Bloodstone

SIX

Athelstan found his parishioners well away from the abbey. They had seen the glories of the church and were full of stories about the strange anchorite who’d swept by them like some baleful cloud to hide himself in his anker house. They had all supped well in the refectory on fish stuffed with almonds, lentil soup, rich beef stew, blancmange, sweet cakes and as many blackjacks of ale as they could down. Now, rosy cheeked with merriment, they had gathered around the new hog enclosure to stare at the abbey’s herd of fierce, snouting pigs with hairy, bristling ears and greedy maws. Powerful animals with quivering flanks and muscular legs, the hogs had turned their great enclosure and the surrounding stys into a reeking quagmire of cold, hard mud and steaming droppings. The hogs, aroused by the noise and chatter, crashed into the sturdy stockade much to the enjoyment of Athelstan’s parishioners who relished it, as Watkin slurred, better than any bear baiting. Athelstan, wary of these ferocious beasts, coaxed his little flock back up into the church. Cloaks were put back on, only to be taken off as Pike the ditcher announced he wished to personally inspect the abbey latrines.

At last, as the shadows crept from the corners, order was imposed. Athelstan lined them up. He glimpsed the bulging pockets in cloaks and gowns and guiltily realized that his parishioners had probably left little in the refectory and that included tankards, platters and anything else which moved. He led them down to the darkening quayside and, having given them parting words of advice, delivered what he called his most solemn blessing. He sadly watched the two barges manned by Moleskin and his comrades disappear into the mist, the good wishes of his parishioners carrying eerily towards him. Athelstan turned and walked back to where Cranston stood waiting for him by the watergate.

‘Very well,’ Athelstan breathed, ‘let us return to my chamber. I suggest you take the one next to it. We’ll have something to sup. Let the bells of the abbey clang for divine office. Sir John, God has more pressing work for us. He wants us to search out the children of Cain and bring them before the bar of his justice.’ Athelstan escorted Cranston to the buttery then back to his warm chamber. He bolted the door, prepared his writing tray and stared at his portly friend now sitting bootless on the edge of the bed.

‘Item:’ Athelstan began, ‘The murder of Kilverby and the disappearance of the Passio Christi? Any thoughts?’

Cranston shook his head.

‘Neither have I.’ Athelstan sighed. ‘We are assured that chamber was secured locked and no one entered or left. Nevertheless, Kilverby was poisoned, the Passio Christi taken. We know the merchant was visited earlier that day. He showed the two monks the Passio Christi which was to be brought here on the morrow. The bloodstone was displayed in the solar. Kilverby, escorted by Crispin, then took it back to his chamber. Everything must have been in order. The bloodstone was locked away. We know that, we saw the locked coffer. Kilverby kept the keys round his neck. The chancery was also secured. Kilverby joined his family for supper before returning to his chamber. Only then does hell’s black spy, the killer, manifest himself, or herself.’ He added wistfully: ‘Certainly some hell-born soul contrived a trap which created this mystery.’

‘I talked to Crispin,’ Cranston declared. ‘I did the same with Jumble-guts.’

‘Who?’

‘One of my spies along Cheapside, called so because his belly rumbles like a drum. Both Crispin and Jumble-guts sing the same hymn. It would be almost impossible, as well as highly dangerous, to try and sell the bloodstone on the open market.’

‘So why was it stolen in the first place?’ Athelstan exclaimed. ‘My mistake, Sir John. We should discover as much as we can about that sacred ruby but. .’

Athelstan picked up his quill pen, stared at its plume then the point, dipped it in the ink and became lost in his own thoughts.

‘Friar?’

‘I’m thinking about the attacks on me, Sir John. No,’ Athelstan shook his head, ‘I cannot say much. I can only remember fragments that I cannot properly explain.’

‘Such as?’ Cranston demanded.

‘Oh, just who was where when that crossbow was loosed. The speed with which my assailant entered the charnel house and extinguished those torches just within the doorway.’ Athelstan shook his head. ‘Never mind. What we do have in this abbey is the Wyvern Company disliked and barely tolerated. Abbot Walter may have confidence in their presence if his abbey is ever attacked, yet I am sure he would like to rid himself of the old soldiers. They’re an embarrassment and possible provocation to the Upright Men who may have dispatched assassins to kill Hanep, Hyde and Brokersby. Our abbot is supposed to pay the Upright Men protection money, but for his own secret reasons, has withheld this.’ Athelstan stroked his face with the plume of his quill pen. ‘By the way, Sir John, you say you recognized Eleanor Remiet?’

‘I did, I’m sure.’ Cranston tapped his feet on the floor. ‘God send me his grace. I recognized her face but it’s years, decades ago.’ He glanced up. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘At first I wondered if Isabella Velours was the abbot’s mistress. Of course that’s not true. However, I believe she is not his niece but his daughter.’

‘What?’

‘Nor do I believe Eleanor Remiet is his sister.’ Athelstan continued: ‘Although I accept she’s Isabella’s mother. I am sure if we made careful search in certain parish and manor records we’d uncover a legion of lies regarding those precious three.’

‘We could do that.’

‘Come, Sir John, it would take months. Moreover, Lord Walter’s private life is not our concern, even if our abbot doesn’t give a fig about anything except that swan and his two women.’

‘You’ve little evidence for what you say.’

‘Sir John, why should the abbot be so concerned about his niece? No, Isabella is his daughter and, more importantly, she has just come of age and. .’

‘Needs a dowry,’ Cranston breathed.

‘Hence the money to the Upright Men being drained away along with whatever else Abbot Walter can seize.’

‘Do you think the Wyvern Company found out about Isabella?’

‘I doubt it.’ Athelstan stopped writing the cipher he always used to record his thoughts. ‘Quite honestly, I don’t think the Wyvern Company give a fig about Isabella being Abbot Walter’s niece or his daughter. They are more concerned about themselves.’

‘And Prior Alexander?’

‘Basically a good man with sympathies for the common folk. The reception of my parishioners was his work. I must thank him. We know one of his kinsman, a hedge priest, was hanged out of hand by the Wyvern Company. Prior Alexander may want revenge. He is still vigorous, able to wield a sword. He dislikes the Wyverns, whilst he was here when all three died.’ Athelstan put his tray aside, rose and stretched.

‘Do you think he suspects the truth about Isabella Velours?’

‘Perhaps, but Lord Walter can also trap him. Prior Alexander has, I believe, an inordinate love for Richer. The truth behind that relationship is difficult to discern but I suspect Prior Alexander indulges Richer. When they go into the city the prior is willing to take his young friend down to the quayside to search for foreign ships. Indeed,’ Athelstan sat down, ‘it is Richer who is the key to this mystery. He was sent here, I am certain, by his uncle, the Abbot of St Calliste, to retrieve the Passio Christi. Has he suborned Prior Alexander in order to achieve this? Perhaps. Did he or both of them kill the old soldiers including Chalk? I cannot say. What I am certain of is that Richer lies at the root of this. Look,’ Athelstan got to his feet, unbolted the door and stared out. The gallery outside was deserted. He could hear the plain chant from the church as the full choir intoned the psalm: ‘The Lord trains my arms for war, he prepares my hands for battle.’ Yes, he does, Athelstan reflected, closing the door. ‘Sir John, look at the facts. Kilverby once financed the Wyvern Company. He held the Passio Christi without protest. Time passes. Death beckons. Kilverby wants to prepare for judgement. The Wyvern Company move here. Kilverby visits them but he encounters Richer. He also meets another man frightened of approaching death, a defrocked priest, Master William Chalk. Oh yes, he was, remember?’

Cranston nodded.

‘To move to the arrow point. Apparently Richer put the fear of God into both men, especially Kilverby. He points out the terrible sacrilege which took place after Poitiers. Kilverby breaks from the likes of Wenlock. He wants nothing more to do with them. He’ll do penance, perform reparation, give up his luxurious life and go on pilgrimage. On the very day he departs he will make decisive restitution. He will leave the Passio Christi at a Benedictine Abbey.’

‘But that doesn’t explain his murder?’

‘No, Sir John. It certainly does not. Moreover, as you discovered during your last visit to Kilverby’s mansion, what did compel this hard-headed merchant to change, to want to rid himself of a sacred bloodstone he’d blithely held for years? Richer’s persuasive tongue? I don’t think so. In my view Kilverby saw or heard something which literally put the fear of God into him and that’s what Richer exploited so successfully. However, what that was and how Kilverby came to be murdered? I admit, there’s no logical answer to either of these questions.’

‘And the murders here?’

‘Again, I cannot see any logic behind their deaths. Hanep and Hyde were killed when Wenlock and Mahant were absent. Wenlock’s maimed hands are an impediment, though Mahant is a master swordsman. They were all sleeping when Brokersby was burnt to death and Osborne, by all accounts, has fled the abbey. All three murders demonstrated the Wyvern Company are very vulnerable. Perhaps that’s why Osborne fled. The Wyvern Company can no longer protect itself. As for who is the assassin? Prior Alexander? Richer? Both of them or someone else? The anchorite is certainly skilled in violent death with his own grievances against these former soldiers.’ Athelstan picked up another quill pen, dipped it into the ink and made further entries. ‘As regards to the deaths of the first two Wyverns, well, it could be the work of an assassin despatched by the Upright Men. It’s Brokersby’s death which intrigues me. Why the raging fire?’ He put the pen down. ‘How was that oil not only poured into a locked chamber but so close to the bed?’

‘Brother,’ the coroner sighed, ‘my eyes grow heavy. I must adjourn and reflect. I also need to despatch certain letters to the city. I want them to go at first light.’ Cranston walked over and gripped Athelstan’s shoulder. ‘No wandering this abbey by yourself little friar, promise me.’

Athelstan did. Cranston put on his boots, picked up his cloak, made his farewells and swept from the chamber. .

The anchorite had been dreaming about his days as the Hangman of Rochester. He woke in his anker house bathed in sweat and sat listening to the sounds of the abbey. Compline had been sung. The monks had shuffled out. Candles and lantern horns had been snuffed; only the occasional light gleamed but these solitary taper flames did little to repel the darkness. The anchorite peered around. The smells of the church, beeswax, burning charcoal, incense and that strange mustiness still swirled. The anchorite crossed himself, knelt on the narrow prie-dieu and stared up at the crucifix. He’d had a good day, cheered by the sight of Athelstan’s parishioners. During his long walk he had planned more frescoes and wall paintings but now the day, was gone, night was the mistress. He strained his ears for other sounds — nothing! The abbey church had yet to be locked. The sacristan and his entourage still had to make their nightly patrol to ensure all lights were extinguished, doors secured, especially after the peace of the abbey had been so deeply disturbed. The anchorite had quietly marvelled at the shocking news. Brokersby had been visited by fire whilst Osborne had apparently fled. Was this God’s justice? Perhaps it was. After all, why should such killers be allowed to end their days in peace?

The anchorite rose and paced his cell. He paused at the whispering outside the anker slit. Was she back? Trying to control his fears and the icy tremors piercing his belly, the anchorite crept towards the slit then recoiled at the pasty white face which suddenly appeared there.

‘Hangman of Rochester,’ that spiteful mouth hissed, ‘are you not ready to pay?’

‘Pay? Pay?’ The anchorite gasped. ‘Pay for what?’

‘Blood money, surety for what you’ve done. Strip yourself of your wealth. Leave it on the ledge, the profits you have made. Money for Masses. .’

The anchorite retreated. He plucked up the coffer crammed with gold and silver coins. For peace, he thought, I’ll surrender this, a shimmering cascade through that slit to buy peace from all this. The anchorite grasped the coffer even tighter. He felt his stomach drawn like a bow string. If only she’d go and leave him alone! He glimpsed movement at the anker-slit, a trail of scraggly hair. Was she gone? He startled as the door was pushed and rattled against its bolts. The anchorite opened his mouth in a silent scream. The door shook again, a threatening rattle. Agnes Rednal was trying to break in! He dropped the coffer and hurled himself at the door screaming and cursing, banging with his fists, pleading for that hell creature to leave him alone.

The following morning after his dawn Mass, Athelstan heard about the disturbance at the anker house. He was divesting in the chantry chapel assisted by Brother Simon, who’d acted as his acolyte and altar boy.

‘Screaming and banging he was,’ Brother Simon exclaimed. ‘The sacristan had just entered the church when it happened, a man possessed or so they say. Our anchorite is haunted by demons.’

Athelstan thanked Simon. Curious, he made his way down to the anker house and tapped on the door.

‘Who is it?’

Athelstan glanced at the slit and glimpsed the anchorite’s long white fingers grasping the sill.

‘Brother Athelstan, friend. I wonder if all is well? I mean no harm. If you would like to speak?’

To his surprise he heard the rattle of chains, bolts being drawn and the low door swung open. Athelstan bent his head, entered the anker house and straightened up. The anchorite immediately knelt and asked for his blessing. Athelstan gave this and stared around. The cell was rather large, apparently a disused chantry chapel — its wooden screen had been removed and a wall built across the gap. A comfortable, sweet-smelling chamber with bed, chest, coffers and a lavarium; a table stood under a window of clear glass, beside it a lectern then a prie-dieu with pegs driven into a wall on which to hang clothes. A small brazier warmed the air with scented smoke whilst a five branch candle spigot and a lantern horn provided more light. The anchorite, still agitated, invited Athelstan to the chair while he drew up a stool and gazed expectantly at the friar.

‘What happened?’ Athelstan asked.

The anchorite told him. When he’d finished Athelstan shook his head in disbelief.

‘And this has happened before?’

‘Oh yes, Brother, I always see her, at least in my mind’s eye. I always did but now, during these last few weeks, she comes here demanding vengeance and blood money.’

‘Blood money?’ Athelstan scoffed. ‘For what?’

‘For her death.’

‘Well, what money?’

The anchorite rose, went into the shadows and returned carrying a casket which he unlocked with a key from a ring attached to his leather belt. Athelstan gasped at the mound of glistening coins, good, sound silver and gold. He grasped a handful, weighing it carefully before putting it back.

‘My inheritance,’ the anchorite explained, ‘after my parents died, as well as what I’ve earned over the years both as a painter and hangman. Remember, I am allowed all my victims’ goods while some pay well for their going to be brisk.’ The anchorite paused, muttering a prayer. ‘Brother, why am I being haunted? If she wants blood money should I give it to her?’

‘She demanded that last night?’

‘Yes, she did and I nearly agreed.’

‘Look,’ Athelstan took the coffer from the anchorite’s hands and placed it on the ground, ‘demons walk, we know that. The Lords of the Air float by in hordes. Devils whisper in corners and all kind of darksmen roam the wilderness of the human soul. Ghosts cluster close before our mind’s eye or, indeed, to our physical senses. Nevertheless, I’ve never heard of a ghost demanding money. Moreover, why does she only appear when the abbey falls silent and deserted?’

The anchorite stared back, unconvinced.

‘You have eerie imaginings, my friend,’ Athelstan continued. ‘Undoubtedly the death of Agnes Rednal haunts you but not her soul. Please,’ Athelstan smiled, ‘trust me.’

The anchorite just kept staring, face all haggard.

‘You have eaten and drunk?’ Athelstan asked gently. ‘Refreshment, as Sir John says, is good for the soul as well as the body. I promise you, I will plumb these mysteries which brood so close to you.’

‘And those other mysteries, the murders here?’

‘My friend,’ Athelstan gestured round, ‘we still stumble and fall.’

‘I heard about your panic in the charnel house. Brother Athelstan, tread warily here.’

‘You said something similar when we first met. You told me you had things to say,’ Athelstan added. ‘You still nurse grievances against the Wyvern Company about your wife and child?’

‘Yes, my poor family.’ The anchorite rubbed the side of his head. ‘Sometimes I see them as I do Agnes Rednal.’ He glanced up pitifully. ‘That’s what I wanted to confess last time. My deep loathing for those soldiers yet I did not kill them.’

Athelstan stared at the man’s strong, claw-like hands.

‘You have the strength and skill,’ Athelstan murmured, ‘you are deeply troubled.’

The anchorite sprang to his feet then sat down face in his hands.

‘True, I am deeply troubled. Agnes Rednal crawls on to my bed.’ He pointed at the ledger resting on the desk. ‘I describe my dreams, my visions. Brother, I cannot distinguish between what is real and what is my imagining.’

‘Friend,’ Athelstan replied briskly, ‘you live in this anker house, you’re close to God. You are, I believe, a good man of troubled soul though your wits remain sharp. So answer my questions. Keep with the land of the living. Help me to pursue justice.’

The anchorite sighed and took away his hands.

‘Your questions?’

‘Good. You came here when?’

‘About three years ago.’

‘Did you ever talk or converse with the Wyvern Company?’

‘What do you think? I voiced my resentment of them. Once, shortly after my arrival, they came here to gape and stare. I told them who I was and what chains bound us together from the past.’

‘And?’

‘They just protested and walked away. They stayed away except for Chalk, who fell ill. I saw him here with Sub-Prior Richer; they sat in the shriving pew close to the Lady chapel. Of course all I could glimpse was him kneeling at the prie-dieu and the monk in the shriving chair. At the time I laughed to myself. I hoped Chalk would confess his sins against me and mine. I prayed such offences would thrust themselves up like black, stinking shrubs in his midnight soul.’ The anchorite breathed out noisily. ‘God forgive me, he must have done. One day Chalk, his face as white as his name, came and knelt outside my door. He begged my forgiveness for what he had done. He confessed it was a memory, something which happened on a summer’s day, a few heart beats when he’d been a soldier and didn’t give a fig about anyone. Oh, I forgave him, I had to. For his penance I asked him to pray for me and mine every day. He promised he would.’ The anchorite pulled a face. ‘Apart from that the Wyvern Company kept their distance except, strangely enough, Ailward Hyde. On the day he was murdered, he came into church. He was worried. He stopped to look at my paintings. He’d done this before. I shared a few words with him then something alarmed him. A figure crept in down near the Lady chapel. I heard a clatter as if a weapon was dropped. Hyde was also curious and followed in silent pursuit.’

‘Who was this figure?’

‘I don’t know; perhaps a monk. Anyway, Hyde took off in pursuit but someone else followed him, I’m certain of it. I glimpsed a black monk’s robe then it was gone, that’s all I can say.’

Athelstan nodded understandingly. ‘But let us go back, my friend: Kilverby, was he shriven by Richer?’

‘Yes.’

‘And what about Kilverby’s clerk, Crispin?’

The anchorite blinked and shook his head. ‘I saw Crispin, he often came here with his master. I noticed nothing untoward except one afternoon early last summer, around the Feast of the Baptist. Kilverby arrived at St Fulcher’s to pray before the rood screen. Crispin was with him. They, like many people, forgot about me as they strolled up and down the south aisle. On that particular day they were arguing.’

‘About what?’

‘Oh, Crispin coming to lodge here at the abbey. Crispin was respectful but insisted that he too should leave with his master. Kilverby strongly objected to this, saying Crispin’s eyes were failing. Crispin then said something rather strange: “I don’t want to live back here again”.’

‘I am sorry?’

‘I listened more attentively. Apparently, many decades ago, Kilverby and Crispin studied here as novices, though both later left. I heard similar gossip amongst the brothers. Anyway, Kilverby tried to lighten Crispin’s mood, teasing him about being left-handed and how the Master of the Novices had tried to force him to use his right. The merchant reminisced how Crispin used to be punished for that as Kilverby was for gnawing on the end of every pen or brush. He and Crispin laughed at the foibles of this monk or that. Abbot Walter’s early days were mentioned, some gossip or scandal about him, but their voices became muted and they moved on.’ The anchorite rose and paced up and down the cell. He paused, tapped the crucifix and glanced down at Athelstan.

‘Brother, I am lost in my own puzzle of dreams and fears. I see things. I overhear conversations but there’s little else. When we first met I had so much to say; I was being threatened. True, at first, I rejoiced in the deaths of Hanep and Hyde. Now I am beginning to wonder. So much hate, so much resentment all because of deep, hidden sins.’ He paused. ‘Brother?’

‘Yes?’

‘I would like to leave here. Would St Erconwald have an anker house?’ He kicked the coffer. ‘I have the money to pay for its construction. I could help your painter.’

Athelstan was about to refuse but softened at the man’s pleading look.

‘Friar!’ Cranston’s booming voice echoed along the south aisle.

‘I must go.’ Athelstan rose. ‘As for your request, let me see.’ The friar left the anker house and found Cranston had moved across the church to admire a scene painted from the Book of Daniel about Susannah facing her lecherous accusers.

‘Sir John, good morrow.’

‘And the same to you, little friar. I’ve heard Mass, I’ve broke my fast. What. .’ He paused as Wenlock and Mahant, their cloaks glistening with wet, came up the aisle. Athelstan noticed the daggers pushed into their war belts. Men of violence, Athelstan reflected, yet they looked cowed, Mahant especially, his hard eyes now red-rimmed, his cheeks unshaven.

‘We are leaving,’ Wenlock declared, ‘no, no, not for good.’

‘I hope not,’ Cranston retorted. ‘You’ll stay here. I sent a lay brother into the city. I’ve asked the sheriff to issue writs for the fugitive Henry Osborne.’

‘He’s not a. .’

‘Master Wenlock, he is. Osborne fled from here by night. He could be the assassin we are hunting.’

‘Never — ’

‘Everyone,’ Cranston insisted, ‘including both of you, are suspects, Osborne even more so. His description will be proclaimed in Cheapside, posted on the ‘Si Quis’ door at St Paul’s as well as its Great Cross. If Osborne does not surrender himself in ten days he will be declared utlegatum — an outlaw, a wolfshead.’

Mahant glanced sharply at Wenlock, who simply shook his head.

‘Just as well,’ Mahant muttered. ‘It’s best if he’s taken.’

‘Why?’ Cranston demanded.

‘Osborne was our treasurer,’ Wenlock explained. ‘I am sorry. We did not mention this before. When he left Osborne took most of our gold and silver with him. We are going into London to search for him ourselves.’

‘Why there?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Osborne is not a country bumpkin,’ Wenlock replied. ‘He also likes the ladies. Perhaps we’ll find him in the stews or some other brothel.’ Wenlock shrugged. ‘Athelstan, Sir John?’

Both men bowed and left.

‘I’m not too happy,’ Cranston whispered, ‘I would like everyone to stay where they are but so far we have little proof to detain them, yes?’ Cranston’s gaze travelled back to the painting of Susannah. He walked up to it, stared hard for a while then abruptly jumped up and down like a little boy. ‘Lady Purity!’ he exclaimed. ‘Lady Purity, also known as “Mistress Quicksilver”.’

‘Sir John, are you madcap?’

Cranston pointed to the picture of Susannah then grasped Athelstan firmly by the shoulders, his blue eyes blazing with good humour.

‘Eleanor Remiet,’ he whispered, pushing his face close to Athelstan. ‘Eleanor Remiet be damned! She’s Lady Purity. Athelstan, I know London. What you told me about the anchorite? I certainly remember him as an excellent hangman. Nor can I forget that murderous harridan Agnes Rednal whilst Wolfsbane was a demon incarnate. They’ve all crossed my path. I’ve certainly crossed theirs and others. Do you recall Alice Perrers?’

‘The mistress of the late King Edward, she stayed long enough by his corpse to strip it of rings and every other precious item.’

‘Living like a nun now out in Essex.’ Cranston chuckled. ‘Oh yes, I’ve met them all, little friar, the good, the bad and the downright wicked.’

‘And this Lady Purity?’

‘Stare at the painting of Susannah, Friar, gaze at her face. I’ve been studying it since I arrived here this morning. I know that face! This fresco was executed many years ago but the painter certainly used someone as his image.’

‘Eleanor Remiet?’

‘Look and judge.’

Athelstan did. Cranston snatched a flaming cresset from its sconce and held it up to illuminate the beautiful face shrouded by a mass of golden curls, the downcast eyes, the graceful way that Innocent from the Book of Daniel kept her cloak about her naked body. Athelstan stared, fascinated by the compelling beauty of the woman’s face and the more he looked his doubts began to crumble. The artist, whoever he was, had used the woman now calling herself Eleanor Remiet as his mirror for this biblical heroine. To be sure, Remiet was now old, her face ravaged by time, but a hidden glow of beauty still remained in those haughty features and Athelstan could detect the same in the wall painting before him.

‘Sir John,’ Athelstan stepped back, ‘you are correct. Who was this Lady Purity?’

‘A great courtesan of Cheapside. I used to woo her from afar. She certainly wasn’t for the likes of young Jack Cranston, freshly inducted into the Inns of Court, oh no, but I adored her from a distance, worshipping at her altar. I did all I could to discover more about her.’

‘And?’

‘Lady Purity, as she called herself, reserved her favours for the great ones of the land. She also acquired a rather sinister reputation.’

‘As?’

‘As a cozening blackmailer who, when it suited her, could threaten a cleric with a summons to the Archdeacon’s court or an errant husband with the wrath of his wife. She earned money swiftly and smoothly in both her callings, hence her nickname, “Mistress Quicksilver”. As for her title, “Lady Purity”,’ Cranston laughed, ‘well, that was because of her pious ways, at least publicly. In her youth she was a great beauty who acted so innocently, so decorously, you’d think butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. She was the toast. .’ Cranston walked away as shouts and cries from outside rose and fell. Athelstan remained rooted to the spot, lost in his own wild tumble of thoughts.

‘As I said,’ Cranston continued, coming back, ‘she was the toast of Cheapside. Athelstan, you were right about her relationship with our abbot, that’s what started me thinking. Eleanor Remiet is not the abbot’s sister but his leman.’ Cranston chuckled to himself. ‘She is definitely the mother of the lovely Isabella who, of course, is the abbot’s natural daughter, certainly not his niece. They are, in the eyes of God, though not Holy Mother Church, husband, wife and child. Lady Purity or Mistress Quicksilver, whatever her name, will have her claws very deep into our Lord Abbot. She will demand the best sustenance and purveyance for both herself and her daughter. In her youth, saintly Susannah or not, Lady Purity had a hunger for gold and silver. The passing of the years and the needs of young Isabella will have only whetted her appetite as sharp as a knife.’

‘Which would explain why the abbot stopped paying the Upright Men?’

‘Aye, and God knows what else he has misappropriated. I think it’s time-’

‘Not yet,’ Athelstan gripped Cranston’s sleeve, ‘not yet my Lord Coroner, let me first reflect; there are other matters. .’

Athelstan broke off as the hubbub outside grew. He and Cranston went through a side door into the porch. A group of brothers were gathered round a barrow being pushed up the path. Exclamations rang out, the monks, jostling each other, blocked Athelstan’s view of what was in the barrow. They parted and Athelstan groaned in sheer pity at the horror piled there, the long graceful neck now twisted, the glorious white plumage piled in dirty disarray — Leda the swan! Athelstan stopped the barrow and stared down at the once magnificent bird.

‘How did it happen?’

‘Hanged! Hanged!’ Brother Simon pushed his way through. ‘We found Leda hanged on the gallows near the watergate.’

Athelstan sketched a blessing over the dead bird.

‘Abbot Walter will be distraught,’ one of the brothers exclaimed. ‘He will mourn as if for a loved one.’

‘Aye, but does he love any of us?’ another added.

The question was greeted with silence.

‘Who? How?’ Athelstan asked.

Another monk passed Athelstan a parchment script with the phrase, ‘Answer a fool according to his folly’ scratched in red ink. Beneath this, ‘The Upright Men’.

‘The Upright Men,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘Where will they flee on the day of judgement?’ He looked at the rough, chapped faces of the brothers who stared stonily back. ‘Jerusalem,’ Athelstan added sadly, ‘will not be built on earth.’

‘But Babylon and its proud princes can be brought as low as hell,’ a lay brother retorted.

‘Like this,’ Athelstan pointed at the dead swan, ‘do you know what the great philosopher Anselm said? “Cruelty to God’s creatures comes directly from the evil one”. Leda was,’ Athelstan continued softly, ‘a manifestation of the glory of God.’ He stood aside. ‘Your Lord Abbot needs to be informed.’ Athelstan returned to Cranston, still standing in the porch, and told him what had happened.

‘Abbot Walter is a fool. Athelstan, please excuse me, I’ve other business to attend to. We’ll then meet and confront Abbot Walter and his Lady Purity.’ Cranston strolled away.

Athelstan watched him go and decided to visit the library. Immediately as he entered two of the monks sitting in their carrels swiftly rose. Courteous, gracious and welcoming, Athelstan sensed they were under strict instruction to keep him occupied, whilst a third brought Richer from the scriptorium. Athelstan informed him about the swan. The Frenchman raised his eyes and murmured a prayer.

‘I am sorry,’ Richer lisped, ‘but at the present I’ve other business to deal with. I will see Father Abbot in due time. I have decided,’ Richer gestured around the library, ‘much as I love it here, to return to St Calliste, as Lord Walter said, sooner rather than later, probably in the next few days.’

‘I am sorry,’ Athelstan shook his head, ‘that will not be possible.’

‘What do you mean — I’m a priest, a Benedictine, a citizen of France. I-’

‘Brother Richer, you could be the kinsman of the Archangel Gabriel. If the Crown of England decides that you must delay your return to France until this business is cleared up then that must be so. No harbour master will allow you out of this realm without proper licence. Now, do you have information here on the bloodstone, the Passio Christi?’

Richer, all flustered, waved the friar to a carrel under a window, further light being provided by a covered candle. Athelstan sat and patiently waited until Richer brought a book, a copy of a work Athelstan recognized from his own order’s library at Blackfriars, ‘The Book of Relics’, a compendium describing the great relics of Christendom and their location. Athelstan opened this and found the entry for the bloodstone, short and succinct, telling him very little more than he already knew. Athelstan stared at the entry and leafed through the pages. A bell sounded. The monks, busy over their manuscripts, paused, rose and filed out. Athelstan glanced down the library. The door to the scriptorium remained closed. Richer had not left. Athelstan extinguished the candles, closed the book and moved into the shadows, searching the shelf from where Richer had taken ‘The Book of Relics’. Athelstan was sure there must be more information than just a few lines in a general compendium.

So hidden in the darkness, Prior Alexander did not see Athelstan as he flung open the library door and hurried down, knocking at the scriptorium and entering even before Richer could reply. Athelstan edged out of the corner and softly approached as near as he could. The prior had not bothered to close the door behind him. He heard Richer ask if Prior Alexander had seen ‘that friar — more of a ferret than a priest?’ Athelstan smiled at that. Prior Alexander ignored the question and began a tirade, highly irate at the prospect of Richer leaving so soon. The prior lost all control, shouting at Richer, asking if he cared, and demanding he tell him the reason why? Athelstan felt guilty yet he stayed, listening to what was really a passionate lovers’ quarrel. Richer tried to defend himself, explaining how he had to go, but the prior was besides himself with jealous rage. The argument grew more heated. Athelstan braced himself as he heard a stool crash over, Richer yelled that the prior let go of his arm. Athelstan was about to intervene when the library door rattled. The friar hastily stepped back into the shadows. A servitor entered, clumsily slipping and slithering on the polished floor, loudly shouting how the Lord Abbot demanded the immediate presence of both his prior and sub-prior in his chamber.

The altercation in the scriptorium swifty subsided. Both monks left, followed by the agitated servitor loudly lamenting how the Lord Abbot was stricken at what had happened to poor Leda. Athelstan waited until they’d gone and stepped out of his hiding place. He was about to continue his searches when he heard Cranston shouting his name. Athelstan sighed and walked to the door. The coroner stood at the far end of the portico gallery which ran down to the library, patting the shoulder of the stranger standing next to him as he gestured at Athelstan to join them.

Once he did, Cranston introduced his eccentric-looking visitor, Bartholomew Shoreditch, commonly known as the firedrake ‘for his skill, knowledge and expertise with all forms of fire’. The firedrake was a short, dumpy man clothed entirely in dark red including his cloak, cowl and soft Spanish boots. He preened himself like a peacock as Cranston went on to explain how the firedrake was one of his confidants, much respected by the London guilds, especially the chandlers, wool and coal merchants not to mention the great lords of the Guildhall. The firedrake was all neat and precise in his actions with closely shorn greying hair, his snub-nosed face clean-shaved and oiled. The firedrake definitely loved all things glittering. Rings shimmered on his fat fingers. Around his neck hung a collection of gold and silver chains adorned with medals depicting martyrs such as St Lawrence the Deacon who’d been grilled to death over a slow fire.

‘He used to start fires himself, did little Bartholomew,’ Cranston explained, ‘until his uncle Jack caught him, pilloried him, put him in the Fleet prison and gave him a lecture he’ll never forget all the God-given days of his life. Isn’t that right, my lovely?’

‘Truly, Sir John.’ The firedrake extended a hand gloved in a gauntlet of blood-red velvet studded with imitation diamonds.

Athelstan grasped this.

‘I’ve now seen the error of my ways, Brother. Good to meet you, Sir John often talks about you.’

‘What exactly do you do?’ Athelstan asked when the firedrake released his hand.

‘I am a journeyman, Brother. I advise my many customers and clients about candles, fires and chimney stacks as well as the storing and charging of faggots, the properties of oil, the difference between waxes, coal and charcoal, not to forget the careful preservation of cannon powder.’

Little wonder, Athelstan thought, the fellow looked so prosperous, especially at this time of year.

‘Brokersby’s death?’ Cranston declared. ‘The firedrake wants to discover what happened.’

Athelstan took their guest out into the precincts. The abbey was still disturbed by the cruel death of Leda. No one interfered when Athelstan escorted the firedrake to the guest house to inspect the charred, derelict chamber. The firedrake moved swiftly. He scrutinized the floor, walls and ceilings, concentrating on where the bed, table and candle had stood. He opened his pannier, donned a leather apron, took off his gauntlets, crouched and sifted amongst the ash, dust and fragments, letting them run through his fingers whilst questioning Athelstan on what had actually happened and what he had learnt. The firedrake picked up a piece of charred leather rim and the blackened remains of what looked like a stopper to a wineskin. He held these up.

‘You are correct, Brother Athelstan. The candle provided the spark but something else started the fire, yet how that was done I truly don’t know. Look,’ he pushed back his sleeves, ‘can I talk to the abbey chandler? Afterwards just leave me — out of friendship for you and Sir John, I will do what I can.’

Athelstan agreed. He took the firedrake across to the abbey chandlery. At first the brother responsible was wary and suspicious but the firedrake’s enthusiasm swiftly charmed him and soon both were immersed in discussing the properties of wax and which were the most important to use. Athelstan left them to it and joined Sir John sitting on a turf bench overlooking the abbey herb gardens. For a while they sat in silence. Athelstan thought about the swan, the ugly warning behind its brutal death and that painting of the beautiful Susannah. He recalled the anchorite all agitated and fearful.

‘How times change, Sir John.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Lady Purity,’ Athelstan asked, ‘otherwise known as Mistress Quicksilver — that was her reputation?’

‘I am as certain of it as I am sitting here.’

‘Then, Sir John, I want you to seek an urgent interview with Lord Walter, I mean now. The woman calling herself Eleanor Remiet must also be present.’

‘The abbot’s private life is not within our writ, Friar.’

‘He certainly needs to be warned about the Upright Men.’

‘Undoubtedly.’

‘And his doxy, his leman, needs to be counselled on the evils of blackmail.’ Athelstan grinned at the surprise on the coroner’s face.

‘Please,’ Athelstan squeezed Cranston’s hand, ‘let me collect my thoughts. All will be revealed.’

The coroner rose and strode off, clapping his hands against the cold. Athelstan went into the abbey church. He lit a candle before the lady altar and stared up at the subtle carving of the Virgin and Child, an excellent copy of the famous Walsingham Statue. Athelstan earnestly prayed three Aves for wisdom then left. By the time he reached the abbot’s lodgings, Mistress Eleanor, haughty face all flushed, was being ushered in to join Lord Walter sitting disconsolate by the hearth, three white downy feathers on his lap. He greeted them dolefully, motioning to the other chairs. Athelstan and Cranston sat down, both expressing their deep regrets on the death of Leda. Abbot Walter, face still tear-streaked, nodded as he stroked the feathers. Mistress Eleanor just sat to the abbot’s left, impatiently tapping the arm of her chair.

‘You asked me to come here,’ she blurted out. ‘Why, what is the matter?’

‘It’s a long time,’ Athelstan replied quietly, ‘since Sir John saw you, Lady Purity, also known as Mistress Quicksilver.’ Athelstan’s words were greeted with a stunned silence. The friar gazed at the woman. She must be past her fiftieth summer but he could see that once, when her skin was smooth, her cheeks full and soft, her lips ripe and red, she must have been a truly remarkable-looking woman.

‘I don’t know what. .’ Abbot Walter ceased his crying, the white feathers floating down to the floor.

‘I do.’ Cranston grinned. ‘You were a monk here, yes, Abbot Walter? Prior then abbot? In your earlier days you hired an artist to execute a wall fresco celebrating the vindication of the chaste Susannah and you asked your leman, your mistress to be the image. I recognized that face eventually.’ He turned to the woman. ‘Lady Purity, when you entered the Inns of Court with this or that great noble, I worshipped you from afar. Despite the passage of the years I still glimpse what I once revered.’

The woman forced a smile, fluttering her eyelids at the flattery.

‘Now, Lord Walter,’ Athelstan declared, stilling the abbot’s protests, ‘we are not concerned about your private life. My Lord of Gaunt and the Archbishop of Canterbury might be but that is a matter for them. Nor am I concerned that Isabella may be your daughter not your niece, a love child, yes? Conceived late, my Lady, raised by you and supported by Lord Walter with help from the revenues of this abbey? I advise you not to challenge that. As I’ve said, your private life is your own. However,’ Athelstan added, ‘cozening blackmail is another.’

‘How dare you!’

‘Oh, Mistress, I dare and will dare again.’

Eleanor made to rise.

‘The anchorite!’ Athelstan exclaimed. The woman promptly sat down. From her fleeting expression Athelstan knew he’d hit his mark.

‘What is this?’ Abbot Walter pleaded.

‘Agnes Rednal. The anchorite believes he is haunted by the ghost of a wicked woman he hanged. Now that poor man has all sorts of imaginings. You, Mistress, learnt his story from Abbot Walter. You are hungry for gold and silver. After all, your daughter Isabella needs a rich endowment if she is to gain a wealthy suitor. The anchorite has a box crammed with gold and silver. Well,’ Athelstan lifted his hands, ‘you know all this. Deny it and I’ll ask Sir John to arrest you, abbey or not, whilst I search your chamber for a box of face paints, a wig of wild hair, as well as the black Benedictine robe you wear when you flit like a bat through these supposed holy precincts after darkness has fallen.’ Athelstan glanced quizzically at her. ‘According to the anchorite, these apparitions of the real Agnes Rednal only began recently. Of course they did. They coincide with your arrival here for the festive season.’ Athelstan gestured at the abbot now drained of all pomposity. ‘I cannot prove your guilt in all this but you, Mistress, stand charged. You could be arrested. While you lodge in Newgate, Sir John will conduct a most thorough investigation into your real origins. You dreaded this moment, didn’t you? You’re sharp-witted, Mistress. Your relationship with Abbot Walter is very secretive. Your face being taken as an image for that painting so many years ago would, I am sure, have been protected by all kinds of subterfuge. Now, Sir John acts the bluff officer of the Crown but he has a most prodigious memory. .’

‘True, true,’ Cranston whispered.

‘You must have become very alarmed when he began to stare so closely at you.’ Athelstan spread his hand. ‘You hoped it might be something passing until you realized we’d be staying here for some time. That’s why you warned me to leave.’

The woman swallowed hard and just stared back.

‘Did you also try to terrify me with a quarrel from a crossbow?’

‘Never!’ Eleanor now looked genuinely frightened. Abbot Walter gave a strangled cry.

‘Of course His Grace the Regent will get to know.’ Athelstan continued: ‘In time he would undoubtedly inform your superiors, Abbot Walter, not to mention the Archbishop of Canterbury.’

The abbot looked pale enough to faint. He cleared his throat and tried to speak.

‘Don’t, Walter.’ The woman leaned across and patted his hand, ‘What is the use? The truth always emerges, especially when you don’t want it to. Yes, Brother Athelstan, Sir John, I was Lady Purity in my early days, a great beauty, a courtesan sans pareil. I feasted on delicacies; I was clothed in silk and satin. Men fought for my favours but my heart was always given to Walter Chobham, Sub-Prior of the Benedictines at St Fulcher’s. Yes, I’m depicted as Susannah in that painting but those were my green and salad days. Age withers us. The years stale. Your body fails — mine certainly did. I was ravaged by the pestilence. An even greater surprise occurred in my last years, just before my courses stopped: I became pregnant with Isabella. Both pregnancy and delivery were difficult and by then all real traces of my beauty were gone. Walter has stayed faithful to me, especially now Isabella has come of age. Yes, I am desperate for her, for me. If Abbot Walter dies what will happen to us?’ She took a deep breath. ‘True, Walter told me the anchorite’s tale. I heard of his wealth stored in that coffer,’ she stroked the side of her face, ‘so I became Agnes Rednal.’ She smiled icily at Athelstan. ‘I assure you, Brother, it was desperation not greed which prompted it, nothing but a game to secure his wealth.’

‘A cruel game, Mistress, one that ends now, yes?’

‘Of course. And what else?’

‘Nothing, Mistress.’

‘As for you,’ Cranston gestured at the abbot, ‘I urge you to be most prudent; the Upright Men have sent you a warning.’

‘What can I do?’

‘Be vigilant. As for my part,’ Cranston added, ‘well, leave that to me.’

‘The Wyvern Company will be of use,’ Abbot Walter added desperately.

‘True,’ Cranston agreed, ‘but that brings me to my last question. Is there anything you haven’t told us about the murders here?’

‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan, I swear I know nothing. Yes, I have failed, I have sinned. I am locked in my own deep worries about Isabella and Eleanor. All I can say is that I fervently regret allowing Brother Richer to come here. Why? I cannot say. Only after his arrival did Sir Robert Kilverby change.’ The abbot picked up the fallen feathers. ‘Perhaps,’ he mumbled, ‘perhaps it’s time I resigned my post.’ He put his face in his hands and began to sob.

You’re crying through your fingers, Athelstan thought. You’re not penitent but plotting, nor have you told me the full truth. Athelstan rose to his feet. He stared around that luxurious chamber and remembered the lepers out in the freezing cold beyond the gate, those others on the quayside, numb and starving. Fleischer being dragged off to be hanged whilst the abbot who ordered it lived his own dissolute life. The thought of Fleischer in his boat watching the abbey made Athelstan pause. Fleischer! Those poor river people! Of course!

‘Athelstan, are you well?’ Cranston also rose to his feet.

‘Sir John, a moment with you alone. My Lord Abbot, Mistress,’ Athelstan gave them the most cursory of bows, ‘please stay here.’ Once outside the chamber Athelstan grasped Cranston’s sleeve. ‘Sir John, you’ve sent messengers from here to the city, yes?’

‘Of course, you know I have.’

‘Sir John, I beg you. Fetch Prior Alexander and Richer here now, I mean now. By the way,’ Athelstan again grabbed Cranston’s sleeve, ‘you could, if I wanted it, obtain a list of grants made by the Crown to this abbey?’

‘Of course.’

‘Very good. Please go, I shall return to Father Abbot.’

Lord Walter still sat slumped in his chair, his mistress, one hand on his arm, gazing pitifully at him. Athelstan went and stood over both of them.

‘The anchorite,’ he warned. ‘I do not know, Mistress, if what you did was solely your work or both of you, but it stops now.’

She nodded, her haughty face all worried.

‘As for you, Father Abbot, I cannot and will not condemn you except exhort you to reconcile yourself to God and,’ Athelstan leaned down threateningly, ‘tell the truth when I ask.’

Athelstan walked away and stared at one of the gorgeously painted glass windows. He silently chastised himself for his mistake and wondered how many more he had committed; he vowed to take each scrap of knowledge and pursue it to its logical conclusion. Behind him the abbot murmured to his mistress. A knock on the door a short while later ended this. Cranston, Richer and Prior Alexander entered. Both monks protested at the peremptory summons but Cranston ordered them to sit. Athelstan quickly composed himself. He would not question them but present the arguments which now tumbled through his mind.

‘Brother Athelstan,’ Prior Alexander declared, ‘we are here.’

‘So you are.’ Athelstan turned and smiled. ‘Robert Kilverby and Crispin, his secretarius, were also here.’

‘I. .?’

‘No. I mean years ago. They were novices here. Lord Walter, you’re of the same age, you must remember them.’

‘I do,’ the abbot replied slowly, ‘but what has that got to do with all this?’

‘They were novices here.’

‘Yes, I was an assistant to the novice master, I. .’

‘Did anything singular happen to them?’

‘No, they were both the sons of London citizens. Kilverby was special. He had a sharp mind and keen wit, he excelled in logic and debate.’

‘And Crispin?’

‘Oh, he was called “the Silent One”, sometimes “Sinister”, because he was left-handed. He was often punished for that. The novice master said he must change.’

‘And did he?’

‘No.’

‘Were both men happy?’

‘Kilverby more than Crispin.’ The abbot scratched his head. ‘I believe he hated being here. Both young men publicly declared their intention of not taking minor orders and left. Kilverby soon made his name as a trader, an astute merchant. Crispin became his helpmate. Kilverby rose to be an alderman, a leading member of the guild, a banker, a trader in every kind of commodity, much patronized by the Crown.’

‘And you can see no link between Kilverby’s novitiate here and his mysterious death?’

‘No.’ Abbot Walter’s voice was clipped; he glanced nervously at Prior Alexander.

‘Brother Athelstan,’ Richer asked, ‘what has this got to do with me, with us?’

‘Oh, everything,’ Athelstan sat down. ‘Prior Alexander, go to your chancery and bring me the list of all the items seized by the Wyvern Company from the cart they found so opportunely on a country lane near the Abbey of St Calliste.’

‘There isn’t such a-’

‘Don’t lie.’ Athelstan saw the deep flush in the prior’s face. Abbot Walter simply groaned. Richer glanced longingly at the door.

‘It is abbey property,’ Abbot Walter blustered.

‘In which case,’ Athelstan declared, ‘I could ask all three of you to join me and Sir John, the King’s officer, in the muniment room at the Tower where such a list, I am sure, is recorded on a memoranda roll of the exchequer or royal chamber. Now,’ Athelstan sighed, ‘that may take some time — days, weeks — but I am sure we can secure you comfortable lodgings in the Tower until that list is traced. After that,’ Athelstan continued remorselessly, ‘the Crown might decide to hold an inventory on what goods donated to St Fulcher’s actually remain here? Silence!’ Athelstan pointed at the abbot. ‘Do not make a bad situation worse. I doubt if much remains. Most of the goods seized by the Wyvern Company from St Calliste have been despatched back to France by you, Richer. You sent these items by this cog or that ship. You weren’t sending messages. Why should a boatman from a foreign cog come down here?’ Athelstan gestured at the door. ‘You have servants, lay brothers, not to mention the river folk who would leap at the chance to earn good coin by taking letters to this ship or that. You were sending precious, sacred items which could only be entrusted to certain people. Prior Alexander,’ Athelstan spread his hands, ‘Sir John and I are waiting for that list. I want it now.’

Prior Alexander glanced at the abbot who simply fluttered his fingers.

‘Do as he asks,’ Eleanor whispered. ‘Walter, do it, we have to.’

‘The list,’ Athelstan insisted.

The prior rose and swept out of the chamber. Athelstan glanced across at Sir John, who sat cradling a goblet of wine he’d poured from the jug on the great open dresser. Athelstan rose and walked back to the window where the winter light still picked out scenes from St Benedict’s life at Subiaco. He was aware of the silence behind him as he prepared his indictment. Richer was wily and subtle: a spider who’d entered this abbey and spun his web cleverly, adroitly drawing in the likes of Kilverby and William Chalk but who else — Prior Alexander? Athelstan wondered about Osborne and then his own desperate flight through the charnel house. Had that been Richer? Was the Frenchman determined to prevent his probing even if it meant murder?

‘I have it.’

Prior Alexander had returned to the chamber. He carried a calf skin ledger inscribed with the title ‘Dona Recepta — Gifts Received’. Athelstan leafed through the yellowing pages, tied to each other and the strong spine with reddish twine. Athelstan recognized it as a true document over which these deceitful monks could not deceive him. The ‘Liber Donorum Receptorum — the Book of Gifts Received’ was an important record of any religious house. It provided the day, month and year of every gift received, along with the donor’s name. The record had to be kept because every religious house had a special day when Masses were offered for the intentions of all such benefactors. More importantly, it was a document drawn up years ago over which these monks had no control. Prior Alexander offered to help. Athelstan shook his head.

‘I know where to look,’ he murmured and took the book across to the window. The battle of Poitiers had been fought in 1356. Athelstan moved to January 1357 and scrutinized the entries, quietly marvelling at the generosity of lords, merchants and other patrons. At last he found the entries under ‘Rex Angliae, King of England’ or ‘Edwardus Princeps Walliae, Edward Prince of Wales’. Athelstan studied the list of about sixty items ‘found on a cart near St Calliste’: candlesticks, triptychs and crucifixes, missals and other sacred items such as a small tabernacle, gold and silver cruets then the entry he’d been looking for: ‘Liber Antiqua, Liber Passionis Christi’ — An old book, The Book of the Passion of Christ’.

‘Very well,’ Athelstan lifted his head, ‘I would like to see all these items now.’

‘That’s impossible!’

‘Of course it is,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘How many of these items have now been returned to St Calliste?’ He closed the book. ‘Prior Alexander, stop looking offended, it’s not honest. Sit down.’ Athelstan rejoined Cranston. ‘I shall tell you what happened,’ Athelstan continued. ‘The Wyvern Company’s plunder was handed over to the Crown within a year because all the items were sacred. They were then granted to St Fulcher’s, some twenty-three years ago.’ Athelstan tapped the book. ‘You cannot erase or change these entries. A few years ago the Abbot of St Calliste decided it was time to get his property back. Did he exchange gifts with you, Abbot Walter? Or was it bribes?’ Athelstan asked. ‘So that his beloved nephew Richer, the skilled copyist and illuminator, could visit St Fulcher’s on an extended course of study? He would definitely work for this privilege, being given the position of Sub-Prior.’ Athelstan stared at the Frenchman who looked relaxed but poised. ‘I cannot prove this but the Abbot of St Calliste also learned as he would through the chatter and gossip of his order, how the remnants of the Wyvern Company were now at St Fulcher’s. What an excellent opportunity! What a prize! To recover everything lost as well as wreak vengeance on the sacrilegious English who’d dared plunder the great Abbey of St Calliste with such impunity.’

‘Are you, yet again,’ Richer demanded, ‘accusing me of murder? Where is your proof, your evidence?’

‘Seeds grow, stalks thrust up,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘Gathering time always comes, Richer. You definitely arrived here to right a whole series of wrongs and, to begin with, God was good. You must have even thought St Benedict himself had intervened on your behalf.’

‘Explain!’

‘You know full well. One of the Wyverns, William Chalk, fell ill; a defrocked priest, he desperately wanted to make his peace with God. You Richer, with Prior Alexander’s connivance, wormed your way into that man’s soul. I am not accusing you of breaking the seal of confession but you used the second miracle which presented itself. Kilverby was also undergoing conversion. Like the subtle cozener you are, you struck hard and fast. Kilverby realized that the free company he’d financed in France were sacrilegious thieves and he’d profited from them. Worse was to come. He learnt that the Passio Christi, the sacred bloodstone, had been blasphemously stolen and he was also part of that. He was under God’s doom.’ Athelstan shook his head. ‘I admit, I confess. I still do not fully understand Kilverby’s motives.’

‘I am sorry?’ Prior Alexander’s voice seemed hoarse and dry.

‘Richer, you are persuasive. Kilverby had his doubts but something other than your honeyed words influenced both him and Master Chalk.’

Richer half-smiled, as if he was playing a chess game and was acknowledging a cunning opponent.

‘Anyway.’ Athelstan sighed. ‘Kilverby asked what could he do? He distanced himself from the Wyvern Company. He probably promised you the bloodstone. Of course all this did not happen at once. I suspect it took almost the first two years of your stay, Richer, before you were able to reap your hidden harvest and send it home.’ Athelstan glanced quickly at the abbot and his woman; their fearful faces showed he was close to the truth.

‘Which was what?’ Prior Alexander asked.

‘Oh, you all know. Kilverby offered reparation of a different kind; influenced by Richer, he made very generous donations to this abbey on one condition.’

‘Which was?’ Prior Alexander whispered.

‘All the goods plundered from St Calliste were to be gradually returned. You, Abbot Walter, agreed to this in order to swell the coffers of your beloved kinswoman. Prior Alexander, you cooperated out of your great love for Richer. .’

‘I. .’

‘Please, Brother, why lie? What you feel is not my business.’ Athelstan pointed at the Frenchman. ‘Richer, you were delighted. You weren’t sending messages home but the objects listed in this ‘Book of Gifts’: cruets, crucifixes, sacred items not to be entrusted to simple river folk but specially selected emissaries who, with Prior Alexander’s full connivance, you met with on your visits to the city. I’m sure most of these objects are now gone.’

‘We could prove. .’ Prior Alexander protested but his voice faltered.

‘What?’ Athelstan moved in his chair. ‘How you still have these items? Of course you could produce a crucifix, cruets, a triptych and claim they were those from St Calliste. One chalice looks like another, yes, but,’ Athelstan tapped the ledger, ‘give me the “Liber Passionis Christi”.’ His invitation was greeted with silence. ‘Well,’ Athelstan declared, ‘where is the Book of the Passion of Christ? I suspect it’s a manuscript written by Pope Damasus — yes? This too has gone back to France. Richer gave it to some trusted envoy on a foreign ship, well?’

‘The book has been returned.’ Prior Alexander was flustered. Trying to regain his dignity, he glanced sharply at Richer. ‘The book has been restored to its proper owner.’

‘With the permission of the Crown,’ Athelstan asked, ‘did you make a copy?’ Athelstan demanded, ‘Well, did you?’

Richer simply spread his hands, Prior Alexander slipped further down his chair.

‘There’s no “Liber”, no copy,’ Richer muttered.

‘I might insist on searching this abbey, including your chamber, Richer.’

‘You can’t. .’

‘We can and we might,’ Cranston retorted.

‘The Passio Christi,’ Athelstan asked, ‘do any of you know where the bloodstone is?’

‘No,’ Richer’s voice was restrained, ‘I swear, no!’

‘The Passio Christi,’ Athelstan got to his feet, ‘and the book about it hold the key to all this mystery, and the question which lies at the very heart of it: why did Sir Robert change so radically? There was more to that than his own scruples or your eloquence, Richer.’

‘I cannot help you on that!’

‘Never mind.’ Cranston rose and stood over the Frenchman. ‘You, Brother, whoever you may be, are confined to this abbey. Any attempt to flee will be construed as a treasonous act.’

‘I’m a Frenchman.’

‘And His Grace, King Richard,’ Cranston thrust his face down, ‘also claims to be King of France. Richer, you are confined to this abbey under pain of treason. Brother Athelstan?’

The coroner and friar stepped out of the chamber. Once they’d left the courtyard Athelstan paused.

‘Perhaps we should begin now, Sir John.’

‘Begin what?’

‘Our search!’

Cranston agreed. He and Athelstan adjourned to the library. Richer joined them. Athelstan told him to stand aside, yet even as they searched Athelstan realized they would find nothing amongst this precious collection of books. Richer was cunning. Should they, Athelstan wondered, demand that the sub-prior’s chamber also be searched? But, there again, the Frenchman was now alert to the danger. Moreover, although the ‘Liber Passionis Christi’ might prove very useful, its disappearance did not prove Richer, or anyone else, to be an assassin or a thief. Athelstan sighed as he placed the last book, a copy of Lucretius, back on the shelf.

‘Sir John, I’m ready!’ The firedrake in all his garish glory marched into the library. Cranston smiled at Athelstan and both followed this eccentric character out through the cloisters to Mortival meadow where the abbey chandler waited.

‘I’ve everything prepared.’

The firedrake pointed to a barrel with a capped tallow candle on its upturned end. The firedrake struck a tinder, sheltering its flame against the boisterous cold breeze. The wick flared into life. The firedrake hastily withdrew. The tongue of flame danced even though it was protected by the concave-shaped cap. Cranston stamped his feet impatiently; almost in response the candle dissolved in a burst of angry, spitting flames. Small tongues of fire shot up to land, hissing like snakes on the frost-hardened grass. The top of the dry wooden barrel caught light, flames licked down its side already smouldering from the spits of fire. Soon the entire barrel was alight. Athelstan thought the flames would die but then a fresh burst flared up, angry shoots of fire leaping so swift and fierce the entire barrel was soon reduced to blackened wood crumbling away in fiery fragments.

‘You see.’ The firedrake was almost dancing with glee whilst the abbey chandler beamed at the dying fire. The monk abruptly remembered what he was doing and hurriedly pulled a more mournful face. ‘That’s how Brokersby died,’ the firedrake declared.

‘Do explain,’ Cranston insisted.

Athelstan sniffed the grey-black smoke and walked closer to the dying fire. The tang of oil was strong, needle-thin rivulets of smoking blackness scored the frozen grass.

‘Very simple.’ The firedrake breathed in the smoke as if it was the very incense of heaven.

‘Then keep it so,’ Cranston retorted, ‘and brief. I’m freezing.’

‘Come, come,’ the chandler insisted on taking them back to his own work shop, a large chamber which reeked of oil, cordage and wax. He made them sit on stools around a brazier which sparkled just like a ruby. Athelstan, clutching the cup of posset the chandler served, ruefully wondered on the whereabouts of the bloodstone.

‘Very simple.’ The firedrake held up a large tallow candle. He turned this upside down tapping its base. ‘You hollow this out and pour in oil, perhaps add some salt-petre powder, the type used by the King’s newfangled cannons — you’ve seen them at the Tower?’

Cranston grunted.

‘Reseal the candle with a wax plug and you have nothing less than a vase of oil.’

‘If you light the wick,’ Athelstan agreed, ‘the flame burns down, the wax dissolves and the conflagration begins. The lower the oil sits in the hollowed-out candle, the longer it takes.’

‘I’ve seen it done,’ the chandler observed ruefully. ‘Sir John, as coroner, you must have encountered tallow-makers, candle-fashioners who use cheap materials within a shell of wax?’

‘I have,’ Cranston drank from his posset cup, ‘which explains why the guild’s regulations are so stringent against such a practice.’

‘That and more,’ the firedrake explained. ‘This barrel was as dry as tinder. Inside it was a small pouch of oil. The false candle was perilous enough but the oil would make it truly dangerous. You must have seen conflagrations; people forget how fast flames can move. I’ve seen fires in dried forests course swifter than a fleeing deer. Burning oil is even worse.’ He waggled a finger. ‘Very dangerous — it turned our candle into a fountain of spitting flame.’

‘So,’ Athelstan drained his cup, ‘somebody entered Brokersby’s chamber. They placed a wine skin, one full of oil sprinkled with salt-petre, under his bed. The tallow candle was replaced with a false one. Brokersby either lit it or let it burn as he was accustomed to. He retired to bed, his belly full of wine, an opiate, or both. The candle eventually disintegrated in a shower of flame which would swiftly reach the pouch of oil hidden away.’ Athelstan crossed himself. ‘The bed was of dry wood, linen sheets and woollen blankets, ideal fuel. Brokersby may have woken and tried to stagger out of danger but the fire was all around him. The oil-rich flames would have turned him into a living torch. My friends,’ Athelstan rose and bowed, ‘I thank you heartily but your hypothesis leaves one tantalizing question.’ He stared down at them. ‘Why? Why kill any soul but especially why like that, the artifice, the subtle cunning, why?’

Cranston escorted the firedrake, rewarded with good silver, back to the watergate. Athelstan took to wandering the abbey. He felt agitated. The buildings seemed to crowd in around him. The statues and carvings appeared to draw closer, making him more aware of sightless eyes, stone smiles and frozen glances. He became acutely alert to the dappled light, the black alleyways and the yawning mouths of corridors. Bells tolled. Monks slipped here and there on different duties. Athelstan sensed a change: their mood was colder, more distant. Bony white faces peered suspiciously out at him from hoods and cowls. Brothers turned and whispered to each other as he passed. Athelstan entered the church to pray before the lady altar. Afterwards he went and stood before the anker house but the anchorite was either asleep or pretended to be. Athelstan returned to his own chamber and tried to clear the fog of mystery behind the disappearance of the bloodstone and these horrid murders. Were they all connected? Athelstan wondered. Or should he look at Kilverby’s murder as separate from the rest? The Passio Christi did link Kilverby to the Wyvern Company. Another tie was Richer. Athelstan curbed his frustration. Ideally, Cranston should seize the Frenchman and hoist him off to the Tower for closer questioning. Richer however was a cleric, a monk. He would plead benefit of clergy and, within the day, every churchman in London would be stridently protesting.