by Ian Morson
‘Don't do that – you'll disturb him. I thought we agreed to follow him so that we knew exactly what he was up to?’
Ralph held his hands up in apology. ‘I'm sorry – yes, we agreed. It was just the thought of him taking yet another book from my library. I am charged with their safety, and with enlarging the collection. Not allowing it to wither away. I just lost my nerve.’
He swallowed hard, and tried to still his thumping heart. Falconer nodded and let go of Ralph's shoulders. The monk almost slumped to his knees, and Falconer took hold of him again, gently this time. He motioned for Ralph to move aside, and carefully opened the door again until there was a sufficiently large crack to observe the book thief. Luckily John Whitehed must still have been at his work, for the book press door was slightly ajar, and a flickering light played around the opening. Ralph's voice hissed in Falconer's ear.
‘Do you think he'll make a move tonight?’
Falconer lowered his eye-lenses. ‘Oh yes, I'm sure of it. The tide is right to cross the Leven at midnight, and the moon is full. Besides, if he had made arrangements to sell the book yesterday, he will not want to keep his contact waiting.’ He stopped and lifted the lenses up again. ‘Here he comes.’
John Whitehed eased past the half-open door, the light from his lamp spilling on his face. He looked fearful, and cast anxious glances around him. He closed the door silently and locked it behind him. Falconer watched as he crossed the upper range of the cloister, and breathed a sigh of relief as the monk walked past the archway that led up to the dormitory. Whitehed was not returning to bed. He stepped into the moonlight that shone palely on to the herb garden next to the prior's quarters. He was making for the side gate that led out on to the home fields, and north to Dalton. Convinced by the evidence of the sand that the sacrist was going to cross the Leven, this route puzzled Falconer. Perhaps he was simply going to double back round the priory walls. But there was no one to see him leaving by the main gate anyway. He must be going in another direction.
Though Westerdale pressed nervously at his back, Falconer waited patiently until the sacrist was out of sight, and only then did he step into the cloisters. Ralph fumbled with the key to the kitchen, dropping it on the stone floor with a clatter. He grimaced at Falconer, picked the key up, and with trembling fingers locked the door. Falconer was beginning to wish the precentor had not wanted to accompany him. But Ralph had insisted that if he were to allow the sacrist to steal yet another book, he was not going to let the man out of his sight. Falconer had reluctantly agreed, and would now have to ensure that the fat little man did not give the game away. There would not be a second chance. If John Whitehed had truly murdered de Langetoft because the would-be prior had discovered the secret of his thefts and the reason for them, and then killed Adam Lutt for the same reason fifteen years on, this was the moment to uncover that secret for good. At least Ralph would prove a reliable witness when the case was laid before the prior.
Grasping the precentor firmly by the arm, Falconer followed the route Whitehed had taken to the side gate, and once again waited. The sacrist had shown how scared he was, and like a skittish horse would shy at the slightest sound. Falconer wanted him to be well away from the gate before he opened it. He nodded his head as he mentally counted the time. Then, sure that Whitehed would be clear away, but hopefully not out of sight, he eased the gate open and stepped through. For a moment his heart sank – he couldn't see the monk on the path that led round to the Leven. Then Ralph pulled at his sleeve and pointed in the opposite direction. An indistinct figure was crossing the field to Falconer's left – Whitehed was going north to Dalton after all. At least this would make it easier to follow him. Falconer had always been worried that the sands crossing would afford Ralph and himself no cover. Going north there was an abundance of trees to hide their pursuit, even though they were bare at this time of year.
The track was rutted and icy underfoot, and at one point Ralph almost cried out as his ankle turned beneath him. Falconer just managed to stop his cry with a hefty palm, which he held in place until Ralph nodded to show he was in control. He still winced when he put his foot back down, and limped behind the Oxford master, slowing their progress considerably.
The strange procession, lit by fitful rays of moonlight as clouds scudded across the sky, continued through the silent hamlet of Lindal. It seemed everyone there slept a drug-like slumber – not even the dogs were roused to disturb the quiet of the night. First the edgy John Whitehed scurried past the low, grey buildings, followed a while later by the measured tread of William Falconer, who himself was dogged by the limping and tired Ralph Westerdale. Falconer gauged it to be around the middle of the night now – if Whitehed did not meet whoever was going to buy his book soon, he would not have time to visit the Isobel mentioned in de Langetoft's notes before the start of the monastic day a few hours hence. Would they then be able to prove John Whitehed was anything more than a common thief?
It was not long, however, before Falconer could see the dark shapes of buildings rising out of the gloom. This had to be the outskirts of Dalton, where local people gathered weekly for the sort of market that identified the town, like Oxford, as a crossroads for the area. Though Dalton was on a much smaller scale than Falconer's own city, the opportunity for pleasure taken in good company was similar. Despite the hour, it was clear that one tavern on this side of the town had still not rid itself of its more persistent customers. The flickering light of tallow lamps played across the frozen ridges of the roadway, and illuminated the lower half of John Whitehed's body. He hesitated before the doorway of the tavern, his feet shuffling in the pool of light.
Falconer, who had stopped as soon as his quarry had, was suddenly pushed from behind. There was a muffled cry, and Falconer felt Ralph's hands grasp his shoulders. He heard a whispered apology. ‘Sorry. I didn't see you.’
Falconer sighed, and sat the exhausted monk on a convenient rock at the roadside. Seeing that the sacrist had entered the tavern, he told Ralph to stay where he was, and hurried down the road. The door to the tavern was half open – indeed the state of its hinges suggested that this was its permanent state. Hidden by the darkness, he peered cautiously through the gap in the doorway into the tavern. It was a low-ceilinged, gloomy establishment catering, at this hour, for a handful of dubious characters. Three were hunched over the rickety table at which they sat, snoring into the dregs of ale that lay in pools across the surface. Two others were still awake, slouched bleary-eyed over a game of nine-men's morris on which there was a considerable wager to judge by the coins that were scattered in front of them. One man groaned as the other's fingers flew over the pegs in the board. From the picture framed by the door's arch, Falconer could imagine many a shady deal hatched on these premises, which clearly made it suitable for the sacrist's purpose. No one would poke his nose into anyone else's business here for fear of ending up in the middle of the roadway spilling his life's blood into the mud. But where was John Whitehed?
Falconer felt for his eye-lenses, and squinted through the crack on the hinge side of the door. In one corner he could just make out a pair of well-shod feet stretched out underneath a table marginally more steady than the ones used by the sleepers and the gamers. They were not the feet of the sandal-clad sacrist, but were they the feet of the man he had come to sell the book to? As he turned his head to get the fullest view the narrow crack would allow, his question was answered. John Whitehed leaned forward, his face coming into sight. He looked pale, but there was a determined line to his pursed lips. Then his face disappeared again, and into the narrow range of Falconer's vision appeared a pair of hands, tremulously clutching a book. A gloved fist came from the opposite side and made as if to take the book. But Whitehed wasn't letting go, and for a moment a strange tug-ofwar took place. Finally a silent agreement was reached and Whitehed laid the book on the table between the two men. Falconer could only hear the low murmur of their voices, but their hands spoke volumes. First, the dealer's leather-cla
d palm opened the bidding, to be followed by the monk's soft fingers jabbing a refusal. The dealer's hand offered more, but Whitehed's waved it away. Several rounds were conducted in similar fashion, until Whitehed leaned into view again. Whatever he was being offered still seemed unsatisfactory, for he shook his head. But by now the buyer's gloved hand lay on the book as though he already owned it. There was a pause, and Whitehed's features disappeared again as he rocked back. The dealer's fingers drummed gently on the surface of the book. Then suddenly the sacrist's face reappeared, his eyes empty and downcast. He nodded, and the buyer's other hand came into view with a leather purse hanging from the fingers. The sacrist abruptly rose, and turned towards the door. Falconer backed away, intending to slip into the darkness.
At first he didn't realize that the figure approaching him from behind was Ralph Westerdale, or he would have pulled him into the shadows also. When he did see him, he hissed a warning, but the precentor was too slow. Ralph merely stood in the middle of the road, his eyes staring uncomprehendingly at Falconer. At that moment John Whitehed came round the door of the tavern, tucking the money bag into his sleeve. Confronted by his fellow monk, he too stood stock still not comprehending what might have happened.
The first to come to his senses was John Whitehed, and he emitted a despairing wail at realizing he had been discovered. Falconer, seeing the game was up, stepped forward to grasp the sacrist's arm. As fate would have it, Ralph too saw that action was required, and made a grab for his quarry. He only succeeded in grabbing Falconer, almost knocking him to the ground. Once Falconer had disentangled himself from the clutches of the apologetic Brother Ralph, the other monk was nowhere to be seen. The stricken Whitehed had fled into the night.
*
There was only one way into the inner cloister of Godstow Nunnery and that was through the great gatehouse that stood in line with the rickety river bridge. There were two other doors between the cloister, where the nuns lived their now secluded lives, and the outer court. But these had been locked and firmly bolted under Sister Gwladys's regime. Ann Segrim walked round the cloister perimeter, and tried both of the doors. The bolt on each had had time to rust into place – there was no evidence that anyone had recently sneaked in from the outside. It was still most likely that the murderer of Eleanor de Hardyng had lived with her inside the nunnery. But Ann now knew that Eleanor had had a visitor the night she died. Her sister, Gilda had said. Would her own sister really have killed her? For what reason?
Grimly determined to gather all the facts and solve the mystery, Ann made her way finally to the main gate, hitching up the illfitting habit she had borrowed. The material was coarse, and chafed her skin painfully – she would be glad to escape this purgatory, and don some more comfortable, worldly garments. Before her loomed the tower of the gatehouse, casting its gloomy shadow over the cloister. Beyond it, the sun shone on an altogether more pleasant world – inside its portals it felt chill and grey. The outer court, beyond the gate, was occupied by the convent's steward, bailiff and rent-collector. And the gate itself was guarded like the gates of hell by the ever-scowling Hal Coke, the Cerberus of Godstow Nunnery.
Having encountered him on her arrival, Ann Segrim knew him for what he was: a woman-hater, who probably took as much pleasure in keeping the nuns inside as in preventing the outside world from getting in. It had not always been thus. A year ago the Papal Legate, Ottobon, had deemed it necessary to lay an injunction on the gate-keeper not to pass ‘gifts, rewards, tokens or letters' between the outside world and the nuns. Such trade must have been quite lucrative for Hal Coke, and its cessation provided added reason for his present sour demeanour. To have been able to recommence it must have proved irresistible to him.
As Ann approached the gate, Coke appeared under the arch and stood four-square in the opening. His lumpy, scarred face was set above a pair of broad shoulders that almost filled the gateway. Hands on hips, he thrust his head forward, peering at Ann with screwed-up eyes. His stare reminded Ann of Falconer's own myopic gaze.
‘Going walking on your own again?’
His voice was rough and carried an undertone of disbelief, as if he could not imagine any woman not wanting to be in the company of a man. Ann wondered briefly if he had seen her talking to the constable, Peter Bullock. She decided he hadn't, and was merely being his usual churlish self. She shook her fist, rattling the coins she held in it.
‘Tell me about Sister Eleanor's visitor.’
Falconer sat disconsolately in the precentor's office idly leafing through the library catalogue, awaiting the return of Ralph Westerdale from the monks' morning meeting in the chapter house. He had persuaded the prior that nothing definite should be said about John Whitehed's absence until they could locate him. Or until he became another missing person, as John de Langetoft had been for fifteen years.
Everything had gone wrong. Not only had his chief suspect for two murders disappeared off the edge of the world; the very books he had come to find had disappeared too, presumably spirited away by the missing murderer. Only the last book to be stolen – the one from last night – had been recovered. Falconer had been in time to stop the dealer sneaking away with his prize. Though he claimed to have bought the book fair and square, a threat from Falconer to hand him over to the nearest constable had made it clear he knew the item had been stolen, and resulted in the prompt return of the book. The dealer had been left with a loss on the night, but it had been a small price to pay for his freedom. It also appeared that the sale had been effected in Dalton because the dealer was there for the market. He normally dealt with the sacrist in Lancaster, but had agreed to vary that routine as Brother John had seemed anxious to conclude the sale. Falconer could only assume that John Whitehed had needed the money urgently because of Ralph's recovery of the previously stolen book. If the sacrist did cross the bay to sell the books, and the sand found at the site of the thefts and in the reredorter would suggest that, then it was possible the mysterious Isobel was to be found over there as well. It also meant Brother John could have been the perpetrator of the attack on Falconer. Logic said the murderer had been identified, if not apprehended.
There seemed little to keep Falconer at Conishead now, for John Whitehed could hide himself away in the remoteness of the hills beyond Thurston Water for ever if need be. To the Oxford master it felt like an unsatisfying end to his investigations. Truly the sacrist had had reason to kill both John de Langetoft, who had uncovered his thefts and his breach of the vows of celibacy, and Adam Lutt, who had discovered the same secrets, only to use them for the purpose of blackmail. He had cause to attempt the slaying of Falconer himself, knowing that he was investigating de Langetoft's death. He could have brought sand into the priory on his sandals the very night of the attempt on Falconer's life. Sand from the estuary where Falconer had been walking.
Thady Lamport, moreover, had said that all three monastic vows had been broken at Conishead. Obviously, the vow of celibacy had been broken by John Whitehed, and the vow of poverty broken by Adam Lutt, with his greed for accumulating money. But to whom did Lamport attribute the breaching of the vow of obedience? Perhaps he laid that at Henry Ussher's door, in his prideful search for power. Whatever his meaning, it mattered little now.
But still the unfinished nature of his deductions nagged at William. The catalogue of Conishead's library lay before him, and it was open at the loans records. He realized that they were complete back to well before Ralph was responsible for the library – much was in the familiar hand of Thady Lamport. Leafing through he came across an old record of a borrowing by John Whitehed.
John Whitehed, sacrist Ad inclusionem spiritus in speculo
One of the books he had stolen and sold. A year later, there was another record.
John Whitehed, sacrist De Anima
Another lost book. The sacrist clearly borrowed a book to check its worth before stealing it. For the sake of completeness, though it mattered little, Falconer began to cross-check the stolen books
against Whitehed's borrowings. It might at least tell him when Grosseteste's works got into the hands of the book-dealer. As he worked through the catalogue, he saw how Lamport's orderliness gradually turned to chaos. His writing became more illegible, and his records more brief, until he was just recording borrowers' initials and the book's catalogue number.
JW–135
PM–27
HU–349
In order to check out the continuing story of the thefts, Falconer had to refer back to the main catalogue records. It became a laborious task, but he was determined to stick to it, though his eyelids felt heavy. At one point he jerked his head up from his chest, not knowing if he had just dozed off, or if he had slept for an age. The careful, hand-drawn letters on the page melted one into the other, and he knuckled his eyes back into focus. He felt sure there was something of great import staring him in the face, but he was too tired to see it.
He tried once again to assemble all the facts at his disposal, and to arrange them into a semblance of good order. Try as he might, they just kept turning into fantastic visions. John Whitehed scurried across his eyes, pleading his innocence despite all the evidence to the contrary. He was followed by a solemn procession of monks led by the prior, Henry Ussher, who was trying to hide a pile of books under his habit. Thady Lamport was next in line, whipping the back of the prior with a huge knout and screaming ‘I know, I know.’ Ralph Westerdale clawed ineffectually at the inexorable rise and fall of Lamport's whip arm. Adam Lutt followed them all, gathering coins that fell from his fellow monks' robes. A skeleton dressed in a monk's habit, who Falconer somehow knew was John de Langetoft, hovered over them all in a ship. He was throwing down books with large numbers on their covers. In embarrassment, Falconer realized that the skirts of all the monks' habits were concealing but poorly the rising of their manhood.