Bloodstone smoba-11

by Paul Doherty

  ‘You feel better?’ Athelstan asked.

  ‘Certainly, the retching has stopped.’

  ‘And you never saw Mahant after you fell sick?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you have any explanation why his corpse and that of Richer should be found in the hog sty?’

  ‘Brother Athelstan, I wish I did.’ Wenlock clutched his stomach. ‘Perhaps he and the Frenchman confronted each other.’

  ‘In that place, in the dead of night?’

  ‘Brother, I wish I knew.’

  ‘Were you and Mahant planning to leave St Fulcher?’

  ‘Of course. We had already moved some of our possessions to “The Pride of Purgatory” tavern. We were also preparing to petition His Grace for safer lodgings. We invoked the memory of his blessed brother the Black Prince. Can you blame us?’ Wenlock insisted. ‘We’d become no better than hogs for the slaughter here.’ He smiled at his own grim joke. ‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan, if you’ve finished. .?’

  Cranston let him go. The infirmarian was summoned but he could add little. He confirmed Wenlock’s story. As regards to the two most recent murders, he explained how both corpses were so badly mauled it was impossible to determine what had happened. The royal serjeant, captain of the archers, came last. He reported how the hogs had been slaughtered and, following Cranston’s order, both the sty and the pen had been scoured for any items but they’d found nothing. He left, followed by Brother Simon. The abbey church fell silent.

  ‘So?’ Cranston asked.

  Athelstan rose, collecting together his quill pens and scrolls of soft vellum.

  ‘One last person.’

  Cranston followed Athelstan down to the anker house. They heard movement within, a shape moved. The anchorite looked out, shifting to get a better view of Cranston.

  ‘I know what has happened. Now you have come down to question me. Sir John, I believe we have met. I shall never forget-’

  ‘Agnes Rednal.’ Cranston came up close to the anker slit. ‘You and I have hanged London’s worst.’

  ‘And the kingdom is the better for it.’

  ‘Agnes Rednal,’ Athelstan intervened. ‘She will never visit you again.’ He peered through the slit. ‘I assure you. I have laid that demon. She will only walk in your nightmares, though a prayer before sleep should take care of that. Look, why not come out and greet Sir John?’

  ‘Brother Athelstan, I have left my cell enough over the last few days. I have nothing to say about these dreadful slayings. The church is locked an hour after compline, I cannot leave. I saw nothing. I heard nothing. .’

  Athelstan touched Cranston on the arm. They strolled back up the aisle.

  ‘I wonder,’ Athelstan whispered.

  ‘About the anchorite?’

  ‘Yes. Those grievances he nursed against the Wyverns, though nothing against Richer or so I believe. I just wonder why he would not allow us into his cell or come out of it. Does he have something to hide? As for leaving this church, he could always creep out through the charnel house.’

  Cranston and Athelstan cleared the judgement table and walked out into the Galilee porch. The friar stared up at a carved stone boss displaying a demon with a grinning monkey’s face.

  ‘Enough is enough, Sir John,’ he declared, ‘all this questioning must end. I’ll retire to my chamber and study the “Liber”. I must discover why Richer wouldn’t show it to me. You, my learned friend, are always welcome provided you let me share some of your refreshments.’

  Back in his chamber Athelstan placed the original ‘Liber’ on the table and carefully scrutinized the different chapters. He soon realized the bloodstone was a very precious relic. The ruby’s history stretched from its formation to its collection by Joseph Arimathea and its long journey round the ancient Roman empire until it passed into the hands of the early popes. The history was disappointing. However, when Athelstan began to read about the alleged power of the bloodstone, the punishments inflicted on those not worthy to handle it as well as its miraculous curative powers for those who regarded it as a sacred relic, Athelstan’s heart skipped a beat. The ‘Liber’ proclaimed powerful warnings against any sacrilegious handling; little wonder Kilverby changed. Indeed the ‘Liber’ explained why Richer was so zealous in pursuing the bloodstone’s return, his hatred for the Wyverns and his influence over William Chalk. The defrocked priest must have come to view his own painful, lingering disease as a just punishment from God for what had happened in France. The list of miracles also made Athelstan think and reflect deeply. Eventually the friar prepared his pen and ink pots, smoothing out a piece of vellum after staring distractedly at a finely drawn triptych celebrating the life of St Benedict’s sister, the holy Scholastica.

  Once he had collected his thoughts, Athelstan began to construct a logical argument. Kilverby’s murder was relatively easy. Athelstan’s hypothesis was that when the merchant died he must have known the bloodstone was safe. It was logical. Kilverby held the bloodstone. He sat in his chamber for sometime before he died yet he did not raise the alarm or express any anxiety about it being missing. Athelstan developed this argument then returned to fill in the gaps. On one occasion the friar left going through the now silent abbey to check the records in the muniment room behind the chapter house. No one objected. Divine office remained suspended until matins the following morning whilst the good brothers had been truly overawed by Cranston’s display of power. Athelstan’s queries and questions were soon answered and he returned to his studies. He finished what he called his Kilverby thesis; a few minor gaps remained but Athelstan believed he had enough to hoodwink then trap the killer.

  The friar pulled across a fresh piece of parchment and began what he entitled ‘The Abbey Thesis’. He listed the murders beginning with those of Hanep and Hyde. He could now explain these, then he turned to Brokersby’s. He scrutinized earlier notes and found the entries he was searching for. Osborne’s death was relatively easy to explain whilst the logic behind that also accounted for the murders of Mahant and Richer. Nevertheless, though he had the bricks to build, the mortar and cement were a little more difficult to find. There were gaps which had to be filled: the chasing, flitting shadow which had pursued Hyde; the mysterious crossbow man: the ugly incident in the charnel house: a proper, logical account of Richer and Mahant’s death and how they were overcome and killed by the same assailant. Athelstan kept working on his hypothesis. Cranston knocked on the door and brought in a platter of food and some ale. Athelstan ate and drank, absent-mindedly fending off Cranston’s questions until the coroner, muttering he might as well be singing to the moonbeams, left for his own chamber. At last Athelstan made his decision. He crossed himself, rose and went out and knocked on Cranston’s chamber. The coroner was already preparing for the night.

  ‘Sir John,’ Athelstan made the coroner sit on the edge of the bed, ‘I know you to be honest — your face and your mood are easy to read, so don’t question me.’

  Cranston sighed noisily.

  ‘Tomorrow morning at first light you and I, together with Master Crispin, are off to Kilverby’s mansion to confront an assassin. Whilst we are gone you must have archers, two to each person, guarding the abbot, his mistress, Prior Alexander, Wenlock and the anchorite. These archers must not leave their charges not even for a second. In fact, you should put your clothes back on and do that now. Master Crispin must also be protected until we leave tomorrow. .’

  EIGHT

  ‘Judicium: judgement.’

  Athelstan sat at the late Sir Robert’s chancery desk and smiled around at the dead merchant’s assembled household. He, Crispin and the coroner had left St Fulcher’s just after dawn, risking their lives on a choppy, misty Thames. Thankfully Cranston had commandeered one of the great barges which had brought the archers so they had all huddled in their cloaks in its canopied stern. The secretarius had asked the reason for the haste. Athelstan simply assured him that the journey was essential. Mercifully, it also proved brief and without incid
ent. They’d arrived in Cheapside and roused Kilverby’s household, Cranston brushing aside all objections. Whilst the coroner assembled everyone, Athelstan carefully examined the seals on Kilverby’s chamber; none of these had been interfered with. He broke them and had the chamber door unlocked. The chamber was dark, cold and musty-smelling. Candles were hastily brought, braziers wheeled in. Now with Cranston guarding the door, Athelstan lifted the empty casket which had once contained the Passio Christi. He also kept the palette of pens close to him. During the preparations he’d carefully scrutinized these.

  ‘Brother Athelstan,’ Lady Helen snapped, ‘why are you here?’

  Athelstan ignored her and tapped the casket.

  ‘Sir Robert, on the eve of his murder, knew this was empty.’

  ‘But. .’ Alesia interrupted.

  ‘Your father also mistakenly thought the bloodstone was in safe hands.’

  ‘Whose?’ Crispin spluttered.

  ‘Why yours, sir! I have brought you back here, Master Crispin, to confront you, to show you proof, to accuse you of the heinous murder of your master Sir Robert Kilverby, here in his own chamber.’

  Exclamations and cries greeted his words. Crispin, hands shaking, sprang to his feet protesting. Cranston, hiding his surprise, strode forward and forced the clerk back on to his stool.

  ‘You’re a murderer,’ Athelstan accused, ‘and you’ll hang for it.’

  ‘I am not-’

  ‘You are what I say. All of you,’ Athelstan stared around, ‘listen carefully, especially you, Master Crispin, because your life, and indeed your death, depend on it.’ Athelstan took a deep breath, staring hard at Crispin’s fearful face. ‘I shall be succinct. I shall try not to repeat what you already know. Sir Robert had grown rich; he’d also become frightened of impending justice. In his heyday he’d held the Passio Christi as merrily as he had gleefully taken a share of all the plunder of the Wyvern Company in France. However, dreading the fast approaching day of judgement was only the beginning. In his visit to St Fulcher’s he also met Richer, a monk from St Calliste, sent to England with the specific task of reclaiming everything looted from his own abbey, especially the Passio Christi.’ Athelstan paused. ‘Richer was undoubtedly eloquent but he had something more powerful, the “Liber Passionis — the Book of the Passion of Christ”, a most detailed description of the bloodstone — drawn up by no less a person than a saintly pope. Richer swore Sir Robert to secrecy, as he probably had William Chalk, and let him read that singular manuscript. Now the “Liber” clearly describes the history, power and properties of that most holy relic. The “Liber” specifically states every insult and injury to the Passio Christi provokes divine judgement. Richer played on this. He harassed Sir Robert’s soul until the merchant asked for forgiveness. Now Kilverby’s mind was fertile soil. Lady Helen, I apologize for this, though it is well known: Sir Robert’s marriage to you was not as happy as he would have wished. Perhaps he saw that, as well as the death of his beloved first wife, as all part of divine judgement.’

  ‘I do not think. .’

  ‘My Lady,’ Athelstan smiled apologetically, ‘that is only one strand of the close, cloying web which snared your late husband’s soul. He became fearful that other misfortunes might befall him — why not? Crispin, his loyal secretary, was losing his sight and what would happen if anything dreadful befell his beloved heir and daughter — you, Alesia?’

  The young woman just stared back, tears welling in her eyes.

  ‘Sir Robert, guided by the subtle Richer, decided to do penance.

  ‘Surely,’ Kinsman Adam broke in, ‘Sir Robert would not be so easily influenced.’

  ‘Why not?’ Athelstan retorted. ‘Read the “Liber” and you’ll see the long litany of curses and their effects. As I have said, Richer could not only point to Kilverby’s life, the death of his first wife, his second marriage and Crispin’s blindness, but to the Wyverns. They told me they had no families; their wives and children now lie cold in the clay. A curse? Surely! Not to mention Chalk’s illness and Wenlock’s maimed hands. Were the rest any better? Hanep, unable to sleep, wandering the abbey at night? Brokersby feeding himself on opiates? Richer may have included the dotage of the old King, the fate of his son the Black Prince who contracted that malevolent disease in Spain and wasted away, leaving the kingdom to a mere child.’

  ‘Not to mention the failure of the war in France,’ Cranston added mournfully.

  ‘Richer could,’ Athelstan continued, ‘argue all this was due to the bloodstone. Sir Robert had all the evidence he needed. He decided to bribe Abbot Walter to send back the plunder taken from St Calliste. He also paid for a copy of the “Liber” to be made. He was making it very clear how, before he left England on his pilgrimage of reparation, he would return the bloodstone, not to its rightful owners outside Poitiers, but at least to another Benedictine abbey.’ Athelstan paused, picked up the quill pens and examined them carefully. He wondered if Crispin already suspected what he was going to say. ‘You, Crispin,’ Athelstan glanced up, ‘hoped to join your master on his journey; a lifetime of love and loyalty merited companionship on such a pilgrimage but your sight is failing after years of poring over Kilverby’s ledgers and account books. You were already receiving treatment from Prior Alexander with all the skills and knowledge he’d learnt as the abbey infirmarian. He actually achieved very little. So, instead of going with your master or even staying here in this comfortable mansion, Sir Robert, thinking he was acting kindly, insisted on you taking up a corrody at St Fulcher’s.’

  ‘I accepted that.’

  ‘Nonsense, Crispin, you only pretended to. You’d served as a novice at St Fulcher’s. You hated that place. You also grew to hate your master for giving you such short shrift after decades of loyal and faithful service. Hatred is the soil where murder thrives as vigorous as any shrub. Into that midnight garden wormed the serpent Richer. Sir Robert must have told him all about you. Richer was pleased. He wanted the Passio Christi either to be given to him or returned directly to St Calliste. On that, however, Sir Robert was insistent: the bloodstone would not leave England.’

  ‘Yes, yes, you are correct,’ Alesia broke in. ‘My father told me that the bloodstone should be handed back to its rightful owner yet he was fearful of the Lord Regent’s wrath falling on me if he fled to France with the bloodstone.’

  ‘Quite so,’ Cranston declared from where he stood near the door. ‘The Crown’s lawyers would have spun a fine tangled trap of treason.’

  ‘Richer turned to you, Master Crispin,’ Athelstan continued. ‘Only God and you know what was offered: a huge bribe, freedom to settle down quietly in France, not to mention the opportunity of exacting revenge on your hard-hearted master who apparently no longer cared for you? Oh, Richer was cunning and devious. He would smear all that with righteousness. He would argue how Sir Robert should be rightfully punished for his share in what had happened. You, Crispin, would not only be the divine instrument for that but also do great good. You would return the bloodstone to its rightful home. Unbeknown to Sir Robert, you and Richer secretly plotted his murder.’

  ‘Murder?’ Crispin protested. ‘Me, how can I buy poisons?’

  ‘I never said you did. Richer gave them to you. He was sub-prior in an abbey where the abbot was lost in his own concerns, where the prior was pliable as soft clay in the potter’s hands. St Fulcher’s is a treasure house of potions and powders. Either on the eve of St Damasus when he visited here or sometime before, Richer handed over these poisons to you: hemlock, henbane, nightshade or the juice of almond seed, perhaps all four. You certainly knew their properties.’

  ‘I do not.’

  ‘Yes, you do. I have studied the muniments at St Fulcher’s. You are left-handed, Crispin, a matter I shall return to. When you were a novice, the master was frustrated by this, he would not allow you to work in the library, scriptorium or chancery so you became an assistant to the abbey apothecary.’

  Crispin, all agitated, his face ashen and
drawn, could only shake his head.

  ‘Now,’ Athelstan persisted, ‘on the eve of St Damasus, the day of his murder, Sir Robert entertained Prior Alexander and Richer. He met you all in the solar?’

  Alesia nodded, all watchful.

  ‘He put the Passio Christi back into its casket and returned here to his chancery chamber.’

  ‘Yes,’ Alesia replied. ‘Crispin, you went with him.’

  ‘How long were your father and Crispin absent?’

  ‘Not for very long, we were all preparing for supper.’

  ‘Precisely,’ Athelstan replied. ‘However, back in his chamber, Sir Robert was preparing to lock the bloodstone away. You, Crispin, intervened. You have read the “Liber”. You knew about the recuperative powers of the Passio Christi, especially round the Feast of St Damasus. How someone inflicted with a disease of the eyes should hold the precious bloodstone against their head? The “Liber” lists all such practices. You, Crispin, begged Sir Robert for such an opportunity to hold the precious relic against your own eyes. You pleaded as a loyal and faithful servant for help from the bloodstone. I am sure Richer coaxed you to ask and, perhaps, Sir Robert to consent. You may well have asked for this before. I am sure you did and your master agreed. On that particular evening you would point out that the bloodstone might soon pass from your master’s hands to others who might not be so obliging. Sir Robert approved. He gave it to you in trust for the night. You would, and he agreed, ask for the matter to be kept confidential. You took the Passio Christi and Sir Robert simply locked the coffer. Why should he object? In the morning the bloodstone would be returned by his faithful servant. Crispin certainly wouldn’t tell anybody. Neither would Sir Robert — why should he? You all adjourned for supper.’ Athelstan paused. ‘However, Crispin, you had planned a subtle death for your master. He would not survive the night to ask for the bloodstone back.’ Athelstan lifted the writing tray, gesturing at the quill pens. ‘I’ve studied your master. He was right-handed. He constantly nibbled at the quill plume. You prepared the pens left in this tray that night. You coated their plumes with the poison at your disposal; they were richly drenched in some noxious potion. Sir Robert would, as he was accustomed, nibble and chew at the quill plumes. He would absorb the poisons, small tinctures at a time but the mixture would, over hours, wreak their effect.’ Athelstan picked up a quill pen lying on the writing palette. ‘This is the proof. You thought you were safe, Master Crispin. You did not care. You had removed the poisonous quill pens you’d first laid here but, in fact, you were sealing in your own guilt. You made one miscalculation: the arrival of Sir John and myself. This chamber was secured. You could not rectify any omission.’ Athelstan held up the three quill pens for all to see. ‘Are these nibbled and chewed? No. More importantly, Crispin, you are left-handed. I am right-handed, I hold the quill such and the point on the right side of the pen becomes worn, yes? These, however, have been used by a left-handed writer.’ Athelstan turned all three quill pens, tapping their worn edges.