The Grim Reaper

by Bernard Knight

The Archdeacon marvelled at the way in which a madman could rationalise what he was doing, to justify his indulgence in the very same sins against which he alleged that he was campaigning.

  ‘Did you intend to slay every whore, every moneylender, every sodomite in the city?’ enquired the Precentor in his acid tones.

  Adam, who seemed to have a logical answer to every slur on his fantasies, shook his bull-like head. ‘Of course not! It was but a sign, a token of warning to those who committed similar sins. And you have interrupted my work, damn you all! God will be unforgiving when you go to judgement, though you be bishops and archdeacons all!’

  Henry Marshal sighed. It was impossible to penetrate this disordered mind. He turned to John de Alençon. ‘Archdeacon, I gather you have some further information?’

  De Alençon leaned forward and unrolled a parchment that he had been holding. ‘In the last few days, we have learnt that the parish priest of Topsham, one Richard Vassallus, was a secondary and a vicar at the cathedral of Wells at the same time as Adam of Dol. This was now many years ago, but Vassallus was sent for yesterday and was able to give me some pertinent facts about his old colleague.’

  The others turned to him with expectant interest, but the prisoner barked his derision. ‘Vassallus was a weak-kneed fool, as well as a liar. He has hated me ever since I broke his jaw after he derided my theories about countering Satan’s wiles!’

  The Archdeacon ignored the interruption. ‘This priest said that Adam had a reputation for outbursts of ungovernable violence when at Wells. He was known to consort with loose women – though we must accept that was not a unique crime, even among young clerics – and he was suspected of having been involved in the fatal mutilation of a whore in Bristol. The sheriff’s men came to make enquiries, but nothing could be proved.’

  ‘Liars, all of them! God had not then called me to do his bidding,’ ranted Adam, until a proctor rapped him across the neck with his rod.

  ‘Was there anything else?’ asked the Bishop.

  ‘There were two mysterious fires when he was at Wells. Part of the dormitory was burnt down and later, there was a fire in the Chapter House that damaged the scriptorium. Again, suspicion fell on Adam, but no proof was forthcoming. However, the canons had him transferred to their superior house of Bath Abbey, where it seems his dubious history was not known.’

  De Alençon unrolled his scroll a little more and continued, ‘By chance, I was discussing the matter with one of the Justices now in the city, Gervase de Bosco, who, as you all know, is an archdeacon in Gloucester. He told me that almost a year ago, he was one of those holding the Eyre of Assize in Wiltshire. Two deaths were presented by the coroner there, one from Salisbury, the other from Devizes, which were never solved, no perpetrator ever being found.’

  The others waited with interest upon the rest of the Archdeacon’s explanation.

  ‘The victims were both harlots, mutilated in an obscene way. One had also been damaged after death by fire. Other whores who frequented the same ale-houses as the dead girls told a vague story suggesting that a man with a priest’s tonsure had been the last man seen with the victims, but in the absence of any other evidence, nothing could come of the matter.’

  There was a pregnant silence.

  ‘Murdered whores, mutilation and fires seem to recur often in this sad story,’ said the Bishop. ‘Have you anything to say on the matter, Adam of Dol?’

  The priest’s pugnacious face jerked up defiantly. ‘Sin is sin, whether it be in Exeter, Salisbury or Devizes! It needs to be rooted out wherever it occurs.’

  ‘Which offers you your perverted pleasures at the same time, no doubt,’ said Henry Marshal dryly. ‘If that is the last of your sad catalogue, Archdeacon, then I have something to add, which I learnt only today.’

  The company turned expectantly to their superior.

  ‘Since it became public knowledge that this deranged fellow had been apprehended, his own confessor came to me in great concern. Father William Angot, of the church of Holy Trinity, has been on a pilgrimage to Canterbury and only returned yesterday, so he knew nothing of the spate of killings during these past few weeks. Mindful of the sanctity of confession, he has been disconsolate about what to do but came to me for guidance. Though we accept that confessions are never disclosed, even to fellow priests, in the circumstances I gave a dispensation to Father William to divulge what he felt was relevant to this vile situation.’

  ‘You had no such right!’ howled Adam, his eyes bulging in a face almost puce with rage.

  Ignoring his outburst, Henry Marshal continued in cold, even tones: ‘Though this evil man had not deigned to make confession for almost half a year, according to William Angot, in the past he has admitted to such strange behaviour and actions that his confessor urged him repeatedly both to desist and to seek counselling from higher authorities. He had suggested pilgrimages to Canterbury and even to Rome, but Adam rejected these notions with scorn.’

  All eyes and ears were now on the Bishop, waiting to hear what came next,

  ‘From such confessions over several years, William gathered that the roots of this man’s madness are rooted in his childhood. His father treated him with contempt and his mother and a sister were confined by force in a nunnery, due to distressing afflictions of the mind. In his rejection, he began to torture small animals and developed a passion for fire, causing a number of conflagrations on their estate in Totnes. Eventually, his father disposed of him to the cathedral school in Wells, mainly, it seems, as a means of getting rid of a troublesome embarrassment.’

  Adam began again to shout denials and curses and tried to move towards the dais on which his accusers sat, but the proctors and their henchmen restrained his struggles.

  ‘His so-called confessions became progressively more like the abuse and cant we are hearing from him today – which is another reason why I have sanctioned the limited revelation of his dealings with Father William. He admitted his fornication with harlots, thankfully well away from Exeter, and he gave broad hints about the revival of his fascination with fire and torture, which seem to have been manifest in a perverse degree in his preaching and those abominable paintings that desecrate the walls of St Mary the Less. I have been myself to see them today and have given orders that they be whitewashed over without delay.’

  This provoked another howl of protest from Adam, who viewed the obliteration of his artwork as an even greater tragedy than his own arrest, but the Bishop was unmoved as he brought the interview dispassionately to an end.

  ‘Adam of Dol, it is the Consistory Court that will finally judge you, though I will appoint its chancellor and its members. At this stage, all I will do is to wonder whether you are totally deranged or totally evil. Whichever it is, there is no doubt that the Satan you claim to fight, has invaded your mind. Indeed, he seems to have been residing there since your childhood and it is a great pity that those who had the care and teaching of you in the early days of your church career did not cut out this perversity, root and branch.’ With the words, ‘Take this creature out of my sight’, he rose and, to the bows of his colleagues, turned to leave through the door behind his chair.

  ‘And that’s that, until the Consistory Court is convened next week,’ concluded John of Alençon later, over a flask of wine with his friend the coroner.

  ‘One thing puzzles me,’ replied de Wolfe. ‘His relationship with Ralph.’

  De Wolfe told the whole story to Gwyn, Thomas and Nesta, when they were sitting at their table in the Bush on Saturday evening. The matter had been aired again that day in the Shire Hall, when John de Alençon, as Archdeacon of Exeter, had come to deliver his Bishop’s decision to the Justices.

  ‘Henry Marshal has done this to emphasise the Church’s independence of royal authority,’ commented the coroner sourly, ‘and I suspect he has used the opportunity to hint at his own partiality to Prince John by delivering a snub to King Richard in taking Adam out of the jurisdiction of his courts.’

  �
��I should have broken the bugger’s neck instead of his ribs when I pulled him off that ladder,’ grunted Gwyn. ‘It would have saved a lot of trouble.’

  Nesta, resplendent in a new kirtle of fawn wool under her white linen apron, looked radiant and content, with her lover and friends around her. But she was rather hazy as to the outcome of this latest drama.

  ‘The Bishop refused to give this “Benefit of Clergy” to poor Thomas here,’ she said, ‘so why is this murderer so favoured? And what does it mean, anyway?’

  ‘Poor’ Thomas, as he seemed fated to be known from now on, provided her with an explanation himself, glad to be free of competition from the erudite Brother Rufus. ‘It’s existed for centuries in many countries, in one form or another – mainly to emphasise the Church’s superiority over kings and emperors, as the crowner said just now.’

  ‘It just seems a way of avoiding the harsh justice that the rest of us have to endure,’ objected Nesta.

  Always a champion of his beloved Church, the clerk disagreed and explained further. ‘It doesn’t absolve priests from trial, but transfers their judgement to a different court. It had a great boost in England in old King Henry’s reign, when as part of his penance for having Thomas Becket killed’ – here he paused to make the Sign of the Cross – ‘he accepted the Church’s demand for recognition of Benefit of Clergy, which took them from the secular courts to the Bishop’s Consistory Court.’

  ‘So it’s entirely up to Henry Marshal what happens to this murdering bastard,’ grumbled Gwyn, wiping the ale from his moustache. ‘He can let him off if he wants to.’

  ‘It’s not that simple. The Consistory Court makes the final decision.’

  ‘Oh, come on! Who’s going to be brave enough to cross the Bishop, eh? He must already have some crafty scheme to deal with this madman.’

  John was massaging Nesta’s thigh under the table, but he didn’t allow that pleasant pursuit to distract him from the conversation. ‘The Archdeacon told me that Henry Marshal is going to recommend that Adam be incarcerated in the Benedictine monastery of Mont St Michel in Normandy. It seems the Bishop is a friend of the Abbot there, and can ensure that the maniac works off his obsessions with hard labour for the rest of his life, carrying building stones up the mount for the new church on top. I think he’d probably prefer to be hanged.’

  Thomas’s forgiving nature allowed him to feel a twinge of pity for Adam. He crossed himself again and said, ‘At least he’ll be near Dol, his birthplace, which is within sight of Mont St Michel.’

  Nesta’s forehead wrinkled in thought. ‘I’ve heard somewhere that even men who are not really priests have been given this Benefit of Clergy. Can that be true?’

  Again Thomas was the fount of knowledge. ‘It can happen, especially to those clerks in minor orders who can read but who are not yet ordained. The usual test is to give them the Vulgate and see if they can read the first sentence of the fifty-first Psalm – “Have mercy on me, O God, according to thy loving kindness – according to the multitude of thy tender mercies, blot out my transgressions.” ’

  ‘That bit of the Psalms is famous,’ observed the coroner. ‘It’s known as the “neck verse” because it’s saved many a cleric from the rope – and some who weren’t even in Orders of any kind!’

  Gwyn snorted his disdain. ‘I could learn that off by heart, without being able to read.’

  ‘Maybe you better had – it might come in useful, in case you tumble any more priests out of their bell-towers,’ said de Wolfe, with a grin.

  Nesta, having been further from the dramatic events of the past week or so, had a wider perspective of the whole affair and could see gaps in the story.

  ‘Why did Adam start on this mad crusade – and why at this particular time?’ she wondered aloud.

  John shrugged, as the same question had bothered him. ‘Who can fathom the mind of someone as possessed as he was? As to the timing, I think the imminent arrival of the Justices triggered it. Maybe he wanted to show that his own brand of God-given retribution was more effective than man-made laws.’

  ‘Did he kill at random, d’you think?’ asked the Welshwoman.

  ‘He must have chosen his victims in advance,’ de Wolfe replied, ‘as he had to find appropriate texts. He seems to have put their faces on the wall of his church later, as he hadn’t got around to mine, unless he was about to add it when we caught him up that ladder.’

  The others were silent for a moment, then Thomas asked, ‘How did he manage never to be seen at any of his killings? He was hardly a skinny wraith like me,’ he added.

  ‘Apart from the attack on Justice Serlo, they were all at dead of night and this city is hardly well lit,’ replied John. ‘A priest with his black robe and cowl is virtually invisible after dark, and if he’s challenged by the constables, he always has the excuse that he’s going to some church for Matins or to give the Last Offices to the dying.’

  Gwyn agreed. ‘He’s lived in Exeter for years, and must know every lane and alleyway. I suppose he stalked his victims and struck when the best opportunity arose.’

  ‘He certainly stalked me to good effect!’ said John, pointing ruefully to his head. His turban-like bandage was gone, but he still had a very sore spot on his scalp.

  Swallowing the last of his ale, de Wolfe prepared to leave. He had spent precious little time at home this past week and wished to avoid damaging Matilda’s fairly benign mood. She had been relieved that events had concealed her brother’s folly in Waterbeer Street and also that her own niggling doubts about Julian Fulk had been dispelled. In addition, the public acclamation of her husband’s success in unmasking the Gospel killer had significantly notched up her standing within her social circle – especially since another feast for the Justices, this time at Rougemont, had given her another opportunity to display both her finery and her famous husband.

  As John stood up, he put a hand on Thomas’s shoulder. ‘I spoke to your uncle when he was at the court today. He’ll no doubt talk to you himself, but it seems that the Bishop is a little conscience-stricken at refusing you Benefit of Clergy when you were in such dire trouble and then proved innocent. He has hinted that he might withdraw his objections to your eventual return to Holy Orders.’

  The clerk’s face lit up as if a shaft of sunlight had struck it. Tears appeared in his eyes and he clutched at the sleeve of his master’s tunic. ‘God preserve you, Crowner! But even if I am restored, I will remain your clerk for a long while yet. You may again need someone who can interpret the scriptures for you!’

  Next morning, de Wolfe ambled up to his chamber above the gatehouse of Rougemont, partly to get out of the house on a Sunday and also to give Brutus some exercise: the old hound’s joints were getting stiff.

  With the dog resting by his feet under the table, he spent a few minutes studying his reading lessons, badly neglected during the recent busy weeks. Soon bored and thirsty, he rose to look for Gwyn’s store of cider, which he kept in a large jar in the corner of the barren room. The Cornishman’s frayed leather jerkin, discarded in the warmer weather, was draped over the two-gallon pot and when John pulled it off, something fell out of the large poacher’s pocket inside. It was one of Thomas’s little pottery jars of ink, a curious thing for the illiterate Gwyn to be carrying. Intrigued, de Wolfe dipped his hand into the pocket and pulled out a quill pen and a ragged piece of blank parchment.

  Sitting back at the trestle, he felt in the pouch on his belt and pulled out the folded note with the text from Ecclesiastes that had been left at the scene of his own assault. When he put the irregular margins of the two fragments of parchment together, they fitted exactly. Staring at them with slowly dawning comprehension, John now knew why Gwyn had chosen to make his own private visit to the clerk on the last evening before he was due to be hanged. The Cornishman must have overcome Thomas’s resignation to a welcome release from this world and persuaded him to use his accomplishments with a pen to forge a note in a disguised hand, similar to that left with t
he dead Jew.

  Slowly, de Wolfe sat back on his stool. A lopsided grin creased his face as he put up a hand to feel the still-tender swelling on the back of his head.

  ‘Thank you, Gwyn,’ he said quietly. ‘But now I owe you one!’

  Footnotes

  Chapter Three

  fn1 now Preston Street

  Chapter Four

  fn1 The Lateran Council of 1215 forbade the ritual of the Ordeal.

  Chapter Twelve

  fn1 Now Gandy Street