The Serpents of Harbledown

by Edward Marston

“You must.”

  “Bertha died because of the will of a cruel murderer.”

  “Do not look at it that way. It will only lead to endless bitterness and sorrow. Let me visit you, Alwin. You have lost a wife and a daughter now. You need me to ease you through these travails.”

  “What could you do?” said the other sharply.

  “Offer solace and guidance.”

  “How?”

  “By understanding your grief.”

  “How could you possibly understand the sense of loss that I bear? You are a celibate priest. You have no wife and no idea what it is like to bring up a child. Leave me be, Father Reinbald. I want none of your consolation.”

  “In time, maybe.”

  “Never!”

  “But you need succour.”

  “Not from the likes of you,” snapped the other.

  Alwin swung away from the grave and blundered off through the mourners, leaving Reinbald the Priest stung by the rudeness of his departure and wounded to the quick by his harsh words. It was some minutes before he recovered enough to be able to offer condolences to other members of Bertha's family but Alwin's outburst still echoed in his ears.

  When Golde had been escorted back to the house in Burgate Ward, Ralph and Gervase collected their horses from the stables and rode off toward Harbledown. Both were still muted by their attendance at the funeral. It was only when they were trotting up the hill that Ralph found his voice.

  “Where are we going?” he asked.

  “To the hospital of St. Nicholas.”

  “Why?”

  “To put an idea of mine to the test, Ralph.”

  “What idea?”

  “I have been thinking about Brother Martin's death,” said Gervase, “and I believe that I may have the answer to the mystery. Brother Martin went into an empty church. An hour or so later, I came along and entered myself, only to find him dead. Yet nobody had come or gone in that time. The explanation is simple.”

  “Alain the Leper fell asleep on sentry duty.”

  “No, Ralph. He was vigilance itself.”

  “Then why did he not see the killer enter the church?”

  “Because the man was already inside. He must have gained entry sooner in the evening and lain in wait until Brother Martin came in.”

  “It is conceivable,” said Ralph, weighing the idea in his mind. “And it would certainly explain why Alain did not spot anyone going into the church. But it does not account for the fact that the murderer was not seen leaving either.”

  “Alain would never have seen him depart.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because the man stayed inside the church.”

  “He was there when you discovered the body?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Where would he have hidden?”

  “That is what we are going to find out now.”

  Ralph was impressed. “Why did this never occur to me?”

  “Because you were not at the hospital. You do not know the relation between the church and Alain's hut. When I worried away at it long enough, the answer came.”

  “The possible answer.”

  “I know I am right, Ralph. What I am not sure about is the exact time of the killer's departure.”

  “He must have sneaked away as soon as you left.”

  “I locked the door of the church.”

  “When was it reopened?”

  “By the six monks sent from Christ Church Priory, all of them good friends of Brother Martin. Imagine the scene,” said Gervase. “Six shocked and bereaved men, standing around the dead body of a venerable colleague. They would have been far too distressed to notice anyone who slipped out of the church.”

  “The lepers would have noticed him,” suggested Ralph. “Alain must have spread the word by then. They would have come out of their huts to watch Brother Martin being carried away on the cart. The killer must have been seen.”

  An image from the funeral shot into Gervase's mind.

  “He was seen, Ralph. Seen but not seen.”

  “Stop talking gibberish.”

  “What exactly would the lepers have observed?”

  “Six monks going into the church and a stranger sliding out to make a run for it. They could not have missed him.”

  “They could. Six went in but one came out.”

  “We are back to riddles, are we?”

  “Six monks entered, Ralph. One monk departed.”

  “One monk?”

  “That was the man's disguise,” argued Gervase. “Other monks occasionally visit the hospital to help with its work. The killer donned a black cowl so that he would attract no attention if he sidled into the community. He bided his time before stepping into the church unnoticed.”

  “Yes,” agreed Ralph, warming to the theory. “The lepers would have been too heartbroken to count the monks who went in to gather up the body of Brother Martin. When a figure in a cowl emerges, they assume he is one of the party dispatched by Prior Henry. Brilliant, Gervase! How did you work it out?”

  “I saw him.”

  “Who?”

  “The man himself. At the funeral.”

  He told Ralph about the lone monk who had caught his eye with his speedy and irreverent withdrawal from the churchyard of St. Mildred's. His companion became elated.

  “By all, this is wonderful!”

  “Why?”

  “I have learned two things about the man we seek,” said Ralph. “First, he has the cunning of a fox and will think through his villainy with care. He made Bertha seem the victim of a snakebite to deflect any suspicion of foul play. And he joins the Benedictine Order so that he can murder Brother Martin and escape through a whole crowd of lepers.”

  “What is the second thing?” asked Gervase.

  “He is still here in Canterbury! We can catch him.”

  They reached the hospital and tethered their mounts. The two monks who were looking after the place listened to their request and complied at once. Ralph and Gervase were allowed into the church. At first glance, there were no obvious hiding places, especially for a man as tall as the monk Gervase had observed at the funeral. The church consisted of a simple nave and a tiny vestry. Its windows were too high and too small to allow an easy escape.

  The vestry was a potential hiding place but its door was directly opposite the spot where Brother Martin had fallen to the ground. Even six preoccupied monks would have been aware of a seventh member of their Order walking within a couple of feet of them. When Ralph tried the door, it creaked so loudly on its hinges that they ruled out the vestry as the place of concealment.

  Gervase began to have second thoughts. An idea which had seemed so convincing on their ride to Harbledown was slowly crumbling. With Ralph's indulgence, he went out of the church, then entered again, retracing the steps he had taken on the previous evening. He came to the pillar against which the old monk had rested, watched him fall to the ground in his mind's eye, knelt to examine him, then recalled that it was too dark to see properly. When his head turned toward the candle, he had the solution.

  “The altar!” he shouted.

  “Calm down, Gervase.”

  “Where better to hide?”

  Removing the crucifix, the candle and the little vase of flowers from the altar, he lifted the white cloth with a mixture of reverence and excitement. The table was small but a man could conceal himself beneath it without undue discomfort. Even Ralph was shocked by the sacrilege.

  “Hiding under an altar to commit murder!”

  “The last place from which you would expect danger.”

  “Brother Martin would have been completely off guard.”

  “Kneeling in prayer,” said Gervase, as his gaze raked the floor underneath the table. “The killer eased himself out, jumped on Brother Martin, overpowered him and …”

  He broke off as he saw something lying in the crack between two flagstones. Leaning in under the altar, he groped around until his hand closed on the objec
t. When he brought it out, he opened his palm to reveal a small flask.

  He held it to his nose and recoiled with disgust. Even the aromatic herbs in the nave could not remove the stink of murder.

  “He was here,” said Gervase. “We have a trail.”

  Osbern the Reeve was a decent, hardworking, God-fearing man whose life had hitherto followed a pattern of certainty. When he set himself a target, he always achieved it. When he conceived schemes for the future, they invariably came to fruition. His sense of purpose and his unswerving dedication to the task in hand had earned him an important position in the city, a wife whom he adored and a son on whom he doted. It was almost as if he had planned his happiness like a military campaign, marshalling his divisions to strike at the right point and at precisely the correct moment. Every battle he fought under the flag of domestic bliss had so far been attended by triumph.

  The situation had altered dramatically. In the space of a couple of days, some of his certainties had been shattered. His contentment had turned to rising anxiety, his faith in his own good judgement had been undermined and, most disturbing of all, he was being forced to reexamine the assumptions he had made about his wife. Osbern had been too complacent in his happiness.

  “May I crave a word or two, my lady?” he said politely.

  “As many as you wish.”

  “Have you spoken to Eadgyth since the funeral?”

  “I was just about to do so,” said Golde. “She made me promise to describe it to her when I got back here.”

  Osborn nodded. “Thank heaven we were able to persuade her not to attend in person! It would have been far too harrowing for Eadgyth. She was determined to come. It was Helto who finally talked her out of it.”

  “He is a sound physician.”

  “The best.”

  Golde gave a warm smile. “What did you wish to ask me?”

  The reeve hesitated. Golde was an honoured guest and he did not wish to offend her in any way by subjecting her to what she might feel was an interrogation. She had also been immensely supportive to Eadgyth and nursed her through the worst of her ordeal. Osbern liked and respected Golde. She had an essential honesty and would answer his question if only he had the courage to ask it. That was Osbern's other problem. He was torn between wanting to know the truth about Eadgyth and maintaining the illusion that she would never keep anything from her husband.

  “Well?” invited Golde.

  “How is Eadgyth?”

  “You saw her yourself only a few minutes ago.”

  “Yes, my lady,” he said, “but I only see her through the eyes of a fond and worried husband. You have sat beside he bed for hours on end, soothing her troubled mind and giving her relief from her sorrow.”

  “That sorrow will not easily go away,” warned Golde.

  “I know.”

  “It ebbs and flows. Today, as you have seen, Eadgyth is understandably distressed. Your wife desperately wanted to go to Bertha's funeral. She felt it was a betrayal of her closest friend to stay away.”

  “There was good reason, my lady.”

  “Yes,” said Golde. “It would have upset her beyond measure. Not simply because she loved Bertha so much but because she would have realised that the truth had been kept from her. Reinbald the Priest did not mention the murder in his sermon but it was common talk among the congregation. Eadgyth must surely have caught a whisper of it.”

  “That was my greatest fear.”

  “It could easily have been avoided, Osbern.”

  “How, my lady?”

  “By telling her what really happened to Bertha.”

  “Helto cautioned me against that.”

  “How long will you keep her ignorant of the truth?”

  “I do not know.”

  “It cannot be held back forever.”

  “I accept that.” He shifted his feet uneasily. “You have spent a great deal of time with Eadgyth,” he said. “She is under enormous stress. Given the circumstances, it is only natural that she would talk to you about Bertha.”

  “Constantly.”

  “You have shown monumental patience.”

  “I have been interested in all that she told me.”

  “My lady,” he said, running his tongue over his lips before blurting out his question. “Did my wife ever mention that Bertha had a secret romance?”

  “Romance?”

  “An admirer whom nobody knew about. A lover. Did she?”

  “Not in those terms.”

  “There was someone, then?”

  “Eadgyth only referred to him as ‘a friend’.”

  “What was his name?”

  “Your wife did not say,” explained Golde. “Indeed, she did not really mean to confide anything of the relationship to me. It slipped out unwittingly. Once she had told me that Bertha had this special friend, she refused to say another word on the subject. It is a secret she is determined to keep.”

  “Yes,” said Osbern ruefully. “Even from me.”

  “What harm has it caused you?”

  “It was wrong, my lady. I should have been told.”

  “This secret belonged only to Eadgyth and Bertha.”

  “I am Eadgyth's husband. There should be no deception between us.”

  “Do you not keep secrets from her, Osbern?”

  “Never!”

  “You take her into your confidence about everything.”

  “It is an article of faith.”

  “An admirable one in many ways,” said Golde. “Marriage should blend two people completely together. But you must not blame Eadgyth for harbouring this secret. Although you profess to be honest with her, you have clearly not been so.”

  “I have, my lady! I swear it.”

  “Then why have you not told her the truth about Bertha's death? That is a dreadful secret to keep from your wife. Eadgyth may never forgive you.”

  The visit to Harbledown was highly productive. Ralph Delchard and Gervase Bret were pleased with their progress and rode back toward the city in good humour. As they approached Westgate, they saw a hooded figure sitting outside the town wall with a begging bowl at his feet. Gervase found a coin in his purse and tossed it down as they passed.

  Alain caught it expertly in his bowl and looked up to nod his gratitude. Recognising Gervase, he rose from the ground and dipped a hand deep into his sleeve. He brought out something wrapped in a piece of cloth and handed it over before moving away. Gervase was puzzled. He flicked back the folds of cloth and held the object in his palm. Wrinkling his nose in distaste, Ralph urged him to hurl it

  after the leper, but Gervase felt that it had a significance. He turned it around to examine it more closely.

  It was an apple out of which one large bite had been taken.

  CHAPTER NINE

  CANON HUBERT WAS profoundly disappointed by his visit to Canterbury, and he was left with the uncomfortable feeling that his hopes had been ridiculously high. Having regaled Brother Simon with more or less continuous anecdotes about Archbishop Lanfranc all the way from Winchester, the boastful canon fully expected to be summoned into the presence of his erstwhile friend within a short time of his arrival at Christ Church Priory. Instead, he was kept at arm's length by the archbishop and treated to a highly unsatisfactory interview with Prior Henry, whose barbs were wounding and whose cold Italian charm was a poor substitute for Lanfranc's glowing benignity.

  There was a second blow to Hubert's self-esteem. When his ecclesiastical status was not given the recognition that he felt it deserved, he at least had a role as a royal commissioner by way of compensation. In the judicial arena of the shire hall, he and his colleagues were able to weigh the competing claims of cathedral and abbey in the balance. It was an important role and Canon Hubert played it with a dignified enthusiasm, savouring in particular the chance to gain some mild revenge on Prior Henry when the latter was called before the tribunal. Now that the activities of the commissioners had been suspended, Hubert's position of power had temporar
ily vanished and he was thoroughly jaded.

  Brother Simon, by comparison, was suffused with joy.

  “We are blessed, Canon Hubert. Truly blessed.”

  “In what way, Brother Simon?”

  “Being sent here to Canterbury. I had doubts at first, I must confess, but your prophecy was so accurate. This is indeed the Heavenly City made manifest.”

  “I would never use such florid language.”

  “Is it not all that you envisaged it would be?”

  “In some respects,” said Hubert grudgingly. “In others, I have to register a sense of slight disillusion.”

  “With Canterbury?”

  “With our reception here.”

  “When we have had such a cordial welcome?”

  “It was not untinged with reservation.”

  “I have no complaint whatsoever,” said Simon with a pious smile. “Events have so fallen out to our advantage. Now that the work of the commission has been postponed, we may stay here in the enclave to share in the life of this wondrous community. Is this not a gift from God?”

  “Most certainly not!” scolded Hubert. “Those events which you portray as beneficial to us include the murder of an innocent young girl and the poisoning of one of the obedientiaries here. Are we to profit from the misfortune of others, Brother Simon? Is that a Christian attitude? Two people lie dead and we are to rejoice at the advantage it brings to us? Shame on you!”

  It was shortly after Sext and they were ambling side by side around the cloister garth. While one was beginning to see the priory as a form of prison, the other was wholly liberated by it. The cruel irony was not lost on Canon Hubert. While he had talked about seeking the new Jerusalem in Canterbury, his companion had actually found it.

  Brother Simon squirmed under the stinging criticism.

  “Do not misunderstand me,” he begged. “I am as appalled as anyone by these terrible murders. I have prayed for both victims and will continue to do so as fervently as I may. Especially for Brother Martin.”

  “Why? The girl equally merits your petition to God.”

  “I agree, Canon Hubert, but the other tragedy has more resonance for me. A holy brother, cut down in the very church where he ministered to the unfortunate souls of Harbledown. A place of sanctuary turned into a slaughter-house. It does not bear thinking about.”