by Paul Doherty
‘My Lady,’ Cranston began, ‘your husband’s corpse?’
‘Left in the chancery chamber,’ Alesia replied before her stepmother could, ‘on the floor. I thought it was best.’ She motioned at Crispin. ‘My father’s secretarius, Crispin, found him.’
‘Found him?’ Cranston barked. ‘When?’
‘Lamp lighting time,’ Crispin replied sonorously. ‘Just before dawn, I knocked . . .’
‘Let us see.’ Cranston interrupted harshly, all bonhomie draining from his face. He pointed at Crispin who shrugged and led them out of the solar, along a gleaming, wood-panelled passageway and up a short flight of stairs.
‘My father’s chancery or counting house,’ Alesia called from behind them.
Athelstan turned and stared at the group from the solar. Alesia, Helen, Adam and Crispin. He sensed the rancid hatred and resentment curdling in this family. Even though Sir Robert lay dead they were all determined on their rights, certainly Mistress Alesia and Lady Helen were openly competing over who exercised authority now.
‘We’ll need help.’ Cranston stepped back. The heavy oaken door had been snapped off its hinges, causing severe damage to the surrounding lintel. It now blocked the entrance to the chancery.
‘It had to be done,’ Lady Helen declared. She pointed back down the gallery where a group of servants clustered. ‘My husband would not answer. The door was both locked and bolted from the inside. It had to be forced.’
‘I had it placed back,’ Alesia added sharply, ‘to seal the chamber. My father, Sir John, did not die. He was murdered.’
‘Nonsense,’ Lady Helen whispered, ‘who would . . .’
Athelstan came back down the steps. ‘Whatever is the cause, that is why we are here.’
Athelstan and Cranston waited until the servants moved the door. They then told the household to wait outside and walked into the chamber. Athelstan stared round that comfortable, luxurious room. He crossed himself then knelt and removed the sheet over the corpse lying on its makeshift bed of turkey rugs. Kilverby, an old man with scrawny white hair, had certainly died in agony: eyes popping, throat constricted, his partly opened lips had turned faintly blueish. The skin of his face was slightly liverish, the flesh swiftly hardening.
‘Has he been shriven?’ Athelstan called.
‘No, Father,’ Alesia retorted falteringly.
‘Or a physician called?’ Cranston added.
‘Yes.’ Lady Helen came up into the doorway and stopped at Athelstan’s sign to remain outside.
‘Master Theobald the physician, but he has been detained.’
Athelstan fished inside his leather satchel, took out his stole, put it round his neck then brought out the small phial of holy oils. Lady Helen walked away whilst Athelstan swiftly murmured the ‘Absolvo te’ into the dead man’s ear. Afterwards he anointed the corpse on the brow, eyes, nose, mouth, hands and feet as he intoned the funeral prayer: ‘Go forth Christian soul . . .’ Once completed Athelstan undid the man’s clothing. Pulling up the quilted jerkin, cambric chemise and linen undershirt, Athelstan felt the belly, hard like a ball of old string. He also noticed the blueish-red stains on the stomach and lower chest.
‘Poison?’ Cranston, who’d been wandering the chamber, came back to stand over him.
‘I think so, Sir John, of the garden variety.’ Athelstan took off his stole and put the items back in his satchel.
‘Hemlock, henbane, belladonna are the most powerful potions and, at the same time, the easiest to disguise.’
‘Well, it’s not in the wine.’ Cranston brought across both the half-filled flagon and the loving cup, still quite full.
Athelstan sniffed at these. ‘No trace, no odour,’ he murmured. He knelt back down and smelt the dead man’s mouth. He caught a highly bitter, rather sour tang.
‘Any food?’ He glanced up.
‘Only these.’ Cranston brought across the small silver dish of sweetmeats. He pulled back the linen covering. ‘One is half eaten.’
Athelstan picked this up and examined it. ‘Nothing but sweetness. I wonder?’ He stared down at the corpse. ‘Was it really poison or just a seizure?’ He crouched and swiftly went through Kilverby’s pockets and belt purse but found nothing untoward. He rose and went round that chamber, a jewel of a chancery with its broad oaken desk, side tables, high-backed quilted chair and stools. Shelves fastened against the walls alongside cunningly crafted pigeon-hole boxes were used to store manuscripts and rolls of vellum. Fossers, chests and coffers stood neatly stacked. Cranston seemed more concerned with these, trying lids and locks. Athelstan crouched before the hearth. The fire was nothing more than white ash but the chafing dishes and small heating pans, perforated to emit spiced smoke, were still warm. Wrinkling his nose, Athelstan uncovered the chamber pot kept in the corner; it contained nothing but urine, no trace that Sir Robert had vomited or been caught by some stomach seizure. Athelstan put this back, washed his hands at the small lavarium and sat down on the chancery chair. The desk in front of him was littered with blank scraps of vellum. The writing tray, a pallet of exquisitely carved silver, contained three luxuriously plumed quill pens, all used. Nearby ranged pots of red, green and black inks, pumice stones, a parchment knife, a sander and scraps of sealing wax.
‘Sir John?’ Lady Helen, eager to exert her authority, reappeared in the doorway.
‘Not yet, my Lady.’ Cranston pointed at the sheeted corpse. ‘Though your husband’s corpse can be taken away, perhaps to your own bed chamber?’
A short while later Crispin and a few servants entered. Cranston supervised the removal of the corpse whilst Athelstan studied the tapestry hanging above the wainscoting. A vision of hell rich with gory scenes of the avaricious swallowing fiery coins, vomiting them up, then being forced to re-devour them under the supervision of a wrathful goblin. A synod of demons watched this torture. They all sat in council around Hell’s dread Emperor enthroned under a purple-black awning. On either side of him clustered night-hags and hell-hounds.
‘Wait!’ the coroner ordered. ‘Don’t move the corpse yet.’
Athelstan broke from his reverie.
‘Lady Helen, Mistress Alesia?’ Cranston called.
Both women, Adam Lestral slipping in behind, entered the chamber.
‘My ladies,’ Cranston made a bow, ‘once again, my condolences. However, His Grace the Regent is not only concerned about the mysterious death of Sir Robert but the safety and security of the Passio Christi.’
‘He kept it here.’ Alesia declared. ‘Always in this chamber. The room is so secure. You’ve seen the door?’ She gestured at the small oriel windows filled with painted glass. ‘Those are too small for entry, and there are no secret entrances or closets.’
‘And which coffer or casket holds the bloodstone?’
‘This one.’ Crispin crossed and picked up a small iron-bound casket with a barrel-shaped lid, three stout locks ranged along its lip.
‘And the keys?’
‘Three separate locks each with its own unique key,’ Crispin muttered.
‘And?’ the coroner demanded.
‘Only Sir Robert kept them.’
‘I know where.’ Athelstan smiled, recalling the jingling as he examined the dead man’s belly. Athelstan crossed to the stretcher, each of its poles held by a servant. He ran a finger round the dead man’s neck and pulled free the chain, undid the clasp and gently drew it away.
‘That should be done . . .’ Lady Helen gasped.
‘This shall be done by the King’s coroner,’ Cranston snapped, and took the keys. After a great deal of trial and error, he inserted each into its appropriate lock. Whilst the coroner was busy, Athelstan studied Kilverby’s household gathered in the doorway then gazed round that opulent chamber. He was certain of this: under the cope of night, murder had slipped like some silent fury into this locked chamber and snatched Kilverby’s soul. The Apostate Angel hovered in that wealthy house, brushing them all with his wings. Murder had certainly unfurled
its dark banners but how had this bloody mayhem been so cunningly executed? He half expected Cranston’s cry of surprise, echoed by the others, as the coffer lid snapped back.
‘Empty!’ Cranston whirled round. ‘The Passio Christi has gone!’
‘Impossible!’ Crispin blurted out. ‘It was there yesterday, I and others were present when Sir Robert showed it to the two monks from St Fulcher’s. We were there later in the solar when he put it back. I . . .’
Athelstan glanced at the others. Alesia stood, her mouth gaping. Helen, face in her hands, peered through her fingers. Kinsman Adam just stared at the open coffer and the empty dark blue samite which once held the bloodstone.
‘His Grace will not be pleased,’ Cranston muttered. ‘He’ll claim treason and vow that someone will hang for this.’
‘We have not taken it,’ Alesia cried.
‘Taken what?’ a voice shouted from the stairwell. Theobald de Troyes, the local physician, shoved his way in coughing and spluttering as he apologized for his tardiness. Unaware of the confusion in the chamber, Theobald pulled back the shroud and stared down at the cadaver.
‘He’s dead!’ he bellowed. ‘And that will cost you five shillings.’ He turned to go but Cranston caught at his costly, ermine-trimmed robe and dragged him back.
‘Master Theobald,’ he said mockingly, ‘good day!’
‘And good day to you, Sir John. I . . .’
‘I am not in the best of tempers,’ Cranston bellowed. ‘You . . .’ he jabbed a finger at the terrified-looking Crispin, ‘take the corpse to your mistress’s bed chamber. You, master physician, examine it most carefully then come back here and you,’ he gestured at the others, ‘wait for me in the solar.’
Once they’d all gone, Cranston slumped down on the stool cradling the empty casket.
‘Well, Friar?’
‘This chamber was certainly locked and bolted.’ Athelstan gestured round. ‘No secret passageways, no window to be forced yet, some stealthy night-shape, some shadow-stalker gained entry. If our evidence holds true, this assassin poisoned Sir Robert, forced that casket, stole the Passio Christi, relocked the coffer and put the keys around Sir Robert’s neck. Sir John, what exactly is this bloodstone?’
‘In a while, in a while.’ Cranston’s blue eyes were now hard as glass. ‘This surely is only the beginning of our troubles. Look, Friar,’ the coroner put the coffer down between his feet. ‘Sir Robert Kilverby is – was, a merchant with fingers and toes in every pie in the kitchen. He traded in everything, silk, spices and salt. His stalls and shops displayed dazzling armour, precious silver belts, pouches and scabbards. He brought in leather goods from Cordova, linens from Genoa, scarlet silks from Lucca and Florence. He was both banker and money changer. He gave generously to the old King and his sons so they could go on chevauchee across the Narrow Seas to plunder the French . . .’
‘I know of Sir Robert,’ Athelstan intervened. He picked up the quill pens and examined them carefully. He sniffed at all three plume tails and cautiously licked them with his tongue, running each of the quill pens through his fingers.
‘Monk?’
‘Friar, Sir John.’ Athelstan smiled. ‘I thought these might be tainted but they’re not. Anyway, the Passio Christi?’
‘The Passion of Christ.’ Cranston glanced at the wine jug and smacked his lips.
‘I wouldn’t, Sir John.’
‘True.’ Cranston sighed. ‘Well, the Passio Christi or the Passion of Christ is a precious bloodstone. When Christ died on the Cross, drops of his blood and sweat trickled down to miraculously form a precious ruby. Joseph of Arimathea took this sacred jewel and . . .’ Cranston shrugged. ‘Well, it passed from hand to hand, from one generation to the next until it ended up in the Abbey of St Calliste near Poitiers in France. Now, after the Black Prince’s great victory there, a cart found near the abbey was plundered by one of those free companies who fought for the Crown, the Wyverns, a company both feared and fearful.’
‘I’ve heard of such companies,’ Athelstan intervened, chewing his lip. ‘I’ve also seen their handiwork,’ he added sadly, recalling his own youth.
‘Ah, well.’ Cranston continued in a rush, glancing at Athelstan out of the corner of his eye. He just prayed he was not stirring harsh, cruel memories in the little friar’s soul. ‘Now, a group of these Wyverns, master bowmen all, allegedly found the Passio Christi and claimed it as legitimate plunder of war . . .’
‘But surely the abbey, the church objected?’
‘Oh, our noble archers were very cunning. They maintained they’d found the bloodstone, along with other precious items, in a cart on a trackway near the abbey. You know the proclamations, Athelstan. Let’s be blunt. You’ve served in France. Stealing from a church could earn you a hanging but something found on a cart in a country lane . . .? Of course the good monks, their abbot and the local bishop could sing whatever hymn they wanted but, in this case, however fictitious their story might be, those who find do keep. Now, the bloodstone couldn’t be divided or kept by one of them whilst the Crown also demanded a share.’
‘The Wyverns would not be too pleased with that? As you said, those who find, do keep?’
‘Precisely. In the end an indenture was drawn up: the Passio Christi would be held by a responsible third party.’
‘In this case Sir Robert Kilverby?’
‘Correct. He would keep it safe and provide a pension, on behalf of the Crown, to the exchequer for each master bowman.’
‘How many?’
‘Oh, not the whole company – five or six I believe – only those who actually found the bloodstone.’ Cranston sighed. ‘If they survived military service, and they did, the former soldiers would also be provided with corrodies: comfortable lodgings at some great monastery. This occurred, in their case the Abbey of St Fulcher-on-Thames.’
‘And when they all died?’
‘Good question, Friar, for that may relate to our next mystery.’ Cranston shook a gauntleted hand. ‘All will be revealed in God’s good time. To answer your specific question, once all the finders of the bloodstone were dead, the precious relic would revert to the Crown who’d pay Kilverby, or his estate, one tenth of its market value as recompense for his good services.’
‘And why was it held here?’
‘Everyone trusted Kilverby. He was too rich to be tempted. Anyway, I believe the indenture was modified slightly so that twice a year he would show the Passio Christi to both the exchequer at Westminster as well as all relicts of the Wyvern Company residing at St Fulcher.’ Cranston squinted at Athelstan. ‘I am sure it was twice a year, at Easter and the Feast of St Damasus.’
‘Which is today.’
‘True, true.’ Cranston fidgeted on the stool.
‘And now something has also happened at St Fulcher’s.’
‘Horrid murder!’ Cranston retorted. ‘One of the Wyverns, Gilbert Hanep, was found headless near the grave of an old comrade.’
‘He was beheaded!’
‘Clean and neat as you would cut a flower.’
‘Why . . .?’ Athelstan was interrupted by Physician Theobald storming into the chamber, in one hand a piece of bread in the other a cup of claret, which he downed in one gulp before glaring at Cranston.
‘Poison!’ he almost shouted. ‘Definitely poison, very powerful, water hemlock perhaps. So, my Lord Coroner, I’m done.’
‘Not yet.’ Athelstan got to his feet. ‘Good and learned physician, I want you to help us search this chamber for any trace of poison, be it smeared on a handle or anywhere else.’ He pointed at the chamber pot. ‘And you can re-examine that.’ Athelstan tapped the silver dish of comfits on the desk as well as the wine jug and loving cup. ‘You are to take these away and scrupulously search for any trace of poison.’ Athelstan caught a flicker of annoyance in the physician’s greedy eyes. ‘You’ll be paid. Now, my Lord Coroner, let us search.’
As they did so Athelstan asked Cranston to send for Flaxwith and to tell him about Kilv
erby and his family. Sir John, moving around the chamber, chattered about how he and the dead man were old acquaintances, though not quite friends. How he was one of the executors of Kilverby’s will, adding that in the event of Lady Helen not giving him a child, the bulk of the dead merchant’s wealth, including this fine mansion, would go to Sir Robert’s only daughter, the recently wedded Alesia.
‘Her husband is also a goldsmith,’ Theobald offered. ‘Sir Robert had ceased his trading days. He was getting ready to leave . . .’
‘Leave?’
‘Aye. Leave all this in the trusting hands of Alesia and her husband Edmond Pulick whilst Sir Robert went on pilgrimage to Santiago, Rome and Jerusalem though, some say,’ Theobald lowered his voice, ‘he was fleeing from the hellish Helen and her shadow, kinsman Adam.’ He paused as Crispin knocked on the lintel and enquired how long they would have to wait in the solar.
‘For as long as it takes,’ Cranston snapped. ‘Send up Master Flaxwith; he’s filled his belly enough.’
‘Oh, by the way, Crispin,’ Theobald called, ‘your eyes?’
‘Just the same,’ the clerk replied. ‘We’re all growing old, master physician.’
Cranston waited for Crispin’s footsteps to fade then clapped his hands.
‘Friar, we’ve finished here, yes?’
‘We certainly have and found nothing,’ Athelstan agreed. ‘Only the wine, the flagon, cup and sweetmeats remain. Master Theobald, don’t forget to take them away.’