by Paul Doherty
Carrying the candlestick, Athelstan led Cranston back to the guest house where Brother Norbert was busy laying the table. He looked at the candlestick in surprise and opened his mouth to ask questions but Cranston gripped him tightly by the shoulder.
‘Brother,’ he growled, ‘my belly is as empty as a whore’s purse! I need victuals. Good meat, bread, and some of that mead.’
He pushed his white-whiskered face so close to that of the young novice that Norbert must have suspected Sir John was considering eating him; he almost ran from the guest house and, by the time Athelstan had come down from the upper chamber, had returned with bowls of steaming meat, loaves fresh from the ovens, wrapped in napkins, and two large pewter tankards. He placed the meal on the table and scurried out.
‘Come on, Athelstan,’ Cranston muttered, sitting down and handing out the dishes. ‘I am going to eat mine. And if I finish before you do, I’ll start on yours!’
They ate and drank in silence until Cranston leaned back, gently burped and beamed at his clerk who sat staring down at the table, lost in his own reverie.
‘So, Athelstan, I have surmised it’s murder.’ Cranston gestured at the small barrel of mead. ‘Another tankard and I’ll take the benefit of your advice.’
Athelstan, smiling to himself, refilled the tankard for the third time. At least Sir John would sleep well tonight, Athelstan thought.
‘Well?’ Cranston asked.
‘First, My Lord Coroner, I believe Bruno’s death was an accident in the sense that Alcuin should have been the one who was pushed down the stairs. Secondly, I think Alcuin’s dead, but only the good Lord knows where his body has been hidden or how and why he was killed. Thirdly, Callixtus was definitely murdered. Fourthly, all these deaths and disappearances are connected with the matter now before the Inner Chapter. Finally, I believe Callixtus was looking for something in the library. Though, again, God knows what!’
‘Not much there,’ Cranston grumbled, wiping his lips on the back of his hand. ‘So, Brother, what else can we do?’
‘Well, it’s far too late to ask where everyone was, but what I can do is request Father Prior to conduct a thorough search of the cells of both Prior Alcuin and Callixtus. Perhaps something may be found. Yet I tell you this, Sir John, there may be other murders.’ He paused and looked away. ‘I’m never free of it, am I, John?’
Cranston looked at him pityingly. ‘Athelstan, you know the human spirit. You are a priest. You sit in confession and listen as others pour out their sins. Ever since Cain picked up the jawbone of an ass to slay his brother, you’ll find murder where men and women, whatever their status or condition, mix and strive for power. Look.’ He rose, pushing back his chair.
‘We have done what we can about Father Prior’s problem. Come on, Athelstan, I’ve just over a week to resolve my Lord of Gaunt’s puzzle.’
Athelstan rubbed his eyes. ‘Sir John, I am tired. I’ve yet to finish Divine Office and there’s the business at St Erconwald’s.’
‘Nonsense!’ Cranston slapped his thigh. ‘It will do you good. Let’s go back to our bedchamber.’
Athelstan sighed, extinguished the oil lamps, made sure the fire was carefully banked, took a candle and followed Sir John up into the darkened chamber.
‘Come on, monk, light the candles!’
Athelstan obeyed and the room flared into life.
‘Now,’ Cranston continued, ‘let’s pretend this is the scarlet chamber.’ He went across to where Athelstan had placed the document outlining the mystery and quickly read it. ‘We have a bed, a stool, a table and a window, very similar to this.’ Cranston closed the door. ‘We are told there’s no secret passageway. No one entered, no food or drink were served. So, how did they die?’
Cranston went across to the window. ‘The first man is found dead leaning against the window, so terrified his nails dug into the wood.’
Athelstan sat on the bed and, despite his tiredness, tried to humour Sir John.
‘There’s no mark of violence on the corpse,’ he said.
‘Good!’ Cranston murmured.
‘The second victim,’ Athelstan continued, ‘was found sprawled on the floor near the bed. Come on, Sir John, act the part.’
Cranston obeyed, sprawling on the floor.
‘Again,’ Athelstan murmured, ‘no mark of violence, no one had entered the room, no poisoned food or drink were served.’ Athelstan stood up and brought his stool close to Cranston’s bed. ‘Now, Sir John, the last two deaths. I am the man sitting on the stool, you lie on the bed pretending you have a loaded crossbow in your hands.’
Cranston obeyed.
‘Now, Sir John, jump up quickly and loose an arrow straight at my chest. As you rise from the bed, I get up from the stool.’
They played out the mime like actors, then stared at each other in exasperation.
‘You’ve got nowhere,’ Cranston moaned.
‘Could it have been something on the fire or the candles?’ Athelstan queried.
‘I thought of that,’ Cranston replied. ‘But, remember, when the second person died, the priest from the village, no candles were lit and the fire had died.’
‘It’s the last two deaths which concern me,’ Athelstan declared at Cranston’s pleading look. ‘Let’s act it out again, Sir John. Lie on the bed.’
Cranston obeyed. Athelstan sat on the stool and leaned against the wall.
‘What,’ he asked, ‘woke that archer? What terrified him so much that he killed his comrade before it killed him? Most professional bowmen will shoot at a moment’s prompting. That’s how the archer’s comrade died. As mathematicians say, there must be a common denominator, something which links both deaths. We must not confuse the issues. Don’t you agree, Sir John?’
A loud snore greeted his words. Athelstan stood up in disbelief. Cranston lay sprawled on his back, a smile on his red face. He lay like a child, lost to the world. Athelstan pulled off the coroner’s boots, undid his belt and tried to make him as comfortable as possible. He blew out the candles and went to kneel beside his own bed, crossing himself as he tried to chant the evening prayer of the church, but it was almost impossible. His mind twisted and turned from one problem to another: Brother Roger’s simple face; Callixtus, cold and dead; the inquisitors with their malevolent, accusing eyes; Cranston’s insoluble problem; the chaos outside St Erconwald’s church; and then Benedicta, beautiful in her loneliness. Athelstan shook his head, crossed himself and lay down on his bed, praying for sleep to come.
He woke early the next morning, Cranston still snoring like a pig on the other bed. The Dominican quietly shaved, washed and donned a clean set of robes, slipping his feet into thonged sandals. He crept out of the guest house and across the mist-shrouded grounds, answering the muffled tones of the bell tolling for lauds. Athelstan joined the community in the stalls of the choir. The monks chanted their psalms and listened to the readings, arms folded, heads down, though Athelstan sensed their curiosity about his presence. He celebrated mass in a small chantry chapel and tried to concentrate on the mystery of changing the bread and wine into the body and blood of Christ.
Brother Norbert acted as altar server and afterwards helped him put away the vestments and sacred vessels. Athelstan then went across to the refectory for a bowl of oats, milk and honey and two fresh rolls of the whitest bread. He remembered some of his meagre breakfasts at St Erconwald’s and smiled as he sipped the watered ale. He sat at the table, just within the doorway, specially reserved for visitors and guests. From the lectern at the top of the refectory a sleepy reader droned through the life of St Dominic until Father Prior rang the bell and the community rose and dispersed to their different tasks. Athelstan kept his eyes down.
‘You are well, Brother?’
He looked up. Henry of Winchester stood beside him.
‘As well as can be expected. Do sit down.’
The young theologian slipped on to the bench next to him. Athelstan noticed how lithe and quick he was in his mo
vements. Henry had a physical grace and ease which neatly complemented his keen intellect.
‘Your investigations are going well?’
Athelstan made a face. ‘I’ll tell you later, Brother, when I have reported to Father Prior. And your treatise?’ Athelstan continued.
‘“Cur Deus Homo – Why God Became Man”.’
‘If the Inner Chapter declares for you, your work will be studied at every university in Europe.’ Athelstan nudged him playfully. ‘And what next, eh, Brother Henry? A bishopric? A cardinal’s hat? A place in the Curia?’
Henry of Winchester laughed softly and turned away, playing with the crumbs on the table.
‘I’ll be pleased just to win the approval of the Master Inquisitor. If I had known my work would have caused such a stir, I might have thought again. You have read my treatise?’
Athelstan shook his head.
Brother Henry looked up at the refectory and grimaced as Father Prior moved towards them.
‘Then I’ll send a copy across to the guest house. Please read it, I would value your opinion.’
The theologian rose, nodded and strode away just as Father Prior, folding back the sleeves of his gown, joined Athelstan.
‘You slept well, Brother?’
Athelstan allowed the fixed smile he had reserved for Brother Henry to fade from his face.
‘Father Prior,’ he whispered, leaning across the table, ‘I want you to search amongst the possessions of Brothers Callixtus and Alcuin. You have the power and authority to do this. If you find anything untoward then please let me see it.’
The prior looked sharply at him. ‘Why?’
‘You were right to bring me here, Father. Callixtus was murdered, beaten over the head with a candlestick. Bruno was killed, and God knows where the corpse of poor Alcuin is hidden!’
The prior’s face paled. He put his head in his hands and rubbed his eyes.
‘You are sure?’
‘As God is my witness, Prior. You shelter an assassin here at Blackfriars. I want that search carried out, and the Inner Chapter must assemble this afternoon so I can present my conclusions to them.’
‘Must a man starve to death?’ Cranston stood in the doorway and bellowed round the refectory, making one of the old friars almost jump out of his skin. ‘By a fairy’s tits!’ He glared at Athelstan. ‘I wake cold and hungry to find you gone and no food served!’
Father Prior raised his hand, clicked his fingers and a servitor appeared with a tray bearing a bowl of deliciously fragrant lamb broth, a pile of white bread rolls and a flagon of ale. Cranston almost snatched the tray from the poor man and slumped down next to Athelstan. The coroner gazed round the refectory, tapping his ponderous girth. He saw Athelstan’s grin, the prior’s astonishment, and the round-eyed amazement of the other brothers.
‘Hell’s teeth!’ Cranston muttered. ‘I forgot about your vow of silence!’
He sniffed the meat and beamed round.
‘Ah, well, apologies to all. Morning, Father Prior, Brother Athelstan.’ He picked up the large horn spoon and attacked the bowl of meat with gusto. He wiped his mouth with the napkin covering the bread, and burped. ‘A good meal,’ he roared for at least half the monastery to hear, ‘is a celebration of the Eucharist. If the good Lord hadn’t meant us to eat-well, he wouldn’t have given us bellies and delicious food to fill them! For, as the psalmist says, “Wine gladdens the heart of men”.’
‘That’s the only line of the psalms he knows,’ Athelstan whispered to the prior.
Cranston, however, continued to eat with relish, the meat, the bread and the beer disappearing in a twinkling of an eye. He made a swift sign of the cross, rose and nudged Athelstan.
‘Come on, Brother, it’s a fine morning. Father Prior, I saw your orchard. Apples and plums, eh? And the beehives are kept there?’
The prior, fascinated by Cranston, just nodded again. Athelstan could only shrug, raise his eyes heavenwards and hasten after Cranston who was now striding out of the refectory across the pebble-dashed path leading down to the monastery gardens. He stopped, put on his beaver hat and squinted up at the mist-covered sky.
‘You wait, Brother, it will be a fine day. Did you resolve my mystery?’
‘I was trying to when you fell asleep, My Lord Coroner.’
Sir John made a rude sound with his lips. ‘And I suppose there’s been no further progress in the pretty mess here?’
‘No, Sir John.’
They walked through the herb garden, past the guest house and into the large orchard which swept down to the boundary wall of Blackfriars. Cranston was busy giving a description of his night’s sleep when Athelstan suddenly stopped, grasping his companion by the arm.
‘My Lord Coroner, look!’
Cranston peered for the mist was still swirling round the trees.
‘By Queen Mab’s buttocks!’ the coroner muttered, taking a step forward. ‘What is it?’
But Athelstan was now running through the trees.
‘Oh, no!’ he groaned, slumping down on his knees and staring up at the white, grotesque face of Brother Roger. The poor half-wit swung from an overhanging branch of the tree, his neck twisted to one side, his hands and legs dangling like some pathetic doll’s.
‘God have pity!’ Cranston shouted from behind him. He grasped his large knife, stretched up and sliced the rope, catching the dead man’s body as if it was light as a child’s and laying it gently down on the dew-soaked grass. Athelsta knelt beside the corpse and whispered quickly into the dead man’s ear whilst sketching a sign of the cross, ‘Absolve te a peccatis . . . I absolve you from your sins.’ He continued with a quick absolution whilst Cranston leaned against the tree and stared at the piece of rope which still swung there, a grisly reminder of the tragedy.
‘What’s the use?’ the coroner muttered. ‘The man’s been dead for hours. His soul’s long gone.’
Athelstan undid the rope from Roger’s neck. ‘We don’t know, Sir John,’ he replied over his shoulder. ‘The church teaches that the soul only leaves the body hours, perhaps days, after death, so while there’s hope, there’s always salvation.’ He knelt back on his heels. ‘Though I think this poor man will surely benefit from Christ’s mercy. A sad end to a tragic life.’
‘He killed himself!’ Cranston observed. ‘He committed suicide.’
Athelstan stared at the angry weal round the dead man’s neck.
‘I don’t think so, Sir John.’ He looked closer at the red-black wound caused by the rope’s chafing. He gently turned the corpse over. ‘Yes, as I thought. Look, Sir John.’ He traced with his finger the mark left by the noose but, just under the jaw, beneath the ears, were two finer cuts, little red weals.
‘What are those?’ Cranston asked.
‘Come on, Sir John, you’ve seen them before.’
The coroner peered closer, turning the body over, trying not to look at the popping eyes, the swollen blackened tongue clenched tightly between yellowing teeth.
‘This poor bastard didn’t hang himself!’ Cranston muttered. ‘He was garrotted! Those red marks are left by a garrotte string.’
Athelstan, who had clambered up the tree and was now loosening the piece of rope left there, shouted his agreement.
‘You’re right, Sir John. The rope here has left a mark but only that caused by the corpse’s weight. If Roger had committed suicide the branch would be more deeply frayed. Even a man who kills himself by hanging fights for life. The branch would bear deeper marks. ‘Athelstan, who was standing gingerly on the limb of the tree, pushed the branch where the rope had hung.
‘What are you doing, friar?’ Cranston roared, as hard, unripe apples rained down on him.
‘You’ll see, Sir John.’
Watched by a surprised coroner, Athelstan grasped the branch with both hands and edged his way over until it bore his full weight. He kept flexing his arm, making the branch dance. Suddenly there was a crack, the branch snapped, and Athelstan almost tumbled on to a surpr
ised Cranston. The friar picked himself up, grinning, wiping his hands and dusting his robe down.
‘It’s years since I’ve done that, Sir John.’ He stared grimly up at the broken branch, then at Roger’s corpse on the grass. ‘We can prove it was murder, Sir John. First, the marks of the garrotte string. The assassin hoped the bruise left by the noose would hide those. Secondly, the branch is not scored deeply enough, which means Roger must have been dead when he was hoisted up there. Finally, if Roger had hanged himself, his body would have twisted and not only marked the branch but probably broken it. He’s heavier than me and they say a hanged man can dance for anything up to half an hour.’ Athelstan scratched his head. ‘No, Sir John, as you would put it, this poor bastard was probably invited here either last night or early this morning before daybreak, and garrotted.’ He paused. ‘You see the problem, My Lord Coroner?’
Cranston blinked. ‘No.’
‘Well, Roger was killed, but how did the assassin climb a tree with a corpse and tie the rope round the branch?’
Cranston looked round, studying the ground carefully.
‘Well, the assassin had the noose already prepared. Roger’s garrotted, the body is lifted up, and the noose tightened round the neck.’
‘The assassin must have been very tall.’
‘No.’ Cranston walked amongst the trees and came back with a stout wooden box about a foot high and a yard across. He placed this squarely on the spot over which Roger’s body had hung.
Athelstan smiled. ‘Of course! These boxes litter the orchard. The brothers use them in autumn when they harvest the fruit. It would be merely a matter of standing on the box, dragging Roger’s corpse up, tightening the noose, taking the box away and, heigh-ho, it looks as if Roger hanged himself.’
‘And, as you have so aptly proved, my dear friar, that branch would have broken if Roger had tried to crawl across it, and would certainly have snapped in his death throes.’ The coroner went and stood over the dead man’s body. ‘Murder,’ he declared, ‘by person or persons unknown. But God wants justice and so does the king! We will find out who, and I would love to know why!’