Murder Most Holy (12 page)

‘We have done what we can,’ the infirmarian muttered. ‘Brother Callixtus will be buried on Saturday.’

He waved them over to the lonely table covered by a white, purple-edged pall. Athelstan drew back the sheet. Callixtus’s body had been washed and dressed in the full robes of a Dominican monk yet the manner of his death was obvious: his thin, sour face was covered in purple-black bruises. Athelstan studied the pinched features. Already the nose had sharpened, the cheeks were more hollow, the eyes sunken into their sockets. He felt a surge of compassion as he remembered Callixtus in his prime, with his sharp brain and sardonic sense of humour. He carefully studied the gash which scarred the temple of the dead friar. The embalmer had done his best but Athelstan saw how deep the gash was, sharp and broad like a furrow in a field.

‘Brother!’ he called out. ‘Did you collect Callixtus’s corpse from the library?’

‘Yes, I did.’

‘And he had struck his head against the stones or some sharp object?’

‘He was just lying on the floor.’

‘What have you found?’ Cranston came closer. He felt a little nauseous. His stomach was empty and his nose wrinkled at the sour smell of the room.

‘Look, Sir John. Brother Callixtus’s fall bruised his face and head, but I suspect that this is the death wound.’ He pointed to the gash in Callixtus’s temple.

Athelstan folded the sheet back over the corpse. ‘What I am saying,’ he whispered, ‘is that Callixtus fell but then he was struck by something sharp. Oh.’ Athelstan turned to the infir-marian. ‘When you removed Brother Bruno’s corpse from the crypt, was the torch alight?’

‘Of course. The place is as black as night. Alcuin discovered the corpse. Ah!’ The infirmarian’s fingers flew to his lips. ‘Yes, I thought that was strange.’

‘What was?’

‘Alcuin discovered the corpse, but only after he himself had lit the torch. I remember him saying that.’ The infirmarian’s face creased in puzzlement. ‘So what was Bruno doing, staggering around in that pit of blackness?’

‘Only Alcuin can answer that,’ Cranston replied tersely. He stared at Athelstan. ‘Which means the mystery of Bruno’s death lies with a man who has now disappeared!’

They thanked the infirmarian. Athelstan made the waiting lay brother take them to the library and, despite the man’s protests, ordered all the candles to be lit. Athelstan went across to the long, narrow ladder which stretched up to the darkened shelves. He tried to ignore Cranston’s murmurs of admiration: the room held sweet memories for Athelstan. Here at the tables, in one of the finest libraries in the kingdom, he had studied as a young monk. The rich smell of leather and the sweet perfume of freshly cured manuscripts were deeply nostalgic and brought a lump to his throat. Yet it was here that Athelstan had made his decision to leave the monastery and take his brother to serve in the King’s wars in France. He stared quickly around. Were there ghosts here? he wondered. That of his brother, or of his parents who later died of a broken heart? Athelstan blinked furiously and grasped the ladder.

‘You see, Sir John, Callixtus climbed up here. He slipped and fell.’ Athelstan pointed at the floor. ‘The paving stones are even, there’s no sharp object. Sir John, would you help the lay brother gather all the candlesticks together?’

‘Why?’ Cranston queried. ‘Brother, what on earth are you doing?’

Athelstan held up a finger. ‘Reflect and think,’ he said. ‘I am applying the very lesson you taught me. Callixtus’s head was smashed by a sharp object. Apart from the corners of tables and stools, the only sharp and heavy objects in this library are the candlesticks.’

Sir John shrugged and helped a bemused lay brother move all the candlesticks into the centre of one of the long study tables.

‘He could have struck himself on the side of a table,’ Cranston protested.

Athelstan stood by the ladder and shook his head.

‘Nonsense, Sir John. The library shelves are on one side of the scriptorium, the tables on the other. If you fell from the top of this ladder, you would hit only the floor.’ Athelstan grinned. ‘We could always find out.’

‘That ladder wouldn’t take my weight,’ Cranston muttered, slamming the candlesticks down.

At last Cranston finished and Athelstan went over to a large oaken cupboard just inside the scriptorium door. He rummaged amongst the shelves, moving ink horns and rolls of parchment until he found a small wooden box and took out a large rounded piece of glass.

‘What’s that?’ Cranston asked as Athelstan came back to the table.

‘It’s a glass which magnifies, Sir John. We often use it in the study of manuscripts where the letters are faded, cramped or small. A subtle device used by the Arabs. Watch!’ Athelstan held the glass near the base of one of the candlesticks and Cranston exclaimed in pleasure at the way it magnified the thick metal rim. ‘Now,’ Athelstan said. He took each candlestick in turn, using the massed lights to examine each of the holders carefully.

The lay brother fidgeted anxiously.

‘There’s been a lot of wax spilt on the floor,’ he complained.

‘Then clear it up!’ Cranston barked.

The man scurried away and Athelstan continued his study.

‘Ah!’ He pulled out one candlestick and offered the glass to Sir John. ‘Take a look, my Lord Coroner, and you will see murder staring you in the face.’

Cranston obeyed.

‘By the tits!’ he murmured. He squatted even closer. ‘Flecks of blood,’ he muttered. ‘Bits of hair.’

Athelstan took both glass and candlestick. ‘Callixtus’s blood, Callixtus’s hair. That poor friar didn’t fall from the ladder. He was pushed and then finished off with this candlestick. Extinguish the lights!’ Athelstan ordered the lay brother. ‘And put everything back as we found it. I thank you for your assistance. Father Prior will be told.’

Carrying the candlestick, Athelstan led Cranston back to the guest house where Brother Norbert was busy laying the table. He looked at the candlestick in surprise and opened his mouth to ask questions but Cranston gripped him tightly by the shoulder.

‘Brother,’ he growled, ‘my belly is as empty as a whore’s purse! I need victuals. Good meat, bread, and some of that mead.’

He pushed his white-whiskered face so close to that of the young novice that Norbert must have suspected Sir John was considering eating him; he almost ran from the guest house and, by the time Athelstan had come down from the upper chamber, had returned with bowls of steaming meat, loaves fresh from the ovens, wrapped in napkins, and two large pewter tankards. He placed the meal on the table and scurried out.

‘Come on, Athelstan,’ Cranston muttered, sitting down and handing out the dishes. ‘I am going to eat mine. And if I finish before you do, I’ll start on yours!’

They ate and drank in silence until Cranston leaned back, gently burped and beamed at his clerk who sat staring down at the table, lost in his own reverie.

‘So, Athelstan, I have surmised it’s murder.’ Cranston gestured at the small barrel of mead. ‘Another tankard and I’ll take the benefit of your advice.’

Athelstan, smiling to himself, refilled the tankard for the third time. At least Sir John would sleep well tonight, Athelstan thought.

‘Well?’ Cranston asked.

‘First, My Lord Coroner, I believe Bruno’s death was an accident in the sense that Alcuin should have been the one who was pushed down the stairs. Secondly, I think Alcuin’s dead, but only the good Lord knows where his body has been hidden or how and why he was killed. Thirdly, Callixtus was definitely murdered. Fourthly, all these deaths and disappearances are connected with the matter now before the Inner Chapter. Finally, I believe Callixtus was looking for something in the library. Though, again, God knows what!’

‘Not much there,’ Cranston grumbled, wiping his lips on the back of his hand. ‘So, Brother, what else can we do?’

‘Well, it’s far too late to ask where everyone was, but what I can do is request Father Prior to conduct a thorough search of the cells of both Prior Alcuin and Callixtus. Perhaps something may be found. Yet I tell you this, Sir John, there may be other murders.’ He paused and looked away. ‘I’m never free of it, am I, John?’

Cranston looked at him pityingly. ‘Athelstan, you know the human spirit. You are a priest. You sit in confession and listen as others pour out their sins. Ever since Cain picked up the jawbone of an ass to slay his brother, you’ll find murder where men and women, whatever their status or condition, mix and strive for power. Look.’ He rose, pushing back his chair.

‘We have done what we can about Father Prior’s problem. Come on, Athelstan, I’ve just over a week to resolve my Lord of Gaunt’s puzzle.’

Athelstan rubbed his eyes. ‘Sir John, I am tired. I’ve yet to finish Divine Office and there’s the business at St Erconwald’s.’

‘Nonsense!’ Cranston slapped his thigh. ‘It will do you good. Let’s go back to our bedchamber.’

Athelstan sighed, extinguished the oil lamps, made sure the fire was carefully banked, took a candle and followed Sir John up into the darkened chamber.

‘Come on, monk, light the candles!’

Athelstan obeyed and the room flared into life.

‘Now,’ Cranston continued, ‘let’s pretend this is the scarlet chamber.’ He went across to where Athelstan had placed the document outlining the mystery and quickly read it. ‘We have a bed, a stool, a table and a window, very similar to this.’ Cranston closed the door. ‘We are told there’s no secret passageway. No one entered, no food or drink were served. So, how did they die?’

Cranston went across to the window. ‘The first man is found dead leaning against the window, so terrified his nails dug into the wood.’

Athelstan sat on the bed and, despite his tiredness, tried to humour Sir John.

‘There’s no mark of violence on the corpse,’ he said.

‘Good!’ Cranston murmured.

‘The second victim,’ Athelstan continued, ‘was found sprawled on the floor near the bed. Come on, Sir John, act the part.’

Cranston obeyed, sprawling on the floor.

‘Again,’ Athelstan murmured, ‘no mark of violence, no one had entered the room, no poisoned food or drink were served.’ Athelstan stood up and brought his stool close to Cranston’s bed. ‘Now, Sir John, the last two deaths. I am the man sitting on the stool, you lie on the bed pretending you have a loaded crossbow in your hands.’

Cranston obeyed.

‘Now, Sir John, jump up quickly and loose an arrow straight at my chest. As you rise from the bed, I get up from the stool.’

They played out the mime like actors, then stared at each other in exasperation.

‘You’ve got nowhere,’ Cranston moaned.

‘Could it have been something on the fire or the candles?’ Athelstan queried.

‘I thought of that,’ Cranston replied. ‘But, remember, when the second person died, the priest from the village, no candles were lit and the fire had died.’

‘It’s the last two deaths which concern me,’ Athelstan declared at Cranston’s pleading look. ‘Let’s act it out again, Sir John. Lie on the bed.’

Cranston obeyed. Athelstan sat on the stool and leaned against the wall.

‘What,’ he asked, ‘woke that archer? What terrified him so much that he killed his comrade before it killed him? Most professional bowmen will shoot at a moment’s prompting. That’s how the archer’s comrade died. As mathematicians say, there must be a common denominator, something which links both deaths. We must not confuse the issues. Don’t you agree, Sir John?’

A loud snore greeted his words. Athelstan stood up in disbelief. Cranston lay sprawled on his back, a smile on his red face. He lay like a child, lost to the world. Athelstan pulled off the coroner’s boots, undid his belt and tried to make him as comfortable as possible. He blew out the candles and went to kneel beside his own bed, crossing himself as he tried to chant the evening prayer of the church, but it was almost impossible. His mind twisted and turned from one problem to another: Brother Roger’s simple face; Callixtus, cold and dead; the inquisitors with their malevolent, accusing eyes; Cranston’s insoluble problem; the chaos outside St Erconwald’s church; and then Benedicta, beautiful in her loneliness. Athelstan shook his head, crossed himself and lay down on his bed, praying for sleep to come.

He woke early the next morning, Cranston still snoring like a pig on the other bed. The Dominican quietly shaved, washed and donned a clean set of robes, slipping his feet into thonged sandals. He crept out of the guest house and across the mist-shrouded grounds, answering the muffled tones of the bell tolling for lauds. Athelstan joined the community in the stalls of the choir. The monks chanted their psalms and listened to the readings, arms folded, heads down, though Athelstan sensed their curiosity about his presence. He celebrated mass in a small chantry chapel and tried to concentrate on the mystery of changing the bread and wine into the body and blood of Christ.

Brother Norbert acted as altar server and afterwards helped him put away the vestments and sacred vessels. Athelstan then went across to the refectory for a bowl of oats, milk and honey and two fresh rolls of the whitest bread. He remembered some of his meagre breakfasts at St Erconwald’s and smiled as he sipped the watered ale. He sat at the table, just within the doorway, specially reserved for visitors and guests. From the lectern at the top of the refectory a sleepy reader droned through the life of St Dominic until Father Prior rang the bell and the community rose and dispersed to their different tasks. Athelstan kept his eyes down.

‘You are well, Brother?’

He looked up. Henry of Winchester stood beside him.

‘As well as can be expected. Do sit down.’

The young theologian slipped on to the bench next to him. Athelstan noticed how lithe and quick he was in his movements. Henry had a physical grace and ease which neatly complemented his keen intellect.

‘Your investigations are going well?’

Athelstan made a face. ‘I’ll tell you later, Brother, when I have reported to Father Prior. And your treatise?’ Athelstan continued.

‘“Cur Deus Homo – Why God Became Man”.’

‘If the Inner Chapter declares for you, your work will be studied at every university in Europe.’ Athelstan nudged him playfully. ‘And what next, eh, Brother Henry? A bishopric? A cardinal’s hat? A place in the Curia?’