Paul Doherty - Murder Most Holy

‘Because Brother Roger saw something in that church,’ Athelstan answered. ‘Hence the phrase: “There should have been twelve”. I wonder what it meant?’

Athelstan and Cranston walked back to the monastery. Athelstan sought out Father Prior and tersely told him of what they had found and the conclusions they had reached.

Anselm’s face paled. Athelstan could see his superior was on the verge of breaking.

‘Why?’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘Why so many deaths?’

‘Tell me, Prior,’ Cranston asked, ‘what would Brother Roger be doing in the orchard?’

‘He often went there. It was his favourite place. He said he liked to talk to the trees.’ Anselm blinked back the tears in his eyes. ‘Roger was a half-wit. He worked in the sacristy; Alcuin was severe but very kind to him. Roger really didn’t do much: a little polishing, sweeping, and picking flowers for the church. He never liked to be in enclosed places. He liked the open air so I never stopped him. When the other brothers gathered in church to sing Lauds, Matins or Evensong, Roger would go into the orchard. The poor fellow said he felt closer to God there than anywhere else.’ The prior banged the top of his desk with his fist. ‘Now the poor soul’s with God and his murderer walks round like a cock without a care. Athelstan, what can you do?’

‘Father Prior, all I can, but I must beg leave. I have to go back to St Erconwald’s.’ His eyes pleaded with the prior. ‘Father, I will return later in the day. I just need to see that all is well.’

‘Ah, yes, the famous relic!’ Prior Anselm answered sourly. ‘God knows why you care, Athelstan! Your parishioners do not heed you.’ He made a face. ‘Yes, I have heard the news. The fame of your mysterious martyr is spreading through the city. If you are not careful the bishop himself will intervene and you know what will happen then.’

Athelstan closed his eyes and breathed a prayer. Oh, yes, I know what will happen, he thought. The bishop’s men will remove the skeleton and transfer it to some wealthy church, or break it up and sell it as relics, whilst the door of St Erconwald’s will be sealed pending an investigation. And that could last months.

‘This first miracle,’ Anselm asked, ‘are you sure it was genuine?’

He made a face. ‘A physician dressed the skin, the man’s a burgess of good repute and claims his arm is now cured.’

Athelstan, his mind distracted, took a half-hearted farewell of Prior Anselm and went back to the guest house, Cranston trailing behind him. The Dominican packed his saddle bag, still thinking about what the Prior had said whilst the coroner fluttered around him like an over-fed chicken.

‘Why are you leaving, Brother? Why go back there?’

‘Because, Sir John, for the time being there’s nothing to be done here and I have business there!’ He looked sharply at Cranston. ‘And I suggest, Sir John, you return home to the Lady Maude. I am sure she will be expecting you.’

Cranston groaned like a mischievous boy who knows he has been caught. ‘By a fairy’s buttocks!’ he breathed. ‘If Domina Maud knows about my wager, she’ll clip my ears!’

Athelstan looked at him squarely. ‘Sooner or later, Sir John, you have to face her wrath. Better sooner than later. Come on!’

They sent for Norbert to lock the guest house and decided not to ride to the city but go by skiff from East Watergate to London Bridge. They found Knight Rider Street and the alleyways which cut off it still deserted. Apprentices, heavy-eyed with sleep, were preparing the stalls while the rest of the city had yet to wake to another day’s business. At East Watergate, however, the sheriffs’ men were busily involved in the execution of four river pirates — grizzled, battered men who were hastily shoved up the ladder to the waiting noose. Athelstan and Cranston looked away as a mounted pursuivant gave the order for the ladders to be turned, leaving the bodies of the pirates to dangle and dance as the nooses tightened, cutting off their breath. Athelstan closed his eyes, muttering a prayer for their souls. The executions brought back bitter memories of that ghastly apparition Athelstan had seen in the Blackfriars orchard. He looked back at the row of black scaffolds, their arms jutting out above the river. He heard a shout as relatives of the river pirates ran forward and jumped on the still jerking corpses, dragging them down roughly until a series of sharp clicks indicated their necks had been broken and at last the corpses hung silent. The sheriffs’ party, although they protested, did nothing to stop this act of mercy. The pursuivants declared that justice had been done and moved off.

‘At last,’ moaned Cranston, ‘we will be able to get a skiff.’ The sailors and boatmen who controlled the traffic along the river had assembled in small groups to watch the executions of the men who attacked their trade. Now they drifted back to the steps leading down to the wharf. Cranston hired the fastest, rowed by four oarsmen, and soon they were out in mid-river pulling through the mist towards Southwark Bank. They had to stop and cover their noses and mouths as they passed one of the great gong barges unloading mounds of rubbish, dead animals and human refuse into the middle of the fast-flowing river. Other shapes slipped by them: a barge full of soldiers taking a prisoner down to the Tower, a Gascon wine ship making its way slowly up towards Rotherhifhe. Near Dowgate, a large gilded skiff full of revellers, young courtiers clad in silks with their loud-mouthed whores, was being rowed back to the city after a night’s revelry in the stews of Southwark.

At last Athelstan and Cranston disembarked at a small wharf overlooked by the priory of St Mary Overy and the crenellated towers and walls of the Bishop of Winchester’s inn. Cranston had finally decided to follow Athelstan’s advice and return to the Lady Maude but was determined that his companion should accompany him.

‘You see, Brother, if you are there the domina’s wrath may be curbed.’

Athelstan nodded wisely. A sight to be seen, he thought. Lady Maude, so small, petite and gentle, was reputed to have a ferocious temper. They walked through a maze of stinking alleyways, past the Abbot of Hyde’s inn, down a small runnel where a yellow, thin-ribbed dog was busy licking the sores on a beggar’s leg, and into the area in front of St Erconwald’s. Athelstan checked that his house was safe and secure, noticed with despair how Ursula’s sow had eaten more of his cabbages, removed a second set of keys from his chest and unlocked the church for the workmen had not yet arrived. The nave was still full of dust but the workmen had been busy for the sanctuary gleamed with white, evenly laid, flagstones. Athelstan clapped his hands and murmured with delight.

‘Beautiful!’ he exclaimed. ‘The rood screen will be replaced, then the altar. You think it will look fine, Sir John?’

Cranston, sitting at the base of a pillar, nodded absent-mindedly. ‘A veritable jewel,’ he muttered. ‘But have you noticed what’s missing?’

Athelstan came back and looked into the transept.

‘The coffin!’ he shouted. ‘The bloody coffin’s gone!’

‘Don’t worry, Father.’ Crim, followed by a high-tailed Bonaventure, slipped into the church. The young urchin danced towards him whilst the cat miaowed with pleasure when he glimpsed his fat friend, the coroner. Whilst Sir John stamped and quietly cursed the cat, Crim explained that his father had moved the coffin and the sacred bones to the small death house in the parish cemetery.

‘You see, Father, the Serjeants sent down by the Lord Coroner frightened everybody off. Anyway, Pike the ditcher said if the church was sealed the death house wasn’t, so the coffin was moved there.’