by Paul Doherty
‘Then,’ Athelstan replied, clapping him on the shoulder, ‘you bring the food across from the refectory. Now, be a good fellow, check on our horses in the stables. Philomel, the old war horse, eats fit to burst!’ Athelstan looked slyly at Cranston. ‘And he’s not the only one! My Lord Coroner is a man with prodigious appetites. Make sure his trencher is well stacked.’
Norbert smiled and gave a gap-toothed grin.
‘And that mead,’ Cranston interrupted, sticking his thumbs into his belt, ‘I understand it’s very good for the gullet.’
‘Father Prior has already left a barrel, Sir John, for your use. There are jugs of wine and a small tun of beer in the buttery.’
‘Excellent! Excellent!’ Cranston murmured.
Athelstan watched the young servitor leave then slumped down at the kitchen table.
‘Sir John, what have we here?’ He laid out his parchment and pens on the table. ‘First, we have an Inner Chapter convoked to discuss theological matters. Brother Henry is debating these issues with Brothers Peter and Niall. The Inquisitors are present to sniff out heresy. Two other Dominicans, Alcuin and Callixtus, make cryptic remarks about the Inner Chapter being a waste of time. Callixtus falls from a ladder in the library, Alcuin disappears. There is a rumour that, although Brother Bruno had nothing to do with the Inner Chapter, he fell down the steps of the crypt at the very time Alcuin was supposed to be there. Brother Roger, a half-wit, claims there is something wrong in the church and talks about the number twelve or thirteen. Well, Sir John, what do you think?’
A loud snore greeted his declaration. Athelstan turned Cranston sat in the room’s one and only high-backed chair in front of the small fire, fast asleep, smiling and smacking his lips. Athelstan sighed and went across to make him more comfortable, stoking up the fire and going back to his notes He sat for an hour trying to make sense of what he had been told, whilst Cranston snored and, in the distance, Athelstan half-heard the tolling of the monastery bell calling the brothers to Divine service. The sun began to set. Cranston woke with a start and, patting his stomach, first visited the garde-robe, then went into the buttery to pour himself a jug of mead.
‘Not now, Sir John.’ Athelstan followed him in. ‘We have work to do.’
Cranston’s face was a study in self-pity. ‘Friar, I am thirsty.’
‘Sir John, we have work to do.’
‘Such as?’
‘Sir John, you are the coroner. You visit the scene of these crimes and the sooner we resolve the mysteries,’ Athelstan added hopefully, ‘the sooner we can resolve the secrets of the scarlet room.’
Cranston put down the tankard and smiled. ‘Brother Athelstan, you have my full attention.’
They went back to the cloisters. Athelstan vaguely remembered that the crypt was in a small passageway just off the north side of the church. The cloister garth was silent except for the buzzing of bees fluttering around the flowers growing near the tinkling water fountain. The small desks the brothers used for copying and writing had been pushed away. Athelstan recalled the long hours he used to spend here, taking advantage of the good daylight to copy out some learned tract. He paused. Brother Callixtus had been his mentor and Alcuin always had a penchant for theological writings. Had they seen something or studied some tract connected with the Inner Chapter? Athelstan stared at the small fountain. Blackfriars’ library was famous, containing manuscripts from all over western Europe, not just the writings of his order, but those of ancient philosophers as well as other theologians.
‘Come on, Athelstan!’ Cranston urged, nodding towards the great, iron-barred door. ‘The secrets of the crypt await us!’
Athelstan nodded and pushed the door open.
‘Steep steps,’ he muttered. ‘They fall away into the darkness. I used to think it was the entrance to hell.’ He pointed to a sconce torch just inside the door. ‘You have a tinder, Sir John, light that!’
The coroner obeyed and the resin-drenched torch spluttered into life.
‘Do that again, Sir John,’ Athelstan asked, closing the crypt door behind them.
He looked bemused. ‘For God’s sake, Brother, the torch is lit!’
‘No, do it again! Repeat the action!’
Cranston reluctantly obeyed. ‘What’s the matter, Brother?’
‘Well, let us try and visualise what Brother Bruno must have done. Look, Sir John, the top step is broad and safe. The torch is in the wall as you close the door behind you. Brother Bruno would turn, as you did, to light that torch. Now the top step, as I have said, is broad; there’s enough space for someone to be waiting behind the door. Bruno comes in, and turns. Like you he would be half-off balance as he stretches to light the torch.’
‘So,’ Cranston interrupted, ‘you are saying someone was lurking here in the darkness and gave the old man a violent push, thinking he was Alcuin?’
‘Yes, I am.’
Athelstan carefully took the torch out of its iron bracket and held it out against the blackness, making the shadows dance on the steep steps falling away beneath them. Athelstan pointed to the iron hand-rail.
‘When I was a novice here, everyone was frightened of these steep, sharp-edged steps. That’s why the hand-rail was put in No man, especially an old one, even someone like Alcuin, could survive such a fall.’
‘But Alcuin was not pushed,’ Cranston observed. ‘Poor Bruno was. Admittedly the wrong man, but the question still remains – why was someone waiting for Alcuin? And why would Alcuin come here? You studied at Blackfriars Athelstan?’
Athelstan smiled as he replaced the torch in its iron bracket and re-opened the door. ‘A very good point, Sir John: the crypt was often used for secret meetings. You know, the petty squabbles and factions in any community, not to mention the illicit relationships which can grow up between men committed to celibacy.’
‘That went on here?’ Cranston muttered, closing the crypt door behind him.
Athelstan took him gently by the elbow, guiding him back into the fading sunlight of the cloister garden.
‘Stranger things than that, Sir John, but now we are looking for a murderer.’
‘It could still have been an accident,’ Cranston observed.
‘That would depend on two things. First, can we find any connection between Alcuin and the crypt? Whom was he going to meet there? Second, when Bruno’s body was found was that sconce torch lit? If it wasn’t, that means he was pushed just as he struck the tinder; the murderer had to act quickly or he would have been discovered. All he would see was one shadowy figure. How easy to give one violent push and then disappear.’
Cranston eased the cramp from his neck and shivered. So quiet, so peaceful, he thought; Blackfriars was so different from the city with its whitewashed walls, clean passageways, flower-filled gardens, tinkling fountains, and the sound of melodious voices chanting God’s praises. Yet the same emotions ran as strong here as in the alleyways off Cheapside. Lust, envy, jealousy, greed, and even murder. They both stood aside as the door of the church opened and the monks, hands concealed in the voluminous sleeves of their gowns, cowls pulled well over their heads, filed out in anonymous silence back to the refectory. Cranston raised his head like a hunting dog and sniffed the breeze. He patted his stomach and licked his lips.
‘Food!’ he murmured. ‘Venison, Brother. Fresh, tender, and spiced with rosemary.’
‘In a while, Sir John.’
Athelstan clutched him by the wrist and waited until the monks filed by before leading Cranston into the incense-filled church. Sunlight still played on the coloured glass windows, filling the darkness with faint streaks of light. The incense clouds from the sanctuary seeped down the nave like fragrant perfume. Athelstan felt the holy stillness as if the very air had been consecrated by the brothers’ singing.
They went up the nave and under the elaborately carved rood screen into the sanctuary. Athelstan stared round, marvelling at the sheer beauty of the multi-coloured marble floor, alabaster steps and the huge, high
altar hewn out of the costliest marble supported by pillars whose cornices were covered in thick gold leaf. Candlesticks of massed silver stood on the white silk altar cloth. High in the wall an exquisite rose window sill shone in the dying sun’s light. Athelstan looked at the heavily carved stalls on either side of the sanctuary where the brothers assembled to sing Divine Office. He remembered his own days there, standing half-asleep, chanting the psalms at Matins. Above the altar hung a heavy black cross suspended from the beams by chains of pure gold. In the apse to the back of the altar, beneath the rose window, were carved niches, some of them filled by life-sized statues of the apostles.
‘This is not St Erconwald’s,’ Cranston murmured, staring in amazement at the silent beauty of the sanctuary. ‘Poetry in stone and marble,’ he added. ‘But did Alcuin die here?’
Athelstan blinked as if he had allowed the serenity of the church to obliterate his reason for coming here.
‘How many entrances are there?’ Cranston asked harshly.
‘Only two,’ Athelstan replied. ‘The one we came through,’ he pointed to the main door, ‘and one from the sanctuary.’
‘No trap doors or secret passageways?’
‘None whatsoever, and Father Prior said that both doors were locked. Alcuin apparently wished to be alone.’
‘And where would he go?’
Athelstan beckoned and led him round the high altar. A scarlet carpet lay spread behind, on each corner of it a stout wooden pillar.
‘What are those for?’ Cranston asked.
‘When a brother dies, the coffin is placed on those pillars above the red carpet,’ Athelstan replied. ‘The corpse has to rest before the altar for one entire day and night. The Requiem mass is sung.’ Athelstan tapped the sanctuary floor with his foot. ‘After that the coffin is lowered into the huge vault beneath.’
‘Could Alcuin have been thrown into the vault?’
‘I doubt it. Remember, Bruno’s coffin was lowered there. Our lay brothers may not be the brightest of people but they would certainly notice the corpse of one of their brethren lying about.’ Athelstan pointed to the prie-dieu and stared round, taking in the life-sized statues standing in their niches. ‘This is the last place Alcuin was seen alive,’ he murmured. ‘Father Prior is certain he went into the church. But what happened then?’
His half-whisper sounded eerie in the silence and Cranston, despite the beauty of the church, felt a shiver of menace.
‘I don’t know, Brother,’ he replied, ‘I really don’t. But I feel we are standing at the mouth of the Valley of Death!’
CHAPTER 6
Athelstan and Cranston stood for a while discussing the possibilities behind Alcuin’s disappearance before walking back into the main area of the sanctuary.
‘I am hungry,’ Cranston mumbled.
‘You’re always hungry. There’s something else you have got to see before we eat.’
Sir John pulled his face into a sulk like a little boy who has been refused a sweetmeat.
‘My Lord Coroner,’ Athelstan continued patiently, ‘you have been called here to investigate. So what does a coroner do?’
Cranston leaned against the wall.
‘Views the corpse,’ he said out of the corner of his mouth. ‘What do you suggest, Athelstan, dig up Brother Bruno?’
‘No, but Callixtus lies waiting for burial.’
‘Come on, Athelstan,’ Cranston mumbled. ‘First work, then eat!’
They left the church and walked back through the cloisters to the refectory where an old lay brother stood on duty. Athelstan beckoned him over.
‘My apologies,’ he whispered. ‘But be so courteous as to go and tell Father Prior that Sir John Cranston needs to view Brother Callixtus’s body.’
The lay brother looked surprised but, at Athelstan’s urging, went into the refectory. Athelstan stood by the half-open door, watching the candlelight set the shadows flickering. He listened to the lector read from the lives of the saints as the rest of the community ate their silent meal, the serenity broken only by the clatter of pots and the patter of sandalled feet.
The lay brother returned.
‘Father Prior has agreed to your request,’ he announced. ‘Brother Callixtus lies in the infirmary and I have to take you there.’
The infirmary stood a slight distance from the rest of the buildings. A brother, his robes covered by a white apron, greeted them and took them to the back of the building where a small lime-washed room served as a mortuary.
‘We have done what we can,’ the infirmarian muttered. ‘Brother Callixtus will be buried on Saturday.’
He waved them over to the lonely table covered by a white, purple-edged pall. Athelstan drew back the sheet. Callixtus’s body had been washed and dressed in the full robes of a Dominican monk yet the manner of his death was obvious: his thin, sour face was covered in purple-black bruises. Athelstan studied the pinched features. Already the nose had sharpened, the cheeks were more hollow, the eyes sunken into their sockets. He felt a surge of compassion as he remembered Callixtus in his prime, with his sharp brain and sardonic sense of humour. He carefully studied the gash which scarred the temple of the dead friar. The embalmer had done his best but Athelstan saw how deep the gash was, sharp and broad like a furrow in a field.
‘Brother!’ he called out. ‘Did you collect Callixtus’s corpse from the library?’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘And he had struck his head against the stones or some sharp object?’
‘He was just lying on the floor.’
‘What have you found?’ Cranston came closer. He felt a little nauseous. His stomach was empty and his nose wrinkled at the sour smell of the room.
‘Look, Sir John. Brother Callixtus’s fall bruised his face and head, but I suspect that this is the death wound.’ He pointed to the gash in Callixtus’s temple.
Athelstan folded the sheet back over the corpse. ‘What I am saying,’ he whispered, ‘is that Callixtus fell but then he was struck by something sharp. Oh.’ Athelstan turned to the infir-marian. ‘When you removed Brother Bruno’s corpse from the crypt, was the torch alight?’
‘Of course. The place is as black as night. Alcuin discovered the corpse. Ah!’ The infirmarian’s fingers flew to his lips. ‘Yes, I thought that was strange.’
‘What was?’
‘Alcuin discovered the corpse, but only after he himself had lit the torch. I remember him saying that.’ The infirmarian’s face creased in puzzlement. ‘So what was Bruno doing, staggering around in that pit of blackness?’
‘Only Alcuin can answer that,’ Cranston replied tersely. He stared at Athelstan. ‘Which means the mystery of Bruno’s death lies with a man who has now disappeared!’
They thanked the infirmarian. Athelstan made the waiting lay brother take them to the library and, despite the man’s protests, ordered all the candles to be lit. Athelstan went across to the long, narrow ladder which stretched up to the darkened shelves. He tried to ignore Cranston’s murmurs of admiration: the room held sweet memories for Athelstan. Here at the tables, in one of the finest libraries in the kingdom, he had studied as a young monk. The rich smell of leather and the sweet perfume of freshly cured manuscripts were deeply nostalgic and brought a lump to his throat. Yet it was here that Athelstan had made his decision to leave the monastery and take his brother to serve in the King’s wars in France. He stared quickly around. Were there ghosts here? he wondered. That of his brother, or of his parents who later died of a broken heart? Athelstan blinked furiously and grasped the ladder.
‘You see, Sir John, Callixtus climbed up here. He slipped and fell.’ Athelstan pointed at the floor. ‘The paving stones are even, there’s no sharp object. Sir John, would you help the lay brother gather all the candlesticks together?’
‘Why?’ Cranston queried. ‘Brother, what on earth are you doing?’
Athelstan held up a finger. ‘Reflect and think,’ he said. ‘I am applying the very lesson you taught me. Callixt
us’s head was smashed by a sharp object. Apart from the corners of tables and stools, the only sharp and heavy objects in this library are the candlesticks.’
Sir John shrugged and helped a bemused lay brother move all the candlesticks into the centre of one of the long study tables.
‘He could have struck himself on the side of a table,’ Cranston protested.
Athelstan stood by the ladder and shook his head.
‘Nonsense, Sir John. The library shelves are on one side of the scriptorium, the tables on the other. If you fell from the top of this ladder, you would hit only the floor.’ Athelstan grinned. ‘We could always find out.’
‘That ladder wouldn’t take my weight,’ Cranston muttered, slamming the candlesticks down.
At last Cranston finished and Athelstan went over to a large oaken cupboard just inside the scriptorium door. He rummaged amongst the shelves, moving ink horns and rolls of parchment until he found a small wooden box and took out a large rounded piece of glass.
‘What’s that?’ Cranston asked as Athelstan came back to the table.
‘It’s a glass which magnifies, Sir John. We often use it in the study of manuscripts where the letters are faded, cramped or small. A subtle device used by the Arabs. Watch!’ Athelstan held the glass near the base of one of the candlesticks and Cranston exclaimed in pleasure at the way it magnified the thick metal rim. ‘Now,’ Athelstan said. He took each candlestick in turn, using the massed lights to examine each of the holders carefully.
The lay brother fidgeted anxiously.
‘There’s been a lot of wax spilt on the floor,’ he complained.
‘Then clear it up!’ Cranston barked.
The man scurried away and Athelstan continued his study.
‘Ah!’ He pulled out one candlestick and offered the glass to Sir John. ‘Take a look, my Lord Coroner, and you will see murder staring you in the face.’
Cranston obeyed.
‘By the tits!’ he murmured. He squatted even closer. ‘Flecks of blood,’ he muttered. ‘Bits of hair.’
Athelstan took both glass and candlestick. ‘Callixtus’s blood, Callixtus’s hair. That poor friar didn’t fall from the ladder. He was pushed and then finished off with this candlestick. Extinguish the lights!’ Athelstan ordered the lay brother. ‘And put everything back as we found it. I thank you for your assistance. Father Prior will be told.’