Paul Doherty - Murder Most Holy

‘Do you all agree?’ Athelstan asked.

A chorus of approval rang out.

‘Then Huddle can begin immediately. Crim, I want you to take a message to Sir John Cranston.’

‘You mean old Fatarse?’

Watkin’s wife gave the lad a slap across the back of his head.

‘Sir John Cranston,’ Athelstan continued. ‘You will tell him he should return to Blackfriars. I shall meet him there at first light tomorrow. Now,’ he began to disrobe in front of them, ‘Watkin, buy the shroud. Pike, you’d best start now because the soil is hard. For the rest, I shall take, as Sir John says, some refreshment and then hear confessions. Oh!’ He turned back to them. ‘And don’t be surprised — a mysterious donor wishes to give us a large statue of St Erconwald for the new sanctuary.’

On that surprising note, the meeting broke up and the parishioners drifted out of the church while Athelstan went to finish divesting. He locked the sanctuary door but left the church open. Huddle was already standing in the sanctuary looking dreamily at a bare wall.

‘Think carefully,’ Athelstan called.

‘Don’t worry, Father. I’ve been mulling over this for months.’

Athelstan nodded and hurried down the alleyway to a cook-shop where he knew he could buy a fresh pie and a jug of ale. By the time he had returned, Watkin had cleared one of the transepts and cordoned off a corner with a long ash pole with a thick purple curtain hanging from it. He had also moved the sanctuary chair with its quilted seat and back to one side of the curtain for Athelstan to sit on whilst the church’s one and only prie-dieu was placed at the other side for the penitents. For a while Athelstan knelt at the foot of the altar steps and prayed for the grace to be a good confessor. He always heard confessions before the great liturgical feasts of the church: Christmas, Easter, Pentecost, and Corpus Christi in mid-summer. Those who wished to be shriven would kneel just inside the porch of the church and wait for their turn. Athelstan had insisted on this so no one could overhear what the penitent was saying. Mugwort came in and Athelstan assured him all was ready so the bell began to toll, inviting those who wished, to have their sins absolved.

Athelstan sat for the rest of the morning and early into the afternoon listening to his parishioners’ confessions. The usual litany of sins, not dissimilar to his own Athelstan quietly concluded: the use of bad language, obscene thoughts, theft from the market, sleeping during mass, and drunkenness. Occasionally Athelstan heard something new: a father lusting after a son’s wife; the use of faulty scales in trade. He sat back and listened to them all, now and again asking soft, gentle questions. At the end, he would lean forward and urge them to be more charitable, kinder, purer in mind and heart. He would set a small penance, usually some charitable task or the saying of prayers in church, pronounce absolution, and the penitent would depart.

The only relief were the confessions of children which Athelstan always loved for they made him laugh — squeaky little voices with their list of petty sins. One of Tab the tinker’s daughters made Athelstan laugh out loud for the poor girl had allowed one of Pike’s sons to kiss her, throwing her into agonies of guilt. So intent was she on blurting out this misdemeanour, she threw herself down on the prie-dieu and instead of saying, ‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,’ feverishly began, ‘Kiss me, Father, for I have sinned!’

Athelstan calmed her down, pointing out that a kiss on the lips, no matter for how long, was not a serious matter, and sent the girl away happy. He heard the trip of more footsteps and a reedy voice behind the curtain piped up: ‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.’

Athelstan smiled and put his face in his hands as he recognised the voice of Crim his altar boy.

‘Father,’ continued Crim in a hushed voice, ‘I have refused to eat my onions.’

Athelstan nodded gravely.

‘My mother had cooked them specially.’

Athelstan breathed deeply to stop himself laughing.

‘What else is there, lad?’

But Crim had fallen strangely silent. ‘Father,’ he stammered, ‘I have committed fornication six times.’

Athelstan’s jaw fell. He felt the hair on the nape of his neck curl. In the bishop’s precepts to confessors, the corruption of young children was not unknown and was considered a most grievous moral offence. Athelstan pulled the curtain back and stared at Crim’s dirty, startled face.

‘Crim,’ he whispered, ‘come round here!’

The boy tottered round.

‘Crim, what are you saying? Do you know what fornication is?’

The boy nodded.

‘And you have committed it six times?’

Again the nod.

‘What is fornication, Crim?’

Athelstan looked earnestly into the boy’s troubled eyes. Was this why the lad had been so quiet and rather withdrawn at times? Crim closed his eyes.

‘Fornication,’ he piped up, ‘is a filthy act!’

Athelstan let go of the boy’s hand and leaned back in the chair. ‘Tell me, lad, exactly what happened?’

‘Well, Father, as you know my mother sends me up to the market. I am the fastest runner and she always gives me a glass of water mixed with honey as a reward.’

Athelstan was now completely at sea. ‘What has this got to do with it, Crim?’

The lad blushed and looked down. ‘Coming back from the market, Father, I want to piss and I do it in the open.’

Athelstan laughed and seized the boy’s hand. ‘Is that all, Crim?’

The lad nodded.

‘And what makes you think that’s fornication?’

‘Well, Father, Mother always says that Cecily is guilty of fornication and other filthy acts.’

Athelstan shook his head. ‘But, Crim, you often go for a piss outside. What’s so special about this?’

The boy’s blush grew deeper.

‘Come on, lad!’

‘I do it on holy ground, Father.’

‘You mean, here in church?’

‘No, Father. I always want to go just as I pass your house so I go behind your wall and do it on the onion patch. I know it’s wrong, Father, to do it in a priest’s garden, but I can’t help it.’

Athelstan couldn’t contain himself any longer but, bowing his head, put his face in his hands and laughed till his shoulders shook.

‘Father, I am truly sorry.’

Athelstan looked up, wiped the tears from his eyes and grabbed the boy by the shoulder. ‘I absolve you from your sin.’ He pulled his face straight. ‘And this is your penance.’

‘Yes, Father.’

‘Next time your mother cooks onions, you eat every one. Now go and sin no more!’

Crim sped from the church as if he had just been released from the gravest of sins. Athelstan watched him go, still caught by gusts of laughter. He wa3 pleased the church was empty; if anyone had witnessed or overheard Crim, the lad would have been the laughing stock of the parish. Athelstan sat back and half-dozed for a while, thinking of possible solutions to Cranston’s mystery and wondering if he would find what he was looking for at Blackfriars. He suddenly sat up, chilled by a thought. What if the murderer at Blackfriars had already discovered what he was looking for? He readjusted the stole around his neck. He was about to get up when he heard the slither of footsteps. He sat down, suddenly tense, for the church was silent. Outside everything was quiet, as hawkers, traders and members of his parish rested during the hottest part of the day. Who was coming now? He heard someone kneel down on the prie-dieu.

‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.’

Athelstan froze as he recognised the voice of Benedicta. He closed his eyes, clenching his hands together. This was the first time Benedicta had ever come to him. Like others in the parish, perhaps too embarrassed to confess to their priest, she always went elsewhere. He relaxed a little at her litany of petty offences: uncharitable thoughts and words, being late for mass, sleeping through one of his sermons. When he heard this, Athelstan stuck out his tongue at the curtain. Then Benedicta stopped.