Simon Beaufort - Murder in the Holy City

“Did he have any particular acquaintances?”

Almaric shook his head. “Not that I am aware. He could not speak, and he could not hear. The brothers here treated him kindly, but he had no particular friends, or even family.”

Geoffrey turned to Celeste. “Please tell me what happened when you found Loukas dead.”

Celeste looked annoyed. “I have already told the Patriarch’s men all I know. Ask them.”

“I am asking you,” said Geoffrey with deceptive mildness, wondering why so many people were proving to be unhelpful, and beginning to find it aggravating.

Celeste glanced at the benign features of Father Almaric and relented. “It was dark. I was walking around the Church as I always do to make certain all is secure, when I saw someone lying on the floor. It was Loukas, and he had been stabbed in the back.”

“Stabbed with what?”

“With a knife,” said Celeste heavily. “Like the one you see fit to bring within these holy walls.”

“Like this one?” asked Geoffrey in surprise, drawing his dagger and holding it out to Celeste. Celeste gave a sharp, indignant intake of breath, and Almaric intervened.

“Put your weapon away, Sir Geoffrey,” he said gently. “Celeste is correct in his disapproval. We do not like weapons in this house of God.”

“But was the knife that killed Loukas like this one?” insisted Geoffrey, holding it so that Celeste could see the plain hilt and straight blade.

Celeste glanced at it in exaggerated distaste. “No, I suppose not. It as different somehow. The handle was coloured, and it was bigger.”

“What of the blade?” aked Geoffrey. “Was it like this, or different?”

“I could not see much of the blade,” said Celeste heavily, “when it was embedded in poor Loukas. But it seemed to be bent, rather than straight like yours. I covered the poor man with one of the blankets we keep ready lest the pilgrims are taken ill-which they often are on entering this holy place after such long journeys-and I called for help. Other monks came, and I went personally to fetch Father Almaric.”

“So, someone has been with Loukas’s body from the moment you found it until …?”

“Until now,” snapped Celeste. “When death strikes so suddenly, the soul is in grave danger. We began a vigil for him immediately.”

“And who removed the knife from his back?”

Celeste frowned. “Now there was an odd thing,” he said. “The Patriarch’s scribes also asked about that. After Father Almaric had finished giving last rites-it is always possible the soul might remain with a corpse for a while and might be saved by granting it absolution, even after death-I went with the body to the chapel to supervise its laying out. When we unwrapped it, the knife was not there. It had gone.”

“Did you see anyone remove it?”

“Of course not,” said Celeste. “I did not even think about it until the Patriarch’s scribes pressed me on the matter.”

“So, where is the knife now?” persisted Geoffrey.

Celeste and Almaric exchanged a glance of incomprehension. “I really have no idea,” said Almaric frowning. “Oh, dear me. I hope you do not believe it to be stolen. What a terrible crime that would be in this most holy place.” He crossed himself quickly and turned to Celeste. “Will you ask among the brethren to see if anyone has seen this foul thing or has some idea what might have become of it?”

“Did you know a monk called Jocelyn?” asked Geoffrey, changing the subject to curb the old man’s agitation. “Like you, he was a Benedictine, but he spent his time at the Dome of the Rock.”

Father Almaric frowned, racking his brains. “You mean the monk who was murdered at the Dome?” he asked eventually. “No, I do not recall meeting him, although my memory for names is poor. What did he look like?”

Geoffrey had to admit he did not know. He had never seen Jocelyn, dead or alive.

“I knew Jocelyn,” mused Celeste. “He came here on occasion. He had curious eyes-one brown, one blue. You knew him Father. He came to you for confession some weeks ago.”

The elderly monk looked taken aback. “Did he? Heavens! I must be more feeble-witted than I thought. Curious eyes, you say? I must say I cannot recall anyone of that description.”

“What can you tell me about him?” asked Geoffrey of Celeste, leaving the old monk to sit back in his chair looking perplexed.

“Nothing much. He spent most of his time at the Dome of the Rock and came here occasionally to pray. I never spoke to him myself.”

“When did you last see him?”

“I really cannot remember,” said Celeste. “Not recently, but then he has been dead for three weeks, so that can come as no surprise. Even a knight could work that out.”

There was a silence. Father Almaric looked admonishingly at his evil-tempered monk, while Geoffrey studied Celeste intently to see if he could ascertain whether his unpleasant demeanour was usual or whether something in Geoffrey’s questions had touched a raw nerve. Almaric attempted to make up for Celeste’s rudeness with pleasantries.

“You are Normans from England, are you not? I went to England once, to the shrine of St. Botolph at St. Edmundsbury. It is a Benedictine House, you know. What a beautiful place! So endowed with tranquillity and peace.”

“You should see Durham,” broke in Roger. “Now there is a house fit for God. Strong too, like a fortress. I could hold it against the Scots easy!”

Almaric looked bemused. “Do you miss it? England, I mean? The cool rain, and the mists, and the great green forests?”

Geoffrey nodded. “I miss it very much,” he said softly. He looked away, out of the small window, through which he could see only a wall of baked yellow earth. “If Tancred gave me leave, I would return there tomorrow. I have grown weary of all this heat and dust.”

“I miss the ale,” interrupted Roger enthusiastically, eager to join in. “And the wenches. These Greek and Arab women are all right, but I prefer a lass who understands what I am saying.”

Geoffrey was surprised Roger indulged in conversations of any kind during his frequent bouts of womanising, but saw the monks look shocked and decided Roger’s taste in women was hardly a suitable topic to be discussed with two monks in a church.

“Is there anything more you can tell me?” he prompted politely, addressing the monks.

“Nothing,” said Celeste, still fixing Roger with an expression of disgust. “I spoke with the other monks, and none of them saw or heard anything that might give a clue as to why Loukas was murdered. Most of the brethren had already retired to bed-it was dark, and there is very little monks can do in the dark except sleep or pray. We are not knights who carouse and entertain women to all hours of the night. And that is all we can tell you about this matter.”

He stood pointedly and opened the door for them. Almaric shot him another mildly admonishing glance for his rudeness.

“Celeste is right,” he said. “I regret we cannot tell you any more. None of us really knew Loukas. I will think, though, and if I can come up with any more information, I will send word to you.”

The knights took their leave of the Benedictines and began to walk back to the citadel. Geoffrey frowned.

“We have learned nothing about Loukas to make matters clearer. But we have our connection between Guido and Jocelyn. The Canon we spoke to earlier said the Benedictine who hung around Guido had eyes of different colours, and now Brother Celeste informs us that Jocelyn had such eyes. The two men spent time in Guido’s room at the Augustinian Priory, writing. Guido was killed two days later, and Jocelyn seemed to have learned of his death while hovering outside waiting for him to return. Jocelyn, nervous and irritable, returned to the Dome of the Rock, where he too was murdered.”