John?’
‘I’ve done nothing wrong,’ the coroner declared. He looked sheepish. ‘Well, I drink too much.’ He nudged Athelstan. ‘But only occasionally.’
Athelstan said thoughtfully, ‘I wonder how that assassin could enter the abbey cloisters, go down to the Pyx chamber, commit such a terrible act and walk away scot-free. Sir John, it must be a soldier or one of the knights?’
‘But, surely, not a monk?’
Athelstan whirled round. Father Benedict stood in the doorway of the chapel. Athelstan and Cranston rose.
‘Father, I thank you for coming.’
Cranston, embarrassed, tried to hide the wineskin peeping out from beneath his cloak.
‘Sit down! Sit down!’
Cranston and Athelstan obeyed whilst Father Benedict went and pulled across a small box chair which stood in a corner of the chapel. The monk stared over his shoulder at the altar, where a candle burned beneath the pyx which contained the body of Christ.
‘If you question me here, Brother,’ Father Benedict said softly, ‘I have little choice but to tell the truth.’
‘About what?’ Cranston asked curiously.
‘Oh, not about the murders?’ Athelstan intervened. ‘Father Benedict is as innocent as a new-born babe. However, the chalice, the Holy Grail, the cedarwood cup which was sent to the Gargoyle tavern this morning. You sent that, didn’t you, Father?’
The monk slid his hands up the voluminous sleeves of his black gown. He blinked and glanced away, as if fascinated by the tiled floor of the chapel.
‘Your friend Father Antony gave it to you, didn’t he?’ Athelstan persisted.
Father Benedict nodded. ‘Many years ago.’ He began slowly. ‘Father Antony arrived here from Lilleshall. We became firm friends. We had a great deal in common: a love of books and manuscripts, nothing better than the smell of vellum, ink and chalk, burning wax and the study of the antiquities.’ Father Benedict cleared his throat. ‘After he had been here eighteen months, Antony invited me into his cell. He showed me the chalice you saw this morning. He confessed he’d stolen it from the Knights of the Swan. He described their junketings, tourneys and tournaments at Lilleshall, and how the cup might well have been the Grail.’
Father Benedict paused, rocking himself gently in the chair. He smiled. ‘I examined the cup very carefully, I believe it’s four to five hundred years old, probably from the treasure trove of Alfred King of Wessex, rather than from the court of the legendary Arthur.’
‘And Father Antony?’ Athelstan asked.
‘He told me of its history and asked me what I should do. I declared the chalice must be returned to its rightful owners as, in my opinion, he had committed an act of sacrilege as well as theft.’
‘But it wasn’t?’ Athelstan asked.
‘No. Antony asked for absolution and entrusted the chalice to me. He insisted that, whatever the chalice’s real origins were, it was still a sacred vessel and should not be returned to such wicked men. I asked him what he meant by that. Antony just shook his head and muttered that he did not want to add the sin of calumny to his other faults. I taxed him about why he had stolen the chalice in the first place.’ The Benedictine smiled at Athelstan. ‘Oh, don’t worry, I am not breaking the seal of confession: Antony and I used to talk about this a great deal. The only thing he would say, and he kept repeating this time and time again, was that he believed it was blasphemy for the Knights of the Swan to pretend they were paladins of Arthur, to meet on holy ground, never mind possess such a sacred relic.’
‘So he claimed he had not really sinned,’ Athelstan surmised, ‘but had followed his conscience and removed something sacred from the hands of the wicked?’
‘Yes, Athelstan, put most precisely: that’s exactly what he said.’
‘But this wickedness?’ Cranston asked. ‘Father, with all due respect, any wealthy landowner is hardly a St Francis of Assisi. Sir Henry Swynford and his companions are, like myself, men of the world.’
The monk’s face broke into a genuine smile. ‘I don’t think so, Sir John. Antony mentioned murder, not just once, but on a number of occasions. And, before you ask, that’s all he would say.’ The monk looked towards the chapel door to ensure it was closed. ‘Now, as you know, over the recent few years there have been a number of Parliaments at Westminster, and Sir Edmund Malmesbury, together with most of his companions, were always returned. Whenever they came, Antony declared himself ill and spent the entire time in the infirmary.’ The Benedictine shrugged. ‘Not that it mattered. The knights always stay at the Gargoyle or some other tavern and rarely frequent the abbey itself.’
‘So, these knights have often been returned as members of the Commons?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Oh, of course, Brother. They swagger about as arrogantly as peacocks. They love London and its fleshpots. Moreover, Master Banyard is the most generous of hosts.’
‘And nothing like this has ever occurred before?’ Cranston asked.
‘No, it hasn’t. My friend Antony always stayed in the infirmary. Never once did these knights refer to him. I wager if they had met, they would not have recognised him. Now, a year ago,’ the Benedictine continued, ‘Antony died of the falling sickness. I heard his last confession and gave him Extreme Unction. He begged God for pardon and his dying wish was that, if I thought it right, the chalice should be given back to the Knights of the Swan.’
‘And so you did?’
‘No.’ The Benedictine shook his head. ‘Not immediately. I used the chalice at my own Masses because, the more I studied Sir Edmund Malmesbury and his coven, their love of harlotry and other fleshpots, the more I began to wonder. And then,’ Father Benedict snapped his fingers, ‘time passed; and I began to have scruples about keeping the chalice. So when Father Abbot asked one of us to volunteer as Chaplain to the Commons, I put my name forward.’ He paused and drew his breath in sharply. ‘But this time it all changed: Sir Henry Swynford sought me out, just after Sir Oliver Bouchon’s corpse had been dragged from the Thames.
‘Swynford was nervous and very agitated. He believed he was going to die. He asked if unforgiven sins pursue your soul? Or was it more the anger of God? I asked him what unforgiven sins? Swynford shook his head and said that if he returned to Shrewsbury, he intended to be shriven, confess all, and go on pilgrimage to Compostella.’ The Benedictine drew his hands out from the sleeves of his gown. ‘Well, he was killed, and then last night so was Sir Francis Harriett. The brothers are shocked, and Father Abbot is saying that the chapter-house and the vestibule will have to be reconsecrated because of blood being spilt on sacred ground.’ Father Benedict sighed. ‘I wondered if the knights were killing each other over the chalice.’
‘So you sent it back?’
‘Yes, I decided to wait no longer. This morning, after the dawn Mass, I cleaned the chalice and, choosing my moment carefully, brought it back to the Gargoyle.’ He blinked. ‘I heard you were there.’ He looked full at Athelstan. ‘You have keen eyes and a sharp mind, Brother. How did you know it was me?’
Athelstan pulled a face. ‘When I first met you, Father, you were uneasy. Something in your demeanour: you were not comfortable being Chaplain to the Commons, yet you had volunteered for it. I wondered why. Moreover, your friendship with Antony and his connection with Shrewsbury were no mere coincidences.’ Athelstan grinned self-consciously. ‘To be truthful, Father, I don’t want to appear cleverer than I really am. I examined the chalice carefully: it had been beautifully kept. When I held it in my hand this morning, I caught the faint fragrance of polish and wine. Finally, it was sent back in a leather pouch, specially made for sacred vessels. It had to be you.’
‘Do you think I did right?’ Father Benedict asked.
‘I think so, Father.’ Athelstan leaned over and clasped the monk’s hand. ‘You did right, but I tell you the truth: I do not think these terrible murders are connected with that chalice.’ He stared across at Cranston. ‘But some ancient sin. Time and again we come across this.’ He released Father Benedict’s hand. ‘I believe Sir Edmund and his companions, either all or some of them, have committed horrible, dreadful murders, and now their guilt has caught up with them. Father, I ask you, on your immortal soul, do you know anything which might assist us?’
The Benedictine shook his head and got to his feet. ‘On my soul, I do not.’ He walked to the chapel door, opened it, but then turned. ‘Oh, Athelstan!’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘This demon in Southwark?’
Athelstan pulled a face. ‘That’s as elusive as the truth behind this horrid business.’
