Athelstan opened his mouth to protest but Cranston shook his head. ‘There’s no debate, Brother. Everything here will have to wait.’ He grinned over at Benedicta. ‘You’ll have to look after the parish and, if you sit there long enough, looking as pretty as you do, you might even trap this demon.’ He turned back to Athelstan. ‘There’s a further order. On Saturday morning, Gaunt and the young king intend to ride in procession to meet the Commons at Westminster.’ He puffed his chest out. ‘I, as the king’s law officer, will be part of that procession, and of course, dear Athelstan, you will have to go with me.’
Athelstan stared into the fire. He felt like screaming his refusal, yet that would only upset Cranston and achieve nothing.
‘Benedicta, I’ll leave you the keys.’ He got to his feet. ‘Look after Bonaventure. Remember to feed Philomel and ask the priest at St Swithin’s if he would be so kind as to come and say a morning Mass.’
Benedicta said she would. Athelstan went over to the hearth and, grasping a poker, began to sift amongst the cinders. ‘It will go out soon,’ he said absentmindedly.
‘Don’t worry, Brother,’ Benedicta offered, ‘I will make sure that all’s well.’
Athelstan climbed the makeshift ladder into his bedroom. As he filled the saddlebags at the foot of his bed, he wondered, not about Westminster, but Simplicatas. Why should a lonely young woman, supposedly riven with anxiety about her missing husband, buy so much in the marketplace that Benedicta had to help her carry it!
CHAPTER 9
‘There’s little the corpse-dresser can do with that.’ Banyard pointed to the severed torso of Sir Francis Harnett. His remains lay sprawled on a shoddy tarpaulin in an outhouse behind the tavern: the head lolled to one side like a ball, the eyes were half open, and bruises marked the cheek where the head had rolled along the floor of the crypt.
‘For heaven’s sake, show some respect,’ Cranston murmured.
‘I merely describe things as they are, my lord Coroner, not as they should be.’
Athelstan knelt down. He crossed himself, closed his eyes and whispered the requiem: ‘“Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon him. May he rest in peace.”’
‘Amen,’ Cranston intoned.
‘What on earth was he doing in the Pyx chamber?’ Athelstan asked, getting to his feet.
‘God knows,’ Sir Miles Coverdale replied. ‘The Commons sat late yesterday. The abbey then became deserted, though, of course, members stayed around the precincts gossiping and talking.’
‘And your guards were still on duty?’ Cranston asked.
‘Oh yes. Even at night. No one can enter or leave the cloisters without showing the special seal each of the representatives carries.’
‘And who went into the cloisters last night?’ Cranston persisted. ‘Come on, man, you know what we are after.’
Coverdale, his face pale, shook his head. ‘I can’t honestly answer that, Sir John. Representatives are constantly going in and out. As you know, the evening can be cold and many are cowled or hooded. But I can state two things. First, no one entered or left those cloisters, or the area around the chapter-house, without showing the special pass.’
‘And the vestibule?’ Athelstan asked. ‘Are those double doors still guarded?’
‘At night, not as strictly as during the day when the Commons sit, but there are guards in the gallery leading to it.’
‘And did anyone remember Sir Francis going there?’
‘One of my men, vaguely; others followed but it was dark. As I said, members are cowled and hooded, arrogant and peremptory. They show their seal, pull back cloaks to show they carry no swords, and doors are opened.’
‘You were going to tell us two things?’ Cranston asked.
‘Ah well.’ Coverdale waved at Harnett’s decapitated corpse. ‘Sir John, you have seen executions or beheadings after battle. To take a man’s head off, you need either a broadsword or a two-headed axe, yet anyone who enters the abbey precincts must show he carries no such weapon. Only dress-daggers are permitted.’
Athelstan covered the decapitated body with the edges of the dark tarpaulin. ‘Is it possible,’ he asked, ‘that someone could steal into the abbey precincts?’
‘I asked Father Abbot that,’ Coverdale replied. ‘There are no secret passageways or galleries. You must remember, Brother Athelstan, the Pyx chamber lies just before the chapter-house. Harnett, and the person who killed him, had to go — and his assassin return — through at least three lines of my guards.’ He smiled thinly and shrugged. ‘What more can I say? Knights from this shire or that were constantly going in and out. Some visited the shrine of St Faith, others the abbey itself. A few came back to collect possessions. You cannot blame my soldiers,’ he continued defensively. ‘They have their orders. Ask for the seal, ensure the person is carrying no weapons, and let them on their way.’ Coverdale wiped his hand on the back of his mouth. ‘There are so many representatives, and the abbey has a number of entrances.’
‘And they must have one of these seals?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Yes,’ Coverdale replied, ‘or a special pass signed by one of the members. However, my men have strict orders to stop such a person and send for me.’ He shrugged. ‘But, since the beginning of this Parliament, no such letter has been offered, certainly not last night.’
‘What happens if the killer was a monk?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Impossible,’ Coverdale scoffed. ‘The brothers are allowed to use the cloisters, but the vestibule and the chapter-house itself are strictly out of bounds. Moreover, my soldiers would remember a monk trying to enter and leave.’
‘Which leaves us with one possibility.’ Athelstan, rubbing the edge of his nose, took a step nearer to the captain of the guard. ‘I don’t want to give offence, sir, but what if Sir Francis Harnett’s killer was a soldier?’
Coverdale’s face reddened.
‘I say this,’ Athelstan continued remorselessly, ‘merely because a soldier is armed with sword and axe. He would also have every right to enter the vestibule leading to the chapter-house.’
‘You mean someone like myself?’
‘I did not say that, Sir Miles. I was only making an observation.’
Cranston, sitting on an overturned bucket, caught the drift of Athelstan’s meaning, as did Banyard. The landlord stepped back, as if he wished to put himself beyond reach of Coverdale’s anger. Sir Miles, however, despite the red blotches high in his cheeks, remained calm.
‘You should continue your questions, Friar,’ he snapped. ‘Sir Francis Harnett’s companions wait for us in the tavern. They will tell you that Sir Francis left them against my orders — and their advice — shortly before Vespers.’
‘And, of course, you are going to tell us where you were?’
‘Yes, Friar, I was at the Savoy Palace with others of the regent’s commanders, preparing for the royal procession to Westminster this Saturday morning. My lord of Gaunt, not to mention a number of his knights, will swear solemn oaths that I was with them.’
‘At the hour of Vespers?’ Athelstan asked, noticing a shift in Coverdale’s eyes.
‘Well, shortly afterwards.’
Athelstan turned away. ‘Master Banyard, how long will the corpse remain here?’
‘Till this afternoon.’
‘Was there any sign of robbery?’ Cranston asked, getting to his feet, grunting and groaning.
‘None whatsoever,’ Coverdale hastily interrupted.
Athelstan went and looked down at the corpse and, as he did so, noticed a trickle of blood, slow and sluggish, curl out from beneath the dirty sheet.
Coverdale saw it too and turned hastily away. ‘The others are waiting,’ he snapped.
Coverdale was about to walk away, but stopped just beside Athelstan: he pushed his face a few inches away from the friar’s. ‘Make your inquiries, Brother,’ he whispered. ‘I am no assassin.’
