Murder in the Holy City

CHAPTER FOUR

Stop!” Melisende’s voice cut clearly through the ominous silence preceding the fight that was about to begin. “There has been enough killing here already.”

“And it was all his fault,” cried a man with a long, curly beard pointing at Geoffrey. “He deserves to die.”

“So he might,” replied Melisende. “But he is likely to take you with him. And more of your family and friends. He is a Norman knight and far more skilled at fighting than you. He may even escape and leave you dead behind him.”

There was a mutter of consternation among the people, and a hurried exchange of views.

“We will let the other three go if he stays,” said the man with the beard, indicating Geoffrey.

Melisende looked at Geoffrey and raised her eyebrows in an unspoken question. He considered for a moment and then nodded at the bearded man. The chances of the four of them surviving an attack by the mob were not significantly greater than him alone, but if Geoffrey could keep them occupied, Roger might have sufficient time to fetch help from the citadel. Next to him, Roger, Helbye, and Fletcher, understanding nothing of the exchange in Greek, looked bewildered.

“Go,” said Geoffrey to them. “They will not harm you. Fetch help from the citadel.”

“Are you staying?” asked Roger, confused. “Will she talk to you?”

“Yes, but not with you here. Go.”

Roger shook his head. “Oh, no! I do not like this at all, lad. I do not trust her or them. As soon as we are gone, they will turn on you like savages.”

Geoffrey squeezed his shoulder. “They will not. I can keep them talking while you fetch help.”

“You are a dreadful liar, Geoff,” said Roger, standing firm. “I will not leave without you.”

“Well, she will not talk to me as long as you are here. Take Helbye and Fletcher and go. Bring Hugh with the men who are practising in the bailey.”

Reluctantly, Roger let his sword drop, and he motioned to the others to put away their weapons. Fletcher and Helbye exchanged a look of mutual incomprehension, and lowered their swords, although they certainly had no intention of sheathing them.

Melisende eyed Geoffrey in amazement. “You know they will kill you,” she said in Greek. “You must have been walking in the heat too long.”

“Let the others go,” said Geoffrey to the bearded man. “I will stay.”

The bearded man nodded agreement, and Geoffrey gave Roger a shove to set him on his way. Unhappily, Roger began to walk, Fletcher and Helbye following, white-faced but steady. The dog looked at Geoffrey, seemed to hesitate, and then, sensing which option was safest, slunk after the others. The crowd parted to let them through. Geoffrey watched until they had rounded the corner, and turned to face the people, sword at the ready. Perhaps he was destined to be torn apart by a mob after all.

The crowd was still, regarding him silently. He stared back at them, and found that most were unable to meet his eyes. He felt sweat coursing down his back as the sun blazed down, and wondered how he might distract them for sufficient time to allow Roger to dash to the citadel for reinforcements. But already the hostility emanating from the crowd had lessened, and here and there, people had put their weapons away. Geoffrey wondered why. He was alone and surely could not present that formidable a target.

“What are you waiting for?” he asked of the bearded man.

“We must stop this,” the man said, so softly that Geoffrey thought he had misheard. He turned to the people around him. “Go home. This is not how we behave. We are not Crusaders!”

For a moment, nothing happened, and then an old lady at the front turned and began to walk back up the street. The sound of a door closing after her was as loud as a clap of thunder in the following silence. Then the bearded man pushed through the crowd and walked away. Others followed, some gratefully relieved that trouble had been averted, and others clearly disappointed in their plans for revenge. It was not long before Geoffrey stood alone in the empty street.

“You were lucky, Norman!” said Melisende behind him, leaning up against the doorjamb and folding her arms. “You should be thankful these are God-fearing people and not like the unholy rabble you call knights, or you would be dead by now.”

Geoffrey swallowed, and felt a weakness in his knees. He wondered whether he would have the strength to find Roger before the large Englishman descended on the street with all the fury the citadel could muster. He was surprised to find his hands were unsteady, something that seldom happened, even after the most bloody of battles.

“You are in no danger now,” she said, indicating the deserted street with a nod of her head. “You can leave.”

“Will you answer my questions first?” he asked.

She put her hands on her hips and gazed at him in disbelief, before letting out a great peal of laughter. Geoffrey felt the unsteadiness in his limbs begin to recede as irritation took over.

“You are incorrigible!” she said. “You are delivered from the jaws of death by a whisker, and you persist in pursuing the very path that led you there in the first place. Very well. What do you want to know?”

It took a moment for Geoffrey to bring his mind back to the business at hand, and he thrust his hands through the slits in the sides of his surcoat lest their trembling should reveal to Melisende how shaken he was. He took a couple of steps away from her, so that anyone still watching him from the dispersed crowd could not misconstrue their conversation for one that might be considered threatening.

“You say you went out to see your uncle, and when you returned, John-the knight-was dead in your house?”

“Yes,” she replied, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “That has not changed since yesterday.”

“Tell me again what you did when you came home.” He wanted to know whether she had pulled the dagger from the body in horror, as suggested by Hugh, or whether it had been beside the body on the floor.

“I went to pour water to clean my feet,” she said, with a heavy sigh, “as I told you yesterday. They were hot and dusty after walking through the city. Then I drank some wine and walked upstairs. The body was, as you saw, lying on its stomach. It was like a nightmare, like something from the scenes when the Crusaders took Jerusalem and killed so many people. I could not believe it was real, and I wondered whether someone might be playing some dreadful practical joke. I took the dagger in my hands and pulled, to see if it were really embedded in his back as it seemed, or whether it was cunningly arranged to look so. I saw it was real, and then I ran outside to call for help.”

“What happened to the dagger?”

She frowned. “I do not remember. Perhaps I dropped it in the bedchamber. No! I must have carried it with me. I think I flung it from me at some point.”

“So where is it now?”

She glanced around, as though it might appear on the ground in the street. “I have no idea. Someone must have picked it up.”

“For what purpose?”

She eyed him sceptically. “I imagine to sell. A year ago, these people lost most of their possessions to looters. Who can blame them if they took the dagger? It was a horrible thing, anyway, covered in big, ugly jewels. Like something a Norman might own,” she added defiantly.

“It had a curved blade,” said Geoffrey, “and Norman blades are generally straight. I would show you mine if I did not think your neighbours would misread the gesture and rush out to kill me.”

She looked at him in surprise and laughed again. Geoffrey looked at her closely for the first time, suddenly aware that she was an attractive woman. She had straight black hair that fell like a curtain down her back, longer than the veil she wore over it, and her eyes were light brown, like honey. When she laughed, and the hard lines around her eyes and mouth disappeared, she looked very young, although Geoffrey judged her to be in her mid-twenties.

“They would not harm you now,” she said. “Your courage in saving your friends shamed them into letting you go.”

“I was sending them for help,” he said. “Do you know no French at all?”

“Enough to know you are not being wholly truthful,” she said. “You must have known that you would have been dead long before your friends had time to run to the citadel and return with help.”

Geoffrey knew no such thing, since he had detected a hesitancy in the crowd from the start, and had been fairly certain he could stall them from attacking until Roger returned. But Melisende’s conviction that he could not made him wonder whether he had been overconfident in his negotiating abilities. Still, he thought to himself, at least he would have delivered Roger and the others from an unpleasant fate had the crowd not shown such unprecedented morality.

“How do you come to know Greek?” Melisende asked. “It is not a skill most of the barbarians in the citadel possess.”

“I learned it in Constantinople,” he said, wondering whether Roger had reached the citadel and thinking that he might well miss him if they chose to travel different routes. Then Roger would attack the street, and there would be more killing and looting.

“While you were sacking it?” she asked, the laughter gone from her face again.

“No. I find learning conjugations while I pillage very distracting,” he replied. “I visited Constantinople long before the Crusaders went there. And why are you here? When did you come?”

“What has this to do with the dead knight?” she said abruptly. She stared at him for a moment. “You may be courageous, and you may be able to learn the languages of the people you oppress, but you are still a Norman, and you still condemned me to the Patriarch’s dungeons without a second’s hesitation. If that poor monk had not been killed when I was incarcerated, I might have been executed as a murderer by now. Had you thought of that? I was innocent! And please do not patronise me by saying that if I were innocent I had nothing to fear. You know as well as I do that innocence or guilt is immaterial once the doors close behind a prisoner in this city!”

“Quite a speech,” he said, deliberately casual to annoy her. The fact that she was correct was beside the point. He wondered what had happened to Melisende Mikelos to make her so aggressive and disagreeable. He had the feeling that she was somewhat disappointed that the crowd had backed away from attacking him, despite her paltry attempts to dissuade them. He had been wrong in arresting her the day before-clearly he had, since she seemed to be innocent of the charge of murder-yet the feeling that she had not been entirely truthful with him persisted. But regardless, he knew he would gain nothing of value from her, and it would be prudent to leave before they annoyed each other any further.

He gave her one of his most winning smiles. “Thank you for your help. I hope this is the last you will hear of this affair. Goodbye.”

He gave her a small bow and turned, leaving her standing on her doorstep, her temper boiling at the way in which he had dismissed her grievance so casually. She watched him walk away, aware that all along the street others watched too, some glad they had not killed a knight with the inevitable retribution it would have brought, and others bitterly resentful they had not dispatched all four of them while they had the chance.

What an irritating, arrogant man, she thought, noting the confident stride all Norman nobles seemed to master from birth. But at least he had talked to her in Greek, and not simply spoken French louder and louder until he thought she understood, as most knights would have done-had they bothered to address her courteously at all.

Geoffrey strode up the street, hoping that the weakness he still felt in his knees was not apparent to the people he knew were watching him. He rounded the corner and was confronted by Roger, who was livid.

“What was all that about?” he demanded. “What were you thinking of, sending us off and facing that mob alone? They might have killed you!”

“I told you to go to the citadel for help!” exclaimed Geoffrey in horror. “Why did you not go?”

He imagined the mob closing in on him, while he had struggled to buy time for Roger to come with reinforcements. And all the time Roger would have been watching from around the corner, not understanding a word that was said. The thought made his blood run cold.

“I had no idea what was going on with all that jibber-jabber in Egyptian …”

“Greek.”

“Greek, then. It is all the same heathen babble.” Roger was silent for a moment, and then relented. “So what did she tell you?”

“Nothing,” admitted Geoffrey. “Nothing that she did not say yesterday. In fact, it was all a waste of time, and we should not have gone there at all.”

“We should have spent the afternoon in one of them cool brothels,” said Helbye. “Or in a drinking house sipping cold ale.”

“Where are we off to now?” asked Roger, slipping into step beside Geoffrey. “An Egyptian encampment outside the city walls, perhaps, or a snake pit? Somewhere as accommodating as the last place we visited?” He grinned; his fury was clearly forgotten, and for him, the business was over. Geoffrey still felt a residual anger that Roger had not done as he had been asked, and he envied Roger’s ability to shrug off ill feelings with such gay abandon.

He gave Roger a weak smile. “We know John lived at the citadel, but according to the notes of the Patriarch’s scribes, Sir Guido had recently moved into the Augustinian Priory near the Holy Sepulchre. He was apparently considering giving up knightly duties to become a monk.”

“Was he heat-struck or something?” asked Roger, clearly nonplussed. “Why would he want to do anything as stupid as that?”

“He would not be the first,” said Geoffrey. “Several knights and soldiers joined the priesthood when they reached Jerusalem. Not everyone came on Crusade for the loot and the fighting.”

Roger looked unconvinced, and Geoffrey wondered what the burly Englishman would think if he became aware of Geoffrey’s own misgivings about his knightly obligations.

They walked in silence. The sun was still fiercely hot, although its intensity had started to fade. Geoffrey felt slightly light-headed, but did not like to admit so to the others. The effects of his near escape were beginning to take their toll, and he wanted nothing more than to lie down in his own chamber and sleep. Helbye asked that he be allowed to stop to buy water from a man carrying two leather buckets suspended from a yoke over his shoulders, but Geoffrey sensed something untoward in the man’s evident enthusiasm for selling it to them, and refused permission. He bought some for the dog, and felt vindicated when the animal declined it after a single sniff.

They were received politely but coldly by the Augustinians at their premises near the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, but at least they were invited to sit for a while in the cool of a marble chamber. While Geoffrey marvelled at the delicate patterns set into the stone, the others sipped appreciatively at the fine red wine they were brought.

“What do you want with us?”

Geoffrey turned at the hostile voice and saw an obese man in the robes of an Augustinian Canon standing in the doorway. The Canon had a bright red face that clashed unappealingly with his greasy ginger hair.

“We are investigating the murder of Sir Guido of Rimini on behalf of the Advocate,” replied Geoffrey, coldly polite. “I would be grateful if you would answer some questions.”

The Canon’s manner softened somewhat. “Ah, yes. Poor Brother Salvatori.” He caught Geoffrey’s puzzled expression and hastened to explain. “Sir Guido was going to take major orders with us. He had already moved his belongings here, and had taken the name Brother Salvatori in readiness. He spent most of his time here, praying and following our daily routines.”

“Did he leave at all? Did he have any visitors?”

“Not that I know of,” said the Canon. “He was serious in his intentions and, once he had moved here, he seldom left.”

“Seldom? That implies he did leave from time to time.”

“Well, perhaps he did once or twice,” said the Canon dismissively. “What does it matter?”

“It might matter a great deal,” said Geoffrey irritably. “It might help us discover who killed him, and so prevent another man from dying. This is important. Think back to the few days before he died. Did he leave then?”

The Canon screwed up his face in thought. “I think I may recall something. Two days before he died, he was out all night. He returned at dawn and … well, he had a man in the room with him.”

Geoffrey waited for elaboration, but none came. “Did you know this man?”

“I did not, and I do not condone such activities.”

“Can you describe him?”

The Canon sighed heavily. “Not really. He was a Benedictine. And he had eyes of different colours. I heard them talking together in low voices.”

“Could you hear what they were saying?”

“No. And I did not wish to. But I heard the scrape of pen on vellum.”

Geoffrey was astounded. The Canon pretended that he had only just recalled the incident, but it seemed to Geoffrey that it was clearly vividly etched in the man’s mind. He must have been very close to them to see that the eyes of the Benedictine were different colours, and if he had been able to hear one of them writing, then he must also have been listening very hard.

“Have you seen this Benedictine since?”

“Yes. He hovered around outside our premises the morning Brother Salvatori was found dead-that was two days after he had been in Salvatori’s room. Then news came of the murder, and he disappeared. I have not seen him since.”

“Why did you not mention all this to the Patriarch’s men?”

The Canon drew himself upright. “Brother Salvatori was a good man. And I feel he was sincere in his intentions. I did not want his name sullied with the incident of which I have told you.”

“But it sounds as though Guido and this monk were only talking and writing,” Geoffrey pointed out. “Not engaged in any kind of activity that would besmirch the reputation of either.”

The Canon eyed him pityingly, and Geoffrey wondered how the Canon could justify such conclusions from the information he had. He had encountered men like the Canon many times before and knew that a conviction, once held, would never be swayed, no matter what evidence was presented to the contrary.

“Tell me what happened the morning Guido’s-Salvatori’s-body was found.”

The Canon raised his hands. “I received a summons to go to the citadel-Salvatori’s body was taken there after it was removed from the Dome of the Rock. The Advocate knew of Salvatori’s intention to join the priesthood, and wanted me to pray over his body.”

“Was there anything with the body when you saw it at the citadel?”

“What do you mean? Salvatori had no purse or jewellery. He had forsaken such things in favour of a spiritual life,” replied the Canon sanctimoniously.

Geoffrey looked from his own strong, tanned hands to those of the Canon who hastily hid them in the sleeves of his habit when he saw the knight’s sceptical gaze. The Canon’s hands were fat, white, and adorned with rings bearing heavy stones. Geoffrey wondered how the Canon could be so outrageously hypocritical in his piety and still expect to be taken seriously. Geoffrey had seen brave men waver before a battle: perhaps monks wavered when confronted with the easy pickings of the Holy Land.

“I meant was the weapon that killed Sir Guido with his body?”

“Oh, that. Yes. It was there. It was a huge thing, like a Saracen weapon, with a jewelled hilt. I inspected it, but the jewels were not real, only coloured glass.”

“What happened to it?”

“It was not worth keeping, so I left it with Salvatori’s body.” The Canon paused. “When I say it was not worth keeping, I mean I …”

“Yes. Thank you. I know what you mean,” said Geoffrey, his dislike for the Canon increasing by the moment. He saw he would get no more useful information from him and, somewhat disgusted, he took his leave with curt thanks.

“There is only one other thing,” called the Canon to his retreating back. Geoffrey stopped and looked back. “Brother Salvatori was sent a letter that arrived the day he died. We did not break the seal and read it, of course-that would have been most improper. I took it to the citadel myself, because the seal was that of the Advocate.”

Wearily, Geoffrey and the others trudged up the Via Dolorosa toward the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, that most holy of Christian places, said to be the site of Jesus’ tomb. The Via Dolorosa was the route taken by Jesus at his crucifixion and was a narrow street where the earth underfoot was baked hard and dry. Unlike the rest of the city, this sacred area was full of people, for it was to this road, with the Holy Sepulchre at its end, that pilgrims came to walk barefoot to beg forgiveness for all manner of sins, some petty, most not. Here and there, voices were raised in desperate supplication in a variety of languages-Latin, Greek, French, Italian, and many Geoffrey did not recognise.

He wondered whether crawling up the Via Dolorosa on bleeding knees, or stopping after every step to pray, would really atone for some of the foul acts to which some of these pilgrims were confessing. One man with an unkempt black beard was demanding redemption for murdering his children when he was drunk, and doing so in tones that were anything but repentant. Meanwhile, a woman begged that her husband be struck dead before he discovered how many times she had committed adultery and killed her.

Geoffrey found his answer to the question of redemption in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre itself, which thronged with people, nearly all of them wearing smug expressions in the belief that their sins were forgiven and that they were free to go and sin again. Outside, beggars sat, revealing weeping sores, stumps of limbs, and fingers and toes eaten away by leprosy. Their chorus of demands as the knights entered the church rose furiously, and then turned into curses when Geoffrey’s handful of small coins-all he ever carried with him-did not meet their expectations.

The church had been built during the last twenty years, after an older one had been destroyed in an Arab raid. It comprised a handsome dome, not as impressive as the cupola of the Dome of the Rock, but pleasing in its sturdy simplicity. Under the dome was the tomb itself, a small hollow in a rock, around which pilgrims clustered like flies, their hands reaching out to touch.

This church had none of the reverent peace of the Dome or the little church of St. Mary’s: a constant babble of voices shattered the silence, wheedling, pleading, demanding, urging, fervent, jubilant, saintly, and ecstatic. Monks chanted constantly, different psalms and prayers for different Orders, all clashing and competing with each other. To one side, a man announced that he had fresh figs to refresh pilgrims weary after their ordeal, while a pardoner offered to sell Geoffrey pieces of the True Cross and hairs from Joseph’s beard that would assure his salvation. Geoffrey’s dog growled menacingly at the affray, and Geoffrey, knowing that it would be only a matter of time before it found someone to bite, pushed it outside to lie in the shade.

A Benedictine with a pronounced limp came forward to tell them that weapons were not allowed in the Church, and that they would need to leave their arsenal of swords and daggers outside.

“We are not here to make trouble, but we are not here as pilgrims,” said Geoffrey. “I want to talk to whoever discovered Loukas, the monk who was murdered last night.”

The monk’s eyes narrowed. “Who are you, and why do you make such demands?”

“We are here in the name of the Advocate,” said Geoffrey politely, wondering how long his good manners would last if forced to deal with yet more offensive monastics. “Please tell us where we might find the witnesses to Loukas’s murder.”

The monk sized them up for a moment and then, limping, led them away from the dome and along a stone corridor with rooms leading off it. He stopped at one, gestured that they were to wait in the hallway, and slipped inside, closing the door behind him. The entrance opposite was ajar, and Geoffrey pushed it open curiously. It revealed a small chapel filled with tiny burning candles that illuminated it with an unsteady light. Two sheeted bodies lay side by side in front of a rough altar, and several monks knelt next to them, droning prayers. They looked up as he entered, and their voices faltered and then stopped.

Geoffrey walked over to one of the corpses and lifted the sheet to look underneath. The white face of John of Sourdeval stared back at him, his hair washed and neatly combed and the blood rinsed from his body. Geoffrey’s stomach lurched as he looked into the face of the man who had been a friend. He stood for a moment, gazing down at the waxen features, memories of many evenings of discussion and debate flooding unbidden into his mind.

He swallowed hard and, muttering a silent apology to John, quickly pushed the body onto its side and measured the wound in John’s back against his own forefinger. He eased him down again and replaced the sheet gently, ignoring the half-curious, half-outraged stares of the monks. He turned his attention to the other body.

The man who lay there was small, and even in death his twisted and malformed limbs indicated a hunchback. His face was swarthy too, and although someone had carefully washed and shaved the body, there was a heavy growth of stubble on his chin and cheeks. Assuming it was Loukas, Geoffrey eased the body over, and noted that the gash in its back still oozed a little. He laid his finger next to it, noting that it was longer than the one in John’s back. But that meant nothing, for he knew that such wounds could be enlarged if the victim struggled, or fell awkwardly.

“What do you think you are you doing?” came a sharp voice in aggrieved tones. “These men have been prepared to meet God. They died unshriven, and so we must do all we can to ensure their souls reach Him. Your poking and prodding will not help them.”

Geoffrey smiled an apology at the surly monk who had ordered him to wait in the corridor, and followed him out of the chapel and into the room opposite. Roger was already seated with a goblet of wine, and Helbye and Fletcher stood to attention behind him.

“This is Father Almaric, who rules the Benedictine community here,” said Roger, introducing Geoffrey to the white-haired monk who rose to greet him with a benign smile. “And this here is his secretarius Brother Celeste,” he added, eyeing the sharp-voiced monk who had escorted Geoffrey from the chapel with dislike.

Father Almaric offered Geoffrey some wine, and then sat again with evident relief. “Forgive me,” he said, “but I have swollen ankles that give me much discomfort. Standing is most painful.” He took a grateful sip at the rich red wine in his cup. Geoffrey watched him.

“The Arab physicians say that swollen ankles might be aggravated by red wines,” he said. “They recommend sufferers to drink white wines or, better yet, ale or water. And they say a poultice of mud from the Dead Sea brings some relief.”

Almaric looked startled at this turn in the conversation.

“Take no notice of him, Father,” said Roger comfortably. “He reads all the time and talks to these infidels in the language of the Devil, so it is no wonder that his head is stuffed with such nonsense. I always find red wine soothes pains better than white.”

“Does it work, this Arab treatment?” asked Almaric, ignoring Roger.

Geoffrey smiled. “I have no idea-I have never suffered from the complaint. I only repeat what I have read.”

Almaric looked at the wine in his goblet and set it down. “I prefer white wines anyway,” he said. “And I will ask about this mud poultice. The pain is sometimes unbearable, and all the other remedies that I have tried have failed. But I should not regale you with my problems. I understand you are investigating these dreadful murders for the Advocate?”

Geoffrey nodded. “I would like to speak to the person who found Brother Loukas, and to anyone who knew him well.”

“It was Brother Celeste who found Loukas,” said Almaric, indicating his surly monk with a nod of his head. “And you are mistaken when you call him Brother. He was no monk or priest. When we Crusaders took over the Holy Sepulchre, most of the Greek community were banned from using the church. Lukas was the only one allowed to remain because we did not know how to rid ourselves of him. He was deaf and dumb, and sorely crippled. When the Greeks left, he simply continued to do his duties here-cleaning floors and doing odd chores around the kitchens. He was physically removed twice, but merely picked himself up and walked back in. I felt an admiration for his dogged devotion and gave permission for him to stay. But although he wore the robe of a monk-some castoff given to him-he was a layman.”

“Did he have any particular acquaintances?”

Almaric shook his head. “Not that I am aware. He could not speak, and he could not hear. The brothers here treated him kindly, but he had no particular friends, or even family.”

Geoffrey turned to Celeste. “Please tell me what happened when you found Loukas dead.”

Celeste looked annoyed. “I have already told the Patriarch’s men all I know. Ask them.”

“I am asking you,” said Geoffrey with deceptive mildness, wondering why so many people were proving to be unhelpful, and beginning to find it aggravating.

Celeste glanced at the benign features of Father Almaric and relented. “It was dark. I was walking around the Church as I always do to make certain all is secure, when I saw someone lying on the floor. It was Loukas, and he had been stabbed in the back.”

“Stabbed with what?”

“With a knife,” said Celeste heavily. “Like the one you see fit to bring within these holy walls.”

“Like this one?” asked Geoffrey in surprise, drawing his dagger and holding it out to Celeste. Celeste gave a sharp, indignant intake of breath, and Almaric intervened.

“Put your weapon away, Sir Geoffrey,” he said gently. “Celeste is correct in his disapproval. We do not like weapons in this house of God.”

“But was the knife that killed Loukas like this one?” insisted Geoffrey, holding it so that Celeste could see the plain hilt and straight blade.

Celeste glanced at it in exaggerated distaste. “No, I suppose not. It as different somehow. The handle was coloured, and it was bigger.”

“What of the blade?” aked Geoffrey. “Was it like this, or different?”

“I could not see much of the blade,” said Celeste heavily, “when it was embedded in poor Loukas. But it seemed to be bent, rather than straight like yours. I covered the poor man with one of the blankets we keep ready lest the pilgrims are taken ill-which they often are on entering this holy place after such long journeys-and I called for help. Other monks came, and I went personally to fetch Father Almaric.”

“So, someone has been with Loukas’s body from the moment you found it until …?”

“Until now,” snapped Celeste. “When death strikes so suddenly, the soul is in grave danger. We began a vigil for him immediately.”

“And who removed the knife from his back?”

Celeste frowned. “Now there was an odd thing,” he said. “The Patriarch’s scribes also asked about that. After Father Almaric had finished giving last rites-it is always possible the soul might remain with a corpse for a while and might be saved by granting it absolution, even after death-I went with the body to the chapel to supervise its laying out. When we unwrapped it, the knife was not there. It had gone.”

“Did you see anyone remove it?”

“Of course not,” said Celeste. “I did not even think about it until the Patriarch’s scribes pressed me on the matter.”

“So, where is the knife now?” persisted Geoffrey.

Celeste and Almaric exchanged a glance of incomprehension. “I really have no idea,” said Almaric frowning. “Oh, dear me. I hope you do not believe it to be stolen. What a terrible crime that would be in this most holy place.” He crossed himself quickly and turned to Celeste. “Will you ask among the brethren to see if anyone has seen this foul thing or has some idea what might have become of it?”

“Did you know a monk called Jocelyn?” asked Geoffrey, changing the subject to curb the old man’s agitation. “Like you, he was a Benedictine, but he spent his time at the Dome of the Rock.”

Father Almaric frowned, racking his brains. “You mean the monk who was murdered at the Dome?” he asked eventually. “No, I do not recall meeting him, although my memory for names is poor. What did he look like?”

Geoffrey had to admit he did not know. He had never seen Jocelyn, dead or alive.

“I knew Jocelyn,” mused Celeste. “He came here on occasion. He had curious eyes-one brown, one blue. You knew him Father. He came to you for confession some weeks ago.”

The elderly monk looked taken aback. “Did he? Heavens! I must be more feeble-witted than I thought. Curious eyes, you say? I must say I cannot recall anyone of that description.”

“What can you tell me about him?” asked Geoffrey of Celeste, leaving the old monk to sit back in his chair looking perplexed.

“Nothing much. He spent most of his time at the Dome of the Rock and came here occasionally to pray. I never spoke to him myself.”

“When did you last see him?”

“I really cannot remember,” said Celeste. “Not recently, but then he has been dead for three weeks, so that can come as no surprise. Even a knight could work that out.”

There was a silence. Father Almaric looked admonishingly at his evil-tempered monk, while Geoffrey studied Celeste intently to see if he could ascertain whether his unpleasant demeanour was usual or whether something in Geoffrey’s questions had touched a raw nerve. Almaric attempted to make up for Celeste’s rudeness with pleasantries.

“You are Normans from England, are you not? I went to England once, to the shrine of St. Botolph at St. Edmundsbury. It is a Benedictine House, you know. What a beautiful place! So endowed with tranquillity and peace.”

“You should see Durham,” broke in Roger. “Now there is a house fit for God. Strong too, like a fortress. I could hold it against the Scots easy!”

Almaric looked bemused. “Do you miss it? England, I mean? The cool rain, and the mists, and the great green forests?”

Geoffrey nodded. “I miss it very much,” he said softly. He looked away, out of the small window, through which he could see only a wall of baked yellow earth. “If Tancred gave me leave, I would return there tomorrow. I have grown weary of all this heat and dust.”

“I miss the ale,” interrupted Roger enthusiastically, eager to join in. “And the wenches. These Greek and Arab women are all right, but I prefer a lass who understands what I am saying.”

Geoffrey was surprised Roger indulged in conversations of any kind during his frequent bouts of womanising, but saw the monks look shocked and decided Roger’s taste in women was hardly a suitable topic to be discussed with two monks in a church.

“Is there anything more you can tell me?” he prompted politely, addressing the monks.

“Nothing,” said Celeste, still fixing Roger with an expression of disgust. “I spoke with the other monks, and none of them saw or heard anything that might give a clue as to why Loukas was murdered. Most of the brethren had already retired to bed-it was dark, and there is very little monks can do in the dark except sleep or pray. We are not knights who carouse and entertain women to all hours of the night. And that is all we can tell you about this matter.”

He stood pointedly and opened the door for them. Almaric shot him another mildly admonishing glance for his rudeness.

“Celeste is right,” he said. “I regret we cannot tell you any more. None of us really knew Loukas. I will think, though, and if I can come up with any more information, I will send word to you.”

The knights took their leave of the Benedictines and began to walk back to the citadel. Geoffrey frowned.

“We have learned nothing about Loukas to make matters clearer. But we have our connection between Guido and Jocelyn. The Canon we spoke to earlier said the Benedictine who hung around Guido had eyes of different colours, and now Brother Celeste informs us that Jocelyn had such eyes. The two men spent time in Guido’s room at the Augustinian Priory, writing. Guido was killed two days later, and Jocelyn seemed to have learned of his death while hovering outside waiting for him to return. Jocelyn, nervous and irritable, returned to the Dome of the Rock, where he too was murdered.”

“But Brother Pius did not visit Guido,” Roger pointed out. “He would have been useless anyway, since he could not write.”

“So he would,” said Geoffrey, “if his Prior was telling us the truth about his illiteracy. But the Prior did tell us that Pius had trouble sleeping at night. Who knows what he really might have been doing while his brethren slept soundly, believing him to be praying in the church?”

Geoffrey, Roger, and Hugh sat together in a shady garden watching the last rays of the sun fade away in a haze of orange. Somewhere in the distance, the mournful wail of a Moslem call to prayer rose and fell, quickly joined by a second and then a third. The garden had a little waterfall, and its pleasant gurgle mingled with the muezzins’ voices in a sound that Geoffrey thought he would associate with Jerusalem for as long as he lived.

“Damned caterwauling,” grumbled Roger.

The dog lifted his head and uttered a dismal answering howl to the singing. Roger attempted to drown out the dog and the call to prayer by slurping noisily from his tankard of ale.

“The ale is weak, the music appalling, and the women scarce,” he complained. “What a place to be!”

Geoffrey looked up to where bats flitted to feast on the clouds of insects that gathered in the trees above. A gentle breeze turned the leaves this way and that in a soft whisper, and wafted the strong scent of blooms around the garden. Geoffrey was reminded suddenly and irrelevantly of his home in the castle at Goodrich, so many thousands of miles away, and of a glade near the river that was always peaceful at dusk. He closed his eyes and inhaled, trying to recall the distinctive aroma of home: wood fires, wet grass, copses of spring flowers. But the memory eluded him, and the familiar smells of Jerusalem pervaded: huge flowers-the names of which he did not know-and dust.

He was jolted to alertness with a start as Hugh splashed a handful of water over him from the fountain, and Roger rocked with laughter.

“Welcome back,” said Hugh. “We have been talking to you for at least five minutes, imagining you were doing us the courtesy of listening, only to find you are not at home.”

“Sorry,” said Geoffrey. “I was trying to remember what it is like in England.”

Hugh and Roger stared at him mystified.

“Well, we were discussing what you had discovered today,” said Hugh eventually. “You learned that Brother Jocelyn worked occasionally for Bohemond as scribe, and that he was nervous the day before he died. Brother Pius was not a scribe, but was brave enough to shop for meat at the salubrious premises of Akira, where he was dispatched while the redoubtable butcher slept. And Loukas was not a priest at all. It does not seem that there is a link between these three men.”

“Loukas sounded short of a few marbles,” said Roger, with a significant tap to his temple with a grimy forefinger.

“That may well have been an act,” said Geoffrey, “to secure him a position working at the Holy Sepulchre while all the other Greeks were banned. He may well have been a spy for them, pretending to be harmlessly insane to lure them into speaking their secrets when he was around.”

“In which case, he may have been killed by someone at the Holy Sepulchre who discovered what he was doing,” mused Hugh. “And Jocelyn may have been killed for something he learned while in the employ of Bohemond.”

“But it does not fit together,” said Geoffrey. “And this dagger business is curious: the same knife, or similar ones, were used for each victim. The monks at the Dome of the Rock and Akira wanted to steal the ones that killed Jocelyn and Pius, but they were too slow on the uptake, and the daggers had disappeared by the time they looked for them. Brother Celeste said he had covered Loukas’s body with a blanket when it was discovered, and it was surrounded by a crowd of monks praying for him the whole time. But by the time the body was moved to the chapel, the knife had gone.”

“While your woman …” began Hugh.

“Melisende Mikelos,” put in Roger.

“While Melisende Mikelos took the knife from John’s body, and carried it outside with her-just as I suggested she may have done,” said Hugh smugly. “And it was stolen when she dropped it in the street. What of the dagger that killed Guido?”

“That was brought to the citadel with his body. I asked to see it, but for some reason it was not kept. No one seems certain what might have happened to it, but you know how soldiers are with valuables. I imagine one of them realised he might be able to sell it, and stole it on the basis that no one at the citadel was likely to want the weapon that had killed a knight. I began to question the men who brought Guido back, but it appears the body was left unattended for some time in the citadel chapel, and anyone could have stolen the weapon then. And the same is true of a letter thought to have been from the Advocate, brought to the citadel by that unpleasant Canon from St. Mary’s Church. Guido’s friends say there was no letter among his belongings and claim he was unlikely to have one anyway, since he could not read.”

“What a mess,” said Roger in disgust. “Nothing clear, everything muddled. A priest must be behind all this, because a soldier would never stoop to such subterfuge!”

“So, what will you do tomorrow?” asked Hugh, a smile catching at the corners of his mouth at Roger’s remark. “You learned precious little from your enquiries today, except a few facts that confuse the issue more.”

Geoffrey sighed and leaned back in his chair, studying the way the leaves were patterned black against the dark blue sky. “I suppose I will go to speak to the Patriarch’s scribes to ask about Brother Jocelyn. Then I will attempt to discover where in the marketplace these daggers are sold, and perhaps try to find out more of Loukas from the Greek community.”

“Be careful, my friend,” said Hugh. “If Loukas was a spy, then the Greeks are hardly likely to admit it, and they will do all they can to prevent you from finding out.”

“We should go,” said Roger, glancing up at the dark sky. “The curfew bell will sound soon.”

The three knights left the garden, said their farewells to the taverner who allowed them to use it, and made their way back to the citadel. Roger bellowed the password for half of Jerusalem to hear, and the guards let them through the wicket gate. As soon as they were inside, a small man scurried toward them, his face streaked with grime and his eyes wide with fear.

“Sir Geoffrey?” he began in a querulous voice, looking at the three knights. Geoffrey raised a hand. “I am Brother Marius,” the man said shakily, “one of the scribes employed by the Patriarch to investigate the strange deaths that have been occurring recently. Brother Dunstan, who worked with me, has been murdered.”