Paul Doherty - Murder Most Holy

‘We object!’ the Inquisitors chorused.

The prior tapped his fingers on the table top. ‘I see no objections to Athelstan’s wish. These matters must be resolved. If you are incorrect, Brother, then nothing is really lost. However, if what you say is true, then some progress may be made.’ Father Anselm lifted a hand-bell and rang it.

A servitor entered and Anselm whispered instructions to him. The man gazed at him in shocked surprise.

‘Do what I say,’ the prior ordered. ‘Tell Brother Norbert, and you yourself get two others. Swear them to silence, and carry out my instructions.’

As soon as the servitor left, Anselm looked round the table.

‘Is there any other matter, Athelstan?’

‘Yes, Father, there is, but Sir John and I must see you alone.’

‘Why?’ William de Conches spoke up. ‘As the Master Inquisitor I demand to be present.’

‘I couldn’t give a pig’s buttocks what you do, man!’ Cranston spoke up. ‘This is an English monastery, albeit under Canon Law, but the Crown’s writ holds here. I, as a principal law officer of the King in this city, demand to see Father Prior by himself.’

‘Agreed,’ Anselm said briskly. ‘Brothers, we shall meet in the sanctuary.’

Athelstan waited till the door closed behind the rest of the group.

‘What is it, Brother?’ asked the prior.

‘Father Prior, the name Hildegarde fascinates me. Who at Blackfriars would be able to place such a name?’

‘It’s not an English one,’ Cranston interrupted. ‘I see lists of many names of jurors and tax payers. Hildegarde’s German.’

The prior rubbed his eyes. ‘Who do you think she might be Athelstan?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe an abbess or one of the saints.’

‘I know of no devotion to such person. But we have an old scholar here, Brother Paul. You remember him, Athelstan? He’s sick now, partially blind and bed-ridden. He spends most of his time in the infirmary. But, come. His mind’s still sharp and we may jog his memory.’

The prior led them out round the cloister garth, through a small side door and across a flower-filled garden to the two-storeyed infirmary. The place smelt sweetly of crushed herbs, soap arid starch, though Athelstan caught the bitter taint of certain potions. The infirmarian took them upstairs and into a long room with rows of beds on either side, each hidden behind its own curtain. Anselm whispered a few words to the infirmarian, who pointed to an alcove at the far end, cordoned off by a white, green-edged cloth hanging from a bright brass bar.

‘You’ll find Brother Paul there. He’s in good fettle. He has been promised some time to sit in the garden.’

Anselm, followed by Athelstan and Cranston, strode across the bright polished floor. The prior pulled back the cloth. An old man lay with his head against a bolster: the hair round his tonsure was snow-white, his face thin and high cheek-boned under eyes once bright but now covered by a milky white film.

‘Who is it?’ The voice was surprisingly strong.

‘It’s Father Prior. I have brought two friends, Sir John Cranston and young Athelstan.’

Cranston nudged his colleague playfully.

‘Young Athelstan!’ he whispered in mimicry.

‘I know you, Cranston.’ Brother Paul turned his head. ‘I often worked in Newgate, the Fleet and Marshalsea prisons, hearing the confessions of condemned felons. Do you know, they always called you a bastard?’ The old friar’s lips parted in a toothless grin. ‘Mind you,’ he added, ‘a just, even compassionate, bastard!’

Cranston pushed his way past the others and crouched by the bed.

‘Of course,’ he muttered, ‘I remember you. The friar who always insisted on cases being reviewed. You saved many a man from the hangman’s noose.’

The old friar cackled with laughter, his hand going out to fall on Sir John’s shoulder.

‘Still as slender as ever, Sir John.’ Father Paul moved his hand. ‘Athelstan, where are you, you young scapegrace?’

He clasped the old man’s spotted, vein-streaked hand and his eyes brimmed with tears for he remembered Father Paul: he had been old when Athelstan was a novice, but vigorous, sharp, with an incisive brain and a cutting tongue. He used to lecture the novices in philosophy, theology and the subjects of the Quadrivium.

‘Still studying the stars, Brother, are we?’

Athelstan patted the old man’s hand.

‘I always remember you quoting the psalms, Father Paul: “Who shall know the ways of the Lord? As the heavens and its lights are far above the earth so are his ways above ours.’”

‘You haven’t quoted correctly!’ the old friar snapped. ‘You were always a dreamer. Anyway, what do you want with me, a sick old man?’

‘Does the name Hildegarde mean anything to you?’

Brother Paul neighed with laughter.

‘Are you here to dig over the sins of my youth?’ he snorted, and turned his head in the direction of Athelstan’s voice. ‘My eyes are gone, Brother Athelstan, but my memory is still sharp. Hildegarde is a woman’s name. I remember you, with your dark eyes and soft heart. Do you remember what I told you above love? How dreadful it can be for a priest to meet someone he really loves?’ The old friar turned away, bony fingers scrabbling at his cheeks. ‘I once knew a woman called Hildegarde. She had the face of an angel and a heart as wicked as sin.’ He laughed. ‘But I suppose that’s not the Hildegarde you are searching for? You are looking for a German woman, an abbess, who lived — what? — a hundred and twenty, a hundred and fifty years ago.’ He paused and stared blindly at the ceiling.

‘What more can you tell us?’ the prior asked.

The old man shook his head wearily. ‘I can’t, Father Superior, but the library will. Yes, yes, look in the library.’ His hand fell away. ‘Over the passing of years,’ he whispered, ‘I know the name but can’t tell you the reason why.’

Athelstan took his hand and squeezed it gently.

‘Thank you, Father Paul.’

The old friar pulled Athelstan’s wrist.

‘May the Lord keep you. May he show his face to you and smile. May he bless you and keep you all the days of your life.’

He gently removed his hand and they quietly left the in firmary, Athelstan guiltily realising how much he owed to and yet how much he had forgotten of his life at Blackfriars. Outside in the flower garden, Cranston went to admire a rose bush in full bloom. Athelstan took his superior’s arm and whispered urgently.

‘Father, we now have a number of connections; Alcuin and Callixtus were linked by the name Hildegarde. Callixtus was killed in the library, not from a fall but by a blow with a candlestick. To be blunt, I believe Callixtus was looking for some book or tract related to this Hildegarde.’ Athelstan paused. ‘Father, I believe that the name Hildegarde lies at the root of all the murders perpetrated here.’

Father Prior took a deep breath and stared up at the blue sky. ‘I see the connections, Brother Athelstan, but what in the sweet Lord’s name does the name Hildegarde have to do with the meeting of the Inner Chapter?’ He flung up his hands in frustration. ‘You have seen our library, Brother. Shelf after shelf of books, some three to four hundred pages deep. You could spend a lifetime searching there. And how do we know the assassin hasn’t already found what Callixtus was looking for?’

‘Perhaps he has, but let’s be optimistic. If he hasn’t then we have checked him. Any further searching amongst the books now would attract our attention.’

Cranston rejoined them, a young, dew-wet rose between his fingers.

‘I heard what you said, Father Prior, but let old Sir John apply the knife of logic. Callixtus was at the top of the ladder, yes?’ He breathed in stertorously. ‘He was therefore looking for a book on the top shelf. We know roughly where the ladder was positioned.’ Cranston stuck out his great stomach. ‘Ergo,’ he announced, mimicking Athelstan, ‘the conclusion’s obvious. Callixtus may well have discovered something about this famous Hildegarde in one of the books. Now we can’t spend our time in the library, that would alarm our quarry, but that splendid lay brother who supplies me with mead. . what’s his name?’