by Kim Fleet
‘Taken away?’ Brother John echoed. ‘Where?’
‘To be tested and then destroyed, I hope,’ the abbot said. ‘I shall be glad to see the end of it.’
‘The Blood has not been displayed for some time now,’ Brother John said. ‘Why remove it?’
‘Because that is what His Majesty wishes.’
‘And you would know the contents of His Majesty’s heart, being his chaplain?’ Brother John said, smoothly.
Abbot Sagar flushed with anger. ‘Enough! The thing is a fake, a trick to deceive poor credulous souls and I’ll have no more of it.’ He visibly took a breath. ‘The commissioners will be here within days to take it away. That is all.’
And with that he nodded curtly and swept out of the room.
‘Taking away the relic?’ Matthew echoed.
‘So it would seem,’ Brother John said.
‘But the relic … it can’t go,’ he said. ‘All those people …’
‘Hush boy, we must do as our Brother Abbot orders,’ Brother John said, and led him away.
Matthew knew the power of the Blood, had seen Brother John wield it and summon miracles on many occasions since he’d come to live at the Abbey. A woman who lay dying of fever suddenly sat up in bed and shouted, ‘Praise the Lord!’ and the sweat dried on her brow and her heart beat regular and slow when Brother John revealed the Holy Blood to her.
And then there was a man who had been gored through the leg by a ram, the wound green and festering with putrefaction. The dead flesh fell away revealing pink, whole flesh beneath, and he got up and walked, as sound and firm as a youth once in the presence of the Blood.
Never mind the babies that refused to turn in the belly, and the sweats that threatened to extinguish a family. They all succumbed to the power of the Holy Blood.
‘They can’t take it away,’ Matthew stammered again. ‘How will the people be cured if you don’t have the Blood?’
Brother John closed the door to his workroom firmly. ‘Now listen, Matthew. We have work to do. You must hurry to the smith and request of him his best work yet. Describe the Holy Blood to him, how the vessel is adorned with silver and precious gems. Get him to make its twin.’
‘But he’s a simple village smith,’ Matthew protested, ‘he won’t have precious gems and silver and gold.’
‘He doesn’t need them. The gems and metals themselves will not be tested, only the contents of the vessel, and for that, Brother Sebastian has provided an answer.’ He pointed to the bowl of blood on the workbench. ‘Better it impersonate the Blood than feed the sluice.’
Matthew hesitated.
‘Are you afraid, Sweet Matthew?’
He nodded. ‘What if Abbot Sagar finds out?’
‘He won’t. He will be long gone before the commissioners get here. To one of his fine residences, no doubt. He won’t want to witness the surrender of our precious relic, for all he’s told Cromwell he doubts it.’ He held Matthew’s gaze. ‘Now go! Hurry!’
And Matthew fled.
The lane to Winchcombe was baked hard in the sun, jarring his legs as he ran. He paused only once on his journey, when his lungs screamed for mercy and he was forced to pull up and rest his hands on his knees until his vision cleared and he had enough wind to start running again. He hurtled up the main street, skirting wide to avoid the butcher’s shop, and turned into the lane where the smell of hot iron singed the air.
‘Are the dogs of hell at your back, young Lazarus?’ the smith asked, dipping a glowing rod into the water trough. It gushed with steam.
‘Brother John needs your help,’ Matthew said, spitting out each word with a cough from burning lungs.
‘Brother John?’ A shadow crossed the smith’s face and he left the hot metal in the trough. ‘He’s not hurt?’
‘No.’ Matthew shook his head. ‘But he … we … are in trouble. Great trouble.’
‘Come along inside, boy,’ the smith said, and led him into the cottage. He shooed away his wife and their three children. The oldest boy was Matthew’s age, and had been saved by Brother John’s skill when a horse kicked his head and shattered his skull. The midwife had come with winding cloths to lay out the body, and was sent away empty handed when Brother John locked himself in a room with the boy and pressed the Holy Blood to his lips. The moment the vessel touched the boy’s skin, he was restored to life.
‘The commissioners are going to take the Holy Blood,’ Matthew said, heaving for breath. ‘We can’t let them. The Blood … it’s …’
The smith laid a heavy paw on his shoulder. ‘Aye,’ he said, grimly. ‘What does Brother John need from me?’
‘A vessel that resembles the Blood itself.’ The idea was so shocking, Matthew whispered the words, but the smith merely nodded.
‘Can you draw it for me, boy, and describe it to me in detail? I have only glimpsed it once, and then but for a second.’
Matthew took a stick and drew in the dust on the floor of the cottage. The smith crouched at his shoulder, nodding and seeking further clarification.
‘It shall be done as soon as I can manage, if I have to work all day and all night,’ the smith said.
‘But how will you make it look like precious gold and silver and gemstones?’ Matthew cried. They would be caught out in their deception, he knew it, and they would all hang.
‘Leave that to me,’ the smith said, his mouth set in a grim line.
Less than a week later, he smuggled the counterfeit into the Abbey. Side by side, his vessel was no match for the Holy Blood, but for those who had never seen it, the imposter was convincing enough.
‘And now for the Blood,’ Brother John said. The blood taken from Brother Sebastian was dried now, but he mixed it with hot water, oil, honey and saffron, and made a substance that looked akin to fresh blood, which he poured into the thick, dark glass bottle and sealed it with the metal stopper the smith had made.
‘Take this and put it in the church,’ Brother John said, handing it to Matthew. ‘Make sure no one sees you.’
He crept down the infirmary stairs with it hidden under his robes. Past the refectory where the lay brothers were sweeping the floor and scrubbing down the long wooden tables. He slunk past the door to the kitchens; the baker often called to him and pressed a misshapen loaf into his palm. He must be invisible today and hunched deep into his robes, dreading hearing anyone call his name.
He clutched the vessel tight with one hand, his fingers growing slick with sweat. Past the cloister, where two ancient brothers paced side by side, old bones creaking, then into the church.
The gloom swallowed him the moment he stepped inside. It was a dull day, and no sun lit the coloured panes in the windows. Though the stone arches and walls were painted with bright reds, blues and gold, today the colours were flat, and the walls pressed in upon him.
He stood motionless for a moment, ears straining for the rustle of robes on the herb-strewn floor or the murmur of prayer. Nothing. He inched forwards, casting a glance at the door to the dormitory stairs, heart banging against his ribs in case a brother came clattering down. Nothing.
Another few inches. No one in the nave of the church. He tiptoed further, towards the altar that had housed the Holy Blood. The dais was empty, had been empty for a long time, and the screen that concealed the Blood long since put away. But he remembered being a child and taken to witness the Blood, being held high in his father’s arms to see as the screen was slowly lowered and a keening sigh came from the press of pilgrims before the altar.
All gone now. No travel-stained pilgrims had stood in awe and terror on this spot for years.
Matthew stole past the dais, heading towards the trunk at the side of the nave which housed old vestments. The Blood had been consigned to this fusty grave long ago. The metal fastenings on the trunk screamed when he raised the clasps. His eyes darted about the church, his heart loud in his ears, afraid the scream would bring people running. He froze, his hand on the lid of the trunk, for what seemed an eternity. W
hen his heart slowed, he lifted the lid.
A gust of mouldy air. The stink of soiled clothes, long abandoned to mouse and moth. No place for the Blood. Matthew dug out the top layer and slid the vessel from under his robes, took a last look at it, then slid it into the trunk and piled rusting velvet over it. He lowered the lid and snapped the clasps shut, wincing at the echo in the empty church.
His knees cracked as he stood, startling him. He turned to leave the church, and walked straight into Brother Sebastian.
‘What are you doing here, boy?’ Brother Sebastian said, his piggy eyes searching Matthew’s face.
‘Brother John kindly allowed me some time to come and pray.’
‘And you were praying to that trunk?’
Matthew thought fast. ‘He asked me to put some wormwood in there, to ward against the moth,’ he said, his words tripping over themselves.
‘I see,’ Brother Sebastian said. He folded his arms and waited.
‘Brother?’
‘You came to pray? So pray.’
Matthew swallowed, then walked slowly towards the altar. He halted a respectful distance from it, feeling Brother Sebastian’s stare drilling through his spine, then slowly sank to his knees, brought his palms together, and began to pray.
By the time he returned to the infirmary, the Holy Blood was gone.
‘I have it safe,’ was all Brother John would say.
The commissioners came two weeks later and raided the church. The brothers assembled as they scooped up the relic with a sneer of disgust and stuffed it in a saddlebag.
When they were gone, the church seemed empty, as if all the air had been sucked out of it. Some of the older monks had tears on their cheeks as they knelt to pray and beg forgiveness. As Brother John had predicted, there was no sign of the Abbot.
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
Thursday, 29 October 2015
08:54 hours
Eden approached the Imperial Hotel through the park. Most of the flowerbeds had been dug out and left as humped bare earth, only a sickle of bedraggled begonias remained. The grass was wet and long, still bearing the scars of the marquees from the Literature Festival a few weeks before.
On the far side of the park, smoke curled from a litter bin and Eden went over to investigate. Someone had set it on fire; fortunately, the contents were damp and it hadn’t gone up taking the nearby tree and bench with it. She scooped up a handful of wet leaves and doused the fire. Poking from the top of the pile was a crushed white envelope, only partly burned. Enough remained to show it had been addressed to Lewis Jordan at the Imperial Hotel. No stamp or postmark. Eden fished it out and found a charred match caught in the fold. The envelope had been slit open and inside was a single sheet of paper.
Ready to die, sick boy?
She bundled the letter back into the remains of the envelope and put it in her bag, then excavated the contents of the bin. Crisp packets half-full of water, fag ends, a stinking nappy, and a matchbook from the Waa-Waa Club. Two of the matches had been torn out.
Eden pocketed the matchbook and set off down the street, thinking. A letter shoved under Lewis’s door, a letter half-burned in a bin. A set of letters composed on a laptop that Lewis had access to.
The Waa-Waa Club on the Promenade nursed a dejected air during the day. She went up the marble steps into a Regency building laid out in a series of small interconnecting rooms. She hunted around upstairs, trotting from room to room and getting disorientated, then descended into the basement.
‘You here for breakfast?’ a young man behind the bar called to her. He had a tattoo of a snake winding around his neck.
‘No. Were you working on Tuesday evening?’
‘Yeah. So?’
‘Was it busy?’
‘On a Tuesday evening? Give me a break.’
‘Good.’ She hitched up a bar stool and plonked herself down. On the bar was a glass bowl full of matchbooks. She took one: it was identical to the one she’d found in the bin. ‘Who was in?’
‘You’re kidding, right?’
She flashed her ID and he screwed up his face to assist the thinking process. One more brain cell and he’d have two to rub together.
‘A couple who got engaged,’ Mastermind volunteered at last. ‘Sat in that corner there. A mum and dad and posh kids, bit of a nightmare.’ He sniffed and rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. So much for the hygiene rating. ‘All had allergies. And there was a noisy group who sat upstairs and drank cocktails – the girls were alright but the blokes were wankers.’
‘Wankers? How?’
He snorted. ‘Tried to get free drinks by telling us they worked in TV.’
‘How many of them?’
‘Two girls. Wouldn’t say no to either of them. Two blokes, nerdy tossers.’
‘Thanks.’ She jumped down from the stool then turned back with more questions. ‘What time did they get here?’
‘I dunno. Seven? Seven-thirty?’
‘And when did they leave?’
‘We had to kick them out.’
‘What time was that?’
‘Almost midnight. The place was dead except them. We all wanted to go home so we stacked up the chairs around them. They got the hint.’
So much for the hospitality industry. She wandered back out onto the Promenade and headed to the Imperial Hotel, where she spoke to the receptionist.
‘Has any post come for Lewis Jordan?’
‘Yes, something came this morning. We weren’t sure what to do with it.’
‘I’ll take it,’ Eden said.
The girl handed over the envelope, evidently relieved to get rid of the responsibility. It was another large white envelope. Again a single sheet of paper:
You think you’re so clever but I know what you really are. Prepare for the end
It had been posted early the previous morning, when Lewis was already dead.
She dug her notebook out of her handbag and flicked through her notes. There had been drafts of eight letters on the laptop. Four were sent to Lewis before he arrived in Cheltenham. ‘You can’t escape. I know where and what you are’ had been shoved under Lewis’s hotel room door the morning he died. ‘You think you’re so clever but I know what you really are. Prepare for the end’ had been delivered that morning, and ‘Ready to die, sick boy?’ was half-burned in a bin.
While she sat there, contemplating the letters, Detective Inspector Ritter came through the revolving door into the hotel. He did a double take when he saw her, and sauntered over, his hands in his pockets. Both he and his suit were so creased they looked as though they’d been through a mangle. Together.
‘Miss Gumshoe,’ he said. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Everyone’s got to be somewhere,’ she said. A whiff of cigarette smoke came off him. That probably meant he was in a better mood, so she took the chance to ask him, ‘What was the pathologist’s report on Lewis Jordan?’
‘Is that any business of yours?’
‘He was my client.’ She lifted her shoulders and made an attempt at winsome. ‘Please.’
Ritter sighed. ‘Cause of death was a fractured skull. Blunt instrument to the back of the head.’
‘When?’
‘He died around one in the morning, but he could have been attacked before then.’
‘The bloody fingerprints on the carpet,’ Eden said. Poor Lewis, clawing his way across the room. She shivered inside at the thought of him bleeding out, unable to summon help. ‘And his eyes?’
‘Ammonia in his eye drops. Probably from a standard oven cleaner.’
‘Shit!’ she breathed. ‘And his mouth?’
Ritter’s mouth quirked. ‘Ah yes, his blackened mouth. Very Gothic.’ He held the suspense for a moment then laughed. ‘Liquorice.’
He rocked on his heels at her surprise. ‘Now you can help me,’ he said, reaching into his pocket and handing her a crumpled sheet of paper. ‘We found this in his jacket pocket. Any idea what it’s about?’
>
Eden scanned the paper, her heart beating faster. ‘I asked him to write down anyone who might have a grievance against him, to give me a start on the poison pen letters he was getting.’
The note was handwritten on hotel notepaper. Across the top, Lewis had put, ‘People who might hate me’. Underneath was a single name: Jocasta Simpson.
Xanthe and Jocasta were outside the hotel when Eden left. Jocasta was applying a lighter to a cigarette, her hands trembling. Her face was swollen and blotchy: no amount of foundation could disguise a night’s heavy weeping.
‘That policeman has just told us about Lewis,’ Xanthe said. ‘Something in his eye drops, he said.’ She shuddered. ‘I’ve never seen anything so horrible.’
‘He said they think one of the chambermaids was clumsy when they cleaned his room,’ Jocasta added, breathing out a long stream of white smoke.
Bollocks, Eden thought. If the police really thought ammonia in Lewis’s eye drops was a clumsy accident, then they ought to be policing Trumpton, not Cheltenham. No, they suspected foul play all right, but they weren’t going to tell this pair. Probably hoping they’d spread the word and get whoever doctored the drops to make a mistake and reveal themselves.
‘What’s going to happen about the documentary?’ Eden asked.
‘A new producer is coming tomorrow and we’re going to try and catch up with the filming schedule,’ Jocasta said. ‘It won’t be the same without Lewis.’ She smudged her cigarette out with her boot and fled inside, her hand shielding her face.
‘Poor Jocasta,’ Xanthe said, her eyes following her. ‘She’s so cut up about Lewis.’
‘She was in love with him.’
Xanthe puffed out her cheeks. ‘And he was a brute, he really was.’
‘She told me he teased her for feeling that way about him.’
‘Taunted, more like. Called her Jo-Jo in front of everyone. Even called her Joanne sometimes.’
‘Joanne? I don’t understand.’
Xanthe hugged her jacket closer around her. ‘Joanne is her real name. She changed it to Jocasta when she went to university. Every time Lewis called her Joanne, he was reminding her of everything she was trying to escape.’