Murder in the Holy City

CHAPTER THREE

Back in his chamber, Geoffrey pondered the information contained on the scroll Tancred had given him. He sprawled in the window seat, feet propped up against the wall opposite, tapping the parchment thoughtfully with his forefinger. Roger lounged across the bed, paring his nails with his dagger, while Hugh sat on the bench plucking tunelessly at a lute Geoffrey had chosen from the sack of Antioch. The door was firmly closed, and Helbye had been given instructions to allow no one near it. Geoffrey’s dog flopped on the stone floor in a vain attempt to cool itself down, and the sounds of its agitated panting filled the room.

“Tell us again,” said Roger. “This heat is dulling my brain.”

“It was dull long before the heat got to it,” muttered Hugh. Roger flung a mailed glove at him, which was retrieved by the dog and returned in the hope of an edible reward.

“The two knights-Guido and John-were in Bohemond’s service,” Geoffrey began. “The dead monks were Jocelyn, a Benedictine from Conques in France; Pius, a Cluniac from Ripoll in Spain; and Loukas, a Greek. The monks have no connections with each other as far as is known, and they were found in random locations around the city. The only common factor between all five is that they were killed with carved Arab daggers.”

“I cannot see another connection between them,” said Hugh. “Although I suppose there must be one.” He sighed. “Lord, Geoffrey, what have you let yourself in for this time? This is nothing like the matter of those thefts you solved, you know. Then, the culprit was no one of consequence and he was conveniently dispatched and forgotten. God only knows who might be involved in this business.”

Geoffrey nodded. He, too, was already having misgivings about becoming embroiled in the matter. It boded ill that the Advocate considered it of sufficient importance that he would consider recruiting an agent whose allegiance lay with another, and anything that secured the interest of Edouard de Courrances was bound to have some sinister twist. But Tancred had gone to some pains to ensure Geoffrey performed this duty willingly. Tancred was a good general, and allowed Geoffrey considerable freedom to use his own judgement, a privilege that neither the Advocate nor Bohemond granted their knights. Geoffrey knew Tancred would applaud Geoffrey’s acceptance of the Advocate’s commission, since it would grant him access to far more places than Tancred’s authority would allow.

“And then there is the matter of the heart,” said Roger, looking ruefully at its gnawed remains on the floor between the dog’s protective paws. “And of who followed you last night. Speaking Greek, you say.”

“There is your answer,” said Hugh, snapping his fingers. “Words of wisdom from fools and children. The only clue you have so far is that your would-be assailants are Greek. One of the victims was Greek, also. Begin your investigation with the Greeks.”

“The woman you arrested was Greek, too, you say?” said Roger, glancing up at Geoffrey.

“But she was released because another victim was killed while she was being questioned by Tancred,” said Geoffrey. “Tancred is quite an impressive alibi. She was telling the truth after all.”

“Maybe,” said Hugh. “But perhaps her confederates staged another murder while she was being questioned, specifically to show she was innocent.”

“They would have to have acted very quickly,” said Geoffrey. “And it would have had to have been perfectly timed.”

“Well, so it was,” said Hugh. “Do you think it odd that so much time lapsed between the first three murders-Guido, Jocelyn, and Pius-but the next two-John and Loukas occurred on the same day?”

Geoffrey considered. But there seemed to be no kind of pattern to the murders at all, and Hugh’s point about timing might prove very misleading.

“The first step is to check the information we already have,” he said, considering the terse sentences written by Tancred’s scribes. “We need to visit the places where these men died, talk to the people who found their bodies, and make enquiries among their friends regarding their habits and acquaintances. That includes questioning the woman I arrested yesterday ourselves. We will see what new information that might bring to light, and if all else fails, we can begin to investigate the Greek community.”

“I do not like the sound of this ‘we,’” said Hugh disapprovingly. “Do not include me in all this, Geoffrey. Hunting down petty thieves in Nicaea was a far different matter than this sinister business. Nicaea was fun; this sounds like suicide. Hell, Geoffrey, you had not even begun your enquiries before a pig’s heart was pinned to your wall by a dagger that looks like the murder weapon, and a group of villains followed you through the street intent on mischief. I am sorry, but there is a limit to the obligations of friendship, and this is it. I will be more than happy to discuss and advise within the safety of these four walls, but count me out of seedy investigations in squalid houses in the company of murderers.”

“I had no idea you were so sensitive, Hugh,” said Roger, grinning. He uncoiled himself from the bed, his bulk belying the underlying grace in his movements. “I will accompany you around the hovels, Geoffrey. I am not afraid of squalor and murderers.”

“I am sure you are only too well acquainted,” said Hugh, surveying Roger’s dirty tunic and baggy hose with cool disdain. “Since you hail from the wild lands of the north, I am not in the least bit surprised. And I did not say I was afraid. But it is a poor soldier who rushes headlong into battle without considering his enemy. You two have no information on your enemy to consider.”

“Hugh is right,” said Geoffrey, although he had a feeling that he knew exactly what he was letting himself in for, and it struck a chill note inside him. “I cannot involve you in this, Roger. You are not even Tancred’s man.”

“But I am Bohemond’s, and until uncle and nephew become enemies, by serving one, I serve the other,” said Roger with uncharacteristic insight. “If Courrances is afraid for the Advocate, then I am afraid for Bohemond. And it will be no secret in this hive of bees that we have been closeted here for so long together. Your mission for the Advocate will already be common knowledge, and I do not imagine people will think we have been discussing the quality of the food all this time. I am with you, Geoffrey.”

Geoffrey smiled, trying to hide the unease he felt as Roger’s words sank in. He had been foolish. It was not easy to gain friends as loyal and trustworthy as these two men, and he should have stopped to think before he involved them. And even if Hugh did have nothing to do with any further investigations, there would be few who would believe him ignorant of the affair, regardless of the truth of the matter.

Hugh leaned Geoffrey’s lute carefully against the wall and stood, brushing imaginary dust from his immaculate tunic. Roger stood next to him, slightly stooped, his massive hands dangling at his sides, and his huge size making Hugh, who was slight of build, look like a fragile fair-haired boy. They were chalk and cheese: the one always neatly dressed, clean-shaven, seldom acting without due thought; the other dark and coarse, scruffy, and impulsive. Hugh had been given an abbey education, but Roger, despite his ecclesiastical ancestry, could not even read. Geoffrey knew he could trust these two men with his life-and had done so many times in battle.

He sighed and stood from the window seat. The dog rose from the floor, anticipating an excursion where there might be chickens to chase or people to bite, and wagged its feathery tail eagerly.

“I will oversee your sword drill,” said Hugh, “while you go about your dangerous business.”

“Oversee mine too,” said Roger. “A few hours among the hovels does have a certain appeal after watching my inept crew savaging the art of swordplay.” He rubbed his hands together and gave Hugh a leering grin.

Hugh shook his head, laughing, and went to collect his armour. Geoffrey, reluctantly in view of the heat, donned his chain-mail shirt and hauled his surcoat over the top of it. He strapped his sword to his waist and put his dagger in its sheath, calling for Sergeant Helbye and Ned Fletcher to ready themselves. Hugh was right to be cautious, and after the incident of the night before, Geoffrey had no intention of beginning his investigation without armed guards.

He clattered down the stairs, the scabbard of his sword ringing as it struck the walls. Although Norman knights usually rode, Geoffrey preferred to walk within the city. Many of the streets were too narrow for horsemen, and he disliked being forced to ride in single file, feeling it made him vulnerable to attack. Unlike most Normans, Geoffrey was as good a fighter on foot as he was in the saddle, and so the notion of walking did not fill him with the same horror as it did many of his colleagues.

Roger met him in the bailey, similarly clad in chain-mail shirt, surcoat, and leather helmet. Geoffrey’s surcoat had seen better days, but it was spotless compared to Roger’s, which was so stiff with dirt and grease that Geoffrey wondered if it could walk by itself. They watched their soldiers thrusting and parrying for a few moments, booted feet kicking up clouds of the yellow-white dust that seemed to cover everything in the city.

Hugh walked among them, his few biting criticisms achieving far more than the empty bluster of Helbye. One of Bohemond’s most trusted knights, Hugh had been left in charge of a small garrison to guard Bohemond’s interests in Jerusalem, while Bohemond himself fought for a kingdom of his own in the north. Fiercely loyal, Hugh took this trust seriously, only too aware that his and Roger’s men combined were pitifully few compared to the ranks of those loyal to the Advocate. Tancred had fewer still, most protecting his lands in Galilee, with little more than the small contingency of English soldiers under Geoffrey representing him in the Holy City. While Geoffrey and Roger believed most power would be won and lost in the political games played at the Patriarch’s palace and the court of the Advocate, Hugh was uncertain, and he wanted his men ready to fight, should the occasion demand. Geoffrey and Roger humoured him by keeping their own men busy with drills and expeditions out into the desert too.

“Where is your chain mail?” yelled Geoffrey to Tom Wolfram, his youngest sergeant at arms.

“It is too hot …” began the inevitable protest.

Geoffrey cut him off abruptly. “Would you care to practice with me without your armour?” he asked, unsheathing his sword.

The young man blanched and took an involuntary step backward. “Oh, no …”

“Are you afraid that I might injure you with my superior skills?”

Wolfram nodded miserably. Others had stopped their practice and were watching the exchange with interest.

“Then you are even more foolish than I thought,” said Geoffrey, putting his weapon away. “You are in far more danger from these hacking amateurs than from me. I would not injure you deliberately, but one of them might well do so by accident.”

The young man blushed scarlet, and Geoffrey felt uncomfortable at berating him in front of the men. Wolfram was not the first soldier to practice in his shirt sleeves, preferring the risk of injury to the intense discomfort of wearing the heavy, stifling chain mail that would protect him. But Geoffrey had warned the young man on several occasions that practising swordplay without armour was not permitted, and yet Wolfram still persisted. Trained soldiers were becoming increasingly scarce, and no knight could afford to lose one through a stupid, wholly avoidable accident.

Leaving Wolfram glowering resentfully, Geoffrey set off with Roger toward the gates, Helbye and Fletcher in tow and the dog worrying about his heels. As always, the gates were closed, and they waited while the soldier on duty hauled the thick bar from the wicket gate to let them out.

Geoffrey and Roger squeezed through the gate and began to walk down David Street toward the Dome of the Rock, where the bodies of Brother Jocelyn and Sir Guido had been found. It was late morning, and the heat was already intense, seeming to encompass the city in a bubble of sizzling silence. Geoffrey’s dog slunk after them, dodging back and forth across the road to take advantage of the scant shade. Distantly, the sound of monks chanting Nones rose and fell, giving the city an air of serenity that was far from real.

David Street ran into Temple Street, the road that led to the Dome of the Rock. It was wide and lined with flat-roofed houses that were once a brilliant white, but now the paint was fading and stained. Since the Crusaders had come, it was the practice of the local population to keep their doors locked, whether the occupants were in or not, but the window shutters on the upper floors were thrown open, revealing intricate patterns on the wood in bright colours. Then Geoffrey and Roger passed a mosque, its once-proud minarets cracked and leaning dangerously, and its horn windows smashed by stones.

Toward the Dome of the Rock, Temple Street grew narrower, and the houses seemed taller, looming upward so that the sky appeared as a tiny strip of blue high above. It meant the road was shady, and cooler than the furnace of David Street, and the soldiers stepped forward gratefully. Merchants had their wares on display outside their shops, but their restful positions changed to watchfulness as Geoffrey and his men passed.

Ahead of them, sunlight slanted between the houses, opaque with dust, and creating dark shadows on the walls. Geoffrey smiled to himself. Despite the conflict, the unease, and the fact that a soldier was ill-advised to wander alone in many parts of the city, Jerusalem was a beautiful place. He thought the Dome of the Rock was one of the most splendid buildings he had ever seen, perhaps even more than the fabulous Church of Santa Sophia in Constantinople.

Geoffrey and Roger reached the wall that surrounded the Dome and its gardens, and were allowed in by a Hospitaller. Then they were at the foot of the great Dome of the Rock itself, a massive cupola atop walls of breathtaking blue and turquoise mosaics that dominated the city from its position at the summit of Mount Moriah. Geoffrey stood still, as he always did, to gaze at the gilded dome and the decorative glazed tiling of the walls. Helbye, not anticipating his abrupt stop, bumped into him and exchanged a look of long-suffering incomprehension with Roger.

“We could learn so much from this,” said Geoffrey softly, staring at the dome glittering gold against the deep blue of the sky. “We have nothing like this in our own country.”

“That is because we are not Mohammedans,” said Roger, taking him firmly by the arm and ushering him through the door. He looked around and shuddered dramatically. “And even though this is said to be a church now the Saracens have been ousted from it, it still feels like a heathen temple to me.”

Inside, the Dome was cool and cavernous, and somewhere a monk was chanting, his voice echoing serenely through the forest of pillars. Geoffrey stopped again and gazed around in admiration.

“But the Church of Santa Sophia is domed, very much like this,” he said, disengaging his arm and moving to inspect one of the slender white marble columns that supported delicate arches. “Yet we do not use architecture of this type in England or Normandy.”

“You mean that big, gaudy church you dragged us round in Constantinople?” asked Roger, remembering the excursion with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. “Aye, lad, but think how ridiculous a contraption like that dome would look on Durham Cathedral.”

Helbye and Fletcher nodded wisely, and Geoffrey could think of no appropriate response. He followed them through the entrance porch, and into the inner part of the building, where a bare patch of rock was said by the Jews to be the place where Abraham had almost sacrificed Isaac, and from where Moslems believed Mohammed had risen to Heaven. Geoffrey stared down at it-an ordinary lump of rough rock similar to that in other parts of the city-and wondered if the stories were true. Lost in his flight of imagination, it took a hefty push from Roger to bring him back to the present.

“This here is the man who found that monk-Brother Jocelyn,” said Roger, obviously for the second time. “Three weeks ago.”

Geoffrey saw a small man wearing the habit of a Benedictine. He had the whitest skin Geoffrey had ever seen, and he wondered if the monk ever went outside.

“Tell me what happened.”

The man glanced around nervously, and then looked back at Geoffrey with an ingratiating smile that did not reach his eyes. “There is really nothing to tell. It was nearing dawn, and I was lighting the candles for Prime. I saw a man sitting at the base of a pillar, leaning up against it, with his legs out in front of him. It looked dissolute, to be frank, so I went to tell him to go away. When I drew nearer, I saw it was Brother Jocelyn, and I saw a knife protruding from his back. I pulled the knife out to see if I could restore some spark of life to the man, but he was dead. I ran then to fetch the Prior, but by the time I returned, someone had stolen the knife.”

“What was this knife like?” asked Geoffrey.

“Oh, a lovely thing,” said the monk with a wistful sigh. “All silver and adorned with jewels. I should have kept it when I went for the Prior. To hand to the Patriarch’s men, of course,” he added quickly, but unconvincingly.

“How well did you know Brother Jocelyn?”

“Not well, really. He was a secretive man, who seldom spoke. He had occasional duties as scribe for Lord Bohemond on account of his writing being so fine, but most of the time he spent here.”

That was interesting, thought Geoffrey. Perhaps being in Bohemond’s service was the link between the monks and the knights: Guido and John had been Bohemond’s men.

“How long had Jocelyn been a monk here?”

The monk shrugged. “The same length of time as the rest of us,” he said. “None of us were here before Jerusalem fell to God’s soldiers.”

“Did you notice anything unusual about Jocelyn’s behavior before he died? Did he meet anyone or disappear without explaining where he had been?”

The monk shrugged carelessly. “No, I do not think so.”

“Are you certain? The Advocate will not be pleased to hear his investigations have been hampered by lying monks,” snapped Geoffrey, growing impatient with the man’s complacency.

The monk glanced at Geoffrey’s sudden change of tone. “I did not see him meet with anyone …” he stammered.

“But you noticed absences?” pressed Geoffrey.

“Yes, well … perhaps he was called away by Bohemond to do some scribing. I do not know. He did not sleep in his bed the night he died. He … he was nervous and irritable the day before. He shouted at me for letting the inkwells dry out. It is not my fault. Ink dries like water on hot steel in this country …”

“What is going on here?” came a sibilant voice from behind them. Geoffrey spun round, disconcerted that he had not heard the man’s approach. Roger’s dagger slipped silently back into its scabbard as he recognized the Benedictine Prior in charge of the Dome of the Rock.

“We are making enquiries into the murder of the monk, Jocelyn,” said Geoffrey. “The brother here was helping.”

“It sounded more like an interrogation to me,” said the Prior, looking down his long, thin nose at Geoffrey and his men. He nodded at the monk, who scurried away gratefully. “Perhaps I can help you. On whose order do you enquire?”

“On the Advocate’s,” replied Geoffrey, thinking that it was not such a bad thing to be able to cite such an authority after all. He wondered whether Tancred’s name would evoke as much help.

“Our Patriarch has also been investigating,” said the Prior, “and I have already spoken to his men. But I will tell you what I told them. You see how empty the church is now?” He gestured round at the great vacant expanse. “It is always like this, except when our community come here to pray, and even then, we are only ten men. It would be easy for anyone with evil intentions to enter unobserved, and hide among the pillars. When I was called, I found Jocelyn dead, and no sign of a weapon. We made an immediate search, but there was no one here.”

“What can you tell me of Jocelyn?”

“Nothing much. He performed certain clerkly duties for Bohemond, because his writing was so fine. He was a librarian before he came on Crusade.”

“Where?”

“He was an oblate at Conques in France, but he learned his script at Rome when he worked in the library of our Holy Father.”

“Jocelyn worked for the Pope?” queried Roger.

“Our Holy Father means the Pope, yes,” said the Prior with sickly condescension. “And Jocelyn learned his fine hand from the best copyists in the world.”

Geoffrey was beginning to dislike the arrogant Prior. Jocelyn was one of the man’s brethren, yet the Prior seemed remarkably casual about his murder. How was Geoffrey to solve the mystery of poor John’s untimely death if the witnesses were as complacent as was the Prior?

“And what of Sir Guido, who was also found foully murdered within the lands under your jurisdiction. How do you explain that away? Be careful how you answer: the Advocate does not like liars.”

The Prior looked sharply at Geoffrey, and some of the haughtiness went out of his manner. Although the Prior came under the protection of the Patriarch, there was no point in making an enemy of the Advocate. And, the Prior decided, there was something more to Sir Geoffrey Mappestone than to most of the unruly, illiterate bullies at the citadel.

“I found the dead knight three days before Jocelyn died,” he replied. “I often walk the grounds here early in the morning-they are cool and silent, and I like to reflect on the pleasures of God’s paradise in Heaven.”

More like the pleasures of God’s paradise on Earth, thought Geoffrey, noting the Prior’s handsome collection of rings and his fine robe of thin silk.

“And what did you find, as you so reflected?”

“I saw a man lying under one of the trees behind the Dome. I thought he was yet another of your number sleeping off a night of debauchery, but then I saw there was a knife in his back. I called for help, but there was nothing we could do. The man was quite dead. The Advocate’s soldiers came with a cart and took him away.”

“And the knife?”

“They took that too. It was a great ugly thing with a wicked curved blade and ostentatious jewels in the handle. I asked my monks if they had heard or seen anything during the night, but none of them had. I have no idea how the knight-Sir Guido-came to be killed here or why.”

“Had you seen him before?”

The Prior hesitated. “No.”

“If you do not want to tell me the truth here, we can always discuss it at the citadel,” said Geoffrey, keeping his face devoid of expression. He had no authority to threaten one of the Patriarch’s priests with arrest, but it seemed the Prior did not know that. The man paled, glanced at Roger, and flicked his tongue nervously over dry lips.

“I am not certain you understand,” he said, putting a beringed hand to his breast, “but I think he came here on occasion to walk. The Dome is very fine, and the courtyard and gardens here are most pleasant in which to stroll.”

“And how many times did he come?”

The Prior gave him an unpleasant look. “Recently, two or three times a week.”

“Did he meet anyone here. Did you ever see anyone with him?”

The Prior shook his head. “Never. He was always alone. He looked … bereaved.”

Guido had been bereaved. Geoffrey, being one of a mere handful of knights who were literate, had read a letter to Guido two months before telling him his wife had died after a long illness. So, if the Prior was telling the truth, which Geoffrey thought he probably was, Guido came to the peace of the Dome of the Rock to mourn, away from the raucous atmosphere of the citadel.

“Do many knights come here?”

The Prior shook his head. “Not really. Perhaps they feel it is still too mosquelike to be a church.”

In view of Roger’s words moments before, Geoffrey imagined that must be true, although attending any church-mosquelike or otherwise-was not a high priority on the entertainment lists of most knights.

“It is a pity it is underused,” he said, looking up at the delicate latticework around the gallery. “It is a very fine building. Peaceful, too.”

The Prior softened somewhat. “It is peaceful. Much more so than the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. That is said to be the holiest place in Christendom, but it has the atmosphere of a marketplace.”

Geoffrey had to agree. They spoke a while longer and took their leave, stepping out from the cool of marble into the blazing heat of midday that hit them like a hammer. The light reflected from the white paving stones around the Dome and almost blinded them. Eyes screwed up against the glare, they walked back the way they had come and headed for the market near St. Stephen’s Street, where Brother Pius had died in the house of a butcher.

“That first monk we spoke to was scared to death,” said Roger. “Still, at least you persuaded them both to tell the truth in the end.”

Geoffrey began to assess what the Prior had told them.

“So Brother Jocelyn went missing the night before he died-he did not sleep in his own bed. And he was nervous and irritable all that day. It sounds to me as if he knew he was in some danger. Which means he also knew why.” Deep in thought, Geoffrey drummed his fingers on the hilt of his sword as they walked. “So he was obviously involved in something sinister. Perhaps something he learned from his duties as scribe.”

“Perhaps he had planned to go whoring the night he died, and was nervous and irritable the day before because it was a risky thing for a monk to do,” suggested Roger practically.

It was possible, Geoffrey supposed. But it did not explain why Jocelyn had died. Unless his killer was a prostitute who went round murdering knights and monks using daggers with jewelled hilts. He sighed, and thought about their next visit-to the scene of Pius’s murder in the house of a butcher in the Greek Quarter.

“Brother Pius, the third to die, was a Cluniac from Spain. As far as is known, he had never been to France, had nothing to do with John or Guido, and did not work for Bohemond.”

“Here! Wait a minute,” said Roger aggressively, stopping in his tracks and spinning round to face Geoffrey. “What are you implying? Just because you are Tancred’s man, doesn’t mean to say …”

“Easy!” said Geoffrey, raising his hands against Roger’s tirade. “I am not saying Bohemond is responsible, only that it is possible that these deaths might be an attack against him-John and Guido were in his service, and now we know Jocelyn occasionally acted as scribe for him.” He took Roger’s arm and began walking again. “It is the only real clue we have so far. We must look into it.”

Roger conceded reluctantly, and they walked the short distance to the Greek market. Trading in the street dedicated to selling meat was beginning to slow down in readiness for the usual period of rest during the heat of the afternoon. The air was black with the buzz of flies, and the smell of congealing blood and sun-baked meat was so powerful that Geoffrey felt he dared not inhale. He tried to breathe through his mouth like Roger, but this meant he could taste the foulness in the air as well as smell it, which made it far worse. They located the stall of the goat butcher who had discovered the corpse of Brother Pius easily enough: Tancred’s scribes had written that Yusef Akira’s shop was the one with the oldest, blackest bloodstains in front of it, and possessed the filthiest canopy. It was not difficult to identify.

Resisting the urge to wrap a cloth around his mouth and nose, Geoffrey entered the shop. It was little more than a windowless cave, with several ominous hooks in the ceiling above a gently shelving floor with a hole in the middle. Geoffrey thought his eyes were playing tricks when the floor seemed to move, but a closer inspection indicated that it was crawling with flies and maggots feasting on the drying blood. Fletcher, who had followed him in, beat a hasty retreat, and even Roger stood only in the doorway and would not enter. Geoffrey shifted his feet uncomfortably and longed to leave. He saw his dog chewing on something enthusiastically, and hoped whatever it was would not make him ill. The dog was not pleasant when it was unwell.

In the midst of the filth, a man sat on a stool with his back against the wall to draw on its coolness. He snored softly with his mouth agape, oblivious to the flies that crawled across his face. Geoffrey kicked gently at the stool and watched Yusef Akira return slowly to the land of the living, accompanied by some of the most disgusting noises known to man. Akira drew a grubby hand across his jowls and eyed the knights blearily.

“What do you want?” he slurred in Greek. “Bit o’lean meat? I got some nice stuff round the back.”

“No,” said Geoffrey quickly, also in Greek, not wanting to venture farther into Akira’s domain. “We need information about the death of Brother Pius.”

“Oh, that,” said Akira, turning sullen. “It’ll cost you.”

“It will cost you if you do not answer our questions,” said Geoffrey, hooking one foot under the leg of Akira’s stool and tipping it over. Akira tumbled to the floor and then leapt to his feet with his hands balled into fists. He took one good look at Geoffrey’s chain mail and sword, made a quick and prudent decision, and became ingratiating.

“What do you want to know? I already spoke to the Patriarch’s men.”

“I am aware of that,” said Geoffrey mildly. “But now you will talk to me. Tell me what happened three weeks ago when you discovered the body.”

“Oh it was a revolting thing,” Akira began in a howl. Geoffrey braced himself, wondering what could revolt Akira more than the living hell of his business premises. “I comes from me bed chamber upstairs, and there he was, dead on me floor.” He gestured with his hand to indicate where the body had lain near the door.

“How did Pius come to be there?”

“He was dead!” wailed Akira. “With a great carved knife sticking out of his back.”

“But how did this happen?” pressed Geoffrey. “How did he come to be dead in your …” He gestured around him, wondering what word would best describe it.

“How do I know?” said Akira belligerently. “Old Akira was asleep all night. I comes downstairs at dawn to prepare me shop, and there he was.”

“Was the door open? Did you lock it before you went to bed?”

“’Course I locked it,” said Akira indignantly. “I got valuable stock here. The door was open-ajar-when I came downstairs that morning. And that monk was here, bleeding all over me floor.”

Geoffrey glanced down at the floor involuntarily, and forced his eyes away before his mind could register its horrors. “Had you met Brother Pius before?”

Akira’s eyes became sly. “Maybe, and maybe not.”

“And maybe I will ram your head down that hole in the floor if you do not answer,” said Geoffrey sweetly.

Akira considered. Geoffrey was a tall man and looked strong and fit. Akira decided he could probably do what he threatened. “Yes,” he said reluctantly. “Brother Pius came to buy meat every Monday. He lived with four other monks next to the Church of St. Mary. I didn’t know him well, you understand, but I recognised him.”

“And what of this dagger in his back?”

“Now there was a curious thing,” said Akira. “It was a lovely item indeed. I sees it before I recognises Pius. I was quite shook by finding a corpse on my floor, so I runs out into the street to raise the alarm, thinking to retrieve the dagger later. It would help me greatly in me business, to have a good cutting implement like that. But while I was out raising the alarm, someone comes in and steals it.”

“Did you see who it might have been?”

“I did not,” said Akira vehemently. “Or old Akira would have paid him a visit and got the dagger back. The monk would have wanted me to have it, don’t you think?”

Geoffrey was sure such a consideration would not have crossed Pius’ mind, and if it had, the monk would doubtless not have felt comfortable that the weapon used to murder him should be applied with equal vigour to herds of goats.

Gratefully, Geoffrey escaped from the stench of the meat market to the peaceful street in which the Church of St. Mary, Pius’s home, stood. Fletcher ran a hand across his brow.

“That place is enough to turn a man to eating grass,” he said. “I am going to question the citadel cooks, and if any meat comes from that man, I shall refuse to eat it.”

Geoffrey laughed, and pushed open the great door of the church. He could still smell the meat market in the air around him, and wondered if that was why his dog was winding so enthusiastically around his legs. Inside, the church was silent, and he saw a line of monks standing in front of the altar. One of them turned at the sound of someone entering, and came to greet them. Geoffrey, steeling himself for more unpleasant interviewing, was taken aback when the monk smiled in a friendly way and offered them some wine.

“We have come to ask about Brother Pius,” he said, wondering if the offer would be revoked when the nature of their visit became clear.

“Poor Pius,” said the Cluniac monk, speaking Norman French and shaking his head sadly. “His death was a great loss to us. There are so very few Cluniacs in Jerusalem, you see, and he was invaluable to us in many ways.”

“I am sorry for your loss,” said Geoffrey gently. “But you understand it is important we discover who killed Pius, and why, and I must ask you some questions.”

The elderly monk’s eyes glittered with tears, but he nodded acquiescence.

Geoffrey smiled encouragingly at him. “What can you tell me about Brother Pius’s death?”

“Only that he was found dead in the house of a local butcher,” said the monk. “I do not know how he came to be there in the middle of the night. When we saw he was missing from the dormitory, we assumed he was praying in the church until a messenger came to tell us he was dead. Pius often had difficulty in sleeping, and he frequently came to the church in the night when he was restless.”

“What of Pius himself? What was he like? Did he have many acquaintances outside your community here?”

“Not that I know of,” replied the monk, reaching out to refill Roger’s goblet. “We tend to keep to ourselves, as far away from the disputes and quarrels of the Church as possible. We are just grateful to be here in this Holy City, and we do not wish to spend our time in useless rivalries and arguments.”

“Could he write?” asked Geoffrey, wondering if Pius, like Jocelyn, might have acted as an occasional scribe.

The monk smiled and shook his head. “Not at all. Not even his name. He preferred the more physical labours to the intellectual ones. He usually worked in the kitchens and did all the cleaning and cooking. We have not had a clean house or a decent meal since he died.” The tears sparkled again, and he looked away.

“He came from Ripoll,” said Geoffrey. “Are any other of your brethren from Spain?”

The Cluniac shook his head. “We are all from France. Pius was the only Spaniard. We met with him on the journey here from Constantinople in 1098.”

The monk could tell them nothing more, and reluctantly Geoffrey led the way out of the cool shade of the church and into the sun. The day was at its hottest, and the streets were deserted except for the occasional animal and, of course, the flies. The dog whined piteously, and Helbye and Fletcher began to walk more and more slowly. Geoffrey’s shirt under his chain mail was soaking, and it began to rub. He considered stopping at one of the refreshment houses until the heat began to fade, but despite its considerable size, Jerusalem was in many ways a small community, and word that the Advocate was now investigating the curious murders of two knights and three monks would soon be all over the city. Geoffrey had a strong feeling that he should question the witnesses to the two remaining deaths as quickly as possible. If Hugh was correct and there was some kind of conspiracy, Geoffrey might never unravel the mystery if he allowed the culprits time to consolidate their stories.

Ignoring the sighs and exaggerated panting of Helbye, Fletcher, and the dog, he walked briskly along the empty streets toward the house where he had seen the body of John the previous day. Their footsteps echoed in the eerily silent roads, and Geoffrey was aware that their progress was being watched surreptitiously from the windows of the houses they passed. Since so few people were out, four armed men on foot in the heart of the city was an unusual sight.

The sun blazed down with such ferocity that the ground felt uncomfortably hot even through thick-soled boots, and the dust, which had been a minor irritation before, now filled their mouths and noses and gritted unpleasantly between their teeth. Geoffrey’s throat became sore and dry, and he thought about goblets of cool, clear water. He saw Roger’s face streaked with dust and sweat, and suspected he was imagining the same.

Eventually, they came to the street where they had encountered the commotion the day before. It was deserted, although Geoffrey sensed that they were being observed with interest from several houses. He led the way to the home of the woman he had arrested, and knocked at the door. Helbye was uneasy and stood with his back to the wall and his hand on the hilt of his sword. His anxiety was transmitting itself to Fletcher, who fingered the dagger in his belt with unsteady hands.

No such fears assailed Roger, who pushed past Geoffrey to hammer on the door with the pommel of his dagger. Geoffrey cringed, only too aware that they were on dangerous ground, given the events of the day before. Just as he was considering cutting their losses and visiting the scene where the last of the victims was killed, the door opened and Melisende Mikelos stood in front of them. She was attired in the same widow’s dress that she had worn the previous day, but this time her hair was covered by a neat black veil, giving her the appearance of a nun. Geoffrey, recalling how roughly he had handled her, hoped she was not.

“What do you want?” she asked in Greek, eyeing Geoffrey with dislike. “I have no wish to speak with you.”

“I would like to ask you some questions about the knight who died here,” said Geoffrey, as politely as he could. He guessed instinctively that she was not a person who could be browbeaten into telling him what he wanted to know, especially given the spectacular proof of her innocence the day before.

She gazed at him in disbelief. “You could have done that yesterday,” she said, once she had regained her composure. “Instead, you chose to hustle me away, cause the death of three of my neighbours, and bring about a riot.”

Geoffrey looked away. She had a point. “May I ask my questions now?”

“You may not!” she spat. “You did not believe me yesterday, and I have no wish to convince you today. Ask Lord Tancred, for I spoke with him at length. And ask the Patriarch, another with whom I conversed long and hard.”

“I would rather hear what you have to say from yourself,” said Geoffrey.

At his side, Roger gave a warning cough, and Geoffrey saw that people were beginning to gather in the street. He cursed himself for a fool. He should have anticipated the woman’s welcome would be far from friendly, and brought a larger force. The dog, sensing the menace in the air, began a low whining, and Geoffrey wondered how he had managed to acquire an animal to whom cowardice came so naturally. It slunk against the side of the building and rolled its eyes pathetically.

“This could get nasty,” muttered Roger, fingering the hilt of his sword but not drawing it. “I wonder whether Courrances will ride by and rescue you a second time.”

Geoffrey glanced behind him and saw that the crowd was beginning to edge closer. Unlike the day before, he and his men numbered only four, and this time none had bows. The crowd, growing by the moment, was already upward of thirty, and many carried weapons. The riot of the previous day, when those who were unarmed had been killed, had obviously been a bitter lesson, and they were now better prepared for their second encounter with the hated Crusaders.

Geoffrey turned back to Melisende, his mind racing. “Would you have us cut down on your doorstep?”

She shrugged. “You were quite happy to condemn me to the Patriarch’s dungeons, and to believe I was the murderer of that poor knight. Why should I be sorry to have my revenge?”

They would find no mercy there. Geoffrey turned from her and drew his sword as the mob drew closer. His colleagues followed suit and drew theirs, standing in a line and preparing to sell their lives dearly. At least it is better than being trampled by Courrances’s destrier, Geoffrey thought irrelevantly. He took a deep breath and faced the crowd steadily.