Unholy Innocence (10 page)

‘He was certainly no weakling, this m-miller’s son,’ said Jocelin casually prodding the muscles in the boy’s arms. ‘If he could have resisted I’m sure he would have done. Look at his hands. Calloused and rough. He was used to hard physical work w-wouldn’t you say? His attackers, whoever they were, m-must have been strong to overpower him.’ Jocelin’s eyes suddenly filled with tears so that I feared he might start blubbing
again. ‘What a terrible end for a child.’

We both stood staring in silence across the dissection table with Matthew’s body lying between us as Gilbert began coming round again. At last I noticed him.

‘My dear child,’ I said dropping to one knee and helping him rise. ‘Are you all right? I’m so sorry, we got carried away.’

He looked at me with anxious but relieved eyes. ‘Master, you are alive.’

‘Yes, I am alive,’ I said smiling and nodding encouragingly. ‘We are all alive, you, me and Jocelin. Let us all give thanks to Almighty God for that, and honour the dead.’

*

By the time the other monks arrived to translate the boy to Saint Denis’s chapel for his requiem mass I had replaced all his inner parts, albeit haphazardly, sewn him up and covered him with a starched clean white sheet. Gilbert washed and combed the boy’s hair and placed two small wooden crosses on his empty eye-sockets while Jocelin covered his neck so the ugly gash that severed his windpipe was no longer visible. For the first time since he died he had begun to look human again, although there was nothing we could do about his bloated face. When we were ready four choir monks came and carried the body shoulder-high in procession towards the abbey church. But even before that another group of monks had cornered me outside in the courtyard anxiously wanting to know if the boy’s body showed any signs of his martyrdom. I noticed one of them was Egbert again. I was beginning to think that if there was a controversy of any kind he could be relied upon to be at the heart of it. I very firmly told them I could say nothing before I reported to the Abbot, but I did not know how much longer I could fob them off in this way. It was clear that there was a growing desire among many of my brother monks for a new boy-saint and they looked to me to give them one or, failing that, a firm refutation. At the moment I could provide them with neither.

Abbot Samson was waiting in the vestibule as the monks lauded the boy’s body in with bells and incense and bowed low as they passed. As I approached, he put out his hand to stop me.

‘Brother Walter. A word if you please.’ He took me by the elbow and led me to one side. ‘How are things progressing?’ he asked quietly. ‘Are you close to a solution yet? Jocelin was unable to tell me.’

‘We make progress, Father, but it cannot be rushed.’ I then explained the procedure Jocelin and I had gone through that afternoon with the autopsy and some of our conclusions.

Samson frowned his disappointment. ‘I had hoped you’d got further with this by now. Jocelin told me of the trouble this morning at the Moy house.’ He shook his head. ‘It is very disturbing especially with the King still here.’ He glanced over his shoulder as though expecting to see King John standing there.

‘How fares the King?’ I asked lightly. ‘Is he conscious yet?’

Samson grimaced. ‘He recovered well enough by yesterday afternoon to eat a dinner of partridge and stewed prunes. Claimed to have enjoyed some wonderful dreams while he was asleep. What was in that potion you gave him?’

‘Trade secrets,’ I smiled wistfully. ‘I am just relieved he is recovering,’ adding with more bravado than I felt, ‘at least my lord de Saye will not be able to blame me now if the King died.’

‘Oh you needn’t worry about that,’ said Samson. ‘That French doctor’s claimed the credit for his cure. So he can also accept the blame if it goes wrong.’ He shuddered. ‘However, that has not made the King a happy man. He was very angry that all his ministers should have left him alone and was of a mind to chase after them to London.’

‘
Was
of a mind?’ I said. ‘I take it that means he’s changed it again?’

Samson sighed. ‘He’s heard about the murder. At first he was completely disinterested as I had hoped he would. But then someone told him the chief suspect was a rich Jew…’

I nodded. ‘He found he was concerned after all.’

‘He now wishes to remain for few more days to see the outcome. What he’s really waiting for, of course, is for us to make a mistake so he can step in and take over. If that happens all your high-minded talk of scientific detachment will come to nothing. The Jew will be found guilty and executed before you can say foul. Then the King will get his money and simply depart leaving us to clear up the mess.’ Samson’s face took on a pained expression. ‘Also…’ he looked about him furtively and lowered his voice, ‘…he has found a wench to his liking and is taking this…hiatus…to amuse himself in his rooms with her.’ Samson shook his head. ‘He’s done this sort of thing before. It’s all very inconvenient. So you see, the sooner you can give me an answer the sooner he will get bored and leave.’

‘I will try my best, Father,’ I nodded.

‘Hm.’ Samson stroked his beard thoughtfully. ‘This Jew. Jocelin tells me he took you into his confidence. What did he want?’

‘To unburden himself,’ I said carefully.

‘Did he confess?’

‘On the contrary, he adamantly maintains his innocence.’

‘Yes, well he would wouldn’t he?’ Samson eyed me suspiciously. ‘He didn’t
give
you anything, did he?’

Now, that was interesting. In Samson’s place I would have asked what it was Isaac had wished to unburden himself of, not if he had given me anything. He couldn’t mean the casket because no-one but Isaac Moy and I knew I had it. It made my next answer a cautious one.

‘He gave me…his trust.’

I thought I could just about get away with that. It wasn’t an actual lie because Isaac’s trust was the only thing I had personally taken from him. The other two items, the testament and the casket, would either be returned or handed on to someone else. But I could see Samson was unconvinced.

‘Hm.’ He thought again. ‘What of the murdered boy’s status?’

‘You mean his martyrdom?’ Again I was cagey not wishing to commit myself. ‘I think God moves in mysterious ways. I can tell you how the boy died but who am I to judge how He achieves His purpose?’

Samson frowned impatiently. ‘Damn you Walter for your habitual obfuscation. Will you answer me straight: Does he or does he not bear the marks of the Passion?’

I looked him directly in the eye. ‘No father, he does not.’

We got no further for there came from within the church an agonising cry of despair. Monks came rushing out, some in tears, some cursing.

‘Well,’ sighed Samson, ‘it sounds as though others may have come to a different conclusion.’

*

We went quickly through the church where we found the body of the murdered boy lying on the floor of the choir, its starched white sheet tossed aside and the naked body exposed for all to see. My clumsy attempt at seamstressing made him look like a badly-mended rag doll. It was clear from the angry snarls that were being directed at me exactly who the monks blamed for the outrage. I could hear the word ‘desecration’ being bandied about. Clearly many of them had already decided the boy was a saint and his relic therefore sacrosanct. By carving him up I had committed the ultimate sacrilege. The mood of my brother monks was ugly.

Abbot Samson, to his credit, stepped into the fray, pushing me out of the way and moving to the altar to face them. Holding up his hands he bellowed: ‘Brothers! Remember where you are! I will not tolerate such lack of respect in God’s House!’

One of the monks who had collared me earlier stepped forward jabbing a stubby finger towards me. ‘We are not the disrespectful ones. He is!’

Samson was having none of it. ‘Do not blame Master Walter. I told him to perform the autopsy. If anyone is to be censured it is I.’

Admirable though this claim was it wasn’t strictly true. Samson had given me free rein to do what I thought I must, but he had not specifically asked me to slice the boy open. Indeed, I am sure he would have strongly disapproved which of course is why I hadn’t told him beforehand. But I was grateful for this display of support at a difficult moment.

‘Then you too should be ashamed!’ came a lone voice.

‘Shame?’ said Samson and shook his head. ‘Is it shameful to seek the truth of how a human being, so violently and heinously torn from life, met his end? Is it not more shameful that anyone should have to leave this world unaccounted and thus allow his killer to go free for want of knowledge?’

‘We know who killed him. It was the Jew!’

‘No
brother, we do not know that,’ snapped Samson rounding on the speaker. ‘That is surmise. That is gossip. And anyone who thinks it and spreads it as fact is doing the work of the real murderer for him and is no friend of this child. Master Walter has been charged by me to examine this matter. If in the fullness of time he is discovered to have been martyred we will give him due veneration. Until then he is just another dead child. This is not the Anarchy. We will proceed with due process.’

Here Samson lifted the sheet and covered him up again. He sighed heavily.

‘What this beautiful and unique child needs from us now is to celebrate his short life, to comfort his bereaved mother and give him the decent burial he deserves in hallowed ground according to our Christian rites. We are squabbling over him like dogs over a bone. Now, no more of this shameful behaviour. We will give thanks to Almighty God for the gift of this child’s life and our solemn prayers for the protection and comfort of his immortal soul.’

Samson then theatrically brought his hands together and bowed his head and one by one the other monks did the same - or most of them did. Perhaps a quarter, twenty, remained seated frowning and shaking their heads in disapproval. Samson chose to ignore them. After a moment more of silence he led the committal prayers for the dead, and when he had finished he bent down and despite his great age, his gout and his haemorrhoids, he lifted the boy bodily in his own arms and carried him out through the south door to the waiting open grave.

Chapter 10

HOW TO MAKE
A MARTYR

‘
Well,’
grinned Gilbert when we returned to my cell. ‘That certainly put the cat amongst the pigeons.’

‘More like a wily old fox among chickens,’ I said meaning Samson. I threw my
self disconsolately onto my cot and feeling for the first time since this business began exhausted and irritable. ‘I noticed loyal old J-J-Jocelin was nowhere to be seen when the b-b-blame was being d-d-d-dished out.’

Gilbert snorted at my poor attempt at mimicry then coughed indicating the doorway. I turned to see Jocelin standing on the threshold.

‘I was c-collecting information that m-may be useful w-when we interview the boy’s m-mother,’ he said coming fully into the room. ‘I p-presume that is what you will want to d-do n-next?’

I sat up sharply. ‘Yes, erm, thank you Jocelin,’ I said trying to cover my embarrassment. ‘That’s exactly what I had intended doing next.’

I indicated a stool for him to sit then glared pointedly at Gilbert to disappear. He did so with his hand over his mouth. I could hear him sniggering all the way down the passage, damn the boy.

‘What – erm - have you managed to discover, brother?’ I said to Jocelin.

He read coldly from his notes: ‘The family are t-tenants of the abbey. The father, William, worked the abbey’s fuller watermill a m-mile south of the abbey on the f-field of Haberdon next to the river. Matthew was training with his father until he d-died.’

‘When was that?’

‘Eight months ago. An accident involving the m-mill wheel. Which left Matthew as head of the household, the eldest of six ch-children who all live at the mill with their m-mother.’

‘That must be the woman we saw this morning at the Moy house.’

He nodded. ‘When the father died the t-tenancy reverted back to the abbey.’

‘So the family was made destitute. That seems unjust.’

‘Father Abbot had n-no option,’ defended Jocelin. ‘I spoke with the Sacrist’s office. F-fulling is heavy work involving much scouring and thickening of wool cloth, apparently. And then there is the fuller’s earth to dig…’ he looked up, ‘…that’s the clay used to c-clean the wool. No work for a child, even one as strong as Matthew, and certainly no work for a f-female. Brother Hugh has, of his charity, allowed the f-family to remain in the cottage until they can find alternative dwelling.’

‘And have they found anywhere?’

He folded his arms over his notes. ‘It seems n-not.’

‘All right,’ I said. ‘That tells us a bit about the family but nothing about why Matthew was murdered.’

Jocelin pursed his lips. I was beginning to know that look. He thought the question irrelevant if not actually irreverent. He thought he knew why Matthew had been murdered and it had nothing to do with human frailty; he’d made that clear at the Moy house although he had not come out and said so directly. It was a growing source of tension between us that was threatening the investigation and could not be allowed to continue. I didn’t mind him holding different views from me – disputation is what fuels debate and it is debate, as I knew from my student days, that produces solutions. But this constant clamming up amounted to – well, if he were a child I’d call it dumb insolence. There was a crisis looming, the air between us thick with unvoiced grievances. It had to be cleared if we were to make progress.

‘Brother,’ I said quietly, ‘if you think this investigation is pointless then I would prefer it if you said so now. It is going to be difficult enough negotiating through this maze of prejudices. Without your full commitment it may become impossible. So if you feel we cannot put our personal differences to one side then you may as well leave now. I will tell Abbot Samson that it is my fault – which I’m sure he will have no difficulty believing. I’ll tell him we are incompatible. You won’t be blamed.’

He fumed. He really did look quite put out for the first time since we got together on the case. If I didn’t know better I’d have sworn his bald pate was actually steaming.

‘F-father Abbot has ch-charged me to ass
-ssist you,’ he stuttered, ‘and th-that is what I int-tend to do. It matters not a j-j-jot what I p-privately think. I w-w-ill continue to aid you as b-best I c-c-can.’

I nodded. ‘Very well. So long as we understand that.’

‘Although if asked I would s-say we are w-wasting our time. It seems p-perfectly clear to me that poor little Matthew was m-martyred. All this examining and s-seeking for witnesses is merely confirming the obvious. “What God has wrought no man maketh nought.” All else is v-vanity. Nevertheless,’ he went on before I could interpose, ‘it is equally c-clear to me that the means by which the boy was dispatched was through human agency – or r-rather
two
human agencies – and it is my sacred d-duty to help you discover th-their identity however irrelevant it may be.’ He took a deep breath: ‘And s-snipe as you might at me and m-my af-f-f-flictions, Master Walter, we will not be able to gainsay God’s purpose for this boy whether it be with my c-crooked tongue or your st-st-star-raight one.’

Well! That was me well and truly rebuked and no mistake. He clearly harboured strong feelings about the case and my thoughtless jibe seemed to have provoked him out of his introspection. Good. If nothing else it proved he wasn’t such
a cold fish after all but had passion in his belly. And what passion! He was almost panting with fury. I chuckle now to think of it. Dear old Jocelin. At that moment I believe I could have hugged him – except that any such physical contact would probably have filled him with horror. Well, we may disagree on the significance of the murdered boy’s death but not on the route he came to it, it seems. I could work with that. But there was still a path leading from the watermill to the Moy house along which Matthew had travelled passing from young innocent life to violent and premature death. Along that path there were clear signs of human intervention, and divine purpose or not we had a duty to follow that path until we discovered its source. God may not wish us to succeed in which case we will fail, but we had to try.

The bell for vespers started to toll filling the
awkward silence between us and I suddenly felt the need for spiritual renewal having been too much in the world for one day.

‘Enough for today,’ I said. ‘Daylight is long this time of year. We will both rise early tomorrow morning and travel down to the Haberdon together. Let us hope that the boy’s mother has managed to recover herself sufficiently to throw some light on why her child should have met with such a violent end.’

He grunted agreement and stood up collecting his documents together.

‘Oh, and brother,’ I said.

‘Yes?’

I smiled. ‘Thank you for that.’

He blushed, nodded, then left.

*

The Haberdon is a damp meadowland adjacent to the River Lark approximately one mile south of the abbey and the fuller’s mill occupies the south-east corner. We arrived there early the next morning to find we had already been beaten to it by another delegation made up of five monks from the abbey. These five were the most senior among the twenty who had heckled me in the abbey church the previous day and had been most vocal in calling for Matthew’s canonization. They consisted of James the Third Prior, Ranulf the Sub-Sacristan, Walkin the Pittancer, old Jeremiah and - yet again - Egbert. All were fairly second-league in the monastery hierarchy and none very surprising – except perhaps Jeremiah who was one of the oldest, brightest and most respected of the choir monks and who lent the rest a degree of gravitas. The five of them were dispersed around the walls of the tiny one-roomed cottage that was home for the milling family with old Jeremiah seated on the only stool, his walking stick held before him like a caduceus wand. They were all looking pretty grim and none seemed surprised to see me.

There were no windows in the house, the only light entering through the open door. Once my eyes had adjusted to the gloom I could see that half the room was taken up with one huge bed out of the middle of which stared five pairs of bewildered eyes - the three younger sisters and two younger brothers of the dead boy, I presumed. In front of them and perched precariously on the edge of the bed was the woman who had attacked Isaac ben Moy in his garden the previous day, the children’s mother. She looked younger today and would be quite pretty once her puffy eyes, swollen from two nights of crying, went down.

‘God bless all in this house,’ I said making the sign of the Cross. There was a subdued murmur of responses from my brother monks. I stared at each individually. Most had the decency to avoid my eye, except for Egbert who held it defiantly. I was secretly furious - with them for managing to outmanoeuvre me in this way and with myself for not foreseeing the possibility. But I was equally determined not to let them see it.

‘Good day to you, brothers,’ I smiled. ‘I am here to question this woman about the death of her son. May I ask what your purpose
is?’

‘The same,’ replied Egbert.

‘With whose authority?’

‘With God’s,’
said Egbert.

‘Really?’ I smiled. ‘Weighty authority indeed. Funny He said nothing to me about it.’

James, Ranulf and Walkin all gasped at my blasphemy and I bit my tongue regretting my impetuosity. Egbert merely curled his lip and nodded.

‘Let us not play games,’ said Jeremiah in his fluting, old man’s voice.
‘You know why we are here, Walter, to ensure God’s Will is done. That is all Egbert meant.’

‘And that is all I meant. But who is to say what is God’s Will? You?’

‘I should not so presume,’ he smiled. ‘The interpretation of the Divine Will is in the gift of no single man however well-qualified he may – or may not - be.’

That was a deliberate challenge to
me. And strictly speaking he was right. I was no more competent to perform the task Samson had laid upon me than anyone else in the room. But it was to me that he had entrusted it and any challenge to me was also a challenge to him. For the moment, though, Jeremiah had caught me off-guard and I had no reply.

‘The more minds bent to the task,’ Jeremiah continued
more genially, ‘the more likely we are to correctly interpret God’s purpose. You would at least agree to that.’

But I was not in a mood
to be genial. ‘So, it’s to be beatification by committee, is it? The Abbot and the Pope are not to be consulted?’

‘There was no
pope when Edmund was canonized,’ retorted Egbert. ‘It was the people’s will then.’

‘Oh, so not
God’s
authority after all but the
people’s
.’ I nodded. ‘I see.’

‘It amounted to the same thing - then.’

‘Perhaps. But those were barbarous times. Today we have the rule of law.’

‘Forgive me,’ interrupted Jeremiah again,
smiling. ‘This talk of law. Remind me Walter, your accreditation was in
physic
was it not?’

Damn the man! He would keep harking on the same point. ‘I admit I am no lawyer,’ I stumbled feeling my colour rise. ‘Father Abbot asked me to head this enquiry because of my background and training
in the science of diagnosis. He thought such skills might be useful in this case. Be comforted that I will let his grace know that you think his judgement misplaced.’

‘Ah, well there you have me at a disadvantage,’
said Jeremiah smiling sweetly and shaking his clever ancient head. ‘I do willingly confess I have no expertise in the
science
of martyrdom.’

‘If indeed this is a martyrdom,’ I blurted.

‘So you have made up your mind,’ shot back Egbert. ‘It seems we were right to be concerned.’

‘And is
that your concern?’ I rounded on him wondering how I had suddenly become the one having to defend myself. ‘That I have a closed mind? If so let me assure you that my concern is only with discovering the truth.’

‘As is ours,’ said Jeremiah punctuating each word with the point of his stick on the ground.

‘Is it? It seems to me that you are guilty of the exact same error of which you accuse me.’

Jeremiah sighed. ‘No-one is accusing you of anything, Walter.’ He looked over my shoulder. ‘Where do you stand on this, Brother Guest-master? I notice you are keeping very quiet.’