Paul Doherty - Murder Most Holy

They left the house and walked back through the now noisy alleyways of Southwark.

‘A good judgement, Sir John.’

‘They have paid enough,’ the coroner replied. He looked around. ‘Brother, where to now?’

‘Benedicta’s house. She will have received the message I sent with Crim.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s the least I can do.’

They found Benedicta, pale-faced and red-eyed, crouched over her table, the letter Athelstan had sent lying open before her. She smiled bravely and welcomed them, wrapping her morning cloak tightly about her. Despite her tears, she looked beautiful, her thick black hair falling down around her shoulders, unruly and uncombed for she confessed Crim had wakened her with the message.

‘I am sorry,’ Athelstan apologised. ‘I did not mean to wake you with such unwelcome news but I thought the sooner the better.’

‘No, no,’ Benedicta replied. ‘I am at peace.’ She sat down, her face in her hands. ‘The waiting was the worst.’ She indicated the stools beside her. ‘For God’s sake, Sir John, Father, sit down! You are standing like two beadles come to arrest me! You wish some wine?’

‘No,’ Athelstan answered quickly, narrowing his eyes at her. ‘Sir John and I have a busy day.’ He reached over and touched her hand. ‘Benedicta, I am truly sorry.’

The woman blinked and looked away.

‘Never mind, never mind,’ she murmured, and smiled through her tears at Sir John. ‘My Lord Coroner, I thank you for your help. Whatever this stern priest says, I think you deserve a cup of the finest claret.’

Cranston needed no second bidding and his smile widened when Benedicta returned from the buttery with a large, two-handled cup and a pewter dish containing strips of beef covered by a rich brown sauce and lightly garnished with a sprinkling of peas. She put these down in front of Sir John and kissed him lightly on the side of his head, grinning mischievously at Athelstan.

‘There, My Lord Coroner!’

Athelstan glared at her. At this rate Sir John would be unmanageable by the end of the day. Benedicta, putting a brave face on her sad news, just tossed her head and flounced upstairs. Athelstan had to sit and watch Sir John chomp like Philomel: the beef, the sauce and the wine disappearing between murmurs of ‘Delightful!’, ‘Lovely woman!’, ‘Grand lass!’.

By the time Cranston had finished and sat burping and dabbing at his lips with a napkin, Benedicta had dressed and come downstairs again with a small wooden box containing her toiletries. She cleaned and prepared her face whilst Athelstan told her about their visit to the D’Arques household. She listened carefully, nodding in approval. Athelstan watched, fascinated, as she rouged her lips lightly, darkened her eyelashes, then picked up a swan’s down puff soaked in powder, dabbing her face lightly. She glanced impishly at Athelstan.

‘If you men only knew the labour and travail of a woman preparing herself for the day.’

‘In your case, My Lady,’ Cranston gallantly answered, ‘it is truly a case of painting the rose or gilding the lily.’

Benedicta leaned forward, her eyes rounded in mock innocence. ‘Sir John,’ she whispered, ‘you are a veritable courtier and a gentleman.’

Cranston preened himself like a peacock. He was in his element. He had eaten a good meal, drunk the richest claret, and was now being complimented by a beautiful woman. The coroner drummed his fingers on his broad girth.

‘If I were single and ten years younger. .’

‘There’d be a lot more food and drink about!’ Athelstan answered tartly. But all he got in reply were wicked smiles from both Benedicta and an ever more expansive Sir John.

Benedicta dabbed her cheeks one final time with the powder puff, Athelstan watching the fine dust rise in the air.

‘Oh, sweet Lord!’ he whispered.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘Nothing, Sir John. Benedicta, may I borrow that powder puff?’

She handed it over and, whilst she teased him, Athelstan examined it carefully, squeezing it between his hands until a fine dust covered his robe. Cranston leaned closer, wrinkling his nose.

‘You want to be careful when you go out, Brother. You smell like a molly-boy!’

The friar apologised and handed it back to Benedicta then rose, dusting his robes carefully.

‘Sir John,’ he announced, ‘we have to go. Benedicta, inform no one of what I have told you but let my parishioners know that I will celebrate mass tomorrow and wish everyone to be there. I have an important announcement to make.’

‘Where are you off to, Brother?’

‘Back to my church, Sir John.’

Cranston shook his head. ‘Oh, no, monk, we have work to do.’

‘Sir John, I must return.’

Cranston rose and stuck out his chest. ‘Do you think, while we’ve been running backwards and forwards to Blackfriars, the city sleeps? There was a death last night near the Brokenseld tavern on the corner of Milk Street. The body now lies in St Peter Chepe and a judgement has to be delivered.’

Athelstan groaned.

‘Come on, Brother.’ Cranston linked his arm through the friar’s. ‘Let’s collect our horses and go.’

Shouting fond farewells to Benedicta, Cranston hustled his tight-lipped colleague through the door and back into the streets of Southwark. They collected their horses from St Erconwald’s, Philomel even more obdurate and obstinate for it had been a long time since he had travelled far and done any work. They made their way down to the bridge, Athelstan trying to hide his displeasure whilst Cranston, burping and belching, fed his good humour with generous swigs from the miraculous wineskin. He beamed around, hurling abuse at the stall-holders who now had their booths piled high with fripperies, girdles, cups, tawdry rings, sets of false stones, buckles, pater nosters and small cut throat knives. Other stalls displayed food, large gleaming slabs of meat and fish — some fresh from the river, the rest at least two days old and stinking to high heaven.

A group of urchins played football amongst the stalls. A cut-purse, looking for easy profit, caught Sir John’s eye and fled like a rat up an alleyway. At the stocks near the entrance to the bridge, two water-sellers were being forced to stand holding leaking buckets above their heads which any passerby could fill, usually with the dirty fluids from the sewers or thick pools of horse urine. Athelstan glimpsed some of his parishioners: Pike the ditcher, mattock and hoe slung across his shoulder; Watkin on his dung cart, making his way down to the riverside with his cart piled high with rotting refuse. Cecily the courtesan was standing in the doorway of a tavern and promptly disappeared when she caught sight of Athelstan. They all looked subdued, rather frightened, and the friar was pleased that tomorrow he would settle the matter of the mysterious skeleton once and for all.

They crossed the crowded, noisy bridge, Cranston using his authority to force a way through, up Bridge Street, Gracechurch, past the richly painted houses of the bankers in Lombard Street and into the Poultry. The air here was thick with feathers and the smell of birds being gutted, the flesh doused in water, the giblets burnt or roasted on great open fires. Even Cranston had to stop drinking and cover his nose. They entered the Mercery where richer, more ostentatious stalls and booths stood, their owners dressed in sober, costly gowns and shirts, leggings and boots. At last they were into Westchepe. Cranston looked longingly at the Holy Lamb of God tavern but Athelstan was determined to get the business done and return to Southwark; he wished to concentrate on an idea which had occurred to him in Benedicta’s house.

They tied their horses at the rail outside St Peter’s and entered the musty darkness of the church. A group of nervous-looking men, marshalled by a beadle, stood round a table at the entrance to the nave on which lay a body covered by brown, dirt-stained canvas sheeting. They shuffled their feet and whispered nervously amongst themselves as Sir John made his grand entrance.