Paul Doherty - Murder Most Holy

‘You are just going to leave?’ the coroner exclaimed.

‘Of course not, Sir John. But the murderer was in that church. We must pretend to be baffled. If we betray the slightest knowledge of Hildegarde or what Brother Paul told us, then someone else will die and I think it may well be me. Come, Sir John, another cup of wine?’

Cranston needed no second invitation but sped like an arrow towards the buttery. From his exclamations of delight, Athelstan realised that Norbert had brought across fresh supplies of mead. Leaving Cranston to his pleasures, Athelstan went quickly upstairs and smiled when he saw the great leather tomes already piled on his and Cranston’s bed.

‘Sir John,’ he called, ‘we shall spend the rest of today and tomorrow on the study of theology.’

Cranston, a brimming tankard in his hands, clumped upstairs and stared round-eyed at what Norbert had brought.

‘We have to go through all of these?’

‘Aye, Sir John, and more.’

Cranston cursed under his breath. ‘Athelstan,’ he pleaded, ‘sweetest Brother, a week tonight I must return to the Palace of Savoy.’

Athelstan turned his back so the coroner couldn’t glimpse the dismay on his face. So far he could see no solution to that problem but if Cranston sensed his failure, there would be no holding the coroner from drowning himself in a sea of despair, not to mention one of claret.

‘Courage, Sir John!’ he called out over his shoulder. ‘I have an idea,’ he lied. ‘But, for the time being, let us concentrate on the problem in hand.’

‘Why?’ snapped Cranston.

Athelstan turned, went over and crouched before him. ‘Sir John, we are dealing with a murderer. We know how he killed, but we still don’t know why. Do you realise, we haven’t a single clue, not a shred of evidence, to lay against anyone? Somehow or other these books contain the answer and I intend to find it!’ Athelstan gripped Cranston’s wrist. ‘And I thank you, Sir John, for what you did in church, taking care of poor Alcuin’s corpse. Your decision not to publicise the manner of his death may, at some later stage, trap the murderer. Believe me, Sir John, we must trap him!’

Cranston mournfully agreed. Norbert brought other books across as well as refreshment to satisfy Cranston’s prodigious appetite. In the main he and Athelstan stayed in the guest house, only leaving for the occasional walk or visit to the church. Father Prior came across to seek assurances that Athelstan would return and, when he received these, left to arrange the proper burial of his two colleagues.

Athelstan and Cranston went through one leatherbound book after another.

‘Look for the name Hildegarde,’ Athelstan ordered. ‘If you find anything connected with that name, alert me at once.’

They spent most of Saturday and the greater part of Sunday morning scrupulously searching each page of the leather-bound volumes. Athelstan rather enjoyed it. He felt he was a student again meeting old friends: St Thomas Aquinas, the sentences of Peter Lombard, the brilliant but sarcastic analysis of Peter Abelard. Each volume contained copies of their work, carefully written out by generations of Dominicans at Black-friars. Sometimes the copyist had written their own commentaries in the margin, now and again adding personal remarks such as: ‘I am cold’, ‘My eyes are aching’, ‘I find this boring’, and, ‘Oh, when will summer come?’ Some scribes had even painted the faces of gargoyles to poke fun at their brethren. The prior of over a hundred years ago must have been a proper tyrant for one copyist had drawn a crude gallows with his superior hanging from it. Cranston soon became bored, constantly going up and downstairs to refresh himself in the kitchen or falling asleep and disturbing Athelstan with his snores. At last, just before noon on Sunday, he announced he had had enough.

‘I’d better return, Athelstan,’ he announced mournfully. ‘I miss the Lady Maude and the two poppets. I am more of a hindrance than a help here. You will return to Southwark tomorrow?’

‘At first light, Sir John.’

‘Then I will meet you at London Bridge as the bells of St. Mary Le Bow toll the beginning of day.’

Armed with his miraculous wineskin, Sir John stumped off and Athelstan returned to his studies. The day drew on, punctuated by the sound of bells and the faint hum of the ordinary routine of the monastery. Father Prior came over to announce that both Brothers Roger and Alcuin would be buried on the morrow after high mass, now the sanctuary had been reblessed and purified. He stood in the kitchen wringing his hands and shifting from one foot to another as his eyes pleaded with Athelstan to bring an end to these terrible events. Athelstan reassured him and the prior left. Norbert brought across some food. Athelstan asked for fresh candles and continued his studies long after sunset. It must have been about midnight when he heard Brother Norbert pounding on the door shouting his name.

‘Athelstan! Athelstan! Quickly!’

The friar opened the wooden shutters and looked down.

‘What is it?’ he called.

The lay brother held up a lantern. ‘An urgent message from Sir John. It was delivered at the porter’s lodge. Brother, you are to come down now!’

Athelstan picked up his cloak, slipped his feet into his sandals and went down.

‘Where’s the messenger?’

‘Oh, he was some young lad. He just said something dreadful had happened at St Erconwald’s and that you were to come immediately!’

‘Saddle Philomel for me. Is the lad still here?’

‘He said he would wait for you outside the Blue Mantle tavern on the corner of Carter Lane.’

Athelstan walked across to the main gate. He felt tired, his eyes ached and he wondered what could have happened. Had the church caught fire, or was one of his parishioners dying? Philomel was brought round, snorting and protesting at this unwarranted intrusion into his rest. A sleepy-eyed porter opened the gate. Athelstan led his horse through, mounted, and rode up the darkened street towards the tavern.

On one side of him rose the dark mass of Blackfriars. On the other a row of houses, all lights extinguished except for the lantern horns placed on hooks above the door. Two members of the night watch walked by, poles over their shoulders. They glimpsed Athelstan’s black and white robes and passed on, chuckling about the strange habits of certain priests.

Athelstan fought to keep his eyes open. He was near the tavern. Then he stopped. Despite the warm night air, he shivered and cursed himself for a fool. Why didn’t the messenger wait in the porter’s lodge? Why choose a tavern long after the beginning of curfew? The friar stopped and stared into the darkness, now fully alert. He sensed something was wrong. What was so urgent that he had to be dragged out in the middle of the night? He leaned forward, ears straining. He heard the clip-clop of hooves in the distance, the discordant yowling of cats, and the squeak and slither of rats as they foraged in the huge mounds of excrement piled high in the sewers.

‘Hello!’ he called. ‘Who is there?’

Athelstan’s eyes, now accustomed to the darkness, tried to make out if there was anyone standing in the shadows on the corner of Carter Lane. He looked up at the sky and idly thought it would be a fine night for studying the stars. A slight breeze sprang up, wafting the stench from the Shambles around Newgate. Should he go on? he wondered. Then he heard it: the slither of leather on the dirty cobblestones and a gentle, scraping, hissing sound.

‘Who is. .?’ He broke off as he recalled the sound. He had heard that noise before whenever Cranston drew his stabbing dagger from its leather sheath. Athelstan needed no second urging. He turned Philomel round, kicking with all his might. Usually the old war horse would balk into an ambling trot. Athelstan, not the best of horsemen, urged him on, lashing his withers with the reins. He heard footsteps behind him. One or was it two sets of footsteps.