The Serpents of Harbledown

CHAPTER EIGHT

Expecting only one visitor, Prior Henry was at first disconcerted when two were ushered into his lodging. He found Gervase Bret a more sensitive and congenial person than Ralph Delchard, whose abrasiveness he had already glimpsed at the shire hall and whose lack of respect for the cowl was very disagreeable. Henry quickly adjusted to the surprise. The news he had to impart would in any case have found its way immediately to the leading commissioner. Ralph Delchard might just as well hear it at first hand.

“Thank you for coming so promptly,” began the prior.

“Celerity was needed,” said Gervase. “You would only have summoned me on a matter of grave importance. We guessed that it must concern Brother Martin.”

“It does. Brother Ambrose, too.”

“Brother Ambrose?”

“He is our physician here at the priory. He cures our ailments, calms our fevers and sets the occasional bone which gets broken within the enclave.” He gritted his teeth. “Brother Ambrose is also responsible for laying out our dead. He is a man of unrivalled experience in this task. It was into his care that we placed Brother Martin.”

“What did he find?” said Ralph.

“I must first ask that of Master Bret, my lord.” He turned to Gervase with a raised eyebrow. “When you examined him at the hospital of St. Nicholas, you found nothing to arouse suspicion?”

“Nothing at all, Prior Henry.”

“How closely did you look?”

“With some care. There were no marks upon him.”

“They might not have been immediately visible.”

“What should I have seen?”

“It is more a question of what you should have smelt,” said Prior Henry. “Did you detect no strange odour?”

“None,” replied Gervase. “The church was filled with the scent of herbs. I assumed that Brother Martin had used them deliberately to sweeten the air of a nave where only lepers worshipped. Is that not common practice?”

“It is, Master Bret.”

“The aroma was quite pervasive. I think it would have masked any lesser scent.”

“Palpably.”

“Tell us about Brother Ambrose,” said Ralph impatiently.

“He noticed it at once, my lord.”

“Noticed what?”

“The smell from Brother Martin’s mouth. Faint enough to be smothered by the herbs in the church but strong enough to make its presence felt in the clear air of our morgue.” He gave a sigh.

“Our dear brother was poisoned.”

“Another murder?” said Gervase.

“No question about it. Suicide can be ruled out at once. Brother Martin knew that it was a sin before God to take one’s own life.

Besides, nobody would subject himself to the pain which he must have endured at the end.”

“Pain?”

“Agonies and convulsions. Brother Ambrose has examined the body, searching for the tiny signs which only he would see and cutting open a vein to study the blood. The poison was quick and merciless. Brother Ambrose talks of a herbal compound with belladonna as a main ingredient. It seems that a massive dose was administered.”

“How?” wondered Ralph. “Brother Martin would hardly have quaffed the potion obligingly from his chalice.”

“Force was used. There is bruising on his chest to indicate that he may have been pinned to the ground while the hideous draught was poured down his throat.”

“By whom?” said Gervase. “The church was empty.”

“The killer must have left before you arrived.”

“He could not have done so without being seen, Prior Henry.

One of the lepers watched Brother Martin enter the church alone.

Nobody came out.”

“He must have done, Gervase,” said Ralph.

“The witness was most insistent.”

“Is he reliable?”

“I believe so. He sat outside his hut throughout the whole time that Brother Martin was in the church.”

“Might he not have dozed off to sleep?”

“I think it unlikely.”

“His attention may have been distracted.”

“No, Ralph. Not this man. Alain is a solitary person. He does not mix easily with the others. If he had the church in view during that time, his attention would not have wavered.”

“Somebody administered that poison,” argued Prior Henry. “And with considerable violence. Brother Ambrose showed me the two huge bruises on the chest of Brother Martin. It seemed as if his attacker knelt hard on him and pressed down with both knees.”

“Then how did that attacker escape from the church?”

“I do not know, Master Bret.”

“That will emerge in time,” said Ralph thoughtfully. “What is more beneficial at this stage is to establish the motive for the murder.”

“I am at a loss to imagine what it might be,” confessed the prior. “Who could hate Brother Martin enough to kill him in such a savage way?”

“The same man who killed Bertha.”

“My lord?”

“These two deaths are linked, Prior Henry. A young girl and an old monk. When Bertha was found on Harbledown, it was accepted by all that she perished by snakebite. That was also the opinion of Helto the Doctor. Only Brother Martin contested that view- with the support of Gervase here.”

“It was Brother Martin who activated the sheriff.”

“His evidence was crucial,” observed Ralph. “They killed him in order to silence him.”

“Who did, my lord?”

“That is what we will find out.”

“The priory is involved here,” reminded Henry, “and we will carry out our own rigorous investigation. Archbishop Lanfranc had been informed and he is rightfully appalled. I have been designated to lead our inquiry. One of our holy brethren has been slain. We will not rest until the fiend responsible has been brought to justice.”

“Nor will we,” vowed Ralph.

“Then we have a common aim here. It makes it easier for me to ask a special favour of you, my lord.”

“Favour?”

“This dispute between cathedral and abbey,” said Henry.”It is a matter of the utmost significance to us and requires my undivided attention. While Brother Martin’s murder hangs over us, I will not be able to give it that attention. My plea is that the case be adjourned until this horror has abated and I am more readily available to you at the shire hall.”

“A reasonable request,” commented Gervase.

“Yes,” agreed Ralph without hesitation. “And one with which I concur. We will suspend all work of the commission until this business has been resolved. Along with my dear wife, Gervase and I are the guests of Osbern the Reeve, whose own wife was a close friend of the deceased girl. Bertha’s father, Alwin, is a sailor who operates out of Fordwich, the very port at the heart of your quarrel with the abbey. And now we learn Brother Martin, one of your monks, has been poisoned.”

“Fate has obviously decreed that we are involved in these misfortunes,” said Gervase.

Ralph gave a grim chuckle. “Up to our necks, Gervase. We will do all we can to track down this killer. His methods have been ruthless, his victims defenceless. Such a man does not deserve to breathe the same air as ordinary human beings. We will find this devil somehow.”

Bertha’s funeral was held next morning at the parish church of St. Mildred’s. Alwin and the other chief mourners-the girl’s uncles, aunts and cousins-sat on benches at the front of the nave but a sizeable number of friends and neighbours stood behind them. Reinbald the Priest conducted the service and delivered a touching homily, rhapsodising on Bertha’s virtues while trying to reconcile the minds of his congregation to the suddenness and awfulness of her demise. The nature of that demise, and the inquiry that now followed it, were nowhere touched upon. For all his relative inexperience as a parish priest, Reinbald had natural tact.

Mass was sung for the dear departed, and Bertha was lowered into her grave amid copious weeping and painful sighs. Alwin the Sailor threw the first handful of earth on the coffin and closed his eyes tight against the searing agony of separation. There was an added poignancy for him in the fact that his daughter would lie in the churchyard beside his wife, and he berated himself for failing to honour the promise he had given to Bertha’s mother on her deathbed.

When he finally looked up again, there was no relief from his torment. It was magnified a hundredfold by the burning eyes which met his across the grave. They belonged to his sister-in-law, a gracious, handsome woman in her forties with braided fair hair entwined around an oval face and a resemblance to his dead wife that was so close as to be breathtaking. Alwin felt that her gaze was like a hot brand on his soul. There was such a fund of remorse and hatred and accusation in her stare that he had to turn away.

Osbern the Reeve suffered discomfort of a lesser order but it still made the sweat break on his brow. Bertha had been strangled.

The second murder had forced him to acknowledge the first and it left him feeling hurt and guilty. It also obliged him, sooner or later, to tell Eadgyth the ugly truth about the death of her beloved friend and that thought alarmed him the most. As the gravedigger began to shovel earth into the cavity, Osbern could take no more of the anguish and he stole quietly away.

Ralph and Golde stood arm in arm at the back of the encircling mourners, both deeply moved by the pitiable misery of the occasion. Gervase was close by, caught up in the sadness of it all and yet sufficiently detached to notice a hooded figure who hovered on the very fringe of the burial service. Several monks from cathedral and abbey had come to pay their last respects to someone whose charitable deeds had caused so much favourable comment but the man whom Gervase spotted did not ally himself with either group.

Standing well apart, he kept his hood up and his face concealed.

It was when the monk moved away that Gervase became suspicious. Time spent as a novice at Eltham Abbey had accustomed him to the gait of a monastic order. Older monks might shuffle and younger ones stride but all took account of the heavy cowl which swung around their ankles. The measured tread of the cloister was unmistakeable. The man who retreated from the churchyard, however, had such a lithe and hurried step that it was difficult to believe he spent his days within the enclave.

Curiosity made Gervase take a few paces after him but he was immediately distracted by another figure. This one stood a short distance away from the congregation, his head bowed in prayer, his hands clasped together in his lap. It was an affecting sight, all the more so when Gervase realised that Alain the Leper represented the whole community at the hospital of St. Nicholas.

On their behalf, he had struggled down to Canterbury to keep his vigil near the graveside.

As the mourners began to disperse, Reinbald the Priest made time for a moment alone with the stricken father.

“My thoughts go with you, Alwin.”

“Thank you, Father Reinbald,” said the other. “And thank you for your kind words in the sermon. Nothing will ever bring Bertha back but I took some crumbs of comfort from what you said.”

“I will visit you very soon to offer more consolation.”

“There is no need.”

“There is every need,” said Reinbald. “You have reached a time of trial in your life. It is my duty as your parish priest and my obligation as your friend to do all I can to sustain your spirit and bring you to an acceptance of God’s will.”

Alwin’s manner hardened. “I do not accept it.”

“You must.”

“Bertha died because of the will of a cruel murderer.”

“Do not look at it that way. It will only lead to endless bitterness and sorrow. Let me visit you, Alwin. You have lost a wife and a daughter now. You need me to ease you through these travails.”

“What could you do?” said the other sharply.

“Offer solace and guidance.”

“How?”

“By understanding your grief.”

“How could you possibly understand the sense of loss that I bear? You are a celibate priest. You have no wife and no idea what it is like to bring up a child. Leave me be, Father Reinbald.

I want none of your consolation.”

“In time, maybe.”

“Never!”

“But you need succour.”

“Not from the likes of you,” snapped the other.

Alwin swung away from the grave and blundered off through the mourners, leaving Reinbald the Priest stung by the rudeness of his departure and wounded to the quick by his harsh words. It was some minutes before he recovered enough to be able to offer condolences to other members of Bertha’s family but Alwin’s outburst still echoed in his ears.

When Golde had been escorted back to the house in Burgate Ward, Ralph and Gervase collected their horses from the stables and rode off toward Harbledown. Both were still muted by their attendance at the funeral. It was only when they were trotting up the hill that Ralph found his voice.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

“To the hospital of St. Nicholas.”

“Why?”

“To put an idea of mine to the test, Ralph.”

“What idea?”

“I have been thinking about Brother Martin’s death,” said Gervase, “and I believe that I may have the answer to the mystery.

Brother Martin went into an empty church. An hour or so later, I came along and entered myself, only to find him dead. Yet nobody had come or gone in that time. The explanation is simple.”

“Alain the Leper fell asleep on sentry duty.”

“No, Ralph. He was vigilance itself.”

“Then why did he not see the killer enter the church?”

“Because the man was already inside. He must have gained entry sooner in the evening and lain in wait until Brother Martin came in.”

“It is conceivable,” said Ralph, weighing the idea in his mind.

“And it would certainly explain why Alain did not spot anyone going into the church. But it does not account for the fact that the murderer was not seen leaving either.”

“Alain would never have seen him depart.”

“Why not?”

“Because the man stayed inside the church.”

“He was there when you discovered the body?”

“I believe so.”

“Where would he have hidden?”

“That is what we are going to find out now.”

Ralph was impressed. “Why did this never occur to me?”

“Because you were not at the hospital. You do not know the relation between the church and Alain’s hut. When I worried away at it long enough, the answer came.”

“The possible answer.”

“I know I am right, Ralph. What I am not sure about is the exact time of the killer’s departure.”

“He must have sneaked away as soon as you left.”

“I locked the door of the church.”

“When was it reopened?”

“By the six monks sent from Christ Church Priory, all of them good friends of Brother Martin. Imagine the scene,” said Gervase.

“Six shocked and bereaved men, standing around the dead body of a venerable colleague. They would have been far too distressed to notice anyone who slipped out of the church.”

“The lepers would have noticed him,” suggested Ralph. “Alain must have spread the word by then. They would have come out of their huts to watch Brother Martin being carried away on the cart. The killer must have been seen.”

An image from the funeral shot into Gervase’s mind.

“He was seen, Ralph. Seen but not seen.”

“Stop talking gibberish.”

“What exactly would the lepers have observed?”

“Six monks going into the church and a stranger sliding out to make a run for it. They could not have missed him.”

“They could. Six went in but one came out.”

“We are back to riddles, are we?”

“Six monks entered, Ralph. One monk departed.”

“One monk?”

“That was the man’s disguise,” argued Gervase. “Other monks occasionally visit the hospital to help with its work. The killer donned a black cowl so that he would attract no attention if he sidled into the community. He bided his time before stepping into the church unnoticed.”

“Yes,” agreed Ralph, warming to the theory. “The lepers would have been too heartbroken to count the monks who went in to gather up the body of Brother Martin. When a figure in a cowl emerges, they assume he is one of the party dispatched by Prior Henry. Brilliant, Gervase! How did you work it out?”

“I saw him.”

“Who?”

“The man himself. At the funeral.”

He told Ralph about the lone monk who had caught his eye with his speedy and irreverent withdrawal from the churchyard of St. Mildred’s. His companion became elated.

“By all, this is wonderful!”

“Why?”

“I have learned two things about the man we seek,” said Ralph.

“First, he has the cunning of a fox and will think through his villainy with care. He made Bertha seem the victim of a snakebite to deflect any suspicion of foul play. And he joins the Benedictine Order so that he can murder Brother Martin and escape through a whole crowd of lepers.”

“What is the second thing?” asked Gervase.

“He is still here in Canterbury! We can catch him.”

They reached the hospital and tethered their mounts. The two monks who were looking after the place listened to their request and complied at once. Ralph and Gervase were allowed into the church. At first glance, there were no obvious hiding places, especially for a man as tall as the monk Gervase had observed at the funeral. The church consisted of a simple nave and a tiny vestry. Its windows were too high and too small to allow an easy escape.

The vestry was a potential hiding place but its door was directly opposite the spot where Brother Martin had fallen to the ground.

Even six preoccupied monks would have been aware of a seventh member of their Order walking within a couple of feet of them.

When Ralph tried the door, it creaked so loudly on its hinges that they ruled out the vestry as the place of concealment.

Gervase began to have second thoughts. An idea which had seemed so convincing on their ride to Harbledown was slowly crumbling. With Ralph’s indulgence, he went out of the church, then entered again, retracing the steps he had taken on the previous evening. He came to the pillar against which the old monk had rested, watched him fall to the ground in his mind’s eye, knelt to examine him, then recalled that it was too dark to see properly. When his head turned toward the candle, he had the solution.

“The altar!” he shouted.

“Calm down, Gervase.”

“Where better to hide?”

Removing the crucifix, the candle and the little vase of flowers from the altar, he lifted the white cloth with a mixture of reverence and excitement. The table was small but a man could conceal himself beneath it without undue discomfort. Even Ralph was shocked by the sacrilege.

“Hiding under an altar to commit murder!”

“The last place from which you would expect danger.”

“Brother Martin would have been completely off guard.”

“Kneeling in prayer,” said Gervase, as his gaze raked the floor underneath the table. “The killer eased himself out, jumped on Brother Martin, overpowered him and …”

He broke off as he saw something lying in the crack between two flagstones. Leaning in under the altar, he groped around until his hand closed on the object. When he brought it out, he opened his palm to reveal a small flask.

He held it to his nose and recoiled with disgust. Even the aromatic herbs in the nave could not remove the stink of murder.

“He was here,” said Gervase. “We have a trail.”

Osbern the Reeve was a decent, hardworking, God-fearing man whose life had hitherto followed a pattern of certainty. When he set himself a target, he always achieved it. When he conceived schemes for the future, they invariably came to fruition. His sense of purpose and his unswerving dedication to the task in hand had earned him an important position in the city, a wife whom he adored and a son on whom he doted. It was almost as if he had planned his happiness like a military campaign, marshalling his divisions to strike at the right point and at precisely the correct moment. Every battle he fought under the flag of domestic bliss had so far been attended by triumph.

The situation had altered dramatically. In the space of a couple of days, some of his certainties had been shattered. His contentment had turned to rising anxiety, his faith in his own good judgement had been undermined and, most disturbing of all, he was being forced to reexamine the assumptions he had made about his wife. Osbern had been too complacent in his happiness.

“May I crave a word or two, my lady?” he said politely.

“As many as you wish.”

“Have you spoken to Eadgyth since the funeral?”

“I was just about to do so,” said Golde. “She made me promise to describe it to her when I got back here.”

Osborn nodded. “Thank heaven we were able to persuade her not to attend in person! It would have been far too harrowing for Eadgyth. She was determined to come. It was Helto who finally talked her out of it.”

“He is a sound physician.”

“The best.”

Golde gave a warm smile. “What did you wish to ask me?”

The reeve hesitated. Golde was an honoured guest and he did not wish to offend her in any way by subjecting her to what she might feel was an interrogation. She had also been immensely supportive to Eadgyth and nursed her through the worst of her ordeal. Osbern liked and respected Golde. She had an essential honesty and would answer his question if only he had the courage to ask it. That was Osbern’s other problem. He was torn between wanting to know the truth about Eadgyth and maintaining the illusion that she would never keep anything from her husband.

“Well?” invited Golde.

“How is Eadgyth?”

“You saw her yourself only a few minutes ago.”

“Yes, my lady,” he said, “but I only see her through the eyes of a fond and worried husband. You have sat beside he bed for hours on end, soothing her troubled mind and giving her relief from her sorrow.”

“That sorrow will not easily go away,” warned Golde.

“I know.”

“It ebbs and flows. Today, as you have seen, Eadgyth is understandably distressed. Your wife desperately wanted to go to Bertha’s funeral. She felt it was a betrayal of her closest friend to stay away.”

“There was good reason, my lady.”

“Yes,” said Golde. “It would have upset her beyond measure.

Not simply because she loved Bertha so much but because she would have realised that the truth had been kept from her. Reinbald the Priest did not mention the murder in his sermon but it was common talk among the congregation. Eadgyth must surely have caught a whisper of it.”

“That was my greatest fear.”

“It could easily have been avoided, Osbern.”

“How, my lady?”

“By telling her what really happened to Bertha.”

“Helto cautioned me against that.”

“How long will you keep her ignorant of the truth?”

“I do not know.”

“It cannot be held back forever.”

“I accept that.” He shifted his feet uneasily. “You have spent a great deal of time with Eadgyth,” he said. “She is under enormous stress. Given the circumstances, it is only natural that she would talk to you about Bertha.”

“Constantly.”

“You have shown monumental patience.”

“I have been interested in all that she told me.”

“My lady,” he said, running his tongue over his lips before blurting out his question. “Did my wife ever mention that Bertha had a secret romance?”

“Romance?”

“An admirer whom nobody knew about. A lover. Did she?”

“Not in those terms.”

“There was someone, then?”

“Eadgyth only referred to him as ‘a friend’.”

“What was his name?”

“Your wife did not say,” explained Golde. “Indeed, she did not really mean to confide anything of the relationship to me. It slipped out unwittingly. Once she had told me that Bertha had this special friend, she refused to say another word on the subject. It is a secret she is determined to keep.”

“Yes,” said Osbern ruefully. “Even from me.”

“What harm has it caused you?”

“It was wrong, my lady. I should have been told.”

“This secret belonged only to Eadgyth and Bertha.”

“I am Eadgyth’s husband. There should be no deception between us.”

“Do you not keep secrets from her, Osbern?”

“Never!”

“You take her into your confidence about everything.”

“It is an article of faith.”

“An admirable one in many ways,” said Golde. “Marriage should blend two people completely together. But you must not blame Eadgyth for harbouring this secret. Although you profess to be honest with her, you have clearly not been so.”

“I have, my lady! I swear it.”

“Then why have you not told her the truth about Bertha’s death?

That is a dreadful secret to keep from your wife. Eadgyth may never forgive you.”

The visit to Harbledown was highly productive. Ralph Delchard and Gervase Bret were pleased with their progress and rode back toward the city in good humour. As they approached Westgate, they saw a hooded figure sitting outside the town wall with a begging bowl at his feet. Gervase found a coin in his purse and tossed it down as they passed.

Alain caught it expertly in his bowl and looked up to nod his gratitude. Recognising Gervase, he rose from the ground and dipped a hand deep into his sleeve. He brought out something wrapped in a piece of cloth and handed it over before moving away. Gervase was puzzled. He flicked back the folds of cloth and held the object in his palm. Wrinkling his nose in distaste, Ralph urged him to hurl it after the leper, but Gervase felt that it had a significance. He turned it around to examine it more closely.

It was an apple out of which one large bite had been taken.