Servant of Death

by Sarah Hawkswood

  Around mid-afternoon the unnatural, heavy silence broke. A great fork of lightning crashed down into the brooding bulk of Bredon Hill, and the crack of thunder that came close on its heels made a mule buck and kick a hole in one of the side panels of the stable stalls. Monastic eyes were either closed in prayer or cast anxiously at the church. The thought of another lightning strike was terrible to consider, and for all those who believed, hopefully, that they had suffered all that nature would send them, there were others who believed that the presence of evil within the enclave would attract the bolt from the angry heavens. The prior was of the pessimistic faction, and jumped quite visibly at every flash. Sister Ursula, who had a mortal dread of thunderstorms, knelt, trembling, in the nuns’ chamber, attempting the difficult manoeuvre of praying fervently while her hands were clamped over her ears. Sister Edeva knelt beside her, hands folded in the more traditional pose, but though her lips moved in the recital of prayer, her mind was otherwise engaged, and her face showed a pallor from an entirely different cause.

  It was not long before the rain began, and describing what fell as raindrops was as accurate as saying His Holiness was a priest in Rome. Their sheer size and weight pitted the dusty ground, and swiftly created enormous puddles. It then progressed to a torrent that made it almost impossible to see from the guest hall to the gate house, no more than thirty paces away. A novice who had the misfortune to have irritated the almoner, and was therefore sent on an errand across the courtyard to Brother Porter, zigzagged across with habit raised almost to his knees, performing a peculiar frog-like dance, and trying not to yelp as he was pelted by the chilling rods of rain. His only consolation was that he was not in view of the boy scholars, who were gathered in the refectory and scrubbing the tables.

  Eventually the thunder and lightning passed on towards Evesham, and the rain steadied. It beat an insistent tattoo upon the workshop roof that could be heard above the sounds of mallet on chisel and chisel on stone. The workshop was not designed for all the masons and apprentices to work in at one time. Usually the weather was fair enough for some to work outside, and Master Elias expected to have men up the scaffolding every day at this stage of the work. It was, in consequence, uncomfortable within. Elbows banged, tempers frayed, and the fine stone dust clogged noses and dried throats. Master Elias sent Wulfstan, the youngest apprentice and still under his own private cloud with his master, to the cellarer to request a pitcher of small beer to slake their thirst. The lad went off at a run, grumbling, for he had been sent by the outside route. The master mason had no wish to offend monastic sensibilities by having beer carried through the church, especially when he himself would not be the one getting wet, and it was another mild punishment upon the luckless youth.

  When Wulfstan did not return quickly, Master Elias grew wrathful. No doubt the boy had lingered in shelter, hoping the rain would abate before he made his way, slowly, back to the workshop. Well, he would find his dilatoriness would cost him a clip round the ear.

  Master Elias was remarkably patient with stone and impatient with men. He waited another few moments, made a garrumphing sound in his throat, and marched off, the drier way, to hasten his errant apprentice with a well-aimed kick to the backside. The cellarer looked surprised when asked about the lad, for he had given him permission for the drawing of beer some time ago. Master Elias returned to the workshop, frowning, but ready to find his men quaffing happily. Wulfstan, however, had still not appeared. The master mason swore and opened the workshop door. The rain made him blink, and he was about to withdraw his head into the dry when he noticed something out of the corner of his eye. He wiped a hand across his face and groaned. At the base of the nearest ladder up the scaffolding by the corner of the transept, a body lay prone, the head turned to one side, arms outflung carelessly. Master Elias’s first thought was to rush to check the body, but a small voice of caution made itself heard in his reeling brain, and he called for his senior journeyman. If he was going to find another dead body, it would be as well to do it with another.

  Wulfstan looked smaller, and even younger, a child in man’s garb, when dead, and neither man had any doubt he was dead; the open, staring, surprised eyes and the unnatural attitude of the head proclaimed it. The journeyman shook his head in stunned disbelief.

  ‘What cause had the lad to be climbing the ladder? It would be madness in this, an’ he only went for beer. It makes no sense, no sense at all.’ Rivulets of rain were already coursing down his cheeks as if he wept, and plastering his hair to his scalp.

  ‘I know no more ’n you, Eddi, but for sure we had best fetch the sheriff’s men before we lift the lad.’ The master mason shook his head. ‘You be off quick now, and bring that Serjeant Catchpoll or my lord Bradecote mind, not some minion.’

  In the event both came running, with the prior not far behind, holding the hem of his habit from the worst of the puddles with the delicacy of a lady in her best gown. They halted by the body with grim faces. The serjeant knelt down, regardless of the wet, and pulled the back of the apprentice’s cotte away from the neck. He felt the neck with an almost delicate touch, and then moved the head, gently. He spoke without looking up.

  ‘Neck’s broke.’ He continued with a hands-on exploration of the limbs, and reported, ‘No other bones seem damaged though, unless they’re small.’

  ‘Did you send him up the ladder, Master Elias? In this? What possessed you?’ Bradecote asked, disapproval strong in his voice, and the germ of worry.

  ‘Indeed I did not, my lord,’ replied the master mason, outraged. ‘I have always taken the safety of my workmen very seriously. You ask them. Ask the sacrist or the other obedientaries I have to deal with. No, to send anyone up top in this would be murd—’ He halted, realisation of what he had just said dawning on him. He reddened, and his angry tone became merely sullen. ‘I sent him for small beer for the masons, that’s all. It’s mighty dusty in the workshop with everyone inside today.’ His voice trailed away, sounding like the excuse of a child caught in some minor misdemeanour.

  ‘’Tis true enough, my lord, but why did he go up?’ Eddi the journeyman was not of quick mind, but he was as tenacious as a terrier.

  Bradecote was frowning. ‘Any damage to the face, Serjeant?’

  ‘Not a scratch, my lord.’ By now both men were thinking the same unpalatable thought. Bradecote was suddenly aware that the group around the body had grown. Despite the rain, several of the brothers had gathered by the prior, who was praying ostentatiously, two of his own men had turned up, and Waleran de Grismont was striding towards them. The acting undersheriff cursed inwardly. He did not want an audience to his deliberations.

  ‘And where did the pitcher of beer go? That’s what I would like to know,’ Eddi announced loudly. He was like a dog worrying a bone, and Catchpoll and Bradecote exchanged irritated glances.

  ‘What is going on? Has …’ de Grismont stopped as the two men-at-arms drew respectfully out of the way, and he could see the pathetic, wet heap that had been Wulfstan. He frowned, and shook his head. ‘You shouldn’t send men up scaffolding in this rain, Master Mason.’ His tone was reproachful.

  Master Elias opened his mouth to expostulate, but was silenced by a gesture from Bradecote, who spoke instead.

  ‘The lad was not sent up, de Grismont.’

  ‘Is there anything I can do?’

  Even wet to the skin and with a raindrop hanging from the end of his nose, de Grismont sounded a voice of calm authority.

  Bradecote threw him a glance of irritation. He too was soaking wet, his fingers were losing sensation, rain was dripping from the end of his long nose, and he was facing the unpleasant fact that he was now investigating two murders.

  ‘You can leave Serjeant Catchpoll and myself do deal with this, my lord. But thank you for the offer.’ His tone held no thanks at all, and de Grismont smiled wryly.

  ‘Quite right. I wouldn’t want any interference either.’ His eyes met Bradecote’s, full of understanding and just a touc
h of dry amusement. ‘I would suggest,’ he raised his voice, ‘that since we can do nothing of use, we all get back inside and get dry.’

  He turned, and it said much about the man that, instinctively, the other onlookers made to follow him. Master Elias and Eddi remained.

  ‘Can we take him in?’ enquired the journeyman. ‘It don’t seem right to leave him here in the rain, not that he’ll feel it now, poor lad.’

  ‘Go and fetch something to place him on, and, you, Master Elias, had best seek out Abbot William and ask for the use of the mortuary chapel.’ Bradecote’s tone brooked no refusal.

  Only for a moment did Master Elias look as if he would object to being ordered about, but he thought better of it.

  Left alone, the two law officers could speak freely.

  ‘He never climbed that ladder at all, my lord.’

  ‘No, Catchpoll, I had worked that out. So we are left with someone breaking his neck. The first question that springs to mind is “why?”’

  ‘Followed swiftly by “who?”’ Catchpoll pulled one of his cogitating faces. ‘Yet again our discoverer of the body was Master Elias, but this time he was not alone, so he could not, at first glance, have come out, done the deed, and then raised the alarm.’ Catchpoll did not look totally convinced by his own argument, and Bradecote continued.

  ‘I would prefer, however, to concentrate on “why” at present. Assuming we do not simply have a madman killing upon whim, there has to be a reason, and it has to do with the first murder. There are things I need to tell you.’ He shivered, and blew on his cold hands, ‘but let us do it in the dry, Catchpoll. We can learn no more here.’

  ‘Except if we find the jug that Master Loudmouth so clearly wanted.’

  ‘The jug?’ Bradecote was thinking about something else, and looked puzzled.

  ‘The pitcher of beer the lad was sent to fetch. He had permission to draw it, so it would be useful if we found someone who saw him do so, but then, as Eddi said, where is it now?’

  It was a pertinent question, and Bradecote swore softly.

  ‘I will go and find the cellarer. You begin hunting for the pitcher. I will not be long.’

  Bradecote went in search of the obedientary, and he was not hard to find. Having seen the dead lad so soon before his demise, he was quite distressed.

  ‘He came, my lord, and I gave permission for him to take the small beer. Polite he was, but … nervous. He asked if you were about, my lord.’

  ‘He wanted to see me?’

  The cellarer thought the lord Bradecote sounded surprised, although in reality there was more horror in his voice. Everyone had been told that anything they knew must be reported only to Catchpoll or himself. What if …

  ‘To be honest, my lord, I could not say whether he wanted to see you, or was afraid of meeting you, if you understand. It could have been either. The master mason came looking for him, and I told him, as I tell you, the beer was taken.’

  ‘When did Master Elias come, Brother?’

  ‘A very little before the poor boy was found. He looked annoyed when he arrived. He said as how the lad had not come back and he thought him skulking in the dry.’

  ‘Was he wet?’

  ‘The lad? Oh yes, even as he arrived he was soaking.’

  ‘I meant his master.’

  ‘Oh, but a few drops that blew in the cloister garth, not nearly as wet as the lad. He complained at being wet at all, and said he had come through the church. He said as he was too old to skip about in puddles. To think, we laughed at that, and the poor boy was already lying out there, dead.’

  This did not rid Bradecote of worry but perplexed him, and he went back out into the rain with a creased brow to join a miserable and sodden Catchpoll. He did not wish to discuss his findings until they had finished their hunt for the pitcher.

  They made a good search, though there was no obvious place to conceal a jug. Catchpoll even wondered if it could have been lobbed over the perimeter wall. Before they had finished, Eddi and another mason returned with a blanket and a broad plank left over from the scaffolding. They rolled the corpse onto the plank, covered it with the blanket, and took it to the west door of the church, where they waited in the porch until told where to take it within.

  The search revealed nothing, so wet, cold and disgruntled, Bradecote and Catchpoll headed for the warming room, where they hoped a brazier would have been lit to dry out any brethren forced by circumstance to be outdoors. They were out of luck, but a ruddy-faced brother made the appealing suggestion that they go to the kitchens, where Brother Boniface might take pity on them and provide hot ale spiced with herbs. The pair brightened, and took the advice with thanks.

  Fortified by warm ale, smelling of wet wool, and steaming gently, Bradecote and Catchpoll resumed their ruminations.

  ‘We can find out if the lad was with the other workmen, out in the town when the murder took place,’ Catchpoll said, ‘and if that is so, then perhaps he found something afterwards. If he did, then it must have been clear who it belonged to, else he would not have been able to approach our murderer with it, presumably thinking he would be paid for his silence. It could have been something dropped on the workshop floor. The apprentices are the ones who have to sweep up, remember, and it would not have had to be something very distinctive if it belonged to Master Elias. I expect they all know the things he wears or carries, but then there is the problem of “how”. Master Elias went out with the journeyman, he said, and the journeyman agrees.’ Catchpoll frowned, for Bradecote was clearly not concentrating on what he was saying.

  ‘I seem to have half an answer,’ Bradecote paused, ‘but only half.’ He relayed what he had been told by the cellarer. ‘What I still cannot work out though, is if he killed Wulfstan before “seeking him” with the cellarer, how come he was not wet? The boy had to be dead by then or else he would have reached the workshop with the pitcher. Master Elias was out, and alone, but at that time could not have done the deed.’ He shook his head in perplexity.

  ‘There’s ways to keep drier, my lord. What if he had a piece of sacking over his head when he went out? If the lad had lingered, as he was thinking, he might have met him coming back, and killed him upon the opportunity of a moment. There he was, alone, with a lad who might have hinted that he knew something that would send him to the noose.’

  ‘It makes some sense, and yet … though if you add it to this morning …’

  ‘You speak in riddles, my lord. What of this morning?’

  ‘Because as I rounded the corner of the transept this morning, after we parted, a chisel “fell” from up top and embedded itself in the earth no more than a stride from me. Master Elias was very swiftly down the ladders, full of apologies and anger at Wulfstan for dropping it. The apprentice tried to deny it, and then gave up.’

  ‘Likely he would try, with it landing so near someone, and someone far too important,’ offered Catchpoll.

  ‘But what if he was telling true, and it was not him? What if it was his master, and he accepted that he would get the blame for the “accident”? If Elias wanted uproar, what better way than kill me?’ Bradecote managed to sound sanguine about his own potential mortality, but was increasingly worried that his own failure to take the incident more seriously had enabled the mason to get rid of Wulfstan.

  Catchpoll scratched his nose. ‘It has a sense to it, my lord, I will grant that, but does not mean the lad was not also privy to something that might incriminate. If you was done away with, then putting blame for the accident upon the lad Wulfstan would be easy and handy. Mind you, there could be no suggestion that he killed the clerk. I doubt not he was with the other lads that evening, or else they would have said.’ Catchpoll tugged at his left ear. ‘This would be as good a time as any to tell you what I found out about Master Elias of St Edmondsbury, my lord.’

  Bradecote did not look pleased. ‘Indeed, Serjeant.’

  Catchpoll gazed at his superior innocently, but only partially concealing his pleasure.
His methods for acquiring information were not all subtle, and usually involved a mixture of bullying, threatening, mild bribery, and, he preened himself, clever questions. The clever questions were what really pleased him, and, unknowingly, he felt much as Brother Eudo on the matter; discovering much without the other person being aware that they were even giving information was highly satisfying. He had gone earlier in the afternoon to the workshop armed with his wits and a tray of oatcakes. He managed to give the impression that he had persuaded the kitchen staff to part with them, rather than the truth, which was that he had fortuitously waylaid a brother bringing them as a gesture from the abbot. He was thus instantly regarded with favour, and invited to join the masons in their unexpected break. Master Elias was up the scaffolding, checking with his most senior man that the lashings would withstand the rough weather that was fast approaching, so they could afford to down tools, dust off hands and ease backs for a moment.

  Serjeant Catchpoll might have a smile like a death’s head, but he was able to ply them with a few choice tales at his own, and the lord Sheriff of Worcester’s, expense. His own casual talk loosed tongues, and he was soon gleaning information about the places the team of masons had worked before, and when, without so much as a genteel enquiry.

  Through all this, he had discovered that Master Elias’s sympathies lay with the Empress Maud, and that, in his cups, he had been known to say that not only soldiers could be of service to her. The implication, to Catchpoll, was that he provided her with information. His work meant travelling about the country, and gave good opportunities to use both ears and eyes.

  ‘One of the apprentices, not the one who was murdered, proudly listed all the places he had worked under Master Elias. These included Ely, Peterborough, Abingdon and Oxford, at the time of the siege.’