Paul Doherty - Murder Most Holy

‘What I also need,’ Athelstan added, ‘are the records of the church. What stood on the site before it was built and when the old sanctuary was paved.’

‘I can help you with that,’ Cranston replied. ‘The corporation has its own archives. I’ll get some idle clerk to hunt around and see what can be found.’

‘And Fitzwolfe?’

‘Well, if he’s a defrocked priest, guilty of sacrilege and every other crime in the book, there’ll be a price on his head. What I’ll do, my beloved friar, is increase the amount and tell my legion of informants that whoever lays this rogue by the heels, wins my favour. If you know the buggers like I do, they need that.’

‘Sir John, you are so generous.’

‘Bollocks! You haven’t asked why I have come.’

‘Another murder?’

‘Well, yes and no.’ Cranston grinned evilly. ‘Now I’ve got you wondering! But, look, before I tell you the whys and the wherefores, let’s go back to that silly little church of yours. The light is fading, and I would like to have a peek at this mysterious skeleton.’

Athelstan and Cranston walked slowly back to St Ercon-wald’s. The crowd was still there but a short, blunt speech from their parish priest soon dispersed them except for a sleepy-eyed Crim on guard at the door.

‘The workmen are just finishing, Father.’

‘Good!’ he answered. ‘You may go now, Crim.’ And tossed the lad a penny.

Inside the church Athelstan groaned at the dust which now covered everything.

‘You would think the place had been under siege,’ Cranston chuckled. He pulled his face straight when Athelstan glared at him narrow-eyed, then at the workmen busy gathering their tools into leather-handled bags.

‘No more skeletons, Father,’ the foreman shouted.

The ripple of laughter his mockery caused ended abruptly as Athelstan walked purposefully towards him.

‘I was only joking, Father,’ the workman added. ‘You can’t hold us responsible.’ He pointed towards the sanctuary, desperately trying to change the subject. ‘Look, most of the flagstones are up.’

Athelstan stared round: the sanctuary floor was now just beaten earth except for that dreadful hole where the altar had once stood. The stones lay neatly stacked against the wall and the old gravel and sand had been piled in heaps. Athelstan clasped the man’s shoulder.

‘You have done a good day’s work,’ he replied, and went across to look at the stones. ‘Listen,’ he said, fishing into his purse for a coin and flicking it at the workman, ‘have a pot of ale. You’ll be fully paid when the job is done, but you look as if you are experienced in the cutting of stone.’ He tapped one of the slabs. ‘So tell me, were these stones put down when the church was built?’

‘Nah,’ the fellow replied. ‘These were put down in a hurry, and not so long ago neither.’

‘How long?’

The fellow shrugged. ‘About ten or more years. You see, Father,’ the fellow tapped the beaten earth floor with his dusty boot, ‘I reckon this church is about one hundred and fifty years old and, when it was built, it had no sanctuary stone, just a mud-packed floor. You can still find churches like this in London. Now, because we are so close to the river, the earth is wet and soaked: I think one of the priests hired someone to put the flagstones down. He even left his mark.’ The fellow took a candle from the wooden box in front of Our Lady’s statue. He lit the candle with his tinder and held it up against one of the paving stones. ‘Look!’ he said. ‘There’s the mason’s mark.’

Athelstan and Cranston looked at the three letters roughly carved there: A. Q. D.

‘What does it mean?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Well, every mason has his mark,’ Cranston intervened. ‘And this apparently belongs to the man who laid the sanctuary stones.’

‘Could we find out who it is?’

‘I doubt it,’ the workman replied. ‘There are scores of masons in Southwark alone. And who knows? The priest may have hired someone from across the river or even from one of the villages outside London. I certainly don’t recognise it.’ He picked up his bag and beckoned to his fellows. ‘And that is all I can tell you, Father. Come on, lads, our throats are dry!’

‘Close the door behind you!’ Athelstan shouted.

He waited until they were gone then took Cranston over to the great parish coffin. He and Cranston studied the skeleton carefully. Athelstan told the coroner what he had learnt so far.

‘I agree with the good doctor,’ Cranston pronounced, his words ringing hollow in the darkened church. ‘I think it’s a woman.’ He fingered the wooden cross, rubbing the crumbling wood through his hands. ‘The flesh decayed fairly quickly, and though the clay preserved the bones, that’s not true of wood.’ He picked up the wooden cross, really two pieces of wood nailed together. ‘Very crude,’ he observed. ‘The core of the wood is still hard. Do you know, Father, at a guess, I think this young lady was buried no more than fifteen years ago.’

‘At the same time as the paving stones were laid?’

‘Exactly.’

Cranston took a deep breath. ‘God forgive me.’ He lifted the skeleton up and pressed back the head, ignoring the snapping sound of the neck bones. The coroner peered into the skull, bringing the candle closer until the cavity inside glowed eerily. ‘Interesting!’ he murmured.

‘What is, Sir John?’

Cranston now detached the skull from the bones of the neck. The crack seemed to echo in the church like a clap of thunder. Athelstan closed his eyes and murmured a prayer.

‘God rest her!’ he murmured. ‘Lord, you are our witness, we intend no disrespect but only search for the truth.’

‘The good Lord will understand,’ Cranston boomed, lifting up the skull and pushing the candle even closer. ‘Don’t forget the good book, Athelstan. It’s the spirit that matters, the flesh profiteth nothing. Now, my good monk. .’

‘Friar, Sir John.’

The coroner grinned evilly. ‘Of course. But let me give you Cranston’s philosophy of observation and deduction. Look at the skull, Athelstan, and tell me what you see.’

He pushed both it and the candle towards the priest who held the light in the aperture behind the jaw, and closely inspected the inside of the skull.

‘Nothing,’ he murmured.

‘Tut, tut, Brother! Too much ale clouds the mind and dulls the eyes.’ Cranston squeezed his arm. ‘Look again!’

Athelstan did, and gasped. He pushed his candle further in.

‘Be careful not to burn the bone,’ Cranston warned.

Athelstan studied the reddish tinge at the top of the skull. ‘It’s like red paint,’ he muttered. ‘Very faint.’

Cranston took both skull and candle from him, cradling both in his hand so that, in the dimming light, he looked like some Master of the Black Arts.

Cranston blew out the candle and replaced the skull in the coffin. He closed the lid then sat down, tapping the pew with his hand for Athelstan to join him.

‘My theory, my good fellow,’ he pompously began, ‘based on observation, logic and deduction, is that this skeleton belonged to a young lady who was murdered and placed in that hole beneath the altar. By whom I do not know.’

‘How was she murdered?’

‘Suffocation or strangulation.’

‘What is your proof?’

‘I have seen it a few times before. A Genoese physician told me the signs. Apparently, if someone is suffocated or strangled, the blood vessels in the brain are ruptured and the skull is stained.’

‘And you think this happened here?’

‘I know it did, my good fellow. But the question is — by whom, and why? It could have been the workmen who laid the sanctuary floor.’