletcher ran a hand across his brow.

“That place is enough to turn a man to eating grass,” he said. “I am going to question the citadel cooks, and if any meat comes from that man, I shall refuse to eat it.”

Geoffrey laughed, and pushed open the great door of the church. He could still smell the meat market in the air around him, and wondered if that was why his dog was winding so enthusiastically around his legs. Inside, the church was silent, and he saw a line of monks standing in front of the altar. One of them turned at the sound of someone entering, and came to greet them. Geoffrey, steeling himself for more unpleasant interviewing, was taken aback when the monk smiled in a friendly way and offered them some wine.

“We have come to ask about Brother Pius,” he said, wondering if the offer would be revoked when the nature of their visit became clear.

“Poor Pius,” said the Cluniac monk, speaking Norman French and shaking his head sadly. “His death was a great loss to us. There are so very few Cluniacs in Jerusalem, you see, and he was invaluable to us in many ways.”

“I am sorry for your loss,” said Geoffrey gently. “But you understand it is important we discover who killed Pius, and why, and I must ask you some questions.”

The elderly monk’s eyes glittered with tears, but he nodded acquiescence.

Geoffrey smiled encouragingly at him. “What can you tell me about Brother Pius’s death?”

“Only that he was found dead in the house of a local butcher,” said the monk. “I do not know how he came to be there in the middle of the night. When we saw he was missing from the dormitory, we assumed he was praying in the church until a messenger came to tell us he was dead. Pius often had difficulty in sleeping, and he frequently came to the church in the night when he was restless.”

“What of Pius himself? What was he like? Did he have many acquaintances outside your community here?”

“Not that I know of,” replied the monk, reaching out to refill Roger’s goblet. “We tend to keep to ourselves, as far away from the disputes and quarrels of the Church as possible. We are just grateful to be here in this Holy City, and we do not wish to spend our time in useless rivalries and arguments.”

“Could he write?” asked Geoffrey, wondering if Pius, like Jocelyn, might have acted as an occasional scribe.

The monk smiled and shook his head. “Not at all. Not even his name. He preferred the more physical labours to the intellectual ones. He usually worked in the kitchens and did all the cleaning and cooking. We have not had a clean house or a decent meal since he died.” The tears sparkled again, and he looked away.

“He came from Ripoll,” said Geoffrey. “Are any other of your brethren from Spain?”

The Cluniac shook his head. “We are all from France. Pius was the only Spaniard. We met with him on the journey here from Constantinople in 1098.”

The monk could tell them nothing more, and reluctantly Geoffrey led the way out of the cool shade of the church and into the sun. The day was at its hottest, and the streets were deserted except for the occasional animal and, of course, the flies. The dog whined piteously, and Helbye and Fletcher began to walk more and more slowly. Geoffrey’s shirt under his chain mail was soaking, and it began to rub. He considered stopping at one of the refreshment houses until the heat began to fade, but despite its considerable size, Jerusalem was in many ways a small community, and word that the Advocate was now investigating the curious murders of two knights and three monks would soon be all over the city. Geoffrey had a strong feeling that he should question the witnesses to the two remaining deaths as quickly as possible. If Hugh was correct and there was some kind of conspiracy, Geoffrey might never unravel the mystery if he allowed the culprits time to consolidate their stories.

Ignoring the sighs and exaggerated panting of Helbye, Fletcher, and the dog, he walked briskly along the empty streets toward the house where he had seen the body of John the previous day. Their footsteps echoed in the eerily silent roads, and Geoffrey was aware that their progress was being watched surreptitiously from the windows of the houses they passed. Since so few people were out, four armed men on foot in the heart of the city was an unusual sight.

The sun blazed down with such ferocity that the ground felt uncomfortably hot even through thick-soled boots, and the dust, which had been a minor irritation before, now filled their mouths and noses and gritted unpleasantly between their teeth. Geoffrey’s throat became sore and dry, and he thought about goblets of cool, clear water. He saw Roger’s face streaked with dust and sweat, and suspected he was imagining the same.

Eventually, they came to the street where they had encountered the commotion the day before. It was deserted, although Geoffrey sensed that they were being observed with interest from several houses. He led the way to the home of the woman he had arrested, and knocked at the door. Helbye was uneasy and stood with his back to the wall and his hand on the hilt of his sword. His anxiety was transmitting itself to Fletcher, who fingered the dagger in his belt with unsteady hands.

No such fears assailed Roger, who pushed past Geoffrey to hammer on the door with the pommel of his dagger. Geoffrey cringed, only too aware that they were on dangerous ground, given the events of the day before. Just as he was considering cutting their losses and visiting the scene where the last of the victims was killed, the door opened and Melisende Mikelos stood in front of them. She was attired in the same widow’s dress that she had worn the previous day, but this time her hair was covered by a neat black veil, giving her the appearance of a nun. Geoffrey, recalling how roughly he had handled her, hoped she was not.

“What do you want?” she asked in Greek, eyeing Geoffrey with dislike. “I have no wish to speak with you.”

“I would like to ask you some questions about the knight who died here,” said Geoffrey, as politely as he could. He guessed instinctively that she was not a person who could be browbeaten into telling him what he wanted to know, especially given the spectacular proof of her innocence the day before.