“Jocelyn worked for the Pope?” queried Roger.
“Our Holy Father means the Pope, yes,” said the Prior with sickly condescension. “And Jocelyn learned his fine hand from the best copyists in the world.”
Geoffrey was beginning to dislike the arrogant Prior. Jocelyn was one of the man’s brethren, yet the Prior seemed remarkably casual about his murder. How was Geoffrey to solve the mystery of poor John’s untimely death if the witnesses were as complacent as was the Prior?
“And what of Sir Guido, who was also found foully murdered within the lands under your jurisdiction. How do you explain that away? Be careful how you answer: the Advocate does not like liars.”
The Prior looked sharply at Geoffrey, and some of the haughtiness went out of his manner. Although the Prior came under the protection of the Patriarch, there was no point in making an enemy of the Advocate. And, the Prior decided, there was something more to Sir Geoffrey Mappestone than to most of the unruly, illiterate bullies at the citadel.
“I found the dead knight three days before Jocelyn died,” he replied. “I often walk the grounds here early in the morning—they are cool and silent, and I like to reflect on the pleasures of God’s paradise in Heaven.”
More like the pleasures of God’s paradise on Earth, thought Geoffrey, noting the Prior’s handsome collection of rings and his fine robe of thin silk.
“And what did you find, as you so reflected?”
“I saw a man lying under one of the trees behind the Dome. I thought he was yet another of your number sleeping off a night of debauchery, but then I saw there was a knife in his back. I called for help, but there was nothing we could do. The man was quite dead. The Advocate’s soldiers came with a cart and took him away.”
“And the knife?”
“They took that too. It was a great ugly thing with a wicked curved blade and ostentatious jewels in the handle. I asked my monks if they had heard or seen anything during the night, but none of them had. I have no idea how the knight—Sir Guido—came to be killed here or why.”
“Had you seen him before?”
The Prior hesitated. “No.”
“If you do not want to tell me the truth here, we can always discuss it at the citadel,” said Geoffrey, keeping his face devoid of expression. He had no authority to threaten one of the Patriarch’s priests with arrest, but it seemed the Prior did not know that. The man paled, glanced at Roger, and flicked his tongue nervously over dry lips.
“I am not certain you understand,” he said, putting a beringed hand to his breast, “but I think he came here on occasion to walk. The Dome is very fine, and the courtyard and gardens here are most pleasant in which to stroll.”
“And how many times did he come?”
The Prior gave him an unpleasant look. “Recently, two or three times a week.”
“Did he meet anyone here. Did you ever see anyone with him?”
The Prior shook his head. “Never. He was always alone. He looked … bereaved.”
Guido had been bereaved. Geoffrey, being one of a mere handful of knights who were literate, had read a letter to Guido two months before telling him his wife had died after a long illness. So, if the Prior was telling the truth, which Geoffrey thought he probably was, Guido came to the peace of the Dome of the Rock to mourn, away from the raucous atmosphere of the citadel.
“Do many knights come here?”
The Prior shook his head. “Not really. Perhaps they feel it is still too mosquelike to be a church.”
In view of Roger’s words moments before, Geoffrey imagined that must be true, although attending any church—mosquelike or otherwise—was not a high priority on the entertainment lists of most knights.
“It is a pity it is underused,” he said, looking up at the delicate latticework around the gallery. “It is a very fine building. Peaceful, too.”
The Prior softened somewhat. “It is peaceful. Much more so than the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. That is said to be the holiest place in Christendom, but it has the atmosphere of a marketplace.”
Geoffrey had to agree. They spoke a while longer and took their leave, stepping out from the cool of marble into the blazing heat of midday that hit them like a hammer. The light reflected from the white paving stones around the Dome and almost blinded them. Eyes screwed up against the glare, they walked back the way they had come and headed for the market near St. Stephen’s Street, where Brother Pius had died in the house of a butcher.
“That first monk we spoke to was scared to death,” said Roger. “Still, at least you persuaded them both to tell the truth in the end.”
Geoffrey began to assess what the Prior had told them.
“So Brother Jocelyn went missing the night before he died—he did not sleep in his own bed. And he was nervous and irritable all that day. It sounds to me as if he knew he was in some danger. Which means he also knew why.” Deep in thought, Geoffrey drummed his fingers on the hilt of his sword as they walked. “So he was obviously involved in something sinister. Perhaps something he learned from his duties as scribe.”
“Perhaps he had planned to go whoring the night he died, and was nervous and irritable the day before because it was a risky thing for a monk to do,” suggested Roger practically.
It was possible, Geoffrey supposed. But it did not explain why Jocelyn had died. Unless his killer was a prostitute who went round murdering knights and monks using daggers with jewelled hilts. He sighed, and thought about their next visit—to the scene of Pius’s murder in the house of a butcher in the Greek Quarter.
“Brother Pius, the third to die, was a Cluniac from Spain. As far as is known, he had never been to France, had nothing to do with John or Guido, and did not work for Bohemond.”
“Here! Wait a minute,” said Roger aggressively, stopping in his tracks and spinning round to face Geoffrey. “What are you implying? Just because you are Tancred’s man, doesn’t mean to say …”
“Easy!” said Geoffrey, raising his hands against Roger’s tirade. “I am not saying Bohemond is responsible, only that it is possible that these deaths might be an attack against him—John and Guido were in his service, and now we know Jocelyn occasionally acted as scribe for him.” He took Roger’s arm and began walking again. “It is the only real clue we have so far. We must look into it.”
Roger conceded reluctantly, and they walked the short distance to the Greek market. Trading in the street dedicated to selling meat was beginning to slow down in readiness for the usual period of rest during the heat of the afternoon. The air was black with the buzz of flies, and the smell of congealing blood and sun-baked meat was so powerful that Geoffrey felt he dared not inhale. He tried to breathe through his mouth like Roger, but this meant he could taste the foulness in the air as well as smell it, which made it far worse. They located the stall of the goat butcher who had discovered the corpse of Brother Pius easily enough: Tancred’s scribes had written that Yusef Akira’s shop was the one with the oldest, blackest bloodstains in front of it, and possessed the filthiest canopy. It was not difficult to identify.
Resisting the urge to wrap a cloth around his mouth and nose, Geoffrey entered the shop. It was little more than a windowless cave, with several ominous hooks in the ceiling above a gently shelving floor with a hole in the middle. Geoffrey thought his eyes were playing tricks when the floor seemed to move, but a closer inspection indicated that it was crawling with flies and maggots feasting on the drying blood. Fletcher, who had followed him in, beat a hasty retreat, and even Roger stood only in the doorway and would not enter. Geoffrey shifted his feet uncomfortably and longed to leave. He saw his dog chewing on something enthusiastically, and hoped whatever it was would not make him ill. The dog was not pleasant when it was unwell.
In the midst of the filth, a man sat on a stool with his back against the wall to draw on its coolness. He snored softly with his mouth agape, oblivious to the flies that crawled across his face. Geoffrey kicked gently at the stool and watched Yusef Akira r
eturn slowly to the land of the living, accompanied by some of the most disgusting noises known to man. Akira drew a grubby hand across his jowls and eyed the knights blearily.
“What do you want?” he slurred in Greek. “Bit o’lean meat? I got some nice stuff round the back.”
“No,” said Geoffrey quickly, also in Greek, not wanting to venture farther into Akira’s domain. “We need information about the death of Brother Pius.”
“Oh, that,” said Akira, turning sullen. “It’ll cost you.”
“It will cost you if you do not answer our questions,” said Geoffrey, hooking one foot under the leg of Akira’s stool and tipping it over. Akira tumbled to the floor and then leapt to his feet with his hands balled into fists. He took one good look at Geoffrey’s chain mail and sword, made a quick and prudent decision, and became ingratiating.
“What do you want to know? I already spoke to the Patriarch’s men.”
“I am aware of that,” said Geoffrey mildly. “But now you will talk to me. Tell me what happened three weeks ago when you discovered the body.”
“Oh it was a revolting thing,” Akira began in a howl. Geoffrey braced himself, wondering what could revolt Akira more than the living hell of his business premises. “I comes from me bed chamber upstairs, and there he was, dead on me floor.” He gestured with his hand to indicate where the body had lain near the door.
“How did Pius come to be there?”
“He was dead!” wailed Akira. “With a great carved knife sticking out of his back.”
“But how did this happen?” pressed Geoffrey. “How did he come to be dead in your …” He gestured around him, wondering what word would best describe it.
“How do I know?” said Akira belligerently. “Old Akira was asleep all night. I comes downstairs at dawn to prepare me shop, and there he was.”
“Was the door open? Did you lock it before you went to bed?”
“’Course I locked it,” said Akira indignantly. “I got valuable stock here. The door was open—ajar—when I came downstairs that morning. And that monk was here, bleeding all over me floor.”
Geoffrey glanced down at the floor involuntarily, and forced his eyes away before his mind could register its horrors. “Had you met Brother Pius before?”
Akira’s eyes became sly. “Maybe, and maybe not.”
“And maybe I will ram your head down that hole in the floor if you do not answer,” said Geoffrey sweetly.
Akira considered. Geoffrey was a tall man and looked strong and fit. Akira decided he could probably do what he threatened. “Yes,” he said reluctantly. “Brother Pius came to buy meat every Monday. He lived with four other monks next to the Church of St. Mary. I didn’t know him well, you understand, but I recognised him.”
“And what of this dagger in his back?”
“Now there was a curious thing,” said Akira. “It was a lovely item indeed. I sees it before I recognises Pius. I was quite shook by finding a corpse on my floor, so I runs out into the street to raise the alarm, thinking to retrieve the dagger later. It would help me greatly in me business, to have a good cutting implement like that. But while I was out raising the alarm, someone comes in and steals it.”
“Did you see who it might have been?”
“I did not,” said Akira vehemently. “Or old Akira would have paid him a visit and got the dagger back. The monk would have wanted me to have it, don’t you think?”
Geoffrey was sure such a consideration would not have crossed Pius’ mind, and if it had, the monk would doubtless not have felt comfortable that the weapon used to murder him should be applied with equal vigour to herds of goats.
Gratefully, Geoffrey escaped from the stench of the meat market to the peaceful street in which the Church of St. Mary, Pius’s home, stood. Fletcher ran a hand across his brow.
“That place is enough to turn a man to eating grass,” he said. “I am going to question the citadel cooks, and if any meat comes from that man, I shall refuse to eat it.”
Geoffrey laughed, and pushed open the great door of the church. He could still smell the meat market in the air around him, and wondered if that was why his dog was winding so enthusiastically around his legs. Inside, the church was silent, and he saw a line of monks standing in front of the altar. One of them turned at the sound of someone entering, and came to greet them. Geoffrey, steeling himself for more unpleasant interviewing, was taken aback when the monk smiled in a friendly way and offered them some wine.
“We have come to ask about Brother Pius,” he said, wondering if the offer would be revoked when the nature of their visit became clear.
“Poor Pius,” said the Cluniac monk, speaking Norman French and shaking his head sadly. “His death was a great loss to us. There are so very few Cluniacs in Jerusalem, you see, and he was invaluable to us in many ways.”
“I am sorry for your loss,” said Geoffrey gently. “But you understand it is important we discover who killed Pius, and why, and I must ask you some questions.”
The elderly monk’s eyes glittered with tears, but he nodded acquiescence.
Geoffrey smiled encouragingly at him. “What can you tell me about Brother Pius’s death?”
“Only that he was found dead in the house of a local butcher,” said the monk. “I do not know how he came to be there in the middle of the night. When we saw he was missing from the dormitory, we assumed he was praying in the church until a messenger came to tell us he was dead. Pius often had difficulty in sleeping, and he frequently came to the church in the night when he was restless.”
“What of Pius himself? What was he like? Did he have many acquaintances outside your community here?”
“Not that I know of,” replied the monk, reaching out to refill Roger’s goblet. “We tend to keep to ourselves, as far away from the disputes and quarrels of the Church as possible. We are just grateful to be here in this Holy City, and we do not wish to spend our time in useless rivalries and arguments.”
“Could he write?” asked Geoffrey, wondering if Pius, like Jocelyn, might have acted as an occasional scribe.
The monk smiled and shook his head. “Not at all. Not even his name. He preferred the more physical labours to the intellectual ones. He usually worked in the kitchens and did all the cleaning and cooking. We have not had a clean house or a decent meal since he died.” The tears sparkled again, and he looked away.
“He came from Ripoll,” said Geoffrey. “Are any other of your brethren from Spain?”
The Cluniac shook his head. “We are all from France. Pius was the only Spaniard. We met with him on the journey here from Constantinople in 1098.”
The monk could tell them nothing more, and reluctantly Geoffrey led the way out of the cool shade of the church and into the sun. The day was at its hottest, and the streets were deserted except for the occasional animal and, of course, the flies. The dog whined piteously, and Helbye and Fletcher began to walk more and more slowly. Geoffrey’s shirt under his chain mail was soaking, and it began to rub. He considered stopping at one of the refreshment houses until the heat began to fade, but despite its considerable size, Jerusalem was in many ways a small community, and word that the Advocate was now investigating the curious murders of two knights and three monks would soon be all over the city. Geoffrey had a strong feeling that he should question the witnesses to the two remaining deaths as quickly as possible. If Hugh was correct and there was some kind of conspiracy, Geoffrey might never unravel the mystery if he allowed the culprits time to consolidate their stories.
Ignoring the sighs and exaggerated panting of Helbye, Fletcher, and the dog, he walked briskly along the empty streets toward the house where he had seen the body of John the previous day. Their footsteps echoed in the eerily silent roads, and Geoffrey was aware that their progress was being watched surreptitiously from the windows of the houses they passed. Since so few people were out, four armed men on foot in the heart of the city was an unusual sight.
The sun blazed down with
such ferocity that the ground felt uncomfortably hot even through thick-soled boots, and the dust, which had been a minor irritation before, now filled their mouths and noses and gritted unpleasantly between their teeth. Geoffrey’s throat became sore and dry, and he thought about goblets of cool, clear water. He saw Roger’s face streaked with dust and sweat, and suspected he was imagining the same.
Eventually, they came to the street where they had encountered the commotion the day before. It was deserted, although Geoffrey sensed that they were being observed with interest from several houses. He led the way to the home of the woman he had arrested, and knocked at the door. Helbye was uneasy and stood with his back to the wall and his hand on the hilt of his sword. His anxiety was transmitting itself to Fletcher, who fingered the dagger in his belt with unsteady hands.
No such fears assailed Roger, who pushed past Geoffrey to hammer on the door with the pommel of his dagger. Geoffrey cringed, only too aware that they were on dangerous ground, given the events of the day before. Just as he was considering cutting their losses and visiting the scene where the last of the victims was killed, the door opened and Melisende Mikelos stood in front of them. She was attired in the same widow’s dress that she had worn the previous day, but this time her hair was covered by a neat black veil, giving her the appearance of a nun. Geoffrey, recalling how roughly he had handled her, hoped she was not.
“What do you want?” she asked in Greek, eyeing Geoffrey with dislike. “I have no wish to speak with you.”
“I would like to ask you some questions about the knight who died here,” said Geoffrey, as politely as he could. He guessed instinctively that she was not a person who could be browbeaten into telling him what he wanted to know, especially given the spectacular proof of her innocence the day before.
She gazed at him in disbelief. “You could have done that yesterday,” she said, once she had regained her composure. “Instead, you chose to hustle me away, cause the death of three of my neighbours, and bring about a riot.”
01 - Murder in the Holy City Page 7