Murder Most Holy

CHAPTER 10

Father Prior allowed himself to be led away like some frightened child. Once he reached the choir stalls, he looked strangely at his companions as the full horror of what he had seen caught up with him. Covering his mouth with his hand, the prior walked quickly down the nave to retch and vomit outside the main door of the church.

Athelstan stood watching the rest: Henry of Winchester sat with his head in his hands; Brothers Niall and Peter, their faces white, crouched whispering to each other; whilst the two Inquisitors sat like men of straw, staring vacantly across the sanctuary. Athelstan forced himself to relax, breathing in deeply, trying to calm his stomach, to curb the urge to scream and yell at the blasphemy he had just seen.

Norbert and others returned with a canvas sheet and a new coffin. Athelstan thanked God for Sir John’s authority as coroner. Brother Norbert wrapped Alcuin’s body in a leather shroud and, cutting some of the rope, sealed the corpse in by binding it tightly and lowering it into the new coffin. Brother Norbert then piled more incense on the burning charcoal until it looked as if some sort of fire raged behind the altar as clouds of fragrant perfume rose to conceal the pervasive stench of corruption.

Athelstan stood, looking down the nave towards the main door where Father Prior huddled, trying to compose himself. Cranston and Norbert left for a while. Athelstan heard them go out of the sacristy door then the coroner returned, Norbert behind him, carrying a tray bearing a large jug of wine and eight cups.

‘Get the prior,’ Cranston whispered. ‘Bring him back.’

Athelstan obeyed. Father Prior seemed a little more composed, his hands were warm and some colour had returned to his face though his eyes still watered from his violent retching.

‘Oh, Athelstan,’ he whispered as they walked slowly back up into the sanctuary. ‘May God forgive me! So immersed have I become in the running of a great monastery, I have forgotten the full horror of man’s evil and the terrible consequences of sin. Who could do that? Murder a poor priest like Alcuin here in the eyes of God? In Christ’s very sanctuary? Then desecrate his body and that of poor Bruno? Who? Who could be so evil?’

Athelstan gently guided him into one of the choir stalls even as Cranston slopped wine into the cups and thrust a goblet towards each of them. He served Norbert and himself last.

‘You’re a good man,’ Cranston boomed, clapping the lay brother on the shoulder. ‘I have often thought that Athelstan needed a little help at St Erconwald’s, as do I in the affairs of the city. You’re just the fellow I’d choose.’ He beamed round. ‘Come on, everyone. You, too, Athelstan, sit down. Drink a little wine, as St Paul says, “for our stomach’s sake”.’ He drained his cup in one gulp then refilled it, winking and bubbling, to the brim.

‘We should not drink wine here in God’s house.’ William de Conches spoke up, now recovering from the shock he had experienced.

‘Jesus won’t mind!’ snapped Cranston. ‘So, Brother Athelstan, your supposition proved correct.’

‘Wait!’ Father Prior interrupted. ‘Brother Norbert, go and tell sub-prior John that I want this church sealed. No one is to come in. No masses will be celebrated here nor Divine Office sung until we have given decent burial to our two brethren. Go on! Finish your wine and be off with you!’

The lay brother obeyed. Anselm leaned back in his stall.

‘Go on, Athelstan,’ he murmured.

Cranston went across and whispered in Athelstan’s ear. His companion smiled, nodded, and went to stand in front of the stalls like a preacher about to deliver a sermon.

‘Brother Alcuin,’ he began, ‘died because he knew something vital about the Inner Chapter.’

‘Such as what?’ pleaded Brother Henry, his large dark eyes pools of anxiety. The young theologian leaned forward. ‘What did Alcuin know to cause his dreadful death, these horrible events? What is so dangerous about what I have written?’ He glared at the Inquisitors.

‘Your writings contain heresy,’ William de Conches answered over his shoulder.

‘No.’ Athelstan held up his hand. ‘Let us leave that. Brother Henry, I cannot answer your questions. All I can surmise is that Brother Bruno died in Alcuin’s place. The sacristan realised that, became frightened and anxious, so came in here to pray.’

‘He often did that,’ Father Prior murmured. ‘He said it was one of the advantages of being sacristan, to pray and work without interruption.’

‘Exactly,’ Athelstan muttered. ‘On the day he died, Alcuin came into the church and, as usual, locked the doors. He went behind the altar and knelt at the prie-dieu to pray for guidance as well as the repose of poor Bruno’s soul. Now, what Alcuin did not know was that there was another person in the church.’

‘Where?’ Brother Henry asked.

‘A good question!’ Eugenius shouted. ‘Did Alcuin just let his murderer attack him without making any resistance?’

‘No, I thought of that. That’s why I said he was kneeling at the prie-dieu. The only place an assassin could hide was in the apse, standing in one of the niches in the wall at the back of the sanctuary. There are statues there but how often would someone like Alcuin study them? They are life-size, they are part of the church. On that day, however, the assassin, dressed in a dark cloak, also stood there, silent, immobile, like one of the statues.’ Athelstan paused as they all craned their necks to peer over the altar at the alcoves he referred to.

‘They are certainly deep enough,’ Brother Niall remarked ‘Yes, you are right, Athelstan. If a man dressed in a dark robe stood there in this poor light, he could remain concealed for awhile.’

‘The murderer slipped out,’ Athelstan continued, ‘and murdered Alcuin. How long would that take, Sir John?’

The coroner made a face. ‘No more than a few seconds. The most terrifying aspect of the dagger is the shock it induces as well as the speed with which it kills.’

Athelstan watched the faces of his companions for any reaction to Cranston’s lie but failed to glimpse anything untoward.

‘The rest was simple,’ he continued. ‘The assassin had to dispose of Alcuin’s body. This morning, when I was praying before poor Roger’s coffin, I noticed how deep it was. The same idea must have occurred to the assassin. Perhaps he just planned to drop the body into the burial vault, but it was easy instead to undo the clasps of Brother Bruno’s casket. There would be room to force Alcuin’s corpse in and re-seal it.’

‘But it would increase the weight?’ William de Conches spoke up.

‘Yes, but would that be noticed?’ Athelstan replied. ‘Oh we felt it when we tried to raise the coffin this morning, but remember, after the funeral mass and the final blessing, the coffin is lowered into the burial vault. How long does that take, Father Prior?’

‘No more than a few minutes.’

‘The lay brothers would certainly notice the weight but, as it would prove no extra burden in lowering the coffin, they would dismiss it as a momentary fancy.’ Athelstan stopped speaking and went back to stare across the altar. ‘Now the murderer was locked in the church. I suspect that if we examined poor Alcuin’s corpse, we would find his keys missing. The murderer would have taken them and got rid of them later. Anyway, Roger’s return disturbed him so he went back to the alcove. Roger came into the sanctuary through the sacristy. God bless him, he was a half-wit but I have noticed how such people take careful notice of their surroundings. They tend to stare at things as if seeing them for the first time. Roger expected to find his master, he could not, so his consternation increased. He stared around. Something jarred his memory. Perhaps he had always prided himself on counting the number of statues.’

‘Of course!’ Brother Peter exclaimed. ‘Instead of twelve Apostles he counted thirteen!’

‘I would hazard a guess he realised that later. At the time he would go scurrying down the church, through the sanctuary and out into the nave, looking for Brother Alcuin. By the time he returned the murderer had slipped into the sacristy and out of the church.’

They all stared at Athelstan.

‘My clerk,’ Cranston grandly announced, filling himself another goblet of wine, ‘has expressed my own deductions admirably.’

Athelstan lowered his head. When he looked up, both Brother Peter and Brother Niall were nodding in agreement. Henry of Winchester just smiled in admiration. Eugenius looked doubtful but Athelstan caught a gleam of admiration in William de Conche’s eyes.

‘What now?’ Brother Henry asked.

‘I don’t know,’ replied Athelstan. ‘Cranston and I find ourselves at the end of an alleyway with nothing but a brick wall facing us.’ He glanced quickly at the prior. ‘Father, we can do no more. Tomorrow is Sunday. We can stay here a little longer, but on Monday I must return to St Erconwald’s.’ He glared at Cranston. ‘Isn’t that correct, Sir John?’

The coroner drew together his brows and blinked. He was about to protest when Athelstan abruptly took leave of Father Prior, genuflected towards the high altar and stalked quickly out of the church, with Cranston huffing and puffing behind him. The friar refused to speak until they were safely back in the guest house.

‘You are just going to leave?’ the coroner exclaimed.

‘Of course not, Sir John. But the murderer was in that church. We must pretend to be baffled. If we betray the slightest knowledge of Hildegarde or what Brother Paul told us, then someone else will die and I think it may well be me. Come, Sir John, another cup of wine?’

Cranston needed no second invitation but sped like an arrow towards the buttery. From his exclamations of delight, Athelstan realised that Norbert had brought across fresh supplies of mead. Leaving Cranston to his pleasures, Athelstan went quickly upstairs and smiled when he saw the great leather tomes already piled on his and Cranston’s bed.

‘Sir John,’ he called, ‘we shall spend the rest of today and tomorrow on the study of theology.’

Cranston, a brimming tankard in his hands, clumped upstairs and stared round-eyed at what Norbert had brought.

‘We have to go through all of these?’

‘Aye, Sir John, and more.’

Cranston cursed under his breath. ‘Athelstan,’ he pleaded, ‘sweetest Brother, a week tonight I must return to the Palace of Savoy.’

Athelstan turned his back so the coroner couldn’t glimpse the dismay on his face. So far he could see no solution to that problem but if Cranston sensed his failure, there would be no holding the coroner from drowning himself in a sea of despair, not to mention one of claret.

‘Courage, Sir John!’ he called out over his shoulder. ‘I have an idea,’ he lied. ‘But, for the time being, let us concentrate on the problem in hand.’

‘Why?’ snapped Cranston.

Athelstan turned, went over and crouched before him. ‘Sir John, we are dealing with a murderer. We know how he killed, but we still don’t know why. Do you realise, we haven’t a single clue, not a shred of evidence, to lay against anyone? Somehow or other these books contain the answer and I intend to find it!’ Athelstan gripped Cranston’s wrist. ‘And I thank you, Sir John, for what you did in church, taking care of poor Alcuin’s corpse. Your decision not to publicise the manner of his death may, at some later stage, trap the murderer. Believe me, Sir John, we must trap him!’

Cranston mournfully agreed. Norbert brought other books across as well as refreshment to satisfy Cranston’s prodigious appetite. In the main he and Athelstan stayed in the guest house, only leaving for the occasional walk or visit to the church. Father Prior came across to seek assurances that Athelstan would return and, when he received these, left to arrange the proper burial of his two colleagues.

Athelstan and Cranston went through one leatherbound book after another.

‘Look for the name Hildegarde,’ Athelstan ordered. ‘If you find anything connected with that name, alert me at once.’

They spent most of Saturday and the greater part of Sunday morning scrupulously searching each page of the leather-bound volumes. Athelstan rather enjoyed it. He felt he was a student again meeting old friends: St Thomas Aquinas, the sentences of Peter Lombard, the brilliant but sarcastic analysis of Peter Abelard. Each volume contained copies of their work, carefully written out by generations of Dominicans at Black-friars. Sometimes the copyist had written their own commentaries in the margin, now and again adding personal remarks such as: ‘I am cold’, ‘My eyes are aching’, ‘I find this boring’, and, ‘Oh, when will summer come?’ Some scribes had even painted the faces of gargoyles to poke fun at their brethren. The prior of over a hundred years ago must have been a proper tyrant for one copyist had drawn a crude gallows with his superior hanging from it. Cranston soon became bored, constantly going up and downstairs to refresh himself in the kitchen or falling asleep and disturbing Athelstan with his snores. At last, just before noon on Sunday, he announced he had had enough.

‘I’d better return, Athelstan,’ he announced mournfully. ‘I miss the Lady Maude and the two poppets. I am more of a hindrance than a help here. You will return to Southwark tomorrow?’

‘At first light, Sir John.’

‘Then I will meet you at London Bridge as the bells of St. Mary Le Bow toll the beginning of day.’

Armed with his miraculous wineskin, Sir John stumped off and Athelstan returned to his studies. The day drew on, punctuated by the sound of bells and the faint hum of the ordinary routine of the monastery. Father Prior came over to announce that both Brothers Roger and Alcuin would be buried on the morrow after high mass, now the sanctuary had been reblessed and purified. He stood in the kitchen wringing his hands and shifting from one foot to another as his eyes pleaded with Athelstan to bring an end to these terrible events. Athelstan reassured him and the prior left. Norbert brought across some food. Athelstan asked for fresh candles and continued his studies long after sunset. It must have been about midnight when he heard Brother Norbert pounding on the door shouting his name.

‘Athelstan! Athelstan! Quickly!’

The friar opened the wooden shutters and looked down.

‘What is it?’ he called.

The lay brother held up a lantern. ‘An urgent message from Sir John. It was delivered at the porter’s lodge. Brother, you are to come down now!’

Athelstan picked up his cloak, slipped his feet into his sandals and went down.

‘Where’s the messenger?’

‘Oh, he was some young lad. He just said something dreadful had happened at St Erconwald’s and that you were to come immediately!’

‘Saddle Philomel for me. Is the lad still here?’

‘He said he would wait for you outside the Blue Mantle tavern on the corner of Carter Lane.’

Athelstan walked across to the main gate. He felt tired, his eyes ached and he wondered what could have happened. Had the church caught fire, or was one of his parishioners dying? Philomel was brought round, snorting and protesting at this unwarranted intrusion into his rest. A sleepy-eyed porter opened the gate. Athelstan led his horse through, mounted, and rode up the darkened street towards the tavern.

On one side of him rose the dark mass of Blackfriars. On the other a row of houses, all lights extinguished except for the lantern horns placed on hooks above the door. Two members of the night watch walked by, poles over their shoulders. They glimpsed Athelstan’s black and white robes and passed on, chuckling about the strange habits of certain priests.

Athelstan fought to keep his eyes open. He was near the tavern. Then he stopped. Despite the warm night air, he shivered and cursed himself for a fool. Why didn’t the messenger wait in the porter’s lodge? Why choose a tavern long after the beginning of curfew? The friar stopped and stared into the darkness, now fully alert. He sensed something was wrong. What was so urgent that he had to be dragged out in the middle of the night? He leaned forward, ears straining. He heard the clip-clop of hooves in the distance, the discordant yowling of cats, and the squeak and slither of rats as they foraged in the huge mounds of excrement piled high in the sewers.

‘Hello!’ he called. ‘Who is there?’

Athelstan’s eyes, now accustomed to the darkness, tried to make out if there was anyone standing in the shadows on the corner of Carter Lane. He looked up at the sky and idly thought it would be a fine night for studying the stars. A slight breeze sprang up, wafting the stench from the Shambles around Newgate. Should he go on? he wondered. Then he heard it: the slither of leather on the dirty cobblestones and a gentle, scraping, hissing sound.

‘Who is. .?’ He broke off as he recalled the sound. He had heard that noise before whenever Cranston drew his stabbing dagger from its leather sheath. Athelstan needed no second urging. He turned Philomel round, kicking with all his might. Usually the old war horse would balk into an ambling trot. Athelstan, not the best of horsemen, urged him on, lashing his withers with the reins. He heard footsteps behind him. One or was it two sets of footsteps.

‘Au secours! Aidez moi!’ Athelstan gave the usual cry of someone being attacked on the streets. Yelling at Philomel and shouting the alarm, he charged back towards the main gate of Blackfriars. The footsteps stopped. He heard a muted shout, a click, and he ducked — but the crossbow bolt whirred well above his head. Lights appeared in the windows of the houses and, thanks be to God, the porter already had the gate open. Athelstan dismounted and pushed the old war horse through.

‘Bolt the gate!’ he ordered.

The porter slammed it shut. Athelstan released Philomel’s reins and, as the old war horse charged like an arrow into the nearby garden to eat the delicious flowers, Athelstan crouched, arms across his stomach, trying to calm the panic within him.

‘Is there anything wrong, Brother?’

Athelstan looked at the lean face of the porter and got wearily to his feet.

‘No, no, just forget it.’

Athelstan took a protesting Philomel back to the stables, unsaddled him, made him comfortable for the night and returned to the guest house. He walked warily as if experiencing one of his nightmares. He realised the ambush out in the street had been planned by someone here at Blackfriars. He checked the guest house carefully, even to the jug of wine in the kitchen, bolted the door, made the shutters secure, and went up for an uneasy night’s sleep.

He rose and left Blackfriars early next morning. The attack of the previous evening had aroused the constant, underlying fear in him. Their investigations had implicated someone powerful or vicious enough to hire felons or footpads who would take their lives at the blink of an eyelid, and for a sum much less than thirty pieces of silver.

The sun had not yet risen as he turned into Thames Street and rode down the Vintry and Ropery into Bridge Street. He guided a still protesting Philomel away from the houses, keeping a watchful eye on the darkened doorways and alleyways, especially those leading down from the slums along the banks of the Thames. The wine merchants and cordwainers were still fast asleep, the street deserted except for carts piled high with produce making their way up to the markets. A yawning beadle, resting half-asleep on his staff of office, wished him good morning. A group of whores, their red heads covered by cloaks, slipped back to their tenements in Cock Lane, Smithfield. A pig, crushed by one of the carts, screeched its death agony until a householder, knife in hand, sped from the doorway, cut the animal’s throat and, with a sly wink at Athelstan, dragged the blood-gushing corpse into his house.

‘They’ll eat well,’ Athelstan murmured.

Philomel snorted, tossing his head at the smell of blood.

At the bridge, the city watch still guarded the entrance. There was no sign of Cranston so Athelstan retraced his steps up to Pountney Inn halfway between the Ropery and Candlewick Street, one of the few taverns licensed to remain open before the bells of St Mary Le Bow gave the signal for the start of day. He ordered watered beer and a meat pie and became involved in an angry altercation with the taverner when he cut it open to find two dead wasps inside. Athelstan, still weary and agitated after the attack of the previous evening, finally gave up in disgust. He stalked out of the tavern, collected Philomel and walked back to Bridge Street where he stood watching the traffic pass on to the bridge. The morning was clear, mist free, and the gulls and other birds hunting along the mud flats rose, soared and dipped, filling the air with their screams.

‘Are you a vagrant?’

Athelstan jumped at the touch of a heavy hand on his shoulder. He turned to see Cranston’s bewhiskered face a few inches from his. Athelstan clutched his chest.

‘Sir John, why can’t you be like other men and just say good morning?’

The coroner grinned and narrowed his eyes.

‘You look frightened — whey-faced. What’s the matter?’

Athelstan told him as they led their horses on to the bridge, the friar as always keeping his eyes away from the sheer drop on either side. He had to pause whilst Cranston threw good-natured abuse at the city watch, but otherwise the coroner patiently heard him out. Sir John then stopped, rubbing his chin and staring blankly at the door of the chapel of St Thomas of Canterbury which stood in the centre of the bridge. Behind them a carter flicked his whip.

‘Come on, you great fat lump! Keep moving!’

‘Piss off!’ Cranston shouted back.

Nevertheless, he guided his horse on, making Athelstan repeat once again his description of the attack.

‘And you found nothing in those damned books?’

‘Not a jot nor a tittle!’

Cranston eased the knife in his belt. ‘But someone in that bloody monastery knows what you are hunting for!’

‘I agree, Sir John. I have concluded that myself. My belief is that all murderers are arrogant. Like their father Cain, they think they can hide from God and everyone else. Our demonstration, however, of what happened to poor Alcuin has provoked the assassin to act. After all, Sir John, if we can resolve one problem then perhaps it’s only a matter of time before we resolve another.’

‘Which brings us to the business of the scarlet chamber,’ Cranston added ominously.

‘Patience, Sir John, patience. And how are Lady Maude and the two poppets?’

Cranston turned and spat as they left the bridge.

‘Those boys have prodigious appetites and powerful lungs. They must get it from their mother.’

Athelstan pulled a face to hide a grin.

‘They are getting so big,’ Cranston moaned.

‘And the Lady Maude?’

Cranston raised his eyebrows. ‘Like a lioness, Brother, like a lioness. She sits like one of those great cats in the King’s Tower, a smile on her face, eyes ever watchful.’ He blew out his cheeks. ‘If I do not extricate myself from this mess, she’ll spring.’ He glared furiously at his companion who was busy gnawing his lower lip.

Lady Maude was so small, Athelstan thought, he couldn’t imagine her as some great cat stalking the mighty coroner.

They entered the alleyways and mean streets of Southwark, Cranston still bemoaning his impending fate. Athelstan looped Philomel’s reins round his wrist, half-listening as he stared around. At first he had hated Southwark, but now he felt that despite the fetid runnels and shabby one-storeyed huts, the place had a vigorous life of its own. Already the little booths were open and in a nearby ale-house someone was singing a hymn to the Virgin Mary. A ward beadle tried to seize a young whore who had been plying her trade on the steps of the priory of St Mary Overy but the young girl raised her skirts, waggled a pair of dirty white buttocks and scampered off, screaming with laughter. They turned down the alley which led to St Erconwald’s. Athelstan heaved a sigh of relief that the church and grounds were empty. No sightseers. Even the serjeant Sir John had sent appeared to have found something more interesting to do and wandered off. They stabled their horses and went into the priest’s house. Athelstan smiled.

‘My parishioners,’ he commented, ‘have apparently heard of my bad temper.’

He gazed admiringly round the kitchen and buttery where everything had been cleaned, swept and polished, even the hearth which now had a pile of pine logs stacked waiting to be burned. A sealed jar of wine had been placed in the centre of the kitchen table and the water tub had been emptied, scrubbed and refilled. Cranston licked his lips when he sighted the wine. Athelstan waved him over.

‘Be my guest, Sir John. But I’d like more water than wine in mine.’

Sir John bustled about in the buttery.

‘The buggers have done a good job here, too. Everything’s neat.’ He served Athelstan, then himself. ‘You are going to resolve the mystery of your skeleton?’

‘Of course, Sir John. You know that’s why I returned to Southwark.’

Cranston pulled a face. ‘What will you do?’

‘I don’t know. I’ll just wait and see.’

‘It’s murder,’ Cranston announced.

‘No, Sir John, we only think it is.’

The coroner’s hand fell to his wallet and he shuffled his feet.

‘What is it?’ Athelstan asked sharply.

Cranston produced a small scroll of parchment.

‘The messenger returned yesterday evening from Boulogne.’ He tapped the parchment. ‘The fellow travelled fast for I paid him well.’ Cranston gave a great sigh, unable to gaze directly at Athelstan’s watchful face. ‘It’s bad news,’ he murmured. ‘The French do not have Benedicta’s husband.’

Athelstan turned away and stared at the wall. Sweet Lord, he thought, and what do I feel? What did I really want?

‘Oh, bugger!’ Cranston shouted.

Athelstan turned to see Bonaventure slide like a shadow through the door, purring with pleasure. He looked beseechingly up at Cranston. Sir John retreated.

‘Bugger off, you bloody cat!’

Athelstan, glad of the distraction, picked up the battered torn cat, stroking it carefully, even though Bonaventure still stared appealingly at the coroner. The cat’s fur was sleek and clean.

‘You’ve been well fed,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘I know your type — the professional beggar. Go on now!’ He put the cat outside the door and closed it firmly.

‘Well, what are you going to do?’ Cranston barked.

‘I’m going to check the church and say mass. Sir John, you can serve as altar boy. Even though you have broken your fast, I’ll absolve you.’

They went across to the church, Athelstan exclaiming in pleasure as he stepped into its cool darkness for it, too, had been swept and cleaned now the workmen had gone. Fresh rushes lay on the nave floor, the rood screen had been replaced, and what delighted Athelstan most of all was that the sanctuary had been finished. The new flagstones glowed white and Athelstan admired the precision and care of the masons. The altar too had been cleaned whilst someone, probably Huddle, had given the rood screen a thorough polish. Even in the poor morning light the rich dark wood gleamed.

‘Very good!’ Athelstan murmured.

‘It’s still here!’ Cranston shouted from the transept, and Athelstan heard the lid of the parish coffin being opened.

‘But the thieving bastards have made their mark! Four of the finger bones are missing and three of the toes! Some bugger is making a profit from selling relics!’

Athelstan chose to ignore the coffin. Whoever the skeleton had been, he knew she was a murder victim. Someone who had been killed in the last ten to fifteen years. Whilst Cranston tramped round the church Athelstan opened the sacristy door, dressing in gold chasuble and stole because the church’s liturgy was still celebrating Easter and the miracle of Pentecost. He filled the cruets with wine and water and couldn’t help smiling at the way his parishioners, probably marshalled by Watkin and Benedicta, had cleaned the dust from everything. He put a cloth across the altar, brought out the huge tattered missal and, with Cranston kneeling piously before him, made the sign of the cross and began mass. Of course Bonaventure turned up but behaved himself, sitting by a suspicious coroner like the holiest cat in Christendom.

A good ‘cat-holic’ Athelstan thought, but kept a straight face and continued with the mass, giving Sir John communion under both rites. The coroner emptied the chalice in one gulp.

Afterwards Athelstan divested in the sacristy, Cranston, lounging at the door, watching him.

‘None of your parishioners has turned up,’ he remarked.

‘That’s because they don’t know I’m here, Sir John.’

The words were hardly out of Athelstan’s mouth when Crim burst into the sanctuary.

‘Father, I saw the door open.’ His dirty face screwed up in disappointment. ‘I would have served mass for you!’

Cranston glared down at him, brows knitting, but Crim stared cheekily back and poked out his tongue.

‘Look, Crim, will you run me an errand?’ Athelstan intervened briskly. ‘Sir John, the letter? You know, the one from Boulogne?’

Cranston handed it over and Athelstan studied it quickly. The Dominicans in Boulogne sent him fraternal greetings. They ministered to the prisoners’ camp in the fields outside the city where they’d made careful investigation but found no trace of any prisoner fitting the description or name Athelstan was searching for. He folded the note, took a penny Out of his wallet and crouched before Crim.

‘Take this to the Lady Benedicta,’ he said. ‘On no account must you lose it.’ He seized the boy by a bony shoulder. ‘Do you understand?’

‘Yes, Father.’

‘Off with you!’

Crim left as quickly as he had entered.

‘Should you have done that?’ Cranston asked. ‘Why not tell her yourself? Art thou afraid, monk?’

‘No, Sir John, but there are some things best left alone. I think Benedicta will want to mourn in private. But, come, we have other business.’

‘Where?’ Cranston barked.

Athelstan indicated with his hand that Cranston should sit on the altar steps beside him.

‘I have to thank you, My Lord Coroner.’

‘For what?’

‘For telling me the difference between a genuine beggar and a false one.’

Cranston eased his bulk down. ‘What on earth are you talking about, monk?’

‘Just listen, Sir John. I am going to tell you what will happen.’