Bloodstone

‘So?’ Cranston asked.

Athelstan rose, collecting together his quill pens and scrolls of soft vellum.

‘One last person.’

Cranston followed Athelstan down to the anker house. They heard movement within, a shape moved. The anchorite looked out, shifting to get a better view of Cranston.

‘I know what has happened. Now you have come down to question me. Sir John, I believe we have met. I shall never forget-’

‘Agnes Rednal.’ Cranston came up close to the anker slit. ‘You and I have hanged London’s worst.’

‘And the kingdom is the better for it.’

‘Agnes Rednal,’ Athelstan intervened. ‘She will never visit you again.’ He peered through the slit. ‘I assure you. I have laid that demon. She will only walk in your nightmares, though a prayer before sleep should take care of that. Look, why not come out and greet Sir John?’

‘Brother Athelstan, I have left my cell enough over the last few days. I have nothing to say about these dreadful slayings. The church is locked an hour after compline, I cannot leave. I saw nothing. I heard nothing. .’

Athelstan touched Cranston on the arm. They strolled back up the aisle.

‘I wonder,’ Athelstan whispered.

‘About the anchorite?’

‘Yes. Those grievances he nursed against the Wyverns, though nothing against Richer or so I believe. I just wonder why he would not allow us into his cell or come out of it. Does he have something to hide? As for leaving this church, he could always creep out through the charnel house.’

Cranston and Athelstan cleared the judgement table and walked out into the Galilee porch. The friar stared up at a carved stone boss displaying a demon with a grinning monkey’s face.

‘Enough is enough, Sir John,’ he declared, ‘all this questioning must end. I’ll retire to my chamber and study the “Liber”. I must discover why Richer wouldn’t show it to me. You, my learned friend, are always welcome provided you let me share some of your refreshments.’

Back in his chamber Athelstan placed the original ‘Liber’ on the table and carefully scrutinized the different chapters. He soon realized the bloodstone was a very precious relic. The ruby’s history stretched from its formation to its collection by Joseph Arimathea and its long journey round the ancient Roman empire until it passed into the hands of the early popes. The history was disappointing. However, when Athelstan began to read about the alleged power of the bloodstone, the punishments inflicted on those not worthy to handle it as well as its miraculous curative powers for those who regarded it as a sacred relic, Athelstan’s heart skipped a beat. The ‘Liber’ proclaimed powerful warnings against any sacrilegious handling; little wonder Kilverby changed. Indeed the ‘Liber’ explained why Richer was so zealous in pursuing the bloodstone’s return, his hatred for the Wyverns and his influence over William Chalk. The defrocked priest must have come to view his own painful, lingering disease as a just punishment from God for what had happened in France. The list of miracles also made Athelstan think and reflect deeply. Eventually the friar prepared his pen and ink pots, smoothing out a piece of vellum after staring distractedly at a finely drawn triptych celebrating the life of St Benedict’s sister, the holy Scholastica.

Once he had collected his thoughts, Athelstan began to construct a logical argument. Kilverby’s murder was relatively easy. Athelstan’s hypothesis was that when the merchant died he must have known the bloodstone was safe. It was logical. Kilverby held the bloodstone. He sat in his chamber for sometime before he died yet he did not raise the alarm or express any anxiety about it being missing. Athelstan developed this argument then returned to fill in the gaps. On one occasion the friar left going through the now silent abbey to check the records in the muniment room behind the chapter house. No one objected. Divine office remained suspended until matins the following morning whilst the good brothers had been truly overawed by Cranston’s display of power. Athelstan’s queries and questions were soon answered and he returned to his studies. He finished what he called his Kilverby thesis; a few minor gaps remained but Athelstan believed he had enough to hoodwink then trap the killer.

The friar pulled across a fresh piece of parchment and began what he entitled ‘The Abbey Thesis’. He listed the murders beginning with those of Hanep and Hyde. He could now explain these, then he turned to Brokersby’s. He scrutinized earlier notes and found the entries he was searching for. Osborne’s death was relatively easy to explain whilst the logic behind that also accounted for the murders of Mahant and Richer. Nevertheless, though he had the bricks to build, the mortar and cement were a little more difficult to find. There were gaps which had to be filled: the chasing, flitting shadow which had pursued Hyde; the mysterious crossbow man: the ugly incident in the charnel house: a proper, logical account of Richer and Mahant’s death and how they were overcome and killed by the same assailant. Athelstan kept working on his hypothesis. Cranston knocked on the door and brought in a platter of food and some ale. Athelstan ate and drank, absent-mindedly fending off Cranston’s questions until the coroner, muttering he might as well be singing to the moonbeams, left for his own chamber. At last Athelstan made his decision. He crossed himself, rose and went out and knocked on Cranston’s chamber. The coroner was already preparing for the night.

‘Sir John,’ Athelstan made the coroner sit on the edge of the bed, ‘I know you to be honest — your face and your mood are easy to read, so don’t question me.’

Cranston sighed noisily.

‘Tomorrow morning at first light you and I, together with Master Crispin, are off to Kilverby’s mansion to confront an assassin. Whilst we are gone you must have archers, two to each person, guarding the abbot, his mistress, Prior Alexander, Wenlock and the anchorite. These archers must not leave their charges not even for a second. In fact, you should put your clothes back on and do that now. Master Crispin must also be protected until we leave tomorrow. .’

EIGHT

‘Judicium: judgement.’

Athelstan sat at the late Sir Robert’s chancery desk and smiled around at the dead merchant’s assembled household. He, Crispin and the coroner had left St Fulcher’s just after dawn, risking their lives on a choppy, misty Thames. Thankfully Cranston had commandeered one of the great barges which had brought the archers so they had all huddled in their cloaks in its canopied stern. The secretarius had asked the reason for the haste. Athelstan simply assured him that the journey was essential. Mercifully, it also proved brief and without incident. They’d arrived in Cheapside and roused Kilverby’s household, Cranston brushing aside all objections. Whilst the coroner assembled everyone, Athelstan carefully examined the seals on Kilverby’s chamber; none of these had been interfered with. He broke them and had the chamber door unlocked. The chamber was dark, cold and musty- smelling. Candles were hastily brought, braziers wheeled in. Now with Cranston guarding the door, Athelstan lifted the empty casket which had once contained the Passio Christi. He also kept the palette of pens close to him. During the preparations he’d carefully scrutinized these.

‘Brother Athelstan,’ Lady Helen snapped, ‘why are you here?’

Athelstan ignored her and tapped the casket.

‘Sir Robert, on the eve of his murder, knew this was empty.’

‘But. .’ Alesia interrupted.

‘Your father also mistakenly thought the bloodstone was in safe hands.’

‘Whose?’ Crispin spluttered.

‘Why yours, sir! I have brought you back here, Master Crispin, to confront you, to show you proof, to accuse you of the heinous murder of your master Sir Robert Kilverby, here in his own chamber.’

Exclamations and cries greeted his words. Crispin, hands shaking, sprang to his feet protesting. Cranston, hiding his surprise, strode forward and forced the clerk back on to his stool.

‘You’re a murderer,’ Athelstan accused, ‘and you’ll hang for it.’