Paul Doherty - Murder Most Holy

‘Hildegarde! Hildegarde! Damn Hildegarde!’

At noon Father Prior and other members of the Inner Chapter came over to see them. They had all recovered from the shock of the discovery in the sanctuary and stood in a cold, rather distant huddle in the kitchen, refusing to sit down or accept anything to eat or drink. William de Conches and Eugenius stared scornfully at Athelstan. Henry of Winchester adopted an air of studied patience to hide his exasperation, whilst Brother Niall and Peter made their anger at the long delay in the proceedings most apparent.

‘We can’t stay here for ever, Brother Athelstan!’ Peter insisted. ‘This matter has to be concluded. A judgement reached on Henry’s thesis. Brother Niall and I must return, whilst the Master Inquisitor and his assistant have a long journey to make.’

Athelstan stared at the prior but Anselm was cold and impassive.

‘All I want, Athelstan,’ he replied, ‘is this matter resolved, so the house can go back to its normal routine.’

‘And what about those who died?’ Cranston barked. ‘Bruno, Alcuin, Callixtus, Roger? Their blood stains the earth and cries to the heavens for vengeance.’

Anselm’s eyes softened. ‘Sir John, you are right and I stand corrected. I asked you to come here. I asked Athelstan for his help but, before God, I will be honest, I am beginning to regret that decision. Perhaps this is a mystery that cannot be solved. The bible does say, “Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord”.’ He shrugged wearily. ‘Perhaps we should leave it in the good hands of the Lord.’

‘Nonsense!’ rasped Cranston. ‘God works through us in this vale of tears! We are his eyes, his nose, his mouth, his feet!’ He pushed himself in front of the group of Dominicans. ‘Justice,’ he continued, ‘must not only be done, but be seen to be done. Four men have been slain. Oh, aye, Father Prior, they may have been Dominicans but they were also Englishmen, subjects of the Crown. ‘He jabbed a finger to his chest. ‘This matter will be finished when I decide it is finished!’

Eugenius clapped his hands mockingly. ‘A pretty speech, Sir John, but I am not your subject. My loyalties are to the Father General in Rome and to the Pope in Avignon. For all I care you can investigate these matters until hell freezes over, but I shall be gone!’

Cranston smiled sweetly at him and Athelstan closed his eyes.

‘Listen, you little fart!’ The coroner took a step nearer and stared down into Eugenius’s puce-coloured face. ‘I don’t care who you are or where you come from. You’re in England, you’re in my city. You can trot down to Dover and you’ll find you have no licence to board a ship: in this country that is an indictable offence!’

‘You threaten us, Sir John!’ William de Conches snapped, pulling Eugenius back a step.

‘Threaten?’ Cranston looked at him in mock wonderment, eyebrows raised. ‘Did I threaten? I didn’t threaten, Master Torturer.’

‘I am an Inquisitor!’

‘You’re a nasty pain in the arse!’ Cranston continued. ‘You break men’s bodies so you can get at their souls. You’re both little shits!’ His hand went to the hilt of his dagger and both Inquisitors, despite the fury in their faces, decided silence was the better part of valour.

Cranston glanced at Anselm then at Brother Niall and Peter. Athelstan just bowed his head. He knew the coroner’s temper was both hot and unpredictable. Once Sir John had the bit between his teeth, he would tell anyone (except the Lady Maude) what they could do with their opinions. Prior Anselm stepped forward.

‘Sir John,’ he threw a meek glance at the coroner, ‘in a way you are right.’ He turned and looked at his colleagues. ‘Four of our brothers lie dead. My Lord Coroner, Brother Athelstan, let us compromise. If this matter is not finished, if the mystery is not resolved by Sunday evening, we are free to do what we wish.’

Athelstan spoke up quickly before Cranston could make a bad situation worse. ‘Father Prior, we agree. Don’t we, Sir John?’

‘Bollocks!’

Athelstan smiled falsely at his brothers.

‘My Lord Coroner is always open to persuasion.’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘Father Prior, I thank you for coming.’ He opened the door. ‘It’s best if we leave matters as we have decided.’

Once they were gone Athelstan collapsed in a heap on a stool.

‘For the love of God, Sir John, must you speak so bluntly?’

‘Monk, it’s for the love of God that I do.’

‘Sir John, you were too harsh.’

‘Bugger off, priest!’

Cranston grabbed his miraculous wineskin and stomped back to the stairs.

‘Sir John!’

‘What is it, frightened friar?’

‘I thank you for telling the truth. You are a good man, Sir John.’ Athelstan smiled. ‘God forgive me, but I’ll never forget the look on the faces of those two Inquisitors. When Father Prior regains his composure, I think he will be grateful too.’

Cranston glared back at him. ‘All I can say to you, monk, is this law officer’s most favourite legal maxim.’

Athelstan cringed. ‘Which is, Sir John?’

‘Sod off!’

‘Oh, Sir John.’

‘Oh, Sir John, my arse!’ Cranston roared. ‘One of those bastards tried to murder you, or had you forgotten that?’ And he continued up the stairs.

A few minutes later Athelstan joined him but Cranston had his nose stuck in one of the books, noisily turning the pages over, aided and abetted by generous swigs from the miraculous wineskin. Athelstan continued leafing through his own volume.

‘Hell’s tits!’ Cranston breathed. ‘Brother, look at this!’

Athelstan hurried over. The coroner’s stubby finger pointed to where seven or eight pages had been hacked from the book.

‘That’s recent!’ the coroner announced. ‘And it was done in a hurry.’

Athelstan studied the torn shreds. He noticed that the edge of the page still held in the binding was rather dull and faded but, where the cut had been made, the parchment was pure and white. Athelstan picked up the book, ignoring Cranston’s protests and questions. He took it over to his own bed and sat cradling it in his lap. The volume which had held the torn pages was an old one, containing the minor works of certain writers. He finished leafing through it, closed it, and stared at the bemused expression on Cranston’s face.

‘Whatever we were looking for,’ Athelstan muttered, ‘our assassin has already found.’

‘When?’ Cranston snapped. ‘The library has been watched over the last few days!’

‘I don’t know. Perhaps when he killed Callixtus. He may have watched the old librarian stretch out for a certain book before pushing him. Anyway,’ Athelstan continued wearily, ‘I suspect the pages from this book are at the bottom of some sewer or burnt to a feathery ash.’

He blew out his lips and sighed. ‘Just let’s pray, Sir John, for two things. First, that the messenger we have sent to Oxford is successful and, if he is, that what he brings back will resolve this matter once and for all.’ He lay back on the bed. ‘I’ll sleep for a while, Sir John. Please ask Brother Norbert to take these back to the library. We can do no more for the time being. Let’s rest. Tomorrow night we must go to the Palace of Savoy.’

When he received no reply from the coroner Athelstan struggled up on his elbow and found Sir John already asleep, sitting like a big baby on the edge of the bed, his head twitching, lips smacking. Athelstan got up, made the coroner as comfortable as possible and, going back to his own bed, fell asleep.

Brother Norbert roused them late in the afternoon asking if everything was all right. Athelstan, sleepy-eyed, mumbled his thanks and told Norbert the books could be returned to the library.