Saintly Murders

by Paul Doherty

  ‘And the other rats?’ Kathryn asked.

  ‘I heard the news. Brother Atworth used to tell me gossip from the city. He claimed the rats could not live in such a hallowed place and had fled the friary. I replied if that was the case, why did other strange creatures come here at night?’

  Kathryn shivered, a prickle of fear along her spine.

  ‘Creatures?’ she asked.

  ‘This is not a hallowed place, Mistress.’ Mathilda’s voice had fallen to a hoarse whisper. ‘All forms of devilment take place!’

  Chapter 7

  ‘His deeth saugh I by revelatioun . . .’

  – Chaucer, ‘The Summoner’s Tale,’

  The Canterbury Tales

  Kathryn looked back through the bushes. Chandler’s cell was virtually cut off, though Kathryn could make out the buttresses and cornices, the glint of windows in the friary. Above her the sky was growing darker. She wanted to return to her chamber, yet Chandler’s mysterious references intrigued her.

  ‘You heard what I said, Mistress. I am not the Accursed. I am a poor woman locked in this chamber for murders I did not commit. My world is what I can see and hear, and believe me, appearances lie. You’d think this line of trees and bushes,’ her voice continued matter-of-factly, ‘was desolate, the nesting place of birds, the hunting ground of stoats?’

  ‘What have you heard?’ Kathryn asked. ‘What have you seen? Besides Brother Atworth?’

  ‘Gervase often came over here, not just to tend to me as he would a dog in a kennel. I think he met someone.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Another friar.’

  Kathryn recalled the scandal and gossip of the tap-room which Thomasina loved to repeat.

  ‘Are you talking of an illicit relationship?’

  ‘I’m no man’s judge, Mistress Swinbrooke. I have seen two figures in the brown habit of the friars: one of them was definitely Gervase; the other had his face masked.’

  ‘How many times?’ Kathryn asked.

  ‘In the last few months, five or six. Gervase apparently came across this evening, but I didn’t see him then.’

  ‘What?’ Kathryn exclaimed.

  ‘I saw the flames, heard the crackle, and smelt the smoke,’ Chandler replied. ‘But, talking to you, I am curious. Gervase came across here hours earlier than that.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Kathryn demanded.

  ‘I have told you, Mistress . . .’

  ‘Please call me Kathryn.’

  ‘Thank you, I will. Gervase usually came across here to meet the stranger about three o’clock, when the friary is at its quietest. Brother Timothy has his sleep, and Atworth did the same. I’d glimpsed him coming in through the bushes. On one occasion I heard voices, one raised as if in anger; that was two weeks ago.’

  ‘Did you ever question Gervase?’

  ‘Kathryn, I am no fool: What I know and what I tell are two different things.’

  ‘And you saw Gervase come much earlier this afternoon?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But not leave or return just before he was engulfed by fire?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you see or hear anyone else?’

  ‘No one but Gervase!’

  Kathryn stepped back. ‘I will return tomorrow,’ she declared. ‘Is there anything you want?’

  ‘My freedom.’

  It was on the tip of Kathryn’s tongue to promise something. She could approach the Archbishop and Luberon, whilst it was not unknown for Royal Servants like Colum to seek a pardon from the Crown.

  ‘Be of good faith,’ Kathryn replied. ‘I shall return tomorrow.’

  Kathryn walked back to the bushes, pushing aside the tangled undergrowth. She kept her hand on the curtain wall. This was the deepest part of the copse, completely obscured from the friary. Near to the buttress she noticed how scuffed the ground was. She crouched down: It was damp. She sniffed at her fingers: blood, water? She couldn’t decide. Kathryn looked up the wall; the buttress provided a natural ladder, and carefully she began to climb. She laughed to herself; it reminded her of the days when, as a child, she’d invaded Goodman Proutler’s orchard. She bruised her fingers and cut her knee, but she reached the top and peered over. The alleyway below was mud and cobbles and stank of rotting vegetables – a lonely spot, the other side being the garden wall of a large merchant’s house, certainly a place to avoid in the dark. She glanced quickly down the outside wall, arms aching with the strain, and noticed the gaps in the crumbling bricks, a good foothold for anyone who wished to climb over. She gingerly climbed down, brushed herself off, and looked over her shoulder. Chandler’s cell was now hidden. She walked back onto the lawn. It was dusk. Kathryn felt cold and tired, though still intrigued by Gervase’s visit earlier in the afternoon. She returned to the friary and went immediately to Prior Anselm’s chamber. Vespers had been sung, and the rest of the brothers were in the refectory, but Anselm and his two companions were gathered in the parlour eating a meal, apparently in deep discussion by their look of annoyance as Kathryn knocked and came in.

  ‘What is it?’ Anselm demanded.

  ‘Brother Gervase’s remains have been removed?’ Kathryn asked.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Have you searched his chamber?’

  ‘Why no, that will happen tomorrow.’

  ‘I would like to go there now.’

  ‘But, Mistress, this is . . .’

  ‘Please!’

  Anselm sighed, threw his napkin on the table, and picked up a bunch of keys from the desk. With the infirmarian and Jonquil accompanying him, he led Kathryn out across a small cobbled yard and through a side entrance up some stairs. The gallery above was very similar to Prior Anselm’s; Gervase’s chamber stood immediately at the top.

  ‘God knows where Gervase’s key is!’ Anselm exclaimed, as he turned the key in the lock. ‘Perhaps it was burnt with him?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Kathryn declared, remembering the grisly remains she had examined.

  The door swung open, and Jonquil pulled back the shutters and lit a candle. The room was fragrant with incense and beeswax polish; rather opulent, dark-blue, gold-edged cloths hung against the walls; blood-red curtains with purple tassels shrouded a four-poster bed. The silver crucifix on the table stood beside matching candlesticks. There were small coffers and chests, shelves of books. Kathryn was immediately impressed by how tidy everything was.

  ‘I would like to search Gervase’s possessions. Please, Prior, don’t object. The human body doesn’t generally burst into flames. Gervase was murdered; I am sure of that.’

  ‘But how?’ the infirmarian asked. ‘He was seen walking across there.’

  ‘And what was he doing beforehand? Did anyone see Gervase during the afternoon? Do you know he crossed Gethsemane about three o’clock?’

  Anselm looked sheepishly at the infirmarian. Kathryn stepped closer. ‘You know something, don’t you?’

  ‘We were just discussing that,’ Anselm confessed. ‘Apparently, Mistress Swinbrooke, Gervase could not be found just after we met you. He seemed to have disappeared, at least until Brother Timothy saw him walking across Gethsemane.’

  ‘Look around you,’ Kathryn urged. ‘Don’t you think there is something strange, Father Prior? How tidy and clean everything is?’

  ‘Gervase was a precise man.’

  ‘Not to this extent.’ Kathryn walked across to the table. ‘It’s almost as if Gervase tidied up and left as if he wasn’t returning.’

  ‘Oh, that’s nonsense! Only he and I have a key to this chamber.’

  ‘Did he have other keys?’ Kathryn questioned.

  ‘Of course, look at the desk. The work of a craftsman, each of its drawers can be locked.’

  Kathryn crouched down. She would love a desk like this with its fine oak top and cleverly contrived drawers, the work of some master carpenter either here or in the city. She pulled at a drawer but it remained locked; the same for the coffers around the room.


  ‘Gervase always carried his keys with him,’ Simon the infirmarian explained.

  ‘But when he was found dead?’ Kathryn got to her feet. ‘I don’t recall seeing any keys, and neither did those who took him to the charnel-house.’

  ‘I agree.’ The infirmarian walked to the window and stared out. ‘What are you saying, Mistress?’

  ‘I want these drawers and coffers to be forced. You must do it,’ she urged. ‘Whatever keys Gervase held are now gone whilst these seem to be replacements.’

  Anselm clapped his hands together as if he wanted to pray for guidance.

  ‘It must be done,’ Kathryn repeated.

  Simon agreed. Jonquil left and returned with a mallet and a chisel and, much as it pained her, Kathryn watched the beautifully carved drawers being forced and the coffer padlocks broken. They must have stayed an hour rummaging through the contents, but they found nothing, only letters, bills, rolls of accounts, ave beads, a psalter, personal mementos, and possessions. Prior Anselm’s irritation grew; on one occasion he accused Kathryn of prying.

  ‘Of course I am!’ she snapped. ‘But who can object? Gervase? He’s gone to God. Don’t you think it strange, Father Prior? Here is a friar who had secret assignations near the curtain wall overlooking Gethsemane, yet there’s nothing amiss amongst his possessions?’

  ‘What assignations?’ the Prior demanded. ‘That’s the first I’ve ever heard of them.’

  ‘Well, if they were secret, you wouldn’t have heard of them!’

  Kathryn explained what she had learnt; as she did so, the three friars grew agitated.

  ‘Did Gervase lead a good life?’ she asked.

  ‘Not a whisper of scandal. Oh, he could be overbearing and cynical, but he kept to his vows. He was a good administrator, a faithful priest.’

  Kathryn told all three to sit down and closed the door.

  ‘Listen,’ she began, pulling up a stool, ‘Gervase definitely met someone from the city there or a member of this community. What they discussed must have been highly confidential: That’s why Gervase chose the time and the place. I would hazard a guess, though I have no evidence, that such meetings were connected with Brother Roger Atworth. I don’t know why’ – she held up a hand – ‘I just do. Atworth has died; now Gervase is murdered.’

  Kathryn then explained about the murder of Padraig Mafiach at the Falstaff Inn. As she studied the three friars, her suspicions deepened; she realized that most of what she had seen and been told here was based on a lie. The infirmarian was calmer, and Jonquil hid behind a solemn expression; but Prior Anselm was more apparent, constantly scratching his cheek, blinking, refusing to meet her eye.

  ‘What are you implying, Mistress?’ the infirmarian demanded.

  ‘Brother Roger Atworth,’ Kathryn replied, ‘was Duchess Cecily’s confessor. He would therefore know her secrets, as would any priest who shrives the high and mighty. Atworth was once held prisoner by the Vicomte de Sanglier, who now controls the King of France’s legion of spies. Now there are spies at Court, close to the King’s Council’ – Kathryn paused – ‘I tell you this in confidence; you must not repeat it. There is also the possibility of a French spy here at the Friary of the Sack. It may have been Atworth himself; Duchess Cecily would chatter, and your dead companion was probably better acquainted with the dealings at Court than even our Archbishop.’

  ‘I agree, I agree,’ Prior Anselm broke in. ‘When Duchess Cecily came here, sometimes she would spend a day or many days. She and Atworth would walk round and round Gethsemane, arms linked like brother and sister. But Atworth being a spy! He was old and frail. He never left this house. He hardly ever met anyone else.’

  ‘True,’ Kathryn answered, ‘but he did go for walks in Gethsemane. He may have met someone, passed messages on. A second possibility is that someone here, amongst his brethren, spied on him.’

  ‘We are Franciscans,’ Simon the infirmarian broke in, ‘dedicated to poverty, prayer, and chastity.’

  ‘Aye, Brother, but in every barrel not every apple is wholesome! I ask you, is there anyone in this friary, however tenuous the link, connected with the Court of France? Have you had recent visitors, French merchants, pilgrims?’

  ‘The occasional guest,’ Jonquil volunteered. ‘But no one Brother Roger met. Mistress Swinbrooke, we are all English, and our loyalty is to God and to the King. What profit is there for any of us to spy or become involved in treason? Visit our cells. True, we have a measure of comfort, but how can betraying Crown secrets advance any of us?’

  ‘Sharply said, Brother.’

  Kathryn stared at this young lay brother. I must remember, she reflected, you are not as witless as you pretend.

  ‘Is there anything,’ she asked, getting to her feet, ‘you can tell me about Atworth’s death?’

  ‘It is as we have said,’ the Prior replied. ‘Atworth was a good friar, a man of holy life. Whatever he did in his youth. He became ill and died. I have been down to the infirmary and scrutinised the account. You’re correct, Mistress. Brother Simon here will go on oath: Atworth suffered prolonged ailments of the stomach and often took minute grains of arsenic.’ He got up and sniffed loudly. ‘Mistress, how long will you stay here?’

  Kathryn smiled at the exasperation in his voice.

  ‘Why, Father Prior, I can’t say. I have a number of tasks.’ She ticked them off on her fingers. ‘I wish to examine the corpses of both Atworth and Gervase. I must interrogate the benefactors of these so-called miracles. I need to talk to you, Brother Jonquil, about your vision in the Lady Chapel. I would like the psalter Brother Roger wrote and illuminated sent to my chamber. But’ – Kathryn played with the bracelets on her wrist – ‘I must also drink, eat, and rest. Brother Jonquil, if you would show me to my chamber?’

  Kathryn left the Prior and infirmarian nonplussed.

  Jonquil led her out along a maze of corridors and porticoed passageways back to the guest-house. He explained there’d been only two other visitors: an English merchant from Southampton and a prioress on her way to Becket’s shrine. Kathryn took the key out of her pouch and unlocked the chamber door. She stared around. Nothing seemed disturbed, yet she was suspicious; the rug on the floor had been moved, whilst the bed coverlet looked disturbed, as if someone had been there.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ Jonquil asked, lighting the candles. ‘I will have food sent across from the refectory.’

  ‘Ask Brother Eadwig to bring it. You know’ – Kathryn smiled – ‘the one who serves Brother Timothy.’

  Jonquil agreed and left. Kathryn took off her shoes and loosened her dress. She washed her hands and face in the lavarium. By the time she had finished, Eadwig came clattering up, bearing a tray with a small jug of wine, an earthenware goblet, and a bowl.

  ‘Beef’ – he grinned – ‘it’s fresh! Diced in a mushroom sauce.’ He pointed to the next bowl. ‘And some vegetables straight from our garden. The bread is from tomorrow’s batch, so it’s soft and hot.’ He placed it on the table. ‘Is there anything else, Mistress?’

  ‘Just one thing.’ Kathryn opened her purse and slipped a coin into Eadwig’s hand. ‘No, keep it,’ Kathryn urged when Eadwig objected. ‘Please ask Brother Timothy at what hour he saw Gervase and if there was anything strange about him.’

  Eadwig looked surprised but agreed and left. Kathryn washed her horn spoon and sat down at the table. She filled the wine goblet and stared at the jug. It reminded her of that chamber at the Falstaff Inn. What had she heard that was out of place? Something troubled her. She tasted the wine. The friars had been generous; it was not the common stuff but the best Bordeaux. The food was equally delicious. Kathryn ate hungrily. Eadwig returned, clattering like a boy into the room.

  ‘About six o’clock!’ he shouted from the doorway.

  ‘And anything strange?’

  ‘No. Gervase walked across. He had his cowl up; that’s all Timothy can say. Don’t forget, Mistress, he is the Ancient One.’

  The lay brother mad
e to leave.

  ‘Tell me, Eadwig,’ Kathryn asked over her shoulder, ‘you saw the sub-prior walk around the friary?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘Did he ever have his cowl up?’

  ‘Oh no! We only do that as we process into church or if the weather is particularly cold.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  She bade Eadwig good-night, and he left, closing the door behind him. Kathryn refilled the wine goblet and stood by the window. Night was falling. She wondered how matters were in Ottemelle Lane. Thomasina would be protesting, but she would keep everything tight and secure . . .

  ‘Are you never coming home?’

  Kathryn nearly dropped the wine cup as she whirled round.

  Colum stood in the doorway, saddle-bags over his shoulder.

  ‘I am not supposed to be here.’ He grinned. ‘The guest master said no more than half an hour. Men and women are not supposed to share a chamber.’

  Kathryn came across. ‘Then what you have to do,’ she said playfully, ‘do quickly.’

  Colum put the saddle-bags on the floor and pulled her to him, kicking the door closed behind him. He kissed her roundly on the lips and cheeks. Kathryn, alarmed at a footfall on the stairs, pulled away.

  ‘I understand there has been a death,’ Colum said, backing away from her.

  Colum took up the saddle-bags and moved to the chair Kathryn offered. She told him what had happened. Colum whistled under his breath.

  ‘I have heard rumours in the Mercery. People are talking about it.’

  ‘Is everything well at Ottemelle Lane?’ Kathryn demanded.

  ‘Of course. Of course. Thomasina was upset at you not returning. Why can’t you, Kathryn? It’s only a walk away.’