What Remains of Heaven

Chapter 7

Pale and naked, the body of the Bishop of London lay stretched out upon the slab table in Paul Gibson’s secluded outbuilding. Thanks to the thickness of the stone walls, the atmosphere in the low-ceilinged, windowless space was cold and dark and thickly scented with death. Sebastian paused in the open doorway and took one last gulp of fresh air.

“Ah, there you are,” said the surgeon, laying aside a bloody scalpel. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist this one.”

Of medium height, with the dark hair and ready smile of an Irishman, Paul Gibson had known Sebastian for years. Once, they’d worn the King’s colors and fought together from the mountains of Italy and the Peninsula to the West Indies. They might come from different worlds and speak the King’s English with markedly different accents, but theirs was a friendship forged in blood and guts and fear.

“Nice to be predictable,” said Sebastian, eyes blinking at the room’s rank air. After only some fourteen to sixteen hours of death—and most of that during the cool hours of the night—the Bishop’s corpse was still relatively fresh. The sheet-covered form that rested on a stretcher in the room’s far corner was anything but fresh.

Limping over to where a chipped enamel basin and pitcher stood on the wooden shelf that ran across the room’s back wall, the surgeon splashed water into the basin and rinsed his hands. “There’s no denying it’s an interesting puzzle. Two men murdered decades apart in the same place? Not often we see that.”

“Judging from the smell, I’d say that’s fortunate. Have you found anything yet that might link the two?”

“Not yet. But then, I’ve only just started on the Bishop. It’s definitely the blow to his head that killed him . . . not that that’ll come as a surprise to anyone who’s had a good look at him.”

Sebastian studied the corpse before them. The Bishop of London had been a tall man, and thin, with long, sinewy arms and legs. In his late fifties or early sixties, he had a high forehead and a strong nose, his cheekbones prominent and knifelike beneath the flesh of his face. His hair was completely white, worn straight and unusually long. Even in death, something both scholarly and gentle lingered in his expression.

“Did you know him?” said Gibson.

“I met him once or twice.” Sebastian examined the gash that disfigured the left side of the Bishop’s head. “Sir Henry said they found an iron bar near the body. Do you think it was the murder weapon?”

Gibson nodded to a stout bar, one end gently curved and notched, that lay on the nearby bench. “I’d say so, yes. It fits the size and shape of the wound very neatly. The blow shattered his skull, tearing the lining of the brain and leaving it exposed. He probably died almost immediately, although it is possible he lived as much as half an hour after he was hit. I doubt he ever regained consciousness, though.”

Sebastian glanced up in surprise. “So he might still have been alive when Reverend Earnshaw found him?”

“Possibly. Not that it matters. Even if the Reverend had gone for a doctor rather than the magistrate, there’s nothing anyone could have done for him.”

Sebastian studied the Bishop’s long fingers, the nails meticulously manicured and unbroken. “No sign of a struggle?”

“None.” Gibson tossed aside the rough towel he’d been holding. “The papers are saying the Bishop surprised a thief who’d taken advantage of the crypt being opened to rob the burials.”

“I suppose it’s a more reassuring tale than the alternative—that someone deliberately bludgeoned the Bishop of London to death.”

Gibson looked over at him. “Any idea who?”

“Not a clue. Not even a suspect.” Sebastian hunkered down to study the dead man’s bloodied head. “What can you tell me about his murderer?”

“Very little, I’m afraid. Judging from the position of the wound, I’d say the Bishop was hit from the front, by someone who was right-handed. The assailant was either extraordinarily tall, or the Bishop was positioned below him—as if sitting, or at least crouching.”

“What makes you say that?”

“If you look closely, you’ll notice that the wound isn’t exactly on the side of his head. It’s up toward the crown. The only way anyone could strike at that angle is if he were standing above the Bishop, or if he were considerably taller than the Bishop—which is unlikely, given that Bishop Prescott was an unusually tall man himself.”

“You think the Bishop could have been crouched down beside him?” said Sebastian, nodding toward the shrouded form on the stretcher behind them.

“From the way I understand the two men were found, I’d say that’s highly probable. The Bishop was lying virtually on top of the earlier victim.”

Reluctantly, Sebastian went to draw back the covering from the eighteenth-century corpse, and let out his breath in a sharp hiss. “Good God.”

“Fascinating, isn’t it?” said Gibson, limping over to stand beside him.

“That’s one word for it.”

“I’m afraid I haven’t had much of a chance to examine this one yet, but I’m looking forward to it.”

“Really?” Sebastian studied his friend’s rapt expression. “You’d love the crypt of St. Margaret’s, then.”

“I would indeed. What an opportunity!”

Sebastian ducked his head to hide a smile.

Beneath the froth of lace, the once fine blue velvet coat, and the satin waistcoat, the body’s sinew had shriveled and sunk. Yet it was obvious that the corpse had belonged to an unusually large man, robust of frame and full of flesh. Time and the action of the chemicals in the crypt had withered and distorted the features of his face and darkened the skin until he looked like an aged Moor from the mountains of Morocco. Without the chin strap that normally held a burial’s jaw closed, his mouth had fallen open in a gaping, hideous yowl, but where once had been eyes were now strange, paperlike wisps.

“Old fly pupae,” said Gibson, when Sebastian looked up in question.

Sebastian cleared his throat and overcame the urge to draw the covering back up over that horror. “I understand this one was stabbed in the back with a dagger?”

“That’s right.” Gibson limped over to retrieve an object from the bench and held it out. “This.”

The blacked blade was long and thin, cast in one piece with the handle, then hammer-forged to produce a diamond blade cross-sectioned without any sharpened edges. A stabbing weapon, it was designed not to cut, but to penetrate deeply.

“A fine weapon,” said Sebastian, running his thumb along the delicate floral scroll of acanthus leaves and flowers that decorated the handle. “Renaissance, perhaps?”

“I’d say so, yes. Italian.”

Sebastian brought his gaze back to the withered cadaver at their feet. “What I want to know is, what the hell was our gentleman in velvet and lace doing down in that crypt in the first place?”

“I don’t know. But whatever it was, he obviously wasn’t alone.”