Paul Doherty - Murder Most Holy

As Cranston stumped back upstairs noisily to wash and dress himself, Athelstan began to study the parchment Fitzwolfe had provided the previous day. He found the entries rather sad and pathetic, a faint echo of his own activities, though Father Theobald seemed to have had little sense of organisation. He had been a tired, sick man, most concerned with burial dues, the building of the death house in the cemetery, and makeshift attempts to mend the roof. Athelstan finally came to a number of other entries: Father Theobald had apparently fallen in the sanctuary and there were notes for the buying of stone from A.Q.D. Athelstan looked at the date: September 1363. This was followed by a series of other payments: ‘For laying the stones in the sanctuary,?6.00 sterling to A.Q.D.’ Athelstan ran his finger along this and other entries.

‘Yes, yes,’ he whispered to himself. ‘But who is A.Q.D?’

Another idea occurred to him and he followed the entries through to January 1364, looking for payments made to Father Theobald to celebrate masses for people who had died but was unable to find the name of any young woman who’d fallen ill, been killed or mysteriously disappeared.

He pushed the manuscript away, absentmindedly nodding as Cranston bellowed that he was going across for food. The friar waited until Cranston closed the door behind him, then he rose, went back up to the upper chamber and lay down on his bed. The coroner would be some time and Athelstan wanted to review the events of the previous day in peace. Something he had seen and heard had struck a chord in his memory, but what? Athelstan went back first to finding Roger’s body in the orchard and plotted the course of events for the rest of that day. At last he found it and smiled in surprise. Of course! He went back downstairs and looked at the entries in Father Theobald’s muniment book. Then he jumped up, clapping his hands like a child. ‘Of course!’ he murmured. ‘Of course! Take that away and everything crumbles!’

Athelstan felt so pleased he found it difficult to contain his excitement. He decided to go for a long walk in the monastery grounds, startling the lay brothers going about their daily tasks with his brisk pace and cheerful salutations. He went down to the stable and was pleased to see Philomel eating away the monastery’s profits. The ostler, a raw-boned lay brother, assured him that the old war horse and Cranston’s mount were being well looked after. Athelstan returned to the guest house to find Sir John waiting for him.

‘You seem mightily pleased, Brother.’

‘We are making progress, Sir John. We are making progress. I feel like a king besieging a castle. The walls are beginning to crumble and soon we will force an entry.’

‘What about my mystery?’ Cranston grumbled.

Athelstan’s eyes strayed to his parchment and pen. ‘Not yet, Sir John. But all things in their time.’

The friar sat down and, using cryptic abbreviations, began to list and organise his own thoughts. Cranston filled himself another tankard of mead, draining the small keg empty, and slumped on a stool, lost in his own gloomy reverie.

The confrontation with Fitzwolfe and the long walk through the city had helped Cranston forget Lady Maude’s fury but now the full import of her words returned: he knew that the scene of the previous day would be as nothing compared to Lady Maude’s fury if he did not settle this matter successfully. The coroner had woken just after Athelstan and spent most of the morning, even during that most sacred and private occasion of breaking his fast, wondering what the solution was to this mystery of the scarlet chamber. He had failed to make any progress and was now considering what he should do about the wager he had accepted. I can’t raise a thousand crowns, he thought morosely. Athelstan’s as poor as a church mouse. To beg from Lady Maude’s relatives would be humiliation indeed. So should he either accept John of Gaunt’s offer of help or be dismissed as a caitiff who did not honour his debts? Cranston ground his teeth together. ‘Hell’s tits!’ he muttered and glared at Athelstan, now lost in his own thoughts. Sir John slammed down the tankard, went outside and stood listening to the tolling of the monastery bells.

‘I shouldn’t be here,’ he muttered. ‘I should be back in my own chamber, taking care of my own problems.’

Suddenly Athelstan was beside him, linking his arm through Cranston’s.

‘Come on, Sir John. One thing at a time. We still have over a week left before we return to the Savoy Palace.’

Cranston felt himself relax. ‘We?’ he asked hopefully.

‘Of course, Sir John. If you fail, then I must be there. But,’ he released the coroner’s arm and squeezed Cranston’s podgy elbow, ‘with God’s help, all will be well. Now come, the prior awaits us.’

They found the Inner Chapter assembled in Father Anselm’s chamber, grouped as they had been on the first day Athelstan had met them. Brothers Peter and Niall now looked anxious and secretive, Brother Henry composed, whilst the Master Inquisitor and Brother Eugenius sat like hunting dogs, glaring at Athelstan and Sir John.

‘Another death,’ Eugenius intoned. ‘And what progress have you made, Athelstan?’

Prior Anselm rapped on the table. ‘Let our brother speak, Eugenius, and be more temperate. We will begin with a prayer.’ The prior crossed himself, forcing the others to join him as he said a brief prayer to the Holy Ghost for guidance and counsel. ‘Well,’ he resumed briskly, ‘Athelstan, you asked for this meeting?’

‘Father Prior, I thank you, as I do the rest, for joining us here. First, Brother Henry, I read your treatise. I found it lucid and brilliant, difficult to view it as heretical. Secondly, Callixtus did not fall in the library. He was pushed and his skull broken by a candlestick.’ Athelstan held up his hand to quell the agitated questions. ‘I have found the candlestick and My Lord Coroner has viewed and accepted it as proof. Thirdly,’ he continued, ignoring the supercilious smiles of the Inquisitors, ‘Brother Roger has died, but he did not kill himself. He was garrotted and then it was made to look as if he had hanged himself. Fourthly, his death and those of the others are linked to business of this Chapter’s, though how and why I still don’t know. Now I could ask everyone here, including Father Prior, to account for his movements on the days Bruno, Roger and Callixtus died, but Blackfriars is a large community with sprawling buildings. It would take an eternity to establish the facts, if it were even possible.’

‘You do not mention Alcuin?’ Brother Niall spoke up, his abrupt tone betraying his lilting Gaelic accent.

‘Yes,’ added Eugenius. ‘How do we know that Alcuin is not the murderer? Perhaps he still lurks somewhere in Black-friars. After all, Athelstan, you did say it is a sprawling place: it has nooks and crannies rarely if ever visited by anyone.’

‘Nonsense!’ snapped Anselm.

‘No, Father Prior, Eugenius is right,’ Athelstan intervened. ‘Brother Alcuin is still here, though he’s dead.’

‘Where?’ they all chorused at once.

‘Father Prior, when is the Requiem Mass sung for Roger?’

‘At noon today. We cannot wait until tomorrow. The church is very strict. No Requiem Masses to be sung on a Sunday.’

‘Then, Father Prior, I insist that the burial takes place on Monday.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I wish the burial vault beneath the sanctuary to be opened and Bruno’s coffin raised. When it is open, we shall find Brother Alcuin.’

‘Sacrilege!’ the Master Inquisitor shouted. ‘Desecration! Athelstan, you walk on very thin ice.’

‘Sacrilege, my dear Inquisitor, is a matter of the will — as indeed is all sin. I intend no offence to Brother Bruno, may God rest him.’ Athelstan appealed to the prior. ‘You called me here to search out the truth and resolve a dreadful mystery. Brother Bruno’s coffin must be opened.’