Unholy Innocence (7 page)

‘Naturally,’
agreed Jocelin.

‘Nevertheless, the boy was
undoubtedly murdered.’

‘Oh yes.’

‘By someone.’

‘Well – yes.’

‘But you are not convinced that it was the Jews?’

Jocelin thought carefully for a moment before he replied. ‘I come back to the point that the only real connection with the J-jews is that all these m-murders took place around the time of the Passover, which is also close to Easter, naturally, since it was at the P-passover festival in Jerusalem that Christ was c-crucified.’

‘It’s June now,’ I reminded him. ‘Easter was two months ago.’

He nodded. ‘And the Jewish P-passover was in the week beginning April the 8
th
,’ he added weakly. ‘I looked it up.’

‘So it could all be circumstantial. And the fact that this murder was nowhere near the time of the Jewish Passover festival must be a mark in their defence.’ I thought for a moment. ‘Tell me something else. Why were all the boys so young? Pre-pubescent, Samson said. Robert was twelve, William was also twelve and Harold ten. Why so young?’

Jocelin sat back and made a cat’s cradle of his fingers – a typical scholar’s pose. I’d seen Joseph do the same a thousand times. ‘I think it is their purity that is important. We have to remember what martyrdom is. At base it is an injustice d-done to an innocent victim. A child-martyr, especially one so very young as these boys were, p-pure and unsullied, offers the ultimate representation of the s-sufferings experienced by a faultless human being. This, after all, is what made Christ – Christ.’

I nodded then asked the crucial question again: ‘So do you believe these boys really were martyrs?’

Jocelin looked at me and I could see he was now in deadly earnest. ‘I believe sincerely with Brother Thomas that by the ordering of Divine Providence these Holy Innocents were predestined to their sacred role from the beginning of time. I believe they are pure and unspoilt and free of sin; that they have been absorbed into the Heavenly Host and even now sit among the Blessed Communion of Saints. If I have doubt it is that they themselves would choose to be made mock of and to be put to death in scorn of Our Lord’s Passion. Rather, I believe they were martyred for God’s own purpose the which we cannot know and will for ever remain a mystery.’

I held my breath while he said all that, and without a single stutter I noticed. ‘But without being martyred for their faith – by Jews - they would not have been recognized as saints,’ I suggested.

‘Their miracles would have been p-proof if that’s what is required by doubters. That is why I wrote Robert’s history, to show that he had been ordained for his role at birth and c-continues to reveal himself to us even today.’

‘Very well,’ I said impressed with Jocelin’s evident knowledge of the subject. ‘Tell me what you know of our own Robert of Bury.’

Jocelin’s face cleared. He looked much more relieved. ‘Now I’m on m-much f-firmer ground. I studied this case in great detail and h-have in fact written my own history of the miracles of St. Robert which I entitled,
Miracula multa et magna apud Aedmundum per beatum puerum Robertum
.’ He beamed. ‘R-rather a neat title, I th-think you’ll agree. Th-that’s the piece Master Samson gave you to read.’ He pointed to the thick wad of papers I had dumped unceremoniously on the floor next to where I was sitting.

‘I’ll read them later,’ I smiled, lifting the pages reverentially from the floor and placing them on Jocelin’s crowded desk. ‘For now, could you just précis the more pertinent points?’

‘Well, it’s the familiar story,’ he said, warming to his subject. ‘Robert was a twelve-year-old boy murdered once again during the Passover week – actually on Good Friday
anno domini
1181. N-notice this time it really was during the Jewish Passover week.’

‘Unlike this fuller’s boy today,’ I interjected pointedly. ‘And the marks on the body in this case? Similar to Christ’s?’

‘N-no record survives.’ He frowned. ‘As Samson said, it was a time of great confusion.’

‘I see,’ I said. ‘Continue.’

‘Well, the J-jews were immediately suspected although no individual Jew was ever charged. But what interested me, and what I was most c-concerned to do in my book, was to chronicle the m-miracles performed by the saint after his death.’ He licked his lips. ‘For example, imagine a light shining above the martyred boy’s shrine in the darkened crypt when there was no possible source of illumination, and a nun, blind since childhood, looking towards the light, is s-suddenly able to see again. Th-then there was the instant of the girl with a crooked finger.’ He held out his own hand to demonstrate the scene. ‘I remember she placed her hand on the saint’s t-tomb, thus, and -’

‘Yes,’ I said rising and tucking Jocelin’s manuscript under my arm. ‘This is all very interesting, brother, and I will read it – later, I promise. But I think for now we should see the body of the murdered boy, don’t you? It has lain untouched for eighteen hours and it is another hot day.’

‘O-oh, y-yes, o-of c-course,’ said Jocelin, reddening deeply and rising so swiftly he nearly knocked over his stool.

‘You know where it is? The boy’s body?’

‘Y-yes. Master Samson g-gave me the location.’

‘Right then,’ I smiled. ‘Shall we go and find him?’

Chapter 7

THE
SUSPECT

Before
we left the abbey I made a quick detour to my cell in order to drop off Jocelin’s history of the life of Saint Robert. Despite his enthusiasm for the subject this sounded like a hagiography and, exemplary though the life of a twelve-year-old boy-saint doubtless was, I needed a different kind of inspiration to solve this murder. Besides, the murder was already eighteen hours old and I had seen enough dead bodies in my time to know that putrefaction begins much sooner in warm weather. As every student of medicine knows, this is because of a build-up of black bile occurring in the body after death which is hastened by warmth.  However, I could not but reflect that if this boy truly was a saint then we should know soon enough for by Samson’s lights his sins would be washed away upon achieving beatification and his remains should therefore be no more corrupted than those of Saint Edmund. Or maybe Edmund’s degree of sainthood was of a higher order than that of a mere miller’s boy. It was an interesting hagiological point which I might take up with Samson at some later time.

For now, though, I couldn’t spend hours picking my way through Jocelin’s neat but indecipherable script. That delight would have to wait for later. I just hoped I didn’t forget I had it. It would be a tragedy if it got mislaid.
Armed only with a wax tablet and stylus for making notes we set off into the town to find the murdered boy. Jocelin had with him a heavy-looking hessian bag slung over one shoulder and filled with….Heaven alone knew what it was filled with; manuscript paper for yet another book, I shouldn’t wonder.

‘Where exactly is the body?’ I said, looking at the houses we were passing. It was a highly select neighbourhood, not one I’d normally associate with
street violence.

Without slowing his pace Jocelin opened his notebook. ‘We are looking for the house of Isaac ben Moy.’

I groaned. ‘That’s a Hebrew name. I thought there weren’t any Jews in Bury any more. I thought Samson got rid of them all.’

‘He did,’ replied Jocelin. ‘Well, n-nearly all. It appears Isaac ben Moy has a brother-in-law. Benedict of Norwich. You’ve perhaps heard the name?’

Indeed I had. Benedict of Norwich was one of the richest money-lenders in that city - indeed, one of the wealthiest in England. He had made loans to the dowager Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine, no less, as well as to the abbey. Joseph had sometimes hinted that one or two of the wealthier Jews of Bury had been exempted from the general exclusion in 1190. It now appeared that this relative of Benedict’s had been one of them. I don’t know why I was surprised. Where money is concerned even the most stringent rules can be broken. Samson may have blamed the Jews for getting the abbey’s finances in a mess in the past but without their loans few large projects - Samson’s west towers of the abbey among them - could be carried out.

Joseph had long ago told me the history of the Jews in England. Until a hundred years ago there had been none at all. It was the Conqueror who brought them over from Normandy in order to finance his extravagant building programme of castles and cathedrals. This was because the Church banned usury – the practise of charging interest on loans. The Jewish faith also banned usury but they somehow managed to circumvent the prohibition. However, useful though the Jews were to the Crown they could never become citizens since that required the taking of a Christian oath which no Jew could do. So instead they were privileged ‘guests’ of
the King - a nebulous status that placed them under his personal protection and exempted them from the normal taxes, tolls and fines that everybody else had to pay – one cause of resentment by their tax-paying Christian neighbours. However, this royal ‘protection’ was a double-edged sword since by owning the man the King also owned his property and, crucially, all his assets when he died. I had no doubt that that was the real reason for King John’s interest in this case, for if a Jew could be shown to have committed the murder of this boy then his assets would be forfeit and revert to the Crown. And if this Isaac ben Moy was half as wealthy as his illustrious brother-in-law then it would be a sum well worth a king’s attention.

‘Here we are,’ said Jocelin guiding us round a corner. There was no mistaking which house we were looking for. A small crowd had gathered outside a very grand-looking residence set in its own grounds. But as we approached it was clear that the house was less the attention of the gawpers than was the curious pantomime that was being enacted in front of it. Four women, dressed identically in white pinafores and coifs, were kneeling in a semi-circle facing the house, holding up their hands in supplication and muttering in some incomprehensible language. The gawpers, mostly young men, were mimicking the women’s prattle, but however provocative the men tried to be the kneeling women took no notice of them whatsoever. Indeed, they acted as though they were in some kind of trance.

Overseeing all of this was a captain of the King’s guard, a sturdy-looking man in his late forties who was stationed in front of the house entrance with a bemused expression on his face. This, doubtless, was Justiciar Geoffrey’s man and so it was him I approached.

‘Good day to you, Captain. I am Master Walter, the physician at the abbey. Erm - who are these women?’

The captain shrugged. ‘Nought but harmless gabblers. Foreign by the sounds of them.’

‘Not so harmless if they draw this much attention to the house,’ I said, mindful of Samson’s instruction to try to keep the investigation discreet so as not to arouse emotion, particular religious emotion. To little avail it seemed. The Holy Stable in Bethlehem could have lent its star to hover above the spot and the location would not have been more obvious. If I did not believe in such things I would swear there was a conspiracy to make my job as difficult as possible.

‘Can’t you get rid of them?’ I asked the man.

He shook his head. ‘My instructions are only to keep the house clear of the curious. Long as they do no more than pray, as far as I’m concerned they can remain.’

I pouted my irritation. ‘Has anyone else been?’

The captain counted them off on his fingers: ‘The Sheriff, a couple of rabbis, some of
the monks from the abbey.’

I was angry particularly about the monks. They should have been told I was in charge of the investigation and ordered to stay clear. ‘They had no authority,’ I told him haughtily. ‘Any of them. Who did you let in?’

‘None of them. Not even the Sheriff – I’m Lord Geoffrey’s man and he said to let no-one in.’ He looked me up and down. ‘And you won’t get in, neither.’

I drew myself erect. ‘I am the Abbot’s personally appointed examiner. I need to see the body as soon as possible.’ I looked about me. ‘Where exactly is the body?’

‘Where it’s always been. Inside the house.’

I was appalled. ‘You mean the boy is still lying where he fell? This is an outrage!’

‘Aye, well he can stay there till he rots for all I care. My orders are no-one gets in or out, not even the body, and that’s what I’ll do until Lord Geoffrey himself tells me otherwise.’ He eyed me warily.

I smiled back.
‘For your information Lord Geoffrey isn’t here anymore. I saw his horse disappearing up the London road not an hour since. I’m afraid you’re on your own, my friend.’

I was pleased to see that that knocked the wind out of his sails a bit.  I nodded my satisfaction and squinted at the building.

‘What about the family? Surely they’re not still in there?’

‘Aye, that they are. All five of ’em. Too scared to leave, poor bastards. Not sure I’d risk it
neither, specially with this lot out here.’ He nodded toward the kneeling women. To my annoyance I saw that Jocelin was in animated conversation with them.

‘Oh, Brother Jocelin!’ I called. ‘Could you spare us a few minutes of your time?’

He looked over his shoulder and nodded without interrupting his discourse.

‘
Now
brother, if you please.’

He finished his conversation, made a quick sign of the cross over the women and came over. ‘F-fascinating!’ he said breathlessly. ‘Absolutely f-fascinating. D-do you know who they are?’

‘No, I do not,’ I sniffed.

‘
Knielers,’ he said. ‘The Sisterhood of the Passion of Christ, to give them their proper name. B-but Knielers is how they are generally known. It’s a D-dutch word meaning to kneel, you see? B-because that’s what they do: Kneel and pray.’

‘I’d noticed.’

‘A-and they talk in t-tongues,’ he continued enthusiastically. ‘They claim it’s the Holy Spirit speaking through them. Can you believe that? Absolutely f-fascinating. Heretics, of course, they’ll all end up on the scaffold. But f-fascinating n-nonetheless.’ He smiled back at them.

‘Well, what are they doing here? And how did they know where to come? The boy’s been dead less than twenty-four hours and Holland is at least two days sail away.’

‘They claim they saw a vision,’ enthused Jocelin. ‘A week since. A boy dressed in white and flanked on either side by Saints Robert and Edmund. That’s how they knew where to come. A week before the boy was killed. Think of that. You see what this means? It’s a miracle. The
first
miracle.’ He turned his gaze once more to the women, the light of wonder shining from his eyes.

*

We did eventually manage to get past the captain but only after I made Jocelin go back to the abbey and return with Abbot Samson’s seal of office confirming my authority. While I was waiting for him to return I had time to reflect on what had just occurred.

Jocelin was convinced that what we had just witnessed was a miracle, and on the face of it I had to admit it was the only explanation. How else did these women  - these
Knielers
- manage to get here so soon or even to know where to come? They would have had to start on their journey before the boy was even dead. Miracles do occur, of that I have no doubt. I have myself witnessed dozens of cures of the human body inexplicable other than through the intercession of the saints. But the question was, had a miracle occurred in
this
case?

There was one other matter that was worrying me. While I waited outside the house I had the
distinct feeling that I was being observed - watched. It was just a feeling, I put it no stronger than that. I could see no-one lurking about. But it gave me an uncomfortable sensation in my neck. However, I could not concern myself with any of this for now. My duty was to the dead boy. All else must wait.

Jocelin returned at last and presented the seal to the captain who in spite of his earlier protestations gave it little more than a peremptory glance before letting us through the gate and up to the street door.

*

We were admitted by a short, stocky woman in her mid-fifties dressed in a maid’s uniform of a vintage not seen in my mother’s house since I was a boy. She did not speak or even smile but ushered us through to a large central hallway.

Inside the house was dark with every shutter closed. It took a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the gloom but when they did I saw we were in a well-ordered and tastefully-appointed hall. The place reeked of understated opulence. Pride of place was given to a large bound copy of what I assumed must be the family’s holy book covered in Hebrew script. Such a thing I knew would be enormously valuable, at least as valuable as the house in which it stood, and demonstrated as few other things could the very great wealth of the family who possessed it. Crouching almost invisibly by the staircase in the midst of all this sumptuousness were the silhouettes of five human beings.

‘God bless all in this house,’ I said stopping myself just in time from making my usual sign of the Cross.

‘Amen,’ came a man’s voice, and I stepped toward the speaker extending my hand in greeting.

‘Good day to you, sir. I am Brother Walter and this is Brother Jocelin. I hope you will forgive this intrusion but we come with the authority of the Abbot to investigate…this unfortunate matter.’

‘There is no need of delicacy, Brother Walter, we know why you are here. I am Isaac ben Moy and this is my wife, Rachel. These are my children, Jacob, Jessica and Josette.’

I saw before me a man in his mid-forties and the wife perhaps a decade younger. The children, two girls and a boy, were all young, the girls probably eight or nine, the boy older, thirteen or fourteen. They all looked terrified and my instinct – indeed my
desire – was to put them at their ease.