Murder Most Holy

CHAPTER 11

Athelstan locked the doors of the church and, with Cranston swaggering behind him and Bonaventure following for some of the way, they threaded through the alleyways of Southwark to the house of the carpenter, Raymond D’Arques. His wife, her face crumpled with sleep, answered Athelstan’s impatient knocking and led them into the kitchen. She went to the foot of the stairs and called for her husband. D’Arques came down, swathed in a robe, his unshaven face lined with anxiety.

‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan, good morrow.’

‘Good morrow, Master D’Arques,’ Cranston replied.

‘The business at the church?’ the fellow asked wearily. ‘Please,’ he waved to stools round the table, ‘sit down.’ He turned to his wife. ‘Margot, some ale for our guests.’

They sat in silence till the tankards and a basket of bread were placed before them. Despite appearances, Athelstan sensed the couple’s deep agitation.

‘Enough is enough,’ he began quietly. ‘I have not come here to play games with you, Master D’Arques. You know that the skeleton found under the altar of the sanctuary of my church is not that of a martyr. Why? Because you put it there. About fifteen years ago, Father Theobald asked for the sanctuary to be paved. Now, he was a poor priest and the revenues of St Erconwald’s are a mere pittance. So instead of hiring from the Guild, he bought the services of a young carpenter who was also prepared to do some mason’s work. That carpenter was you.’

Athelstan paused and Raymond put his face in his hands whilst his white-faced wife pressed a clenched fist to her mouth.

‘I know this,’ Athelstan continued, ‘because I have seen the muniment book: payments to a carpenter, Raymond D’Arques, and for the stonework to a mason who used the initials A.Q.D., a device used to hide him from the prying eyes of the Guild.’ Athelstan sipped from his tankard. ‘During the work on the sanctuary, for reasons yet unknown, you killed a young woman, either by suffocation or strangulation, and buried her in a hole beneath the altar. You then gave up your mason’s work, determined the crime would never be laid at your door. You became solely a carpenter and took every step to ensure you never used your old mark, A.Q.D., the rearranged initials of your last name. Master D’Arques, am I correct?’

The man looked up and Athelstan felt a surge of compassion at the look in those staring eyes.

He continued, ‘You thought your crime would go undetected or, if the skeleton was discovered, the blame would not be laid at your door. However, you heard the news of a new priest arriving at St Erconwald’s. A Dominican who acted as a coroner’s clerk and was also determined to renovate the church. You kept a wary eye on St Erconwald’s and when I began renovating the sanctuary, plotted your scheme. You arranged that miracle.’

‘How?’ his wife cried out.

Athelstan saw the guilt in her eyes.

‘Oh, come!’ Cranston snorted. ‘The news of the skeleton’s being found and rumours of its being the remains of a saint played into your hands. Indeed, you prepared yourselves for just such a possibility. After all, you’d had years to prepare, reflect and plot. Now, any professional beggar can dress his body in the most terrible wounds to fool even the most skilled physician or apothecary, never mind old Master Culpepper. A good, upright citizen comes to him with an infection of the arm, so he dresses it. You bide your time, wash your arm, go down to St Erconwald’s, and heigh-ho, a miracle is worked.’

‘Others had cures!’ she snapped.

‘Yes, I considered that,’ Athelstan replied. ‘But nothing substantial. The human mind is mysterious in its working. Ailments did clear up — colic and mild infections — helped, of course, by the outrageous claims of the professional miracle-seekers who love to profit from popular hysteria. I tell you this, Mistress D’Arques, if I took the stool I am sitting on and claimed it was fashioned by St Joseph, you would hear the most marvellous stories about the miracles it could work.’

He shook his head. ‘My parishioners wanted the skeleton to be the remains of a martyr or some great saint. The counterfeit-men saw it as a source of profit. The sick would seek any cure, and the human soul is insatiable in its search for wonders and marvels.’ Athelstan sipped his ale then pushed it away. ‘When I reflected on what had happened, when I searched the records, when I saw the state of the skeleton and the Lord Coroner’s judgement on how that woman died, I knew she had to be a victim of murder. Your husband laid those sanctuary stones and it is no coincidence that the miracle story originated with him.’

D’Arques lifted his head and clutched his wife’s hand.

‘You are correct, Father. Some fifteen years ago I was a young carpenter, a parishioner of St Erconwald’s. I loved old Father Theobald and, after his fall in the sanctuary, offered to do some work there. I bought the stones and in a moment of pride carved the mark “A.Q.D.” and told Father Theobald that I could lay them without his paying heavy costs to the Guild.’ D’Arques wetted his lips. ‘I forgot, you know, that I’d put “A.Q.D.” on the stone.’ He stared down at the table. ‘Now at the same time,’ he continued, ‘I met and fell in love with Margot Twyford, the daughter of one of the powerful merchant families across the river. However, I was a young man and the blood beat hot in my veins. There was a prostitute, a whore called Aemelia. She must have been about eighteen or nineteen summers old. I often used to pay her for her services. She heard about my courtship and began to taunt me. She asked for money in return for her silence so I paid. She came back for more. I refused so she crossed the river, sought out Margot and told her everything.’

‘I sent her packing!’ D’Arques’s wife snapped, her eyes blazing with fury. ‘I told her I’d see her boiled alive in hell rather than give up Raymond.’ Her fingers curled round those of her husband.

‘I thought that was the end of it,’ he continued. ‘But one evening, at the end of a beautiful summer’s day, she came into the sanctuary where I was working and asked for more silver. I refused. She told me about seeing Margot and said tomorrow she would cross the river and tell my betrothed’s father. She would proclaim the news for all to hear. I pleaded with her not to but she laughed, baiting me.’ D’Arques closed his eyes. ‘The image still haunts me: Aemelia walking up and down, hips swaying, arms folded, her painted face twisted with hatred. Father, I went on my knees, I begged her, but she just laughed. She stepped backwards and fell. The next minute I was on top of her. I had my cloak in my hand and forced it across her face. She struggled but I was young and strong. I held her down. She gave one last terrible lurch and lay silent.’ D’Arques gulped from his tankard. ‘I thought she had swooned but she just lay there, white-faced, her eyes staring. Father, what could I do? I couldn’t walk through Southwark with a corpse in my arms. And why should I hang for a murder I did not wish to commit? Now, during my work in the sanctuary I’d discovered a pit beneath the altar where the foundations of an older building had been. I stripped Aemelia of her clothes and laid her there with a wooden cross in her hands.’ D’Arques rubbed his face. ‘The rest you can guess. I laid the sanctuary stones myself.’ He smiled weakly at Athelstan. ‘The flags were not properly laid due to my lack of skill and eagerness to finish the task quickly.’ He pressed his wife’s hand. ‘I confessed all to Margot. No one missed Aemelia. Time passed. Father Theobald died and that bastard Fitzwolfe became parish priest. I could not abide the evil man so I attended another church, St Swithin’s.’

‘My husband did not mean to kill her,’ his wife sharply interposed. ‘He has tried to make reparation with carvings at St Swithin’s; he pays generously in tithes, helps the poor and has gone on pilgrimages to Glastonbury and Walsingham.’ Her tear-brimming eyes held Athelstan’s. ‘What more can he do? Why should he stand trial now for murdering that scheming, horrible bitch?’ She laughed. ‘A martyr! A saint! Brother Athelstan, my husband did wrong both in slaying the whore and in playing upon the hopes of your gullible parishioners, but when he heard of your work in the sanctuary, he panicked.’

Athelstan turned and looked at Cranston.

‘Sir John, I believe Master D’Arques and his wife are telling the truth. What shall we do now?’

The coroner, who had sat attentively throughout the confession, smiled.

‘I am the King’s Coroner in the city,’ he announced. ‘My judgements are always good and true. You, Raymond D’Arques, are guilty of the unlawful slaying of the woman called Aemelia. This is your punishment. First, you will come before the justices of the King’s Bench and swear to the slaying.’ The coroner’s sharp eyes now caught Mistress D’Arques’s white, anxious face. ‘You were his accomplice after the event. You, too, must purge yourself. If this purgation is made, I swear a pardon under the royal seal will be issued.’

Both the carpenter and his wife relaxed and smiled.

‘Secondly,’ Cranston continued, ‘you are guilty of the desecration of a church and the illegal burial of Aemelia’s body. You will pay for the proper Christian funeral of her remains, including coffin, grave fee and service. You will also pay a chantry priest to sing masses for her soul.

‘Finally, you have caused inconvenience and distress both to Father Athelstan and the parishioners of St Erconwald’s. You, Raymond D’Arques, are a carpenter. The final sentence is this: you will carve a statue, one yard high, of the finest wood, depicting St Erconwald and pay for its erection on a plinth in the new sanctuary. Brother Athelstan, do you agree?’

The friar rose. ‘Justice has been done,’ he murmured. He looked at D’Arques and his wife and saw the gratitude in their eyes. ‘Continue your good works,’ he said. ‘Love each other. One final matter — seek out a good priest, someone outside South-wark, tell him what you have done and about the reparation you have made, and absolution will be given.’ He tapped Sir John on the shoulder. ‘My Lord Coroner, our work is finished here.’

They left the house and walked back through the now noisy alleyways of Southwark.

‘A good judgement, Sir John.’

‘They have paid enough,’ the coroner replied. He looked around. ‘Brother, where to now?’

‘Benedicta’s house. She will have received the message I sent with Crim.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s the least I can do.’

They found Benedicta, pale-faced and red-eyed, crouched over her table, the letter Athelstan had sent lying open before her. She smiled bravely and welcomed them, wrapping her morning cloak tightly about her. Despite her tears, she looked beautiful, her thick black hair falling down around her shoulders, unruly and uncombed for she confessed Crim had wakened her with the message.

‘I am sorry,’ Athelstan apologised. ‘I did not mean to wake you with such unwelcome news but I thought the sooner the better.’

‘No, no,’ Benedicta replied. ‘I am at peace.’ She sat down, her face in her hands. ‘The waiting was the worst.’ She indicated the stools beside her. ‘For God’s sake, Sir John, Father, sit down! You are standing like two beadles come to arrest me! You wish some wine?’

‘No,’ Athelstan answered quickly, narrowing his eyes at her. ‘Sir John and I have a busy day.’ He reached over and touched her hand. ‘Benedicta, I am truly sorry.’

The woman blinked and looked away.

‘Never mind, never mind,’ she murmured, and smiled through her tears at Sir John. ‘My Lord Coroner, I thank you for your help. Whatever this stern priest says, I think you deserve a cup of the finest claret.’

Cranston needed no second bidding and his smile widened when Benedicta returned from the buttery with a large, two-handled cup and a pewter dish containing strips of beef covered by a rich brown sauce and lightly garnished with a sprinkling of peas. She put these down in front of Sir John and kissed him lightly on the side of his head, grinning mischievously at Athelstan.

‘There, My Lord Coroner!’

Athelstan glared at her. At this rate Sir John would be unmanageable by the end of the day. Benedicta, putting a brave face on her sad news, just tossed her head and flounced upstairs. Athelstan had to sit and watch Sir John chomp like Philomel: the beef, the sauce and the wine disappearing between murmurs of ‘Delightful!’, ‘Lovely woman!’, ‘Grand lass!’.

By the time Cranston had finished and sat burping and dabbing at his lips with a napkin, Benedicta had dressed and come downstairs again with a small wooden box containing her toiletries. She cleaned and prepared her face whilst Athelstan told her about their visit to the D’Arques household. She listened carefully, nodding in approval. Athelstan watched, fascinated, as she rouged her lips lightly, darkened her eyelashes, then picked up a swan’s down puff soaked in powder, dabbing her face lightly. She glanced impishly at Athelstan.

‘If you men only knew the labour and travail of a woman preparing herself for the day.’

‘In your case, My Lady,’ Cranston gallantly answered, ‘it is truly a case of painting the rose or gilding the lily.’

Benedicta leaned forward, her eyes rounded in mock innocence. ‘Sir John,’ she whispered, ‘you are a veritable courtier and a gentleman.’

Cranston preened himself like a peacock. He was in his element. He had eaten a good meal, drunk the richest claret, and was now being complimented by a beautiful woman. The coroner drummed his fingers on his broad girth.

‘If I were single and ten years younger. .’

‘There’d be a lot more food and drink about!’ Athelstan answered tartly. But all he got in reply were wicked smiles from both Benedicta and an ever more expansive Sir John.

Benedicta dabbed her cheeks one final time with the powder puff, Athelstan watching the fine dust rise in the air.

‘Oh, sweet Lord!’ he whispered.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘Nothing, Sir John. Benedicta, may I borrow that powder puff?’

She handed it over and, whilst she teased him, Athelstan examined it carefully, squeezing it between his hands until a fine dust covered his robe. Cranston leaned closer, wrinkling his nose.

‘You want to be careful when you go out, Brother. You smell like a molly-boy!’

The friar apologised and handed it back to Benedicta then rose, dusting his robes carefully.

‘Sir John,’ he announced, ‘we have to go. Benedicta, inform no one of what I have told you but let my parishioners know that I will celebrate mass tomorrow and wish everyone to be there. I have an important announcement to make.’

‘Where are you off to, Brother?’

‘Back to my church, Sir John.’

Cranston shook his head. ‘Oh, no, monk, we have work to do.’

‘Sir John, I must return.’

Cranston rose and stuck out his chest. ‘Do you think, while we’ve been running backwards and forwards to Blackfriars, the city sleeps? There was a death last night near the Brokenseld tavern on the corner of Milk Street. The body now lies in St Peter Chepe and a judgement has to be delivered.’

Athelstan groaned.

‘Come on, Brother.’ Cranston linked his arm through the friar’s. ‘Let’s collect our horses and go.’

Shouting fond farewells to Benedicta, Cranston hustled his tight-lipped colleague through the door and back into the streets of Southwark. They collected their horses from St Erconwald’s, Philomel even more obdurate and obstinate for it had been a long time since he had travelled far and done any work. They made their way down to the bridge, Athelstan trying to hide his displeasure whilst Cranston, burping and belching, fed his good humour with generous swigs from the miraculous wineskin. He beamed around, hurling abuse at the stall-holders who now had their booths piled high with fripperies, girdles, cups, tawdry rings, sets of false stones, buckles, pater nosters and small cut throat knives. Other stalls displayed food, large gleaming slabs of meat and fish — some fresh from the river, the rest at least two days old and stinking to high heaven.

A group of urchins played football amongst the stalls. A cut-purse, looking for easy profit, caught Sir John’s eye and fled like a rat up an alleyway. At the stocks near the entrance to the bridge, two water-sellers were being forced to stand holding leaking buckets above their heads which any passerby could fill, usually with the dirty fluids from the sewers or thick pools of horse urine. Athelstan glimpsed some of his parishioners: Pike the ditcher, mattock and hoe slung across his shoulder; Watkin on his dung cart, making his way down to the riverside with his cart piled high with rotting refuse. Cecily the courtesan was standing in the doorway of a tavern and promptly disappeared when she caught sight of Athelstan. They all looked subdued, rather frightened, and the friar was pleased that tomorrow he would settle the matter of the mysterious skeleton once and for all.

They crossed the crowded, noisy bridge, Cranston using his authority to force a way through, up Bridge Street, Gracechurch, past the richly painted houses of the bankers in Lombard Street and into the Poultry. The air here was thick with feathers and the smell of birds being gutted, the flesh doused in water, the giblets burnt or roasted on great open fires. Even Cranston had to stop drinking and cover his nose. They entered the Mercery where richer, more ostentatious stalls and booths stood, their owners dressed in sober, costly gowns and shirts, leggings and boots. At last they were into Westchepe. Cranston looked longingly at the Holy Lamb of God tavern but Athelstan was determined to get the business done and return to Southwark; he wished to concentrate on an idea which had occurred to him in Benedicta’s house.

They tied their horses at the rail outside St Peter’s and entered the musty darkness of the church. A group of nervous-looking men, marshalled by a beadle, stood round a table at the entrance to the nave on which lay a body covered by brown, dirt-stained canvas sheeting. They shuffled their feet and whispered nervously amongst themselves as Sir John made his grand entrance.

‘You’re late!’ the red, fat-faced beadle squeaked.

‘Sod off!’ Cranston roared. ‘I am the King’s Justice and my time is the King’s! Now, what do we have here?’

The frightened beadle pulled back the leather sheet. Cranston made a face. Athelstan wrinkled his nose at the sour smell from the corpse of an old man lying on the table, a terrible gaping wound in the crown of his head, blood caked thick and black in the grey-white hair.

‘His name’s John Bridport,’ the beadle announced. ‘He was passing a house situated between Honey Lane and Milk Street.’ The beadle pointed to a frightened-looking man. ‘This is William de Chabham. He had a plank of wood projecting from his workshop on the top floor of his house. He’s a saddler by trade and dried his leather work on the said plank. ‘The beadle looked nervously at Cranston. ‘To cut a long story short, Sir John, the plank became overloaded, slipped, fell, and smashed Bridport’s head.’

‘It was an accident!’ the white-faced saddler pleaded.

‘Where’s the plank?’ Sir John asked.

The beadle pointed at a huge, thick wedge of wood lying beneath the death table. Athelstan, who was using the top of the baptismal font as a desk, carefully summarised the details on a piece of parchment which he would later hand to Sir John.

‘Brother Athelstan,’ Cranston clicked his fingers, ‘would you examine both the victim and the plank?’

Athelstan, cursing under his breath, ordered the plank to be pulled out. He examined both this and the head of the corpse carefully.

‘Well?’ Cranston asked.

‘My Lord Coroner, it appears that John Bridport died in the way described.’

Sir John grasped his cloak between his hands, and drew himself up to his full height.

‘Saddler! Did you have authority or licence to have the plank projecting from the window?’

‘No, My Lord Coroner.’

‘Did you know your victim?’

‘No, My Lord Coroner.’

‘Master beadle, is William de Chabham a man of good repute?’

‘Yes, Sir John, and he has brought these others who will stand guarantor for his good behaviour.’

Cranston scratched his chin. ‘Then this is my judgement. This is no murder or unlawful slaying but an unfortunate accident. You, master saddler, will pay a fine of ten shillings to the Court of Common Pleas. You will take an oath never to use such a plank again and pay whatever other compensation is necessary.’

The saddler winced, though he looked relieved.

‘And the plank, Sir John?’

‘That is to be fined five shillings and burnt by the common hangman.’ Cranston stared down at the corpse. ‘Does Bridport have any relatives?’

‘No, Sir John. He lived alone in a tenement off the corner of Ivy Lane.’

‘Then his goods are to be seized.’ Cranston smiled falsely at the beadle. ‘Bridport is to be given honourable burial at the parish’s expense. You have that, Brother Athelstan?’

‘Yes, My Lord Coroner.’

‘Good!’ he trumpeted. ‘Then this business is done!’

Athelstan handed over the transcript of the inquest in Milk Street, politely refused Cranston’s invitation to a drink in the Holy Lamb of God, and made his way back to Southwark. He stopped at the booths in Three Needle Street and bought a roll of sponge-like material and in Cornhill ajar of face powder. The old lady behind the stall grinned and winked knowingly at him.

‘Everyone to their own, eh, Father?’

The friar bit back a tart reply and led a now sleepy Philomel down Gracechurch towards the bridge. He spent the rest of the day concentrating on the conundrum of the scarlet chamber, using the materials he had bought as he tried to replicate the story in every detail. At last, as the light began to fade, he went out for a short walk in the cemetery, staring into the west as the sun dipped in a red ball of fire. He felt a small glow of satisfaction and praised the beauty of Lady Logic. He had been through the conundrum time and again. There could be only one solution to the mystery, but what would happen if he was wrong?

‘Father! Father!’

Athelstan looked over to see Cecily the courtesan standing warily at the lychgate.

‘What is it, Cecily?’

‘Father, I was only having a cup of wine in the tavern.’

‘There’s no sin in that, Cecily.’

The girl moved towards him. She tried to walk demurely but Athelstan hid his smile at the way she flicked her flounced skirt and leaned forward, displaying her ample bosom in its tight bodice.

‘Father, I have been sent by the rest. We are really sorry about what happened and will all be at mass tomorrow. Benedicta has told us you have something very important to say.’

Athelstan smiled and touched her gently on the arm.

‘You are a good lass, Cecily. I’ll see you at mass tomorrow.’

The girl tripped away. Athelstan stared at the skies. Should he study the stars? The night would be cloud-free. Perhaps he might see one shooting through the heavens like Lucifer in his fall to hell. ‘There again,’ he murmured, ‘perhaps I’ll fall myself!’ He felt sleepy and tired, and remembering the attack of the previous night, stared round the deserted churchyard. He’d be glad when tomorrow’s mass was over and everything could return to normal, but until then it might be best if he kept within his own house. He went in, locking the doors and shutters firmly. ‘It’s a fine night,’ he said to himself, ‘and Bonaventure will be either courting or hunting.’ He realised there was no food in the kitchen so went and sat down, wondering if he would discover anything new when he returned to Blackfriars. His eyes grew heavy. He doused the candle and went upstairs to bed.

Everyone appeared for mass the next morning. Mugwort rang the bell like some demented demon. Ursula turned up, sow in tow, followed by Watkin, Pike, Huddle — the latter gazing appreciatively round the new sanctuary. Benedicta was more composed than the previous day. She whispered to Athelstan not to be too harsh, whilst Pike reminded him that he was to hear confessions that day. Athelstan concealed his dismay behind a bright smile. Of course, he had forgotten about that! The great feast of Corpus Christi would soon be upon them and all his parishioners liked to be shriven of their sins so, after mass, he announced he would be in church all day in the west transept; the curtain would be put up and he would hear their confessions.

Once all his parishioners were assembled, he quietly explained about the skeleton.

‘These are not the bones or remains of a saint,’ he began. ‘Dear children, you must trust me. Sir John and I have discovered the truth. They are the remains of a woman murdered many years ago.’ He shrugged. ‘That is all. Now, Watkin, do you accept what I say?’

The dung-collector, squatting amongst his innumerable brood, nodded solemnly.

‘Very well,’ Athelstan continued, ‘you will take some of the profit which you assuredly raised and buy a proper shroud of thick linen. Pike, you will dig a grave, and this evening I will bless this poor woman’s remains and commit them to the soil. That will be the end of the matter.’

‘What about the cost of all this?’ Pike shouted.

‘Don’t worry,’ Athelstan answered, ‘the monies will be repaid.’

‘And the miracle?’ Ursula screeched. ‘What about the miracle?’

‘Only God knows, Ursula, but if there were miracles, perhaps St Erconwald is responsible?’

A murmur of approval greeted his words.

‘Father.’ Watkin stood up, moving sheepishly from foot to foot. ‘We are sorry, truly sorry, for what has happened but we meant well.’ He produced a large leather purse from beneath his grimy jerkin. ‘These are the profits.’ He nervously weighed the purse in his hand. ‘We have had an idea, Father. Well, the sanctuary’s done so we thought paint should be bought and Huddle depict a scene, a truly large painting, of the visit of the Virgin Mary to her cousin Elizabeth after Jesus’s birth.’

‘Do you all agree?’ Athelstan asked.

A chorus of approval rang out.

‘Then Huddle can begin immediately. Crim, I want you to take a message to Sir John Cranston.’

‘You mean old Fatarse?’

Watkin’s wife gave the lad a slap across the back of his head.

‘Sir John Cranston,’ Athelstan continued. ‘You will tell him he should return to Blackfriars. I shall meet him there at first light tomorrow. Now,’ he began to disrobe in front of them, ‘Watkin, buy the shroud. Pike, you’d best start now because the soil is hard. For the rest, I shall take, as Sir John says, some refreshment and then hear confessions. Oh!’ He turned back to them. ‘And don’t be surprised — a mysterious donor wishes to give us a large statue of St Erconwald for the new sanctuary.’