Murder Most Holy

CHAPTER 5

They had to fight their way across as the carts, their produce emptied at the markets, made their way out of the city before curfew sounded. On Bridge Street the fish market stank like a rancid herring. Athelstan glimpsed some of the stale fish the vendors were still trying to clear and quietly vowed to be wary of any fish pie served in the cookshops or taverns. On such a fine day all of London was out of doors. The rich in satin and murrey clothes rubbed shoulders with urchins, their thin bodies barely covered by dirty tattered rags. A group of prostitutes, with heads freshly shaven, were led by a bagpiper to stand in the round house called the Tun at Cheapside. They turned left into Ropery where the stalls were covered with every type of cord, rope, string and twine — some dyed in brilliant colours, others rusty coils to be bought by masons and builders. The apprentices ran out seeking trade, even brushing off the bridles of horses, but one look at the red-faced Cranston and the dark-cowled priest and they turned away.

The sight of the builders’ ropes made Athelstan think of those flagstones in the church and the strange mason’s mark. He had asked his parishioners to keep their eyes open for a similar mark but no one had recognised it. Somehow, Athelstan concluded, the man who had first laid those stones must know about the skeleton found beneath them.

Cranston stirred. ‘Lord, look at that,’ he said.

They’d stopped at the corner of the Vintry where the sheriffs’ men were carrying out punishments. A man stood naked up to his chin in a barrel of horse piss. The crude notice pinned to the wood proclaimed him to be a brewer who’d adulterated his drink. The biggest crowd, however, had stopped to watch an aged harridan, her ragged skirts tied up above her head, whilst a bailiff beat her drooping grey-coloured buttocks with a wand as a punishment for ill-treating some children. A crowd had gathered round, shouting cat-calls and throwing offal and other refuse at the hapless blindfolded woman. The commotion stopped as a funeral procession forced its way through, led by a priest carrying a cross and chanting ‘Requiem Dona Eis.’ Most of the mourners were drunk and the coffin bobbed on the shoulders of the pall bearers like a cork on water, so much so that the lid had come loose and the greyish arm of the corpse dangled out, flopping up and down as if the dead person was really waving goodbye to all around him.

Athelstan and Cranston dismounted and led their horses past the carts crashing across the cobbles to the docks. They turned into Beck Street but were forced under the eaves of a house to make way for a strange procession: a group of men, hooded and masked but naked from the neck down to the waist, were making their way slowly down the street. They chanted the ‘Miserere’ psalm in a sing-song fashion whilst others whipped their backs until the skin turned blue-red and burst.

‘Flagellantes!’ Athelstan whispered. ‘They are seen in Paris, Cologne, Madrid, now London. They walk from city to city, chanting their psalms and beating each other in expiation for sin.’

Cranston just belched loudly.

‘How in God’s name,’ he muttered, ‘can that please the good Christ?’

Athelstan just shook his head.

The flagellantes turned the corner and the sound of the lashing rods and religious chant faded into the distance.

Athelstan and Cranston now approached Blackfriars and could glimpse the monastery spires and turrets above the red-tiled houses. They found one side-street barred by soldiers dressed in the city livery, fully armed, who held sponges over their mouths and faces. Athelstan looked down the street and shivered. It was deserted. Every house had its doors barred and bolted and the shutters across its windows firmly locked. The gaudy sign of a tavern clinked eerily as if sighing over its empty taproom.

‘The plague!’ Cranston said, mounting his horse. ‘God save us, Brother, if that comes back!’

Athelstan sketched the sign of the cross at the mouth of the street and followed Cranston into the great open space around Blackfriars. Before them rose the huge gate and high boundary wall which circled the great monastery. A lay brother answered Cranston’s urgent tugging of the bell-rope and took them across the cobbled yard where an ostler, bleary-eyed, toothless, and with the nastiest face ulcer Athelstan had ever seen, muttered some nonsense at them and led their horses away. As the lay brother then took them into the cool open passageways, Athelstan smiled to himself. It felt strange to be back. Here he’d served his novitiate. He looked down one paved stone corridor and stopped as if he could see the ghost of himself as a young man slipping down the corridors at night, through an open window across moonlit gardens and over the wall where his younger brother was waiting to go with him to the King’s wars. Poor Francis, buried on some French battlefield!

‘I am sorry,’ Athelstan whispered to the sun motes dancing in the brilliant light pouring through the window. ‘I am so sorry!’

The lay brother looked at Athelstan curiously.

‘Are you well?’ the fellow asked.

Cranston narrowed his eyes and shook his head as if he could read Athelstan’s mind.

‘It’s nothing,’ he murmured. ‘My good friend has seen a ghost.’

The mystified lay brother led them on, across the sun-dappled cloister garden where Prior Anselm was waiting for them in his large, blue-painted chamber.

‘You have come earlier than I thought,’ he said. He clicked his fingers at the lay brother and whispered instructions in his ear. ‘Do sit,’ Anselm murmured. He picked up and rang a small bell. ‘You must be thirsty?’

Cranston beamed. Athelstan, who always felt uneasy in this chamber where he had been confronted with his sins, nodded absentmindedly.

A servitor appeared carrying a large jug of mead and three cups. He’d hardly filled Anselm’s and Athelstan’s before Cranston had drained his and was nudging him for more.

‘Don’t be shy,’ the knight whispered, smacking his lips. ‘Marvellous! Absolutely marvellous! Fill it to the brim and leave it on the floor beside me.’

The hapless servitor obeyed and backed, round-eyed, out of the room.

‘You like our mead, Sir John? Our hives are most fruitful and produce the softest and sweetest honey. I must give you a jar of that and a small tun of mead for Lady Maude.’

‘Excellent!’ Cranston murmured. He stared, bleary-eyed: at Athelstan and swayed dangerously on his stool. ‘A fine place,’ he mumbled. ‘I can’t see why you left it!’

Athelstan glared back. Any minute now Sir John would nod off for his afternoon nap. He just hoped he would not fall straight off the stool for Cranston in a drunken stupor was prodigiously heavy.

‘Father Prior,’ he said quickly, ‘this matter of Henry of Winchester, why is there so much debate?’

Prior Anselm, fascinated by Cranston, found it difficult to drag his eyes away from the jovial coroner who sat on the stool like a huge, burping baby.

‘Henry has produced a tract,’ he replied slowly, ‘in which he argues that God became man, not to save us from sin but to make us beautiful again.’

Athelstan raised his eyebrows. ‘Father Prior, where’s the heresy in that?’

‘At first I thought the same, but if we accept Brother Henry’s thesis that Christ came to return us to our former state of blessedness, then where is the importance of sin? Where is the idea of divine justice and retribution?’

Cranston belched. ‘Too much bloody sin!’ he murmured. ‘That’s all you priests talk about. How can the good God send a man to hell because he drinks too much?’

Cranston smacked his lips and was about to launch into his own original dissertation when there was a knock at the door and the lay brother entered.

‘Father Prior, the rest of the Inner Chapter are waiting.’

Athelstan, who’d been staring in disbelief at Cranston the theologian, rose to his feet. ‘Father Prior,’ he said hastily, ‘we should meet them now.’

Anselm winked at Athelstan and led them down a maze of corridors, Cranston lumbering behind them like a fat-bellied ship in a storm. The members of the Inner Chapter, together with a bemused Brother Roger, were already seated round the table. They half-rose to their feet but Anselm gestured at them to sit down. The introductions were quickly made and Athelstan was pleased Cranston was with him. He knew he was considered a black sheep in the Order; some of these men might dislike, even object to, his presence here. Now everyone just sat fascinated by Cranston, who slumped in Prior Anselm’s chair without a by-your-leave and beamed down the table like a jovial Bacchus. Athelstan saw the sniggers and heard the whispered comments. The words ‘toper’ and ‘drunkard’, and condescending looks were passed his way.

Whilst the prior made an embarrassed speech, Athelstan studied his brothers in Christ: William de Conches and the cheery-faced Eugenius he knew by reputation. Dangerous men with their sharp eyes and rat-trap souls, who believed the good Lord really did like to see people burnt in barrels of oil for his sake. The jovial Brother Peter and the Irishman Niall were strangers. They both seemed pleasant enough and Athelstan could see Peter was on the point of bursting into peals of laughter at the way Cranston now leaned, bleary-eyed, against the table. Brother Henry of Winchester sat like a statue, his dark face a mask of serenity. He smiled shyly at Athelstan and nodded. Athelstan did likewise. He had heard of this brilliant young theologian, a powerful preacher with a razor-like intellect. Poor Brother Roger beside him was a complete contrast with his foolish face and strange tufts of hair sticking up on his head. Athelstan looked at the man’s crazed eyes, the saliva drooling from his lips, and wondered if he was insane enough to commit murder.

Anselm finished the introductions, turned and looked a Cranston but he was now half-asleep, a serene smile on his face. Athelstan coughed to divert attention, placed his ink horn parchment and quill on the table and touched them nervously He stared down at them, picked up his quill and gazed round the group.

‘Father Prior,’ he began slowly, ‘has asked me to come here to elucidate certain mysteries which concern the Inner Chapter This assembled on Monday the thirty-first of May. Within a week of its starting Brother Bruno slipped on the steps leading down to the crypt. On the following Saturday, last Saturday to be precise, Brother Alcuin the sacristan went into the monastery church, locking the door behind him, to pray in silence for the repose of the soul of his dead brother who lay coffined before the high altar. Is that correct, Father Prior?’

Anselm nodded. ‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘Alcuin went into that church. The door remained locked, yet when Brother Roger went in, Alcuin had disappeared.’ Anselm paused and Athelstan saw the half-wit grin vacuously. ‘On Monday evening,’ Anselm continued, ‘Brother Callixtus, contrary to the rules of this house, went into the library to do private study. There, he apparently slipped from a ladder and was killed instantly.’

‘Coincidences!’ William de Conches snapped, crossing his arms and leaning against the table. ‘Bruno was an old man, the stairs are steep.’ He gave a shrug. ‘Alcuin went into the church and, perhaps overcome by emotion, decided to flee the monastery. He leaves, locks the church behind him and steals away like a thief in the night.’ The inquisitor glared brazenly at Athelstan. ‘He wouldn’t be the first friar to have done so and he certainly won’t be the last!’

Athelstan gazed coolly back, trying to hide the surge of rage. I hope you are the murderer, he thought, because there is murder here. He blinked, trying to clear such malicious thoughts from his mind.

‘And Brother Callixtus?’ Athelstan asked. ‘He, too, fell from the ladder?’

‘Yes, yes,’ Eugenius snapped, half-turning his head, refusing to look at Athelstan.

The friar leaned his elbows on the table and steepled his fingers, vowing not to look to his right where Cranston sat snoring like a baby. ‘Brother Henry, Brother Niall, Brother Peter?’ He smiled at the theologians. ‘You have all studied logic?’

All three men nodded.

‘And the theory of probability and the possibility of coincidence?’

Again there were nods of assent.

‘Then tell me, Father Prior,’ Athelstan continued, ‘how many violent deaths have there been at this monastery in the last three years? Not deaths due to natural causes but violent and unexpected deaths?’

‘There have been none.’

‘So,’ Athelstan concluded, ‘in three years before the Inner Chapter met, perhaps even in six, there are no violent deaths But this Inner Chapter meets, and within two weeks two brothers die and another disappears in mysterious circumstances. Now tell me, all of you, is that probable? Is that logical?’

Brother Henry of Winchester smiled and shook his head.

‘Brother Niall, Brother Peter?’

Their agreement with Brother Henry showed in their faces

‘Moreover, we have other evidence,’ Athelstan continued ‘Something Father Prior hasn’t told me.’

Anselm gazed back in surprise.

‘There is something else, isn’t there, Father Prior?’

Anselm licked his thin dry lips. Had he done the right thing, he wondered fleetingly, in bringing this young Dominican back? Athelstan was too quick, too sharp. Would the cure he proposed be worse than the disease? Was William of Conches right? Would it be best to leave these things be? Athelstan’s sea-grey eyes held his.

‘Yes, yes, there is,’ Father Prior replied. ‘Alcuin would never have fled the monastery. His cell was as he left it; he took no scrip, no wallet, no food, no money, no boots, nor a horse from the stables. And, if he fled, surely someone would have seen him? Secondly, Alcuin felt excluded from the Chapter. He and his close friend Brother Callixtus,’ Anselm smiled weakly ‘always did consider themselves theologians. The other brethren overheard their chatter. They dismissed the Inner Chapter as a farce. Alcuin said his friend Callixtus could prove that you, Master Inquisitor, were wasting your time.’

‘What did he mean by that?’ William of Conches barked

‘He meant, monk — ’ Cranston smacked his lips and opened his eyes.

The Dominicans jumped as the coroner brought himself fully alert, stretching and looking sharply round the room for anyone laughing at him.

‘He meant,’ the coroner repeated, ‘that there were two monks — ’ he smiled ‘- sorry, friars, who believed the Inner Chapter was a waste of time. One’s now dead, the other’s disappeared. Am I right, Father Prior?’

Anselm nodded quickly. Cranston held up a stubby finger.

‘I have not studied logic but always remember the old proverb, “Just because a dog has its eyes closed, that does not mean it’s asleep”. I am Sir John Cranston, King’s Coroner in the City. Even asleep I am alert.’

Athelstan groaned to himself. He wished Cranston would not play his trick of pretending to be a drunken toper.

‘Father Prior,’ Athelstan asked quickly, ‘what do you think Alcuin and Callixtus meant by saying the Master Inquisitor was wasting his time here?’

‘I don’t really know. The two of them were for ever in comers whispering and Callixtus was searching the library for some manuscript.’

‘The other one,’ Cranston rudely interrupted, glaring at Athelstan. ‘You know, the old one, the first to die — Bruno. Was he connected with the Inner Chapter?’

‘No, he wasn’t,’ Eugenius answered. ‘But Alcuin, for some strange reason, always claimed he was going to the crypt at the very time Bruno stumbled and fell.’ Eugenius pulled a face. ‘I leave you to draw your own conclusions, Athelstan, as to what he meant by that.’

Athelstan made a few notes of what had been recorded then, putting down his pen, rose and stood over Brother Roger who crouched like a frightened rabbit, his eyes fixed on the Master Inquisitor. Athelstan took the half-wit’s hand in his.

‘Brother Roger,’ he murmured, ‘what is it you want to tell Father Prior?’

Roger blinked furiously and licked his lips in a way which made his tongue look too big for his mouth, making the saliva run down his unshaven chin. The sub-sacristan rubbed his head with dirty fingers.

‘I saw something in the church,’ he said. ‘But I can’t remember, except that there should have been twelve, or was it thirteen?’ He smiled vacuously at Athelstan. ‘I don’t know. Brother Roger forgets so quickly.’

Athelstan shook his head and rose.

‘Father Prior, is there anything else we need to know? Does anyone here have further information on these mysterious occurrences?’

A wall of silence greeted his words.

‘In which case, Father Prior, Sir John and I would like to withdraw. We have a chamber here?’

‘Yes, the servitor will show you up. Sir John and you will stay in our guest house.’

Athelstan bit his lip. He knew Sir John wanted to stay at Blackfriars well away from Lady Maude’s sharp tongue but the idea of sharing a chamber did not appeal to Athelstan. He had travelled with Cranston on a few occasions and knew the coroner became very loquacious, especially after a good meal and a few cups of sack.

‘We have your leave to go round the monastery and see what we wish?’

‘Of course!’

The meeting broke up. Brother Roger half-ran from the room. Brothers Niall and Peter nodded smilingly at Athelstan. Brother Henry murmured how glad he was to see him here, but the Inquisitors totally ignored him. Prior Anselm handed Athelstan and Cranston over to the lay brother who took them out of the main monastery building, round by the church to a small guest house which overlooked the orchard. It had its own kitchen and buttery on the ground floor and a large spacious chamber above, containing two truckle beds, a chest, a prie-dieu, a table under the glazed windows, one chair, a few stools and pegs driven into the wall on which to hang up their clothes. It was clean and well swept. Fresh rushes lay on the kitchen floor sprinkled with a mixture of herbs whilst the bed chamber boasted woollen cloths on the wall and a pure wool rug stitched to a coarse backing on the floor.

‘Father Prior said you can join us in the refectory for a meal if you wish,’ the young servitor announced. ‘Or you may cook your own food or have something sent across from the kitchen.’

‘Who will bring the food?’ Athelstan asked.

‘I would,’ the young fellow replied. ‘My name’s Norbert. I am in the novitiate preparing for my final vows.’

Athelstan studied Norbert’s smooth face and clear brown eyes. He looked like a man to be trusted.

‘You have nothing to do with the Inner Chapter?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Oh, no, Brother Athelstan. Too grand for me.’

‘Then,’ Athelstan replied, clapping him on the shoulder, ‘you bring the food across from the refectory. Now, be a good fellow, check on our horses in the stables. Philomel, the old war horse, eats fit to burst!’ Athelstan looked slyly at Cranston. ‘And he’s not the only one! My Lord Coroner is a man with prodigious appetites. Make sure his trencher is well stacked.’

Norbert smiled and gave a gap-toothed grin.

‘And that mead,’ Cranston interrupted, sticking his thumbs into his belt, ‘I understand it’s very good for the gullet.’

‘Father Prior has already left a barrel, Sir John, for your use. There are jugs of wine and a small tun of beer in the buttery.’

‘Excellent! Excellent!’ Cranston murmured.

Athelstan watched the young servitor leave then slumped down at the kitchen table.

‘Sir John, what have we here?’ He laid out his parchment and pens on the table. ‘First, we have an Inner Chapter convoked to discuss theological matters. Brother Henry is debating these issues with Brothers Peter and Niall. The Inquisitors are present to sniff out heresy. Two other Dominicans, Alcuin and Callixtus, make cryptic remarks about the Inner Chapter being a waste of time. Callixtus falls from a ladder in the library, Alcuin disappears. There is a rumour that, although Brother Bruno had nothing to do with the Inner Chapter, he fell down the steps of the crypt at the very time Alcuin was supposed to be there. Brother Roger, a half-wit, claims there is something wrong in the church and talks about the number twelve or thirteen. Well, Sir John, what do you think?’

A loud snore greeted his declaration. Athelstan turned Cranston sat in the room’s one and only high-backed chair in front of the small fire, fast asleep, smiling and smacking his lips. Athelstan sighed and went across to make him more comfortable, stoking up the fire and going back to his notes He sat for an hour trying to make sense of what he had been told, whilst Cranston snored and, in the distance, Athelstan half-heard the tolling of the monastery bell calling the brothers to Divine service. The sun began to set. Cranston woke with a start and, patting his stomach, first visited the garde-robe, then went into the buttery to pour himself a jug of mead.

‘Not now, Sir John.’ Athelstan followed him in. ‘We have work to do.’

Cranston’s face was a study in self-pity. ‘Friar, I am thirsty.’

‘Sir John, we have work to do.’

‘Such as?’

‘Sir John, you are the coroner. You visit the scene of these crimes and the sooner we resolve the mysteries,’ Athelstan added hopefully, ‘the sooner we can resolve the secrets of the scarlet room.’

Cranston put down the tankard and smiled. ‘Brother Athelstan, you have my full attention.’

They went back to the cloisters. Athelstan vaguely remembered that the crypt was in a small passageway just off the north side of the church. The cloister garth was silent except for the buzzing of bees fluttering around the flowers growing near the tinkling water fountain. The small desks the brothers used for copying and writing had been pushed away. Athelstan recalled the long hours he used to spend here, taking advantage of the good daylight to copy out some learned tract. He paused. Brother Callixtus had been his mentor and Alcuin always had a penchant for theological writings. Had they seen something or studied some tract connected with the Inner Chapter? Athelstan stared at the small fountain. Blackfriars’ library was famous, containing manuscripts from all over western Europe, not just the writings of his order, but those of ancient philosophers as well as other theologians.

‘Come on, Athelstan!’ Cranston urged, nodding towards the great, iron-barred door. ‘The secrets of the crypt await us!’

Athelstan nodded and pushed the door open.

‘Steep steps,’ he muttered. ‘They fall away into the darkness. I used to think it was the entrance to hell.’ He pointed to a sconce torch just inside the door. ‘You have a tinder, Sir John, light that!’

The coroner obeyed and the resin-drenched torch spluttered into life.

‘Do that again, Sir John,’ Athelstan asked, closing the crypt door behind them.

He looked bemused. ‘For God’s sake, Brother, the torch is lit!’

‘No, do it again! Repeat the action!’

Cranston reluctantly obeyed. ‘What’s the matter, Brother?’

‘Well, let us try and visualise what Brother Bruno must have done. Look, Sir John, the top step is broad and safe. The torch is in the wall as you close the door behind you. Brother Bruno would turn, as you did, to light that torch. Now the top step, as I have said, is broad; there’s enough space for someone to be waiting behind the door. Bruno comes in, and turns. Like you he would be half-off balance as he stretches to light the torch.’

‘So,’ Cranston interrupted, ‘you are saying someone was lurking here in the darkness and gave the old man a violent push, thinking he was Alcuin?’

‘Yes, I am.’

Athelstan carefully took the torch out of its iron bracket and held it out against the blackness, making the shadows dance on the steep steps falling away beneath them. Athelstan pointed to the iron hand-rail.

‘When I was a novice here, everyone was frightened of these steep, sharp-edged steps. That’s why the hand-rail was put in No man, especially an old one, even someone like Alcuin, could survive such a fall.’

‘But Alcuin was not pushed,’ Cranston observed. ‘Poor Bruno was. Admittedly the wrong man, but the question still remains — why was someone waiting for Alcuin? And why would Alcuin come here? You studied at Blackfriars Athelstan?’

Athelstan smiled as he replaced the torch in its iron bracket and re-opened the door. ‘A very good point, Sir John: the crypt was often used for secret meetings. You know, the petty squabbles and factions in any community, not to mention the illicit relationships which can grow up between men committed to celibacy.’

‘That went on here?’ Cranston muttered, closing the crypt door behind him.

Athelstan took him gently by the elbow, guiding him back into the fading sunlight of the cloister garden.

‘Stranger things than that, Sir John, but now we are looking for a murderer.’

‘It could still have been an accident,’ Cranston observed.

‘That would depend on two things. First, can we find any connection between Alcuin and the crypt? Whom was he going to meet there? Second, when Bruno’s body was found was that sconce torch lit? If it wasn’t, that means he was pushed just as he struck the tinder; the murderer had to act quickly or he would have been discovered. All he would see was one shadowy figure. How easy to give one violent push and then disappear.’

Cranston eased the cramp from his neck and shivered. So quiet, so peaceful, he thought; Blackfriars was so different from the city with its whitewashed walls, clean passageways, flower-filled gardens, tinkling fountains, and the sound of melodious voices chanting God’s praises. Yet the same emotions ran as strong here as in the alleyways off Cheapside. Lust, envy, jealousy, greed, and even murder. They both stood aside as the door of the church opened and the monks, hands concealed in the voluminous sleeves of their gowns, cowls pulled well over their heads, filed out in anonymous silence back to the refectory. Cranston raised his head like a hunting dog and sniffed the breeze. He patted his stomach and licked his lips.

‘Food!’ he murmured. ‘Venison, Brother. Fresh, tender, and spiced with rosemary.’

‘In a while, Sir John.’

Athelstan clutched him by the wrist and waited until the monks filed by before leading Cranston into the incense-filled church. Sunlight still played on the coloured glass windows, filling the darkness with faint streaks of light. The incense clouds from the sanctuary seeped down the nave like fragrant perfume. Athelstan felt the holy stillness as if the very air had been consecrated by the brothers’ singing.

They went up the nave and under the elaborately carved rood screen into the sanctuary. Athelstan stared round, marvelling at the sheer beauty of the multi-coloured marble floor, alabaster steps and the huge, high altar hewn out of the costliest marble supported by pillars whose cornices were covered in thick gold leaf. Candlesticks of massed silver stood on the white silk altar cloth. High in the wall an exquisite rose window sill shone in the dying sun’s light. Athelstan looked at the heavily carved stalls on either side of the sanctuary where the brothers assembled to sing Divine Office. He remembered his own days there, standing half-asleep, chanting the psalms at Matins. Above the altar hung a heavy black cross suspended from the beams by chains of pure gold. In the apse to the back of the altar, beneath the rose window, were carved niches, some of them filled by life-sized statues of the apostles.

‘This is not St Erconwald’s,’ Cranston murmured, staring in amazement at the silent beauty of the sanctuary. ‘Poetry in stone and marble,’ he added. ‘But did Alcuin die here?’

Athelstan blinked as if he had allowed the serenity of the church to obliterate his reason for coming here.

‘How many entrances are there?’ Cranston asked harshly.

‘Only two,’ Athelstan replied. ‘The one we came through,’ he pointed to the main door, ‘and one from the sanctuary.’

‘No trap doors or secret passageways?’

‘None whatsoever, and Father Prior said that both doors were locked. Alcuin apparently wished to be alone.’

‘And where would he go?’

Athelstan beckoned and led him round the high altar. A scarlet carpet lay spread behind, on each corner of it a stout wooden pillar.

‘What are those for?’ Cranston asked.

‘When a brother dies, the coffin is placed on those pillars above the red carpet,’ Athelstan replied. ‘The corpse has to rest before the altar for one entire day and night. The Requiem mass is sung.’ Athelstan tapped the sanctuary floor with his foot. ‘After that the coffin is lowered into the huge vault beneath.’

‘Could Alcuin have been thrown into the vault?’

‘I doubt it. Remember, Bruno’s coffin was lowered there. Our lay brothers may not be the brightest of people but they would certainly notice the corpse of one of their brethren lying about.’ Athelstan pointed to the prie-dieu and stared round, taking in the life-sized statues standing in their niches. ‘This is the last place Alcuin was seen alive,’ he murmured. ‘Father Prior is certain he went into the church. But what happened then?’

His half-whisper sounded eerie in the silence and Cranston, despite the beauty of the church, felt a shiver of menace.

‘I don’t know, Brother,’ he replied, ‘I really don’t. But I feel we are standing at the mouth of the Valley of Death!’