Missal for Murder

by Rosie Lear

  He took the journey steadily, lost in his own thoughts. There were travellers on the road heading towards Sherborne, for it was nearly Easter, and Mass would be much celebrated over the period. The guesten hall would surely be full, and maybe the newly formed guilds would dare to stand up to Abbot Bradford and oppose his narrowing of the doorway., or maybe the new font would be used.

  The gateway to Barton Holding swung open. Matthias frowned. He thought they’d locked it very carefully. A chill caution overcame him as he swung down from the saddle. His newly glassed window by the great front door was smashed, and as he entered, the breeze blew in, rustling papers and books lying around. The room had been ransacked, - boxes of his father’s papers were lying in confusion, rustled by the air from the window which had provided entry for the intruder. He stood still, listening in the silence, but he heard no sound, felt no breath of an intruder. Who-ever had been there had left. Matthias knew the search had been for the key, - but how had the search led here, to his house? Sir Tobias had been right – he was being watched – he had been followed.

  He went from room to room, and the picture was the same in each room – disturbed chests, bedding flung aside, pictures moved – the search had been thorough. All Matthias’ careful preparations for his young scholars was destroyed. The cupboard where the horn books and inks were stored was smashed, and the contents spilled and broken. His matting had been disrupted as if whoever had searched had believed a key could be hidden under the flooring. The kitchen rushes were pushed to one side, and in one place, even the earthen floor had been well prodded. The search had been devastatingly thorough.

  Grimly, Matthias found the cloth he had chosen so carefully in the market and stuffed it firmly into the hole in the window. Glass was still expensive, and he’d been very proud of his glassed windows. They let in more light than parchment, and he’d needed the maximum light for his scholars. That done, he locked the door firmly behind him and re-mounted his horse. He would return tomorrow with Davy and Elizabeth. Any danger they may have been in had surely passed. The thief had found nothing.

  Chapter 13

  Abbot Bradford was most displeased at yet another visit from the Coroner.

  “Sir Tobias, I beg of you..” he began, stiffly, “I am preparing for the Easter Mass.”

  “..And I am preparing to catch a murderer,” Sir Tobias retorted.

  Abbot Bradford sat, finger tips together, eyes half closed to imply that if he must suffer, he would do so very obviously

  “Very well,” with an ill concealed sigh, “What is it you require this time?”

  “Tell me of the visit made to the Abbey by Ben Glover. Whom did he see? What did he deliver?”

  Abbot Bradford opened his yes in genuine amazement.

  “I have no idea,” he said, and his surprise was not feigned.

  “I did not know the young man – if he delivered something here, it was certainly not to any of the brothers.”

  Sir Tobias tried again.

  “So. What do you have in the Abbey which might be really worth stealing? Not petty baubles, - but something precious enough to kill for.”

  The Abbot bridled at his words.

  “You speak of “petty baubles” – there are no petty baubles connected with the work of God.”

  “Oh, come, Abbot Bradford,” sighed Sir Tobias, “Let’s not argue. You know what I mean – I don’t mean altar cloths, silver vestments, candlesticks. There must be something of real value here.”

  “There are many beautiful things in the House of God,” said the Abbot, piously, “The

  “Do you keep or possess coffers of silver or gold?” Sir Tobias asked, becoming puzzled.

  “Such things are long gone,” the Abbot replied.

  “The rents and tithings from your holdings are worth much money,” hazarded Sir Tobias. Abbot Bradford inclined his head.

  “The rents and tithings are dealt with by the bailiff and are not kept here in the Abbey”.

  “Is your bailiff honest?”

  Again, Abbot Bradford made every appearance of being affronted at the suggestion.

  “What do you have here that would need help to carry away? Sir Tobias asked. He had Ben’s drunken gabblings in the back of his mind, although he had largely dismissed them as being of no great account.

  Abbot Bradford allowed himself the ghost of a smile. It did not soften his face and no warmth appeared in his eyes. “The altar itself, I suppose, some of the great candlesticks, our missal…”

  Sir Tobias held up a hand.

  “Wait!” he said, “Your missal! A BOOK!”

  Abbot Bradford managed to look sorrowful.

  “More than a mere book, Sir Tobias.” Our missal is a work of art. You have not seen it? It is indeed a thing of beauty. It was completed by two monks 30 years ago, and is a fine piece of copying and illustration. John Whas was one of our own monks and the other – Sifrewas – a most imaginative man.”

  He spoke reverently.

  “Each page is indeed a work of perfection, - but the missal is in daily use and the book itself weighs nearly three stone – too heavy to steal and ride away with in your hand.”

  “May I see this book?” Sir Tobias asked.

  The Abbot sighed in exasperation.

  “We keep it locked in one of our chambers , and the monks move it on special celebration days”

  “May I see the book?” Sir Tobias repeated.

  The Abbot rose.

  “Follow me,” he said, with ill-concealed irritation.

  Sir Tobias followed the Abbot to a small door set in a stone wall leading from one of the side chapels. He selected a key from his belt and inserted it into the lock. The door opened easily.

  The room contained a wooden table upon which lay a great book, open at the offices of the day. Sir Tobias could see the vivid illuminations on the page, overlaid with gold leaf and lovingly and imaginatively illustrated with leaves, birds and fruits. The luminosity of the page gleamed with glory and worship. This was truly the work of the Almighty – a great and awesome tribute to the magnificence of the power of prayer.

  The Coroner was silent as he took in the sheer beauty of the book.

  “This missal is used from time to time, Abbot?” he enquired.

  “Yes, indeed,” was the cold reply.

  “Did you never consider it a thing of such worth that it might be stolen?”

  Abbot Bradford fell silent.

  “To be frank, no, Sir Tobias, I hadn’t. It is a remarkable and beautiful book – we are very fortunate to possess such a thing, - but it is kept here and carried out in procession by the brothers, and then returned here and locked in after use. No, - I do not think this is a thing which could be stolen.”

  Sir Tobias met his eyes. Despite the Abbot’s aloofness, they were honest eyes.

  “I believe you may be wrong,” Sir Tobias said, flatly.

  The Abbot raised his eyebrows. Sir Tobias laid a hand reverently on the great book.

  “Young Ben was killed for a key,” he said. “I think it may have been the key to this room.”

  “Impossible!” the Abbot declared. “There is only one key and it remains on my belt, which is never away from me.”

  “And at night?” asked Sir Tobias.

  “It is in my room,” conceded the Abbot, “But no-one enters my room at night.”

  “..as far as you are aware..” commented Sir Tobias.

  “I do not think it would be possible,” the Abbot said, austerely,

  “Does no lay person enter your room when you are sleeping?” Sir Tobias persisted.

  “Not one!” the Abbot declared.

  Sir Tobias tore his eyes away from the magnificence on the page, and allowed the Abbot to lock the do“Please be very vigilant concerning strangers,” he told the Abbot, as he took his leave.

  Roger opened his eyes with difficulty. The last beating he’d had caused one eye to close up, and it was sticky with blood, pus and sweat. He moved uneasily
in the darkened room, and groaned in pain. Dimly he made out the shape of an unglassed window through which he could see one or two stars. Every attempt to move shot bolts of pain through him, and it was several minutes before he realised that he was bound with coarse hemp to a narrow truckle, making the window impossible to reach. The knots cut into the flesh of his wrists and ankles. One side of his left hip was sore beyond imagining, caused when he’d tried to run and his captors had felled him cruelly and dragged him across a patch of rough gravel.

  He was mentally and physically exhausted; he could scarcely remember why he was here, let alone where he was.

  He had fouled his own garments with excrement again, and moving his body was unpleasant beyond belief. His belly ached for food – his throat was parched with thirst. Worse still, he now knew beyond a shadow of doubt who was the prime mover behind his captivity. This was no longer a game – this was deadly to the death.

  Roger’s resistance was at its lowest ebb; the stench of the darkened cell was unbearable – if it was a cell, - he couldn’t really be so sure – and the silence around him was suffocating. He had no sense of the passage of time, intermittently falling into a semi-conscious state.

  Some time late in the night the door swung open stealthily, and a hooded figure gazed dispassionately at the swollen lips, bruised eyes and feverish breathing.

  “Little fool,” a voice hissed, venomously, “Did you think you could double-cross me? You and the apprentice. - this is no market place game. I have endured this English way of life for two years for this prize.”

  The knife was swift; it found its mark.

  The door closed again, leaving the dying boy alone in the dark.

  Matthew left Sir Tobias’ home the next day without Davy, who was to stay another day or two to complete his recovery, Elizabeth remaining with him. They had been made most welcome by the serving household, and Elizabeth was learning new skills in Lady Bridget’s kitchen.

  William travelled with him, and the two men regarded Matthias’ ransacked home with weary resignation.

  “Whoever is behind this is very desperate for the key,” William said, as they began the task of setting furniture to rights and clearing broken glass, locks and spilled contents.

  “I must have been marked out as a possible recipient on the night they fired Lydia’s house,” Matthew mused. “How else could I have been connected to Ben?”

  He pondered this after William had left.

  Who could have connected him with Ben?

  He ticked off the likely contacts in his mind.

  Thomas Copeland? Impossible. He’d been in his house to ask questions, so Thomas knew he had an interest in Ben’s death.

  Richard Cope? Possible, - but what motive? Richard Cope was a respected merchant with no need for dishonest dealings, and Sir Tobias clearly felt him to be beyond murder. His reluctance to talk was probably no more than a wariness of too many people knowing his trading capabilities. After all, there were several glove-makers in the town.

  Abbot Bradford? Out of the question – although certainly the Abbot was resentful of the questionings made by Sir Tobias and himself. He was aware that Abbot Bradford was not party to him being involved in the investigation, but that was insufficient for him to persuade anyone to meddle in Matthias’ affairs.

  Could Mistress Fosse possibly be involved in some way? Matthias thought not, although Roger had been there, and she may have mentioned Matthias and Davy to him.

  Mary certainly was involved, and young Roger, who still had not turned up, - but Mary had died for her involvement before Matthias had become entangled in this strange mesh.

  Mary’s family? Hardly likely, given Davy’s account of his visit there, and the presence of the young priest supporting the family.

  Who else had Matthias spoken to, or been seen by? There were the two men who had fired Lydia’s house, although it had been dark, and recognition afterwards would not have been easy.

  Had he been recognized or pointed out by some-one at Lydia’s funeral? Or when he’d visited the guesten hall? He seemed to have met a blank wall. Some-one had connected him with the missing key – someone had seen him with Davy or with Sir Tobias. Some-one had been watching him. Someone he knew and had not thought of suspecting…..no answers came to him, and he slept uneasily that night.

  The missal’s pages were turned quietly in the pale moonlight that shone into the room where it lay. The hands which caressed each vellum sheet were gentle and reverent. The eyes which devoured the richly decorated pages were moist with awe, overwhelmed by the perfection on each page. Birds, their colours and shapes, all so perfect; angels, devils, saints, knights, all depicted in meticulous detail…fruits flowers and leaves, entwined round the carefully scripted letters, each one illuminated in rich golds, reds and blues…..here a little cameo of Abbot Brunyng kneeling in prayer, in the margin there was another of the good bishop of Salisbury….such perfection. There was the infant Christchild with the blessed virgin…and later, the crucified Christ, . All this and so much more, throat-catching in its vivid beauty and glory. How could one leave sch perfection behind? He turned another page carefully…there….Saint Wulsin…. St. Silvester….St. Benedict….colours sumptuous and costly, assailed him from the pages. Intricate illustrations of gospel scenes spoke to him with such clarity.

  After a quiet prayer, the reader sighed with the disappointment of having to leave such perfection behind.

  The door was carefully locked with Mary’s key.

  Davy and Elizabeth were welcomed home by Matthias the next day. Davy was considerably better, and Elizabeth was delighted to be home, setting out at once to clean up and re-instate furnishings wherever she could.

  Sir Tobias sent word with Davy that he had visited Master Cope a second time and had found him evasive, but on a third visit, the house was locked and there was no sign of life there – suspicious. Did Richard Cope know more than he had told them – or was he simply afraid that his employment of Ben had put him in mortal danger? There had been no sightings of the boy, Roger. The trail had gone cold.

  The next day being Good Friday, Matthias determined to ride down into Sherborne to Mass. He was curious to see how the townspeople’s arguments with Abbot Bradford would end, and he was anxious to shake off the lethargic mood which had overtaken him since he had returned home to discover all his work for the forthcoming pupils destroyed.

  The Abbey was full, but there would be no processional from Allhallows until Sunday, when there would be baptisms. Matthias slipped inside and stood near a pillar to observe the townspeople, and to hear Mass himself.

  He arrived just as the monks filed in procession from the monastery into the Great Abbey. He leaned against the cool pillar and tried to focus his mind on Christ’s passion. He was tired, and the monk’s chanting mesmerized him into a state of semi-consciousness. They were passing him now…the plain song was beautiful..regular..full of dignified pathos…

  Matthias found himself counting the pairs of monks as they passed him, processing down to the choir…. …seven…eight…nine…ten…eleven…twelve…thirteen….they were past him, their robes swinging gently in time to their rehearsed, measured walk.

  His mind woke with a jolt. Thirteen? There should only have been twelve of them….Sir Tobias had mentioned a complement of twenty four monks, yet twenty six had processed.

  He eased himself away from the pillar and glanced round at the people nearest to him. Did he know anyone? No, just ordinary townsmen and their wives and families, standing in the knave….no-one was watching him. He slipped surreptitiously out of the door. His horse was tethered nearby. Matthias mounted, and was about to dig his heels into his horse’s flanks when he noticed Thomas Copeland advancing across the green towards him. He waved his hands at Matthias from a distance to attract his attention and to prevent him from moving off.

  Matthias waited, wondering why Thomas was not at Mass himself.

  “Matthias – Oh, I’m so glad to see you! I
need the Coroner’s help I fear, - can you fetch him?”

  “I’m on my way to see him now,” Matthias said, “What is the matter, Thomas?”

  “I’m afraid it is very urgent, Matthias. Two of my boys have an unpleasant tale to tell which may throw some light on Roger’s wherabouts.”

  “May I hear their story before I go to Purse Caundle?” Matthias asked.

  He walked up Cheap Street with Thomas. A little way from Thomas’ house, he wrinkled his nose in disgust.

  “Have some of your neighbours a passion for long dead fish during Lent?” he asked. The smell was so strong that he pressed his nose into the sleeve of his gown.

  In contrast, the inside of Thomas’ house was cool and fragrant, - Hannah was a good housekeeper, and she made sure the rushes were changed, herbs strewn among them and all linens were clean and fresh.

  Thomas took Matthias into the schoolroom where two boys were sitting, copying laboriously from a slate.

  “Masters Goram and Slater are detained as punishment,” Thomas told Matthias, “They took their beating well, for I will not tolerate truancy. However, during their truancy, they heard things which you may wish to ask your friend the Coroner to act upon.”

  Matthias breathed a little faster. Was this the breakthrough they had been waiting for?

  “Master Goram, tell Master Barton how you left my house.”

  The boy looked up from his work.

  “We climbed out of Slater’s window,” he said sullenly. “It was a dare from some-one.”

  “Go on,” Matthias said, eying him severely, for the boy’s tone was anything but obedient and penitent.

  “The roof was too steep, so we skirted the next house by the overhang, and came down two doors away.”

  Matthias and Thomas waited.

  “At the back of that house, there was a terrible moaning and crying sound and we had to pause in case we were heard, - but there was no window. Then as we slithered down, it sounded as if someone was being thrashed – much harder then Master Copeland thrashes us.”

  He glanced up slyly as he said this, hoping to curry favour from his schoolmaster, but Thomas’ face was impassive.