Iris Collier: Day of Wrath

‘You make it sound quite straightforward, Sheriff. Has anyone found signs of a break-in?’

‘No, but Joshua and Giles definitely say they heard something.’

‘Hmm … not enough to establish a motive. However, at least we can rule out the servants. They all have water-tight alibis and can vouch for each other, I suppose?’

‘Oh yes. They all seemed to be where they should be. This is an outside job.’

‘There’s one other thing that bothers me,’ said Nicholas thoughtfully, ‘it might not be important, but I’m puzzled by the way Matthew was killed. Would common thieves bother to strangle someone who’d interrupted their work? It seems more likely to me that they’d turn round and hit him over the head. Strangling someone as strong as Matthew wouldn’t be easy. Matthew was a tough man, and he’d go down fighting. Strangling implies premeditation. I think someone was lying in wait for him. Someone jumped out on him and seized him round the throat.’

‘I’m inclined to agree with you, my Lord,’ said the Coroner, coming to life. ‘But why should anyone want to murder someone as harmless as your steward? If we rule out thieves then we are without a motive and that’s very undesirable. The Sheriff’ll get nowhere without establishing a motive.’

‘It seems to me that you want to tidy this case up just too neatly,’ said Nicholas severely. ‘First, find the facts, then establish the motive. Not the other way round.’

‘Oh yes, my Lord. Certainly, my Lord. I shouldn’t have spoken.’

‘Well, forget it. And now I expect you could both do with some refreshment. Something to drink? And a slice of ham to go with it?’

‘If it’s no trouble, my Lord.’

‘No trouble at all, Coroner. You’ve had a long, hard morning’s work and there’s a brisk ride ahead of you. Now when can I bury poor Matthew? I can’t keep him in the chapel for ever?’

‘As soon as you can make the arrangements,’ said Landstock. ‘We’ve finished with him. Now we’ve got to get on and find the thieves. Shouldn’t take us long. Someone, somewhere, always seems to see something suspicious and is willing to spill the beans. Particularly when there’s a reward offered.’

A pity the King wasn’t here to enjoy this meal, thought Nicholas, as Brother Cyril plunged his knife into the rich suet crust of the great pie, releasing a delicious aroma of rabbits and chickens stuffed with dried plums and raisins, cooked slowly in red wine. He would have enjoyed it enormously. Nicholas was hungry. It seemed a long time ago since he’d eaten his last proper meal at Court, and yet it was only yesterday. And now he was drinking the King’s health in a fine claret, polishing off the pie, and gleefully anticipating the arrival of the suckling pig.

He loosened the fastenings of his doublet and turned to the monk who was sitting next to him.

‘You keep a well-stocked cellar, Brother Jeremy. Do you personally sample all the casks before you buy?’

‘If I did, my Lord, I wouldn’t be sitting here at this moment reasonably in command of my wits. No, I leave the sampling to Prior Thomas. He’s a better judge than me. I just place the order. Do you like this one?’

‘It’s one of the best I’ve tasted. It complements the pig to perfection.’

‘Then I’ll have a word with the Prior and see that you get a cask in time to celebrate the feast of Corpus Christi. Brother Benedict brought us over some casks of a new wine from the vineyards of Rivières. They are a present from his abbot.’

Ah, Brother Benedict, thought Nicholas, as, through the steam from the pie and the smoke from the woodfire burning at one end of the great hall, he looked across to the other side of the table where a young monk of outstanding beauty was sitting next to the Prior. Prior Thomas had draped an arm affectionately round the young man’s shoulders, but Brother Benedict’s dark eyes were fixed on Jane Warrener, who had left the table and was busy tuning a lute in one of the alcoves at the far end of the hall. Suddenly, Nicholas felt indignant. No monk should look at a woman like that, he thought. The Prior would have to get rid of that young man before the King’s inspectors arrived.

The arrival of the suckling pig put an end to such thoughts. Brother Giles had cooked it to perfection and Nicholas tackled his plateful of steaming meat with gusto. One of the steward’s underlings brought in jugs of a different wine, a full-blooded claret from the vineyards around Bordeaux, and Nicholas gave himself up to the pleasures of the table. The pig was soon demolished, the bones thrown down on the rush-strewn floor, where the Prior’s lapdogs snapped and snarled at each other as they fought over the scraps with glee. Later, when the tables had been cleared, the servants would let in the most favoured of the Prior’s hounds to clear up the remains.

By the time Brother Cyril brought in a great tray of sweetmeats, honey cakes filled with walnuts and lightly dusted with cinnamon, and marzipan fashioned into the shapes of small birds and woodland creatures, Nicholas’s head was spinning. He looked round at the flushed faces of the monks and the thought entered his head as to what their founder, St Benedict, would have thought of these proceedings. And he also thought how oblivious they all were to the sword of Damocles hanging over their heads. No wonder the reformers regarded the monasteries as fair game.

The servants were removing the empty dishes. Prior Thomas pushed back his chair and stood up.

‘Come Benedict, my beloved guest from distant France, finish your wine and let us hear that fine voice of yours.’

Benedict forced his attention away from Jane and back to the Prior.

‘No, my Lord, my singing is nothing but the croaking of a frog in comparison with Jane Warrener. She has the sweetest voice I have ever heard. Don’t you agree with me, Brother Oswald?’ he said, addressing one of the monks, whose black habit was tightly stretched across his pendulous belly, his huge moonface glowing with good living. Brother Oswald pursed his lips and considered his answer for a few moments.

‘Mistress Warrener sings well – for a girl. But there is nothing to beat the purity of the male voice; especially a light tenor, Brother, which you possess.’

‘You’ve hit the nail on the head, Brother Oswald, as usual,’ said the Prior, patting Benedict’s head approvingly. ‘The male voice wins hands down. It has a special purity which the female voice with its emotional undertones cannot compete with.’

‘But when the two are in harmony,’ said Nicholas smiling across at the Prior, ‘they are incomparable.’

‘Then let us settle the argument by putting it to the test,’ said Prior Thomas genially. ‘Come, fill up the tray of sweetmeats, Brother Cyril, and bring us some more jugs of wine, and tune up the instruments. Come, my Lord,’ he said turning to Nicholas, ‘we’ll go and sit over by the fire and let the young entertain us.’

He walked unsteadily over to Brother Oswald and helped him out of his chair. Then, clutching a jug of wine each, they staggered over to the fireplace at the far end of the room where some finely carved oak armchairs had been arranged on both sides of the crackling log fire.

Nicholas hung back for a moment, watching Benedict join Jane in the alcove. She greeted him with a broad smile and handed him a lute which she’d been tuning. Nicholas scowled. Fighting down a feeling of resentment, he turned to Father Hubert, the elderly Sacristan who acted as sub-Prior when Prior Thomas was incapacitated. Hubert had not touched the sweetmeats and had eaten only a small portion of the pie. He had only exchanged a few words with Nicholas during the meal and had passed him the jug of wine when his glass was empty but hadn’t touched a drop himself. Now he made no move to join the others round the fire.