The Lord Bishop's Clerk

by Sarah Hawkswood

  Serjeant Catchpoll coughed. ‘I have taken the liberty of finding out about the movements of the brothers during the time the murder must have taken place. Most of them, thankfully, seem to have been together and can vouch for each other. The infirmarer was with a dying man in the infirmary. The man died in the night, so I could not confirm his story, but the infirmarer has been a brother here since childhood, and the clerk was never here before. There seemed no reason to suspect him, so I let him return to his potions and patients.’

  The cheerful mood in which Hugh Bradecote had crossed the courtyard had evaporated in moments. Catchpoll had everything under control, and was happy to show it. Gyrth was now studiously avoiding eye contact. The man-at-arms had known the serjeant some years, and did not give much for the chances of the sheriff’s new man against the wily Serjeant Catchpoll.

  There was nothing the acting under-sheriff could do but commend Catchpoll’s actions. ‘Very good, Serjeant. Have we a final number, among the brethren, to whom we should speak formally?’ He considered the use of ‘we’ a clever move.

  ‘Aye, my lord. The lord abbot was alone after supper, until the Compline bell.’

  Catchpoll noted, with pleasure, his superior’s look of horror, and then continued, ‘But there is but one door from his lodging and it is certain he did not leave the building. One of the novices wanted private word with him, but did not know if all his guests had left, and preferred to wait until the lord abbot himself emerged. This was only when the bell sounded.’

  Bradecote was beginning to lose his temper, which gave Catchpoll secret amusement. ‘I do not require a list of those we need not see. I asked for those with whom we should speak, Catchpoll.’

  ‘Indeed, my lord. There remain only half a dozen monks to be seen; two novices, Brother Porter at the gatehouse, old Brother Jerome, who apparently slipped away to rejuvenate himself with sleep under a tree in the orchard, Brother Oswald the herbalist and the sub-prior, Brother Remigius.’

  ‘That is to the good. We will see them in that order, but only after we have spoken to the man who discovered the body. The master mason, wasn’t it?’

  ‘As you say, my lord. Master Elias the mason, native of St Edmondsbury. He has been told to await your will. The masons, by the by, were all out ale drinking, and stuck together. Each and every one can vouch for the other, and judging by their fear of returning ale-sodden and being beaten by the master, none were so far gone as to be unreliable. Where shall I bring Master Elias?’

  ‘The abbot’s parlour. I had words with him before I sought my bed last night.’ Bradecote gave a tight smile which as good as said, ‘So I wasn’t as cloth-brained as you supposed.’

  Without waiting, he turned and headed for the abbot’s lodging, but then halted and turned back.

  ‘I take it that you will have no problem with the interviews if any of them are not in English? Your accent is appalling, Serjeant, but your words were perfectly clear to Abbot William.’

  ‘It don’t bother me if its in fancy language, my lord. Most folk talk slow when they think their words important, like when there’s a capital crime. The real under-sheriff’ – and ‘real’ had just a hint of stress – ‘my lord de Crespignac, well, his English is scarce beyond giving orders, and a few choice oaths, so it is well that I’ve picked up some Foreign. Not his fault, of course, because he was born abroad. It is fair enough for such as kings and earls to use it; men who have large land holdings across the water as well as here, but as for the rest … English should be all you need if your land is here, begging your pardon.’

  ‘No offence taken.’ Bradecote refused the bait. ‘Did you find out if Eudo the Clerk was at supper, Serjeant Catchpoll?’

  ‘He did not partake of food in the refectory, my lord, and those I’ve spoken to so far did not see him after Vespers. I should say whoever killed him did not do so having come upon him by accident. He went to the Lady chapel to meet someone, and that someone did for him.’

  ‘Right.’ There was little else Bradecote could say. ‘Then let us get on with the task in hand.’ He walked away, aware that Catchpoll had every right to think he was the master of the situation and the sheriff’s new appointee was just a puppet. It was most galling.

  The atmosphere at Chapter was a peculiar mixture of sombre reflection, unease and a vague, suppressed excitement, at least among the novices. Their elders looked more than usually thoughtful, but the optimism of youth meant that the novelty of the event had dispelled their initial horror. None of them knew the victim, nor saw themselves as being particularly at risk, and it certainly made a change to the regularity of their existence.

  Abbot William was old enough and experienced enough to gauge their mood, however much he might deplore it. The whole thing was, in his view, a disaster. The very nature of the crime was abhorrent, but in addition he was going to have to write to the lord Bishop of Winchester both to give information and, hopefully, to exonerate his house. No doubt it was pure misfortune that had meant Eudo met his death in Pershore, but it was a stain on the community nonetheless and Henri de Blois was known to have a long and unforgiving memory. The abbot had spent several of the few hours in his bed in constructing suitable phrases in his mind, and it was a tired and somewhat tetchy abbot who presided in the chapter house.

  ‘My brothers, whatever occurs we must continue in God’s work. The routine of this house must be disrupted as little as the investigation will permit. I will not have,’ and he let his eye fall upon the novices, who looked self-conscious, ‘idle gossip about this wickedness, nor permit speculation and distrust to rear its evil head. Our duty is clear. We must pray for the soul of our brother in Christ, as we must also for the soul who faces damnation as the consequence of weakness. We are all sinners, my brothers, and if our sins are less heinous we should give thanks for God’s aid and not set ourselves up in pride.’

  He looked around him as he continued. ‘Prayers for the deceased will be included in every office, but I would request that all of us keep him in our thoughts and prayers as we go about our tasks. We will now attend to Chapter business as usual. Brother Sacrist has news of a bequest of land at Throckmorton, I know, and I am desirous of your views upon the exchange of a bone from the finger of the sainted Eadburga in return for a fine Gospel of the Winchester school and a gift in coin from our sisters at Romsey. Representations have been made to me by the sacrist and another sister on behalf of Abbess Matilda. The blessèd Eadburga’s own sister was of that house of nuns, and they are most desirous of some relic. I am mindful to accede to this request, but it is a matter for the community to discuss.’

  There followed some debate which dragged minds from the contemplation of murder, and Abbot William was conscious of a sense of gratitude towards the nuns of Romsey, however inadvertent their assistance in a time of trouble. When he drew the proceedings to a close, and with the agreement he sought, he thought he sensed a return to more normal concerns among the men within his charge who had stepped back from the world. It was, he mused sadly, typical of the strife-riven secular world that it had intruded so cruelly into their life. He would pray most assiduously for guidance and a swift conclusion to the investigation.

  Master Elias had the air of confidence befitting a man who dealt on a daily basis with the upper echelons of society, both secular and religious. He looked suitably grave, but no longer exhibited the sickly pallor of the previous evening. He had not lost sleep over the events in the church. He nodded deferentially at Bradecote, took the offered seat, and planted his capable hands firmly on his knees. It declared him a simple, straightforward man, quite prepared to give simple and straightforward answers to the questions of the law, and secure in the knowledge of his innocence. Catchpoll wondered whether it was the way he dealt with authority out of habit, or whether it was a conscious act.

  When his men had returned from the town, their master had been short with them, and had made his anger obvious to Arnulf, the thoughtless apprentice. While the masons were ag
og at the news of the murder, and keen to discover what they had missed, Master Elias had chivvied them to their beds and sought his own. Once he had decided upon how much to divulge about his own movements, he settled peaceably. Elias of St Edmondsbury had imagination, but only in his work.

  The acting under-sheriff began by asking about the events after Vespers.

  Elias regarded Bradecote with a look of composure. ‘Let us not creep towards what you seek. It was I who found the corpse, my lord, so it is what you want to know about. I admit that it fair took me aback for a moment or so, and then I came out into the cloister, where the lord abbot was leading the brothers to Compline, and told what I’d found.’

  ‘What exactly were you doing in the workshop, Master Elias? Your men had gone into the town, yes?’

  The master mason was quite prepared for the question, and answered promptly enough. ‘Aye, my lord. I gave them an hour or so off, but it has always been my way to check the workshop. I am a good master, any will say that, but I demand high standards from my masons, in the craft and in how they leave the workshop each night. Good job I did look, too, because it wasn’t left as I would want, not by a long way.’

  ‘In what way did it fail?’ Bradecote shot a quick glance at Catchpoll.

  ‘Well, the floor hadn’t been swept properly, nor the bench cleaned. I don’t accept dust all about the workshop. Untidiness in the little things leads to untidiness with chisel and mallet, and that is both wasteful of time and stone, and dangerous to limb and eye. What was worse, there was even a mallet left out on the bench, not in the rack, and the men know how I expect all the tools accounted for. Mind you, I gave Arnulf the back of my hand when he returned. He was the apprentice given the tidying task last night, and his mind was on what was to come, not what was to be done. You can understand why I don’t give them time off, regular.’

  The sheriff’s men tried not to appear too interested in this information, and Catchpoll said nonchalantly, ‘I would not have thought you a master who was often disobeyed, Master Elias.’

  The master mason puffed himself up importantly, and thrust his chin forward in an effort to emphasise his unassailable authority. ‘No indeed. My men rarely act foolish.’ He added fairly, ‘Unless of course they’ve taken drink, and we all know that when the drink is in, the sense goes out.’ His expression became very serious. ‘I let them off of an occasional evening, because they are not permitted to drink ale when working, just small beer. Chisels are sharp, ladders are tall, and dying too easy. I have seen it often enough over the years, the waste of a good man through a moment of thoughtlessness.’

  ‘So it was unusual for the apprentice to leave things out of place?’ Bradecote interrupted what could become a list of the dangers facing masons. He could see what Catchpoll was trying to ascertain.

  Master Elias furrowed his brow. ‘Most unusual.’

  Hugh Bradecote made a mental note to visit the masons’ workshop, and cast about in a new direction.

  ‘You are a craftsman of some note, Master Elias. Abbot William told me you had come here with recommendations from Ely, Oxford and Abingdon. In your wide travels, had you come into contact with Eudo the Clerk before?’

  The master mason shook his head. He had been expecting to be asked about the man, and it posed no problem, although he would be glad enough to set the conversation in another direction.

  ‘I have worked in many places, but I have no cause to speak with the brethren, other than those obedientaries concerned with the fabric of their buildings, and of course the head of the house.’ He spoke no less than the truth, and he had not actually been asked if he had merely seen Eudo before.

  ‘You have not been to Romsey? The two nuns are from there.’

  ‘I have not. I prefer not to work in a house of women.’ He grimaced. ‘My father, who was a master mason before me, did so once, and complained ever after. Trouble, they are. They change their minds, see, enough to drive a sane man mad. You get half way through a design and then they think of something they want changing, as though you could add to stone as well as take away.’

  Catchpoll nodded in fellow feeling.

  Bradecote returned to more pertinent matters. ‘How was it that you decided, yesterday evening, to give the men time in the town when you admit that you do so only rarely?’

  ‘It had been a hot day, my lord, both in the confines of the workshop and up on the north transept. The heat takes it out of the men, and frays tempers, which leads to mistakes, and you cannot afford that up top, or with expensive stone. That it happened to be the evening of a death is but chance, aye, and mischance for me if it leads to you suspecting me of wrong-doing.’ The master mason sounded suitably aggrieved at the possible doubting of his honesty.

  ‘Could you tell us exactly what happened, and what you found, as you did to the lord abbot.’ It was an instruction rather than a question. Bradecote was not going to follow up the last answer by assuring the man that he was not suspected.

  ‘Aye, my lord. It was simple enough. I was in the workshop, after supper, between Vespers and Compline, checking things over and considering a new design. There was a natural fault in the latest block and I would rather use it than discard the stone.’ His voice warmed briefly with the enthusiasm of a man who loves his work. ‘There’s great satisfaction to be had, getting the best from a piece, especially when nature brings out a problem to be overcome.’

  ‘Indeed. But to continue?’

  ‘Well, eventually I came up with a solution and, since it had to be close to Compline, I left the workshop through the door into the north transept. I had thought to take my place early in the nave. As I reached the crossing I turned first to the altar, as you would, and saw the cowled penitent before it. I would have passed on without disturbing him if it had not been for the fly.’

  ‘The fly?’ Catchpoll looked puzzled.

  ‘Aye, a fly was buzzing round his head, and even a man at prayer won’t suffer a fly on his pate without a twitch. It was just odd, that’s all, not natural. Then I got this feeling something wasn’t right. I couldn’t say what, just not right, so I drew closer, and that’s when I saw his head had been stove in. Terrible it was, enough to turn a man’s stomach.’

  ‘But not yours,’ Bradecote noted.

  ‘Well, I’ll not say I didn’t feel my gorge rise, my lord, for I did, but … look, I’ve been a mason all my adult life, apprentice to master, and it is a craft with its dangers. I’ve seen what a man looks like after falling from eighty feet, or more, and often enough not to want to gawp. Still, this was nasty …’

  The master mason shook his head, more in disapproval than shock, thought Catchpoll.

  ‘What did you make of the burnt documents, Master Elias?’ Bradecote had not finished. He made the question sound casual.

  ‘Didn’t make anything at all, my lord,’ responded Elias, looking blankly at him. ‘I was just concerned at having found a dead man in the church. Aye, and one who could not have taken his own life. The man who did it could have been close by, so I had no wish to linger. That would be a foolish thing, even though I would say I was a man who could take care of himself. I headed straight out as the Compline bell rang.’

  ‘Did you see or hear anyone else in the church while you were there?’

  This was easier. ‘No, my lord. And it’s not likely I would have heard anyone while I was in the workshop.’ He paused. ‘There now, I almost forgot. There was someone, someone in St Eadburga’s chapel when I came in. I couldn’t say who, but I could hear whispering, like one at prayer. Perhaps that was that clerk, before he was killed.’ He smiled at Bradecote as if expecting recognition for his feat of memory.

  The acting under-sheriff did not smile, but nodded an acknowledgment. ‘Is there anything else you think might be useful?’ Bradecote had no expectation of a reply and was surprised at the master mason’s answer.

  ‘Well, nothing directly so, my lord, but I was thinking that if you wanted to know more about the dead man yo
u might try asking Brother Remigius, the sub-prior here. He used to be at Winchester, see, and yesterday, while I was speaking with him, the lord bishop’s clerk approached and spoke to him. What he said was none of my concern, and I did not pry, but I tell you true, Brother Remigius looked about as happy as a man who’s had a fox in his coop.’

  ‘Thank you, Master Elias, for your help. You may return to your labours.’

  The big man stood up from the chair, looked from Catchpoll to Bradecote and made for the door. As he reached it, Bradecote halted him with a final question, thrown as an afterthought.

  ‘Your work must involve much calculation and planning. I take it you are a lettered man?’

  Elias smiled proudly. ‘That I am, my lord. Taught to read by the brothers in St Edmondsbury when I was a lad. My mother, God rest her, thought I would take the cowl,’ he chuckled, ‘but I was more interested in the building than the life of contemplation. Not for me, the tonsure.’

  He left, looking cheerful.

  ‘What do you think then, Catchpoll? Would a man like that seek to avoid a possible threat, or would he have been intrigued enough to see if any of the vellum was readable?’

  Catchpoll sneered. ‘He wasn’t afraid of anyone else being present, not him. I don’t see him being perturbed at the thought, just alert. Not the simple soul he would have us believe, is Master Elias, and observant too. His work means he looks carefully. If anything was still to be seen, he would have seen it.’

  ‘Or been the one to set it aflame.’

  ‘Oh, aye. The person who “discovers” the victim must be the killer, my lord?’ Catchpoll shrugged. ‘It is certainly common enough, but you have to watch what is common.’

  ‘Perhaps, though, he could be one without the other.’ Bradecote ignored the implied criticism.

  Catchpoll was dismissive. ‘If he read what was there, but was not the killer, it would be a strange coincidence if it turned out to be something he would wish to destroy.’