The Lord Bishop's Clerk (9 page)

After a short while Serjeant Catchpoll grunted again and got up, easing his back as he did so.

‘Well then, I’d say we have our place, my lord. If you look carefully at the stone you’ll see a discolouration there.’ He indicated a patch which, to Bradecote, looked no more than a change in the shade of the stone itself. ‘That was noticed by our killer and wiped up. The edge is a smooth sort of line, not jagged from a splash. There’s much smaller marks around and about, as I hoped, but in this light they’re tricky to see.’

He stopped before the small altar, and his face performed a contortion that Bradecote interpreted as indicating deep thought. Catchpoll, he decided, could convey a remarkable amount without the need for speech.

‘The clerk was hit from behind. We know that from the position of the wound. I would hazard a guess that he was here,’ he edged a little closer to the altar, ‘and fell forwards when the blow was struck.’

‘How do you work that out?’ Bradecote was intrigued.

‘The altar cloth is slightly askew. The religious like everything just so, and would not have left it like this. I reckon our man fell forward, and though such a blow would be fatal almost instantly, his arm stretched out as if to prevent the fall, without him thinking. He just clutched at the cloth, but was no longer conscious to grasp it proper.’

Bradecote was genuinely impressed at the serjeant’s powers of observation. He could not conceal his admiration for such deduction, and remarked as such.

Catchpoll gave an indulgent smile, which effectively doused the small spark of amity which had been kindled between them. Without so much as a word, the serjeant had asserted his place as the professional, forced by circumstance into partnership with an amateur. ‘You can play at this as long as you like,’ said the look, ‘but just you let me get on with the real work.’

Bradecote tried to appear as though this had been lost upon him, but he knew Catchpoll was not fooled. He rubbed his eyes and yawned, suddenly weary beyond belief.

‘We’ll achieve no more tonight. Make sure that a man-at-arms is left on watch at the entrance to the guest hall. We don’t want any sleep-walkers.’

‘Indeed so, my lord. I’ll set three of ’em to watch, the first up until Lauds. No one will get past.’

‘Good. I am for my bed. We will begin again after Prime. Goodnight, Serjeant Catchpoll.’

‘Goodnight, my lord.’

Bradecote strode off, determined not to let his shoulders droop with fatigue, though he had been up since the dewy summer dawn, and his stomach was reminding him, with unpleasant pangs, that he had not eaten since they had set off in the morning. Outside the church it still seemed warm, although the sun was very low and would soon be no more than a smudged, pink memory along the western horizon. The air was heavy with summer smells, and bats sped and dived and soared between the buildings, emitting barely audible squeaks. It was a time of day that Bradecote liked, though he was too tired and bruise-stiff tonight to appreciate it properly.

He was thinking of his bed and heading for the guest hall, but suddenly bethought himself of the abbot, who would desire to know what had been achieved thus far. ‘Keep ’em sweet,’ the lord sheriff had said. Heaving a sigh, he altered his course and went first to the abbot’s lodgings, and only when over the threshold wondered if the Benedictine had sought his bed, with the night offices only a few hours distant. Fortunately, Abbot William was too overset to seek his couch, and Bradecote found him sitting in doleful silence. Their conversation was brief and largely one-sided. The abbot nodded frequently, but was only half attending. In the course of his briefing, Bradecote remembered to ask the murdered clerk’s name. The sheriff’s officer left after a short while, feeling his duty done.

He passed at last into the guest hall with a nod on the way to the man-at-arms by the stables beyond, who made every effort to look alert, and not as if he had been leaning sleepily against the wall. Once his eyes had adjusted, Bradecote sought out his bed without recourse to a rush-light. Ablutions could wait for the morning.

Despite the weariness of his body, and perhaps because of its aching complaints, Hugh Bradecote awoke early, and lay for some time, gazing without seeing at the roof beams in the cobwebbed gloom above him. He was reviewing everything that had happened since his arrival, which seemed so much longer ago than only the previous evening. He had arrived simply a manorial lord giving service to his overlord, and now suddenly found himself an under-sheriff. That, however temporarily, made him an officer of the crown as well as de Beauchamp. The sheriff had selected him from a mixture of weariness and mischief, as he well knew, but even in jest his overlord would not have picked a fool. So here he was, faced with a murder, and no clear indication of how to proceed, beyond letting Serjeant Catchpoll ferret around. That was not enough. He must think, clearly and logically, about exactly what they had discovered, and what linked together. If Catchpoll could do this, Bradecote told himself he was quite capable of doing it too. After all, it was surely not some form of necromancy.

He cleared his mind and began again, considering the victim, and how he was found. There was still a question in his mind about the positioning of the body. Had it been left in the Lady chapel it might not have been discovered until the next day, possibly after the murderer had left about their business. Was it that the murderer was making a point, something about the clerk owing penance? He could not see how the problem could be resolved without the motive of the killer. They did at least know where the murder had taken place, and how, although the exact nature of the weapon was unknown. There was also the matter of time. The man had been alive at Vespers and dead by Compline, only a couple of hours later, but they needed to find out if anyone had seen him during that period. Perhaps he had been in the refectory or at the abbot’s table; he must check that. If he had been at neither, then what had been more important than filling his belly?

It was almost impossible that a stranger had walked into the church and committed the murder, and it was certainly none of the townsfolk who had attended Compline. He could not see the old lady’s walking stick as a murder weapon. He smiled to himself. No, it had been someone within the enclave. How many of the brethren could be vouched for during the entire period? Bradecote groaned, and offered up a fervent prayer that the majority had chosen to be sociable, for the thought of interviewing upward of thirty choir monks, and Heaven knew how many lay brothers, and at length, left his brain reeling. There would also be the guests and their servants, not forgetting the masons. Once the list of suspects had been reduced to reasonable proportions, he supposed he had best start by interviewing the master mason who had discovered the body. Having made his plan of action he arose to break his fast, and found his presence had a very dampening effect upon the guest hall occupants. Hugh Bradecote was an open sort of man, quite serious, but not without humour, and to be greeted with cautious looks and a cessation of conversation as people looked cautiously at him over their bread, was a new experience for him. He consoled himself with the thought that he must look as if his new role suited him, and so it was a cheerful and apparently confident acting under-sheriff who soon afterwards strode purposefully, but with a long-legged grace, across the abbey courtyard to where Serjeant Catchpoll was in quiet conversation with Gyrth, the man-at-arms, who was reporting a peaceful watch.

Catchpoll turned at the sound of the footsteps, and watched his unwelcome superior stride towards him. Bradecote was a tall man, fighting fit but inclined to the lean, and Catchpoll judged him to be but a few years over thirty, but the watchful expression that was natural to him made him appear older. Last night, the situation had kept his features serious, but this morning he was in good humour, and the vestige of a smile lengthened the line of his mouth. He looked younger, and far too keen for Catchpoll’s liking.

‘You’ll be all right if there’s any old crones to speak with,’ ventured Gyrth, grinning.

‘You keep your tongue still in your head, lest his lordship hear you,’ growled Serjeant Catchpoll, his thin lips scarcely moving.

Gyrth shut up, but the broad grin remained. It had been the one light moment during the hunt for the outlaws of Bredon Hill. Catchpoll, conscious of his position, and with the sheriff himself on hand, had made his enquiries en route with an unusual degree of high-handedness. It had been unfortunate that he had sought information from an old woman who had not responded in the manner he expected. She had looked upon him with a rheumy eye and a curled lip, as if he were of no more importance than a stray cur, and had turned away without even so much as a word in reply.

The lord Bradecote had been in the forefront, in conversation with the sheriff, and had urged his horse forward before Catchpoll could harangue the old harridan. He had leaned forward, his arm nonchalantly across the bow of his saddle, and spoken to the woman in unaccented English, gently, and with a singularly charming smile. One moment there had been a cantankerous old witch keen only to see the back of them, and suddenly she was transformed into a beaming, grandmotherly figure, who bobbed a creaking curtsey, smiled up at Bradecote, almost blushing, and gave the desired information without demur. When Bradecote thanked her she simpered and darted back into her cottage, only to reappear a moment later with a couple of dubious-looking honey cakes in her gnarled grasp. She had pressed them upon him, much to his embarrassment, and to the sheriff’s loud and obvious amusement. Catchpoll had not been as entertained, especially when the sheriff had suggested he try the lord Bradecote’s methods on the next peasant woman they met, and see if she would feed him too.

The serjeant, recalling the incident as well as Gyrth, cast the memory aside and schooled his features into the semblance of a respectful greeting.

‘Good morning, my lord,’

Catchpoll had, thought Bradecote, the self-satisfied look of a man who had been experiencing the joys of the day for some considerable time.

‘Gyrth says that nobody left the guest hall after you went to bed.’

Gyrth nodded, confirming the pronouncement, with the slightly fatuous smile still fixed to his lips. Catchpoll continued, ‘The lord sheriff is not yet about. Also, the lord abbot had the corpse removed to the mortuary chapel last night, my lord. I gave permission, because I did not think you would have further need of seeing the body as it lay, and it would disrupt the brothers at Lauds.’ He made it sound as if the feelings of the brethren mattered to him, though Bradecote knew that they did not. ‘I did not wish to disturb you after you had retired, my lord Bradecote.’ Now he added equally insincere solicitude for his superior’s rest.

The serjeant assumed the manner of the loyal subordinate who had no wish to burden his superior with unnecessary trifles, and Bradecote swore inwardly. Catchpoll was quite correct in his assumption that the removal of the body was in order, but he had shown the Abbot of Pershore that he was able to take important decisions alone, and had shown up Bradecote’s failure to see that the problem would arise.

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.