House of Shadows (31 page)

‘I do not know. You were there. A quarrel, wasn't it?'
The prior suddenly broke off and said in a more anxious tone: ‘You intend to report on this back at court, Geoffrey?'

And Chaucer, who'd been thinking of no such thing, said: ‘You cannot keep it a secret.'

The reality was that, at court, no one would be remotely interested in a spat between a couple of artisans which had resulted in a murder and an apparent suicide. But it seemed to Geoffrey that Dunton had been too quick to declare the matter closed. If the prior hadn't been worried for the reputation of his house, he began to show some concern now.

‘Very well, Master Chaucer, if you consider that there is anything…untoward…about this sad affair, then you are welcome to pry into it and ask questions. I know how much influence you have at court. Go where you like. Talk to whomever you wish. I shall even give the brothers dispensation if you need to speak to any of them. Ask away to your heart's content and satisfy yourself that this case is exactly what it seems, a vicious man who hanged himself after being overcome by remorse. Meanwhile, the life of this place must continue as though nothing has happened.'

Chaucer noticed the coolness and relative formality in Richard Dunton's tone. He thought that the prior was overestimating his influence at court but, of course, he didn't say so. It was a touchy subject. Any influence was largely because of the connections between his wife Philippa, her widowed sister Katherine Swyneford and John of Gaunt himself. Officially Katherine was resident in the Savoy Palace as
magistra
to Gaunt's children by his first wife, and unofficially she was there as Gaunt's mistress. The
magistra
pretence was necessary for Katherine because Gaunt's second wife – the noble Constanza, from the kingdom of Castile – lived under the same ample roof. It was because of her sister
Katherine's status that Philippa Chaucer and her family had been given choice lodgings on the south side of the palace overlooking the river, even though they'd recently moved back to Aldgate.

Chaucer wondered how far knowledge of the affair between John and Katherine had spread. Certainly it was whispered about at court. Had the rumours reached as far as Bermondsey Priory? Did people believe that Chaucer, because he was brother-in-law to the woman who was Gaunt's lover, had to be humoured? Or was Richard Dunton's belief in his ‘influence' connected only to his reputation as a court poet? Whichever version was right, it was sufficient to open a few doors.

 

And opening doors was what Geoffrey Chaucer was about to do now. He slipped inside the entrance and peered at the precipitous flight of steps running down into darkness. This must be the place: the storage space under the cellarer's area of the priory, the place where John and Simon Morton had been sent to carry out some repairs before one fell sick and the other died prematurely.

He'd waited until the next call to prayer (the life of the priory continuing as normal) before searching out the spot first described to him by Andrew. He had a kind of licence to wander and investigate, yet he preferred to do it more or less unobserved. He had a particular reason for descending to this subterranean chamber. It was as a result of the hints dropped by Mistress Morton and Andrew the mason and a conversation with the cellarer, Brother Michael.

The monk who went by the name of Michael was a significant figure in the life of the priory, responsible not merely for overseeing provisions and fuel supplies but also for the upkeep of the house. The individual
who held the position of cellarer or bursar had to be capable – and preferably devout – since his job entailed frequent absences and therefore exemption from other monkish duties. He was out and about in the world, dealing with suppliers and carriers. Chaucer had noticed the cellarer at supper the previous evening. Brother Michael conformed to the traditional, slightly hostile picture of the monk. He had a generous shape and a round, cheerful face. Chaucer was reminded of a tavern-keeper he knew in Southwark, a man called Harry Bailey, who was all teeth and smiles on the surface but shrewd and watchful underneath.

Later in the morning and after the discovery of Adam's body in the monks' cemetery, Brother Michael had sought Geoffrey out, no doubt under instructions from the prior. It was wonderful, thought Chaucer, what having a foothold in court – or being related to a royal mistress – could do. People became so willing to help.

‘The prior says that you wish to know about Adam, Master Chaucer. I don't know much but I will tell you what I can if you come with me.'

They entered the cellarer's building on the western side of the cloister, and Brother Michael ushered Geoffrey upstairs to a well-appointed chamber. Chaucer was surprised to see there the lay person who'd been standing by the outer gatehouse and who had teased the simple Will. He was hovering in the region of a table piled with papers. He seemed about to speak to the cellarer when he observed Chaucer entering the room behind Brother Michael. The monk didn't trouble to keep the displeasure out of his voice when he said: ‘What are you doing here, Osbert?'

‘I thought I dropped something when I was here earlier, master, but I must have been mistaken.'

Osbert brushed past Brother Michael and left the
room, without looking either man in the eye. ‘Insolent fellow,' said the monk. Then, without asking his guest whether he wanted a drink, he poured red wine into a goblet, which he passed to Chaucer, indicating that he should make himself at ease in one of the chairs. He filled his own goblet and sat down with a plump sigh opposite Geoffrey. Chaucer noticed a black cat extended on the windowsill, probably the one he'd seen earlier in the inner court. He waited. He was interested to see what approach Brother Michael would take.

‘Of course, I took the man on only as an act of charity,' were the cellarer's first words. ‘He said he had been working at one of our sister houses, St Pancras of Lewes. He said that his hand had been crushed by a falling block of stone.'

‘You say “he said”,' said Geoffrey. ‘It sounds as though you didn't believe him.'

Brother Michael shrugged and spilled some wine on his habit. He didn't appear to notice. Like blood, the wine stain would hardly show. ‘Master Chaucer, I am not a man of the world as you are. If someone tells me something, I tend to believe it. If a man comes to me desperate for employment and claims to have received an injury while working in the service of our order at another house, then it is almost my duty to see that such a person is accommodated. He had already applied to me once and I had turned him down because, to be truthful, I didn't much care for his looks. But when he asked again and since we were short-handed on account of sickness, I took him on.'

‘Shouldn't it have been the responsibility of the Lewes house to show him charity in the first place, Brother Michael? And why did the dead man end up here in Bermondsey?'

‘I don't know, Master Geoffrey, if I may call you that.
The man hinted to me that he had a falling-out with someone in St Pancras, and in view of the tragic events that have occurred here I think that that is more than likely. As for why he finished up in the priory, well, some men prefer to wander where their feet take them…and his feet brought him to Bermondsey. Another drink?'

Chaucer shook his head. The cellarer poured himself more wine. His large fingers were loaded with rings. Geoffrey was reminded of the ring still in his pocket, the one handed to him by simple William together with the comment about bones. Something about Brother Michael's story didn't altogether convince Geoffrey. Whether it was the cellarer's claim not to be a man of the world, a sure sign (in Chaucer's eyes) that the speaker was the opposite of unworldly, or whether it was his defensive readiness to explain why he'd taken on Adam, he couldn't say.

‘We needed another man, you understand. One of the masons – what's his name? Simon – he was sick. Still is, I think.'

‘I understand that Simon Morton fell sick with a fever after working with his brother in a cellar below here,' said Geoffrey. He was surprised, and gratified, at the change in Brother Michael's expression at these words. The broad, cheerful face closed up. Chaucer was again reminded of the Southwark tavern-keeper, the way Harry Bailey's expression would alter if there was a dispute over a reckoning. To conceal the change, Brother Michael carried the goblet to his full lips once more. When he brought it down again, he'd recovered.

‘That's true. He caught a fever after working in the cellar.
Post hoc sed non propter hoc
, though. You understand me?'

‘It was a coincidence that Simon Morton got sick, and nothing to do with what he was working on in the
cellar. Yes, I understand. What were he and his brother doing, by the way?'

‘Some stonework had given way down there. They were repairing it. They are masons, Master Chaucer. That is their job.'

‘I hear there are tales told about the place.'

‘This is an old foundation. It is built on dead men's bones. Of course, there are tales told about every corner of the priory. There is nothing remarkable about the cellar, nothing at all. Is there anything more you wish to know? I have a heap of business to attend to.'

Brother Michael gestured towards the table laden with papers and parchment. At some point during their conversation the black cat had removed itself from the windowsill and settled itself among Brother Michael's papers. Noticing this, the cellarer tut-tutted but made no move to shift the animal. Chaucer would have wagered heavily that the cellarer was not really concerned about the business he had to attend to. The cat would remain undisturbed as a paperweight. But he took the hint and got up to leave, thanking Michael for his time.

Yet when he was in the open air, he wondered what he'd achieved despite the undercurrents of the interview. The only help to an investigation was the ring which was still in his pocket and which might have been discovered in the underground room. So he armed himself with a lantern from his room and went in search of the entrance. It was easy enough to find on the western end of the cloister.

He descended the steep steps. At the bottom was a stout door. Half-hoping that it would be locked and so frustrate his search, he tested the iron handle. But the door wasn't locked, and it opened smoothly and silently to his touch. He jumped when he felt something brush
against his leg. But it was only the cat, the large black cat he'd recently seen stretched at ease on Brother Michael's windowsill and among his papers. Now it was eager to get into the vault ahead of him. Be my guest, he thought. There's no accounting for taste, especially a cat's.

Holding up the lantern, Geoffrey emerged at one corner of what seemed by the uncertain light to be a long, rectangular chamber. Old sacking and fragments of wood were strewn along one side, while on the opposite side man-sized niches had been cut into the walls. Nothing at present seemed to be stored here, perhaps on account of the damp. It struck chill, and he could hear the drip of water. He should not stay down here long. The air was bad, bad enough to have put a man on his sick-bed. Geoffrey Chaucer felt uncomfortable. Was it because he felt like a trespasser even though the prior had given him permission to wander? Not just that, he decided. It was as if a weight was pressing on his shoulders. No wonder the masons didn't enjoy working here.

Nevertheless, now he'd got himself down here he ought to have a proper look for…for what? After a few moments of investigation with the lantern, Geoffrey thought he'd discovered the spot where the Morton brothers must have been doing their repair work. Most of the niches in the wall were veiled in cobwebs but a couple were clear. The mortar appeared fresher in these recesses, and there were crumbs of stone on the ground. He wondered why repairs were necessary, since nothing of value was stored in this place, then supposed that there was a risk of ground water breaking through the skin of stone and rendering the chamber quite unusable in future.

Geoffrey walked the length of the chamber, which was solidly vaulted. The cat accompanied him, then
lost interest and went to investigate something in a dark corner. As Chaucer drew towards the further end, the sense of oppression grew stronger, and by the time he'd reached the wall he was almost gasping for breath for all that the chill in the air was increasing. He gave a cursory inspection to the wall that closed off the room. Curiously, it appeared to be of a later date than the other stonework. No, not later, he decided, looking more closely by the lantern-light. But finished more quickly and carelessly – the blocks were not so neatly aligned and the mortar was slightly crumbled. Lantern in his left hand, he put the palm of his right to the wall and at once removed it, as though the surface was either very hot or very cold (but it was neither). It was curious that the masons had not been instructed to carry out repairs here as well as on the niches in the longer wall. The only reason could be that there was no danger from water seeping through from the other side, and that therefore whatever lay beyond this wall was not earth but a hollow space or cavity. Geoffrey might have confirmed this by rapping on the wall, but something kept his free hand by his side. In any case this was not the area of the chamber which concerned him. There was no more to see at this end.

Thankfully, he turned back towards the entrance. His eyes were absorbed by the circle of light as he picked his way across the flagged floor, but he was abruptly aware of a dark flicker in the area at the bottom of the steps by the half-open door. All at once it occurred to him that he'd been foolish in descending to this chamber by himself, apart from the cat. But it was human company he had now, not company inside the chamber but beyond the door, which thudded to with a draught of air. Chaucer ran towards the door, but it was firmly shut by the time he reached it. He heard
the scrape of a key being turned on the other side and then feet – very rapid feet – ascending the steps.