Murder Most Holy Read online

  ‘Father! Father! Come quickly!’ The man’s eyes were rounded and fearful. Beads of sweat coursed down his dust-covered face.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Watkin declared. ‘I am sexton and leader of the council.

  ‘Shut up, Fatty!’ the workman shouted. ‘Father, it’s you we want. You must come!’ He waved his hands in agitation. ‘Please come. We have removed the flagstone . . .’ The fellow gulped and stared round. ‘We removed the flagstone under the altar and found a body!’

  Athelstan went cold, banging on the table to quiet the uproar. ‘A body?’ he exclaimed. ‘And under our altar?’

  ‘Well, Father, to be honest, a skeleton, perfectly formed, lying there. Just lying there! It has a small, wooden crucifix in its hand.’

  Led by their priest, the parish council strode out of the house and into the church, all animosity forgotten. Just inside the entrance, Athelstan stopped and the whole group jostled and shoved each other.

  ‘Oh, no!’ he groaned.

  ‘Don’t worry, Father,’ Watkin announced cheerfully. ‘It’ll all be put to rights in a week.’

  Athelstan stared at the chaos. The rood screen had been taken down and the sanctuary now looked more like a builder’s yard. The old flagstones were piled in untidy heaps and, as they strode up the nave, Athelstan could glimpse the huge hole over which the altar had once stood. The rest of the workmen now stood round this, staring down into the darkness. The workman who had come for him, apparently the foreman, pompously waved Watkin and the rest back.

  ‘You see, Father,’ he said, looking round at his colleagues for agreement, ‘the altar was set on a flagstone that in turn rested on a slab over a bed of gravel and some soil. Now,’ the man cleared his throat and wiped his dusty mouth on the back of his hand, ‘as you directed, we’re trying to lower the sanctuary floor, so we removed some of the soil. Well, beneath the altar, the soil just caved in and this is what we found.’

  With the rest of his parishioners milling around him, Athelstan stood on the edge of the pit whilst one of the workmen stepped gingerly down to remove a roll of canvas sheeting. Athelstan gasped in amazement. A skeleton lay there in gentle repose, a small crucifix, the wood now rotten and soft-looking, clasped in its bony fingers. The wrists were crossed, the legs lying together.

  ‘It’s a martyr!’ Watkin declared suddenly as if announcing a great triumph. ‘Father, look, it’s a martyr! St Erconwald’s has its own saint, its own precious relic!’

  Athelstan closed his eyes and muttered a prayer. The last thing he wanted was a relic. He did not believe that God’s will depended on bits of bone or shreds of flesh.

  ‘How do you know it’s a martyr?’ he asked weakly. ‘Someone could just have dumped the remains there.’

  His parishioners looked angrily at him, fiercely determined not to be cheated out of their own saint and martyr.

  ‘Of course it’s a martyr.’ Pike spoke up, now in full agreement with Watkin. ‘Look, Father, you’ve seen many a corpse, they’re just dumped in a hole and left. This one has been ‘specially laid here with its head towards the east.’

  ‘And the cross!’ Ursula screeched triumphantly. ‘Don’t forget the cross!’

  ‘They are right, Father,’ Benedicta declared quietly. ‘Whoever this skeleton belongs to, whoever he or she was in life, that person was buried here as a mark of respect with a cross as a sign of reverence.’

  Athelstan looked helplessly around.

  ‘Concedo,’ he muttered in Latin. ‘I concede there’s a possibility, but who is it and why here?’

  ‘He’s a martyr,’ Mugwort declared. ‘You know, Father, probably killed by the Persians.’

  ‘Persians, Mugwort? There were never any Persians in England!’

  ‘Yes, there were!’ Tab the tinker shouted. ‘You know, Father, the same buggers who killed Jesus. After they killed him,’ the tinker continued, ‘they came here, killed any poor sod who believed in Jesus and sacked the monasteries.’ He looked confidently around. He was proud of the little schooling he had received and could never resist an opportunity to show it off.

  ‘Romans,’ Athelstan answered. ‘The Romans invaded England. Yes, and when the Christian faith spread here, they killed those who believed in Christ. Men like St Alban whose holy corpse lies in its own church north of London.’ He saw the disappointment in Tab’s eyes. ‘But perhaps you are right, Tab. The Vikings who came much later were actually in London. They also killed Christians, and God knows this may be one of their victims.’ He stared down. ‘But we don’t know whether it’s male or female. Look,’ he continued, ‘Pike, Huddle, Watkin, take the body up carefully.’ He pointed down the nave to where the parish coffin, a great oaken chest, lay in one of the transepts. ‘Place the bones in there and let us see what we can find.’

  His chosen parishioners picked up the skeleton slowly and reverently, as if it was the most sacred thing under the sun, whilst the rest, including the workmen, knelt and made the sign of the cross. They all jumped as Bonaventure, who had crept into the church, suddenly realised how the upturned flagstones had disturbed the rats and mice and raced across the sanctuary in a flash of black fur to pounce on his prey.

  ‘Come on!’ Athelstan urged.

  The skeleton was plucked out of the pit resting on a canvas sheet. Athelstan, ignoring the whispered protest of his council. examined it, noticing how fine and white the bones were, carefully turning to scrutinise the skull and ribs. He failed to find any sign or mark of violence.

  ‘Strange,’ he muttered.

  ‘What is, Father?’

  ‘Well, I am no physician but this cannot be all that old. Notice how fine and firm the bones are. I suspect it’s a woman, and from what I remember of the Roman martyrology, most died barbaric deaths: crucifixion, hanging, impalement or decapitation. Yet this skeleton bears no mark.’

  He wanted to study the skull more closely but his parishioners now ringed the coffin. He gestured at Tab. ‘Go down and get the bailiff, Master Bladdersniff,’ he ordered. ‘You’ll find him in one of the ale-houses.’ Athelstan stared down at the skeleton again. ‘And also Culpepper the physician. His house stands on the corner of Reeking Alley. He may be old but he is skilled.’

  He then shooed everyone outside the church, telling the workmen to continue and make up for lost time. For a while the parishioners stood in the sunshine gossiping excitedly whilst Athelstan felt his own gloom deepen. He had a premonition of what was about to happen. Everyone would flock to the church, miracles would be sought, relics scrambled for, and the daily tranquillity of his parish would be shattered. The counterfeit-men would follow: the pardoners from Avignon and Rome eager to cash in on people’s fears; the relic-sellers with their bags full of the usual rubbish, followed by the relic-buyers – men who would pay good hard silver for the finger joint of a saint or a piece of the skull; finally the professional pilgrims and other religious zealots who lived their lives in a state of near hysteria. Athelstan walked away from the group, Benedicta following him. He stopped and looked back at the church.

  ‘How old is the building?’ she asked, sensing his thoughts.

  Athelstan stared up at the dirty grey stone of the weather-beaten tower.

  ‘I am not sure,’ he replied. ‘But a great fire here during King Stephen’s reign levelled every building, so the earliest it could have been built would be during the reign of his successor, King Henry II.’ Athelstan bit his lip, trying to remember his history. ‘That was about two hundred years ago.’ He smiled at the widow. ‘And before you ask, Benedicta, there are no charters or books – they have all gone. You see, I have only been here a short while, and before I arrived the church was served by visiting curates or chantry priests.’

  ‘And before that?’ asked Benedicta.

  Athelstan vaguely remembered the scandalous stories he had heard and stared over at his parish council.

  ‘Watkin!’ he shouted. ‘May I have a word, please?’

  The sexton came bustling ac
ross, his face alive with excitement.

  ‘Look, Watkin,’ Athelstan snapped, ‘we must keep our heads over this matter. What do you know of the history of the church? Especially your last parish priest?’

  The fellow scratched his head, fingered the large wart on his nose and looked sheepishly at Athelstan.

  ‘Well, Father, the church has always been here.’

  ‘And your last parish priest?’

  Watkin turned down his mouth. ‘A strange fellow, Father.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Again Watkin scratched his head and looked at the ground as if searching for something. ‘Well, he was called William Fitzwolf: he was one of your hedgerow priests, a rogue and jackanapes. He used St Erconwald’s as a gambling den and held strange meetings here at night.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘You know, Father, the gibbet-men.’

  ‘You mean magicians?’

  ‘Yes, Father. But then he disappeared, taking all the records and books of the church. Someone said the archdeacons’ court were looking for him after he became involved with the likes of young Cecily.’ Watkin shuffled his great, dirty boots. ‘He was a bad man, Father. They said he was behind a lot of the wickedness here. False measures in the taverns; the hiring of mermaids.’ He glanced sideways at Benedicta. ‘Prostitutes, whores . . . that’s what we call them!’

  ‘How long ago was all this?’ Benedicta asked.

  ‘Oh, about five years ago. Is that all, Father?’

  Athelstan nodded and watched his sexton waddle away.

  ‘So, Benedicta, you have your answer. No records, no books, no history.’ He shrugged. ‘Who knows? That skeleton may have something to do with Fitzwolfe’s nefarious activities.’

  Benedicta looked at him sharply. ‘I doubt that. The likes of Fitzwolfe, a veritable king amongst rogues, would have had a myriad places to conceal a body. After all, Father, the river is only a short walk away. No, either the body was put there before the church was built or . . .’

  ‘Or,’ Athelstan interrupted, ‘placed there during its rebuilding. Concedo, Benedicta, your logic is unimpeachable. Which means,’ he added, ‘I need to find out when this church was built, and if the flagstones have ever been moved. Cranston will have to help us here.

  ‘But please tell me,’ he added, changing the conversation, ‘your husband’s first name? And what did he look like?’

  Benedicta blinked and glanced away. ‘He was called James. He was tall, of medium stature, and blond-haired. He wore his hair thick and long, had a moustache and a scar from a knife cut under his right eye.’

  Athelstan thanked her and they stood for a while speculating on how the parish would react until the tinker returned with the pompous, weak-eyed Bladdersniff and the white-haired, cheery-faced Culpepper.

  ‘What’s the matter, Father?’ The bailiff held his head like that of an angry goose, eyes narrowed, lips pursed.

  Athelstan sighed and chose to ignore the thick, cloying ale fumes which hung around the fellow as thick as any perfume.

  ‘I need you, Master Bladdersniff, and you my good physician, for a body has been found – or rather a skeleton. Come with me.’

  They went back into the church. Bladdersniff, swaying slightly, inspected the skeleton, sniffing and muttering to himself. He then stood straight, tucking his thumbs into his broad belt and announced, ‘It’s dead, and it’s a skeleton!’

  Cecily and Benedicta immediately giggled. The bailiff looked suspiciously at Pike who had been standing behind him mimicking his every movement so accurately even Athelstan had to look away. The physician Culpepper was more helpful. He crouched down and examined the skeleton carefully.

  ‘No marks of any violence,’ he declared. ‘The bones are fine, subtle and fresh.’

  ‘So it’s been recently buried?’ Athelstan asked hopefully.

  ‘Ah, no.’ The old physician’s rheumy eyes met Athelstan’s. ‘You know London clay, Father. It can keep a bone nice and fresh, so God knows when this poor thing was buried. But,’ he continued, ‘I tell you this – the skeleton belongs to a young woman.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘A mere guess, Father. But from the fineness of the bone, the contour of the ribs, arms and legs, I think I am right.’

  Athelstan thanked them both and once again insisted that everyone leave the church, shooing them forward like a farmwife would a group of hens whilst shouting at the workmen to continue. Outside he ordered Watkin to allow no one in. His parishioners then gathered round Bladdersniff and Culpepper, full of eager questions. Benedicta touched Athelstan on the hand.

  ‘All will be well, Father. I am sure this mystery can be resolved very soon.’

  He clasped her warm fingers between his. ‘Thank you, Benedicta. And may you be at peace as well. I will write that letter to Boulogne.’

  He went back to his house, barring the door behind him. Bonaventure joined him, jumping through the open window, apparently as proud as a peacock after his successful hunt in the church. For a while Athelstan just sat and thought about what had happened, regretting the way his own peace of mind had been so abruptly disturbed. At last he sighed and got down his ink homs and rolls of parchment. He was finishing the final draft of his letter to the Dominicans outside Boulogne when he heard a gentle rap on the door.

  ‘Come in!’ he shouted.

  Then he remembered he had locked himself in and got up, pulling back the bolts, half-expecting to see Benedicta. He was surprised to find Cranston standing there looking mournfully at him. Athelstan stepped back in astonishment and motioned him in. Cranston walked across the kitchen like a sleepwalker. Something’s wrong, Athelstan thought. The large, fat coroner usually arrived like the north wind, noisy and full of bluster.

  ‘Sir John, it’s pleasing to see your sweet face.’

  ‘Sod off!’ Cranston muttered, sliding on to a stool. ‘You got my message from that idle bugger Leif?’

  Athelstan sat opposite him. ‘The Lady Maude?’

  ‘Aye, she’s well.’

  ‘And the two poppets?’ Athelstan chose the word Cranston often used to describe his twin sons.

  ‘Lusty and hungry.’ The coroner wiped his sweaty brow and pushed his fat, red face closer to Athelstan’s. The friar flinched at the anger seething in the icy blue depths of his eyes.

  ‘Sir John, you are out of sorts. A cup of wine?’

  ‘Bugger that!’ Cranston snapped. ‘What I need is a blackjack of ale. Let’s go to the Piebald!’

  Athelstan agreed but groaned to himself.

  ‘What’s that you’re writing?’ Cranston tapped the letter with a stubby finger.

  The friar explained and Cranston smiled slyly at him.

  ‘So, Benedicta might not be a widow any longer?’

  ‘Sir John, you do me wrong.’

  ‘Aye,’ Cranston murmured, pocketing the letter. ‘I’ll get the bloody thing sealed and sent. Then her husband will return, leaving you to moon over someone else.’

  Athelstan bit back his hasty reply as Bonaventure jumped up on the window sill. He took one look at the coroner and Athelstan would have sworn that if a cat could smile Bonaventure did then. The old torn leapt outside and reappeared with a large rat between his jaws. He padded across and laid the grisly trophy at Cranston’s feet as if it were a rose or a goblet of silver. The coroner made a face and shifted his feet away.

  ‘Sod off, Bonaventure!’ he grumbled, but the cat’s delight at seeing the fat coroner only seemed to intensify as he rubbed briskly against Sir John’s stout leg.

  ‘Oh, come,’ Athelstan murmured.

  He rose, picked up the dead rodent by the tail and, followed by a watchful Bonaventure, took it outside to throw it on to the grass. He went back and scrubbed his hands, then followed by a still muttering Cranston, left the house and crossed to the church.

  Two of Watkin’s children stood on guard but Athelstan noticed with alarm that a number of people had gathered, talking excitedly among
st themselves and gesturing at the church door.

  ‘What’s the matter with those idle buggers?’ Cranston grumbled.

  ‘I’ll tell you in a while, Sir John.’

  The Piebald tavern was quiet; the inhabitants of Southwards ugly alleys and packed tenements apparently enjoying the fine weather, either down by the river or in their own little garden plots. The one-armed ex-pirate who owned the tavern greeted Sir John like a longlost brother, ignoring the coroner’ scowls and muttered curses.

  ‘Some ale!’ Cranston roared. ‘Good and rich with a fine head! None of your Thames bilge!’ He tossed a coin at the fellow who caught it deftly.

  ‘And for you, Brother, a cup of watered wine?’

  ‘No, Sir John, after all it’s Sunday. I’ll have the same ale as you. I think I am going to need it.’

  The taverner overheard him. His eyes crinkled in pleasure at the prospect of increased custom.

  ‘Aye, Father, we have all heard the story. St Erconwald’s will be famous.’

  ‘What story?’ Cranston muttered as they sat under the window for the breeze and light.

  Athelstan took a deep breath and briefly explained what had been found in the church a few hours earlier. Cranston heard him out.

  ‘What do you think, Monk?’

  ‘Friar, Sir John. Remember, I am a friar.’

  ‘Who cares?’ the coroner snapped. ‘Do you think it’s the remains of some saint?’

  Athelstan waited until the taverner had served them.

  ‘No, the church isn’t old enough. But matters aren’t helped when there are no records. The last incumbent fled with everything he could lay his hands on. You might know him Sir John? William Fitzwolfe.’

  Cranston half-drained his tankard and rubbed his fleshy nose Athelstan watched expectantly. There wasn’t a rogue in London whom Cranston didn’t know of. The coroner blew out his lips.

  ‘Ah, yes, I remember the bastard: William Fitzwolfe defrocked and excommunicated. He has been on the list of people I would like to talk to for the last five years. The knave’s reputedly gone to ground in the city.’