The Lord Bishop's Clerk

by Sarah Hawkswood

  ‘Having remembered to destroy any letters or information the man held. It fits, my lord.’

  It certainly made sense, although it would be better with a clearer motive. Perhaps they had met to exchange information and argued. No, the mallet proved prior intent. Both law officers cudgelled their brains for reasons. Catchpoll was less worried than Bradecote about it, but came up with the most likely ideas. Either Eudo had discovered something about Master Elias, be it clandestine activity or shady dealings to do with the provision of materials, or he thought he could threaten him using unfounded allegations, as he had tried with Brother Remigius and the lady d’Achelie.

  ‘So if the apprentice found something incriminating and thought to do a little “threatening” of his own, he paid for his stupidity. Having said which, it could likewise be that he knew Elias “dropped” the chisel and his master could not be sure that he would not come to us, quietly, and swear as much.’ Bradecote was talking almost to himself, and Catchpoll thought he could detect perturbation in his voice.

  ‘It might even be both, my lord. He might only have hinted about that to his master, after the chisel “accident”, which might yet have been just that. If he found something in the workshop, he would have recognised whatever it was as his master’s easily, and that would not be the case if it belonged to anyone else, and so perhaps, after being taken to task for his error with the chisel, he brought it up when closeted alone and feeling the edge of Master Elias’s hand and tongue.’

  Bradecote rubbed his hands together briskly. They were gradually regaining sensation, and had reached the painful stage.

  ‘Either way it comes back to Master Elias, excepting that we cannot, without that sacking you mentioned, find how he managed to kill the apprentice. If there is enough suspicion do we corner Master Elias with our theory or simply arrest him and drag him off to the sheriff in Worcester? I have no knowledge of how these things proceed, Catchpoll.’

  Serjeant Catchpoll gave him a ‘Don’t you worry, my lord, I have everything under control’ smile, which irked his superior, as he knew, and intended that it would.

  ‘I made sure Reynald stuck with him when he waited for the body to be laid in the chapel. The pitcher still niggles me, like the sacking. Wait! He wrapped the sacking about the pitcher and disposed of both at once, my lord.’ Catchpoll sounded pleased.

  ‘Then where, Catchpoll? I still cannot quite work out where he hid or threw it, because we searched thoroughly enough. It is the gap in our certainty.’

  ‘Aye, but we have enough to begin, and many is the criminal who has confessed with but half the tale known by the law, and no great pressure brought upon them, neither.’ Catchpoll sniffed. ‘I expect we will find him still in the mortuary chapel at present, which would be a good place to confront him. We can place him in the cell reserved for erring brothers overnight, and remove him to Worcester in the morning.’

  Serjeant and acting under-sheriff headed purposefully for the mortuary chapel. Bradecote was grim faced, for this was where the consequences of the law began to be felt. He was sending a man to trial and almost certainly a shameful death, and in cold blood. However justified, it was very different from striking a man down in the heat of combat. Catchpoll had no such qualms. This was his job, and the proof of his success.

  Master Elias was kneeling in prayer before the body, now laid out before the little altar. Reynald stood impassive at the back of the chapel. Catchpoll indicated by means of a short jerk of the head that he should absent himself, and he slipped out silently.

  ‘Murder is a foul thing, Master Elias,’ announced Bradecote, ‘and there have been two within the walls of this abbey in the last three days, undoubtedly connected. On both occasions you discovered the body.’

  ‘I did, my lord, though it gives me nothing but sorrow.’

  ‘Sorrow that you had discovered them, or sorrow at the thought that your soul stands damned for the crimes?’ Bradecote’s tone was harsh.

  Master Elias rose swiftly, his face livid, though whether from terror or anger Bradecote could not tell.

  ‘You are accusing me of killing my own apprentice, a mere lad?’

  ‘Yes. And the lord Bishop of Winchester’s clerk as well, of course.’ Catchpoll, standing with arms folded, sounded quite matter of fact.

  ‘It’s a lie, a wicked lie!’ roared the stonemason, the echo reverberating off the walls.

  ‘We think it perfectly true, nonetheless.’ Bradecote strove to be as impassive as the serjeant.

  ‘I have no reason to kill anyone, my lord, believe me. No fault has ever been found with my work or my actions, and I can call on abbots and bishops to attest my character.’

  ‘Men of good character can be led astray, Master Mason, and once one crime is committed, others are easier, are they not, Serjeant?’

  ‘Oh yes, my lord. In my experience, it is often the case.’

  Master Elias was looking one to the other, horror and fear blending together in his cheeks. It was as if they were talking over him, not hearing his words. He blinked several times and then sat down suddenly upon the stone step before the altar, sagging like a dumped sack of grain, and dropped his head between his hands.

  Bradecote expected him to admit his guilt, and waited patiently for him to pull himself together. Nothing happened, and Elias remained as motionless as the corpse behind him. Catchpoll was not as patient as his superior, and eventually broke the silence.

  ‘You were in contact with Eudo the Clerk to pass or receive information of use to the Empress Maud. You arranged a meeting but did not trust him and came armed with one of your workmen’s mallets. We do not know what was said, but he probably threatened you with disclosure and you had to silence him, so …’

  ‘No, no, that was not what happened.’

  ‘You did have a meeting arranged with him though, didn’t you?’ Bradecote kept his voice unemotional.

  ‘Yes, my lord, but it was to be in the workshop, and he never came. He never came, I swear.’

  Catchpoll ignored this interchange and continued, ‘So you hit him with the mallet, good and hard. You then left the chapel and replaced the mallet in the workshop.’

  ‘If I had done so I would have put it back properly, so that it would not be discovered, not leave it out.’

  ‘You probably did put it back, and only told us it was left out to distract us. Within the church there are few things that could have been used, and carrying a heavy implement into the church would have been too risky for our killer. It was highly likely that we would suspect a mallet of being the object used, so you might as well reveal it while covering your own tracks.’

  ‘This is madness. Why would I then go back to … the Lady chapel you said … and move the body in front of the altar, then wait until the Compline bell to “discover” it?’

  ‘Because it was good cover. If anyone entered after you had moved the body, well, you were in the workshop and could slip outside if you had to. You would have only to unbar the door and claim that your men had forgotten to put up the bar before leaving for the town. You see, you gave them leave of absence to help your plan.’ Catchpoll was dogged.

  ‘Yes, yes, I gave them the evening off. But it was just so that I could meet Eudo in the workshop, and he did not come. You must believe me.’

  ‘Why the penitential pose?’ Bradecote was keen to understand the minutiae of the murder. It could not have been the act of mere whim.

  ‘I do not know. It was not me.’ Desperation gave the mason’s voice a strident quality. He was almost screaming.

  ‘We now get to today’s killing.’ Catchpoll ignored him.

  ‘Today,’ sighed Bradecote, ‘you were forced to kill again because Wulfstan the apprentice found something of yours in the workshop yesterday that was out of place or,’ he warmed to the theory, ‘perhaps even had traces of blood on it. What did you actually use to clean the blood and brains from the mallet, by the way?’ He did not mention the chisel.

  There wa
s only a stupefied silence, so he continued. ‘You sent the lad for beer, and that was your chance. You guessed that he would not come back willingly across the courtyard, especially not slowly as he would have to with a full pitcher. He would hang about hoping for a lull. You then went to the cellarer and then nipped up behind Wulfstan on his return trip, broke his neck with those very capable hands of yours, and returned the way you had come.’

  ‘But that couldn’t be, my lord. I was only barely damp when I returned to the workshop, not soaking wet. What you say is impossible.’

  ‘Not if you grabbed a piece of sacking and used that as protection and grabbed him as he passed the west porch.’

  ‘I would have been seen.’

  Catchpoll gave a mirthless laugh. ‘Most unlikely. Once the thunder and lightning ceased everyone simply kept indoors, and the rain was so heavy at times that it would be difficult to distinguish anyone even if they were seen. No, it was not too great a risk. All you had to do then was find the body, and you made sure that you had someone with you this time, which was a clever move.’

  Master Elias was at the end of his tether. Whatever he said, the sheriff’s men had an answer. It was as if he could feel the noose tightening already round his neck. His breath choked within him, and he felt sick and faint.

  ‘No,’ he whispered. ‘No, you have made a dreadful mistake.’ He looked Bradecote full in the face. ‘I have not killed anyone, I swear as a guildsman. I was going to meet Eudo the Clerk, yes, but it was at his instigation, and he told me where. It angered me, that, being told what to do like a journeyman. He must have recognised me when he came up while I was talking with Brother Remigius. He looked at me and said something, a phrase that only supporters of the Empress Maud use. He believed I was of her faction.’

  ‘And are you her spy?’ Bradecote’s voice was chill.

  He lifted his head then, and his voice was stronger. ‘I am no spy, my lord, though I think she has the right of it and should have the crown upon her head. I have only ever given what I have learned from my position, at meals, meetings and up high on the scaffolding. I recognised the clerk as having been in Oxford during the siege. There was rumour about him there, playing to both sides like, but I could not have said which was the true inclination of him or his master. I even remembered the lord de Grismont from when I was up at roof level on St Frideswide’s.’

  ‘He told us he was there, but we have no reason to think he ever met Eudo the Clerk.’ Bradecote was unimpressed.

  ‘I could not tell you that either, only that he met with the Sons of Abraham.’

  ‘Met with? You mean he spoke to a Jew.’ Bradecote shrugged. It was not important.

  ‘I mean “met with”, for he and the Jew of Oxford spoke at length and most privily, so as others would not see. Of course, they did not look up, no one ever does.’

  ‘But you did not see him and Eudo together.’ Catchpoll had had enough. The kitchen fire had warmed him but now the remaining damp had soaked through his cotte and he was starting to feel chilled in the cool of the chapel.

  ‘No, I did not.’

  ‘This gets us no further.’ Bradecote, too, was cold. ‘We will lodge you in the cell used for the punishment of monks for tonight. Tomorrow you will be taken to Worcester for the lord sheriff himself to decide whether you are to be arraigned or not.’

  ‘But I protest …’

  ‘Leave it for the lord sheriff,’ Catchpoll sneered, and took the master mason gruffly by the arm. He stood up and went out without any further complaint or sign of struggle.

  Bradecote was left alone with the body of Wulfstan the apprentice. He sighed, wearily.

  ‘I failed you, lad. If I had understood things better to begin with, you might be living yet. God forgive me.’ He crossed himself, and went upon his knees in prayer. After a short while he rose, and turned for the door.

  He ought to report his success to Abbot William, but just at present it did not feel like success at all. He was here to discover a murderer, and beneath his very nose that person had killed again, the victim little more than a child, before he had been apprehended. He wanted dry clothes and a hot meal, and the chance to digest the events of the day in private. His stomach was reminding him he had not eaten since the previous day.

  He went to the kitchen, and persuaded the cook to give him bread and a bowl of thick fish stew, which he wolfed down, with the half-truth of being too busy on the investigation of the latest death to eat with the abbot. He was, he reflected sadly, quickly adopting the subterfuge and craft of Catchpoll. There was, he realised, little to rejoice in with his unwanted job, but he was consoled as he remembered that this last fraught encounter had proved innocence as well as guilt. If Elias of St Edmondsbury was the murderer, then she was innocent. The dark fears that had grown to a sickening certainty by noon, had been dispelled as quickly as the oppressive heat by the cleansing storm. Tomorrow the nuns of Romsey could return home with their prize, and he could cast her image safely into the store of memory and dwell on it no longer.

  He walked across the still puddled courtyard to the guest hall, making no diversions round the miniature lakes. The muddy water splashed unheeded upon his boots. The rain had ceased, and somewhere in the abbot’s garden a wren’s fluid treble song, sweet and fresh as the cleared air, poured out to all who would listen. Bradecote took in a deep breath and held it for a moment. It was then that the worm of doubt entered the certainty of his deliberations. He had said ‘if’ the master mason was guilty, not ‘since’ or ‘because’. He told himself it was merely a phrase, but something niggled. He had not been convinced of Elias’s guilt before Catchpoll had told him of his findings from the workshop, and was there anything revelatory there? Catchpoll was certainly convinced, but was that experience, intuition or just plain desperation? He had said he would dig up a motive, but had he truly done so? He, Hugh Bradecote, had been so relieved to find that Catchpoll did not share his own belief, that he had welcomed the serjeant’s certainty with open arms. It did not fully explain events, and Master Elias, however shaken, had stuck to his claim of innocence. Could he be innocent?

  Bradecote shook his head, trying to clear it. He had come to the stage where he was doubting himself for not having enough doubts. This was madness. It was not even his final decision. If de Beauchamp thought the case against Elias of St Edmondsbury was weak he would free him, castigate his temporary officer, but only mildly, and gratefully give the job back to his usual deputy. This did not prove as helpful a thought as he had hoped. Bradecote had certainly not wanted this task, but failure was not something he contemplated lightly. He was thoroughly confused.

  His spare undershirt was dry, if stale, and would keep the lingering damp from his skin, at least for a while. He decided to escape from the pressures within the abbey and go into the town, but before he could leave the guest hall he heard his name called, in an urgent voice. It came from de Grismont’s chamber. The lord of Defford stood at the entrance, frowning.

  ‘Good. I am glad you are here, Bradecote. Look what my servant found when he turned back my blanket.’ He pointed to the head end of the bed.

  Bradecote noticed nothing at first, and then saw what had been left beneath the cot. Lying on its side, as if thrust under the concealing blanket in haste, was an empty jug.

  ‘I am not one who avoids drink. I can take it as well as the next man, but I have never had recourse to keeping it under my own bed. I take it this has been put here to convince you of my guilt. Well, I tell you it is totally preposterous. Whoever did it wasn’t thinking, because why would I put evidence in my own chamber? You might have demanded to search all our chambers. I shall leave one of my men here all the time from now on, until the killer is caught.’ De Grismont spoke in a mixture of outrage and disbelief. He was clearly aggrieved.

  ‘Your bringing this to my attention so quickly is of use to us, my lord. Thank you. With luck, your man should not be confined here much longer.’

  What else could he s
ay? ‘We have someone in custody, but what you have shown me proves they are almost certainly innocent,’ was not, however accurate, likely to engender confidence. He picked up the pitcher and took it to his own room, where he left the evidence beneath his cot, in a similar position to that in which it had been found. Then he sat for a while upon the bed, head in hands, thinking ever more depressing thoughts.

  The finding of the pitcher only strengthened the case for the master mason’s release. It must have been left in de Grismont’s chamber while he came out to see the commotion round Wulfstan’s body, and Master Elias was standing there, dripping, throughout. Waiting until later would have been risky and, as an afterthought, did not beat throwing it away in pease field or fish pond. No, it gave added weight to the circumstantial evidence against his other suspect, Sister Edeva, and the knowledge lay like a weight in his chest, constricting his breathing. By rights, he should get Catchpoll to release the master mason and save him a troubled night, but the concomitant to that was taking the nun into custody and leaving her in the cell instead. Well, it would do the master mason no harm, and he could surely afford to give the woman one last night of freedom. She was unlikely to go about the abbey committing acts of murder in the dark when there was a man in custody, nor to try and escape. The abbey walls were suddenly a prison to him, oppressive and forbidding. He needed fresh air.

  He left the enclave and went out into the little town of Pershore itself. Walking through the gateway and back into the secular world, with shrill housewives calling children home to bed and ribald laughter emanating from the ale house, was balm to his troubled mind. Out here all the introverted, ritualised behaviour of the cloister took on a normal perspective. Bradecote wanted suddenly to go home to his manor and await the arrival of his child in peace, disturbed by no more than the rate of ripening in the wheat field, and the depredations of a roaming fox. Here was the everyday he understood, and it looked so deceptively simple. Only when Brother Porter closed the abbey gate with a deadening thump behind him did his disquiet return, and though Catchpoll snored contentedly in the sleep of the just, Bradecote spent another troubled night, his dreams a phantasmagoria of unknown hanging corpses, faces at windows, puddles so deep that they swallowed up those who trod in them, and a tall, alabaster-faced woman in Benedictine garb, who smiled at him with great, sad eyes as he approached her, and at the last moment withdrew her hand from beneath her scapular and, still smiling, stabbed him through the heart with a darning needle of impossible length.