‘Tenebrae facta est,’ he whispered to the gloomy nave. ‘And darkness fell.’ Wasn’t that how the Gospel writers described the time of Judas’ betrayal of Christ?
Malachi licked his dry lips. He had come here to think, as well as to see the ring he had given Athelstan. He wanted to draw strength from it. He did not want to think of the others, of Chandler lying like a stinking carp in his dirty bathwater or Broomhill jerking on the bed as the blood spilled out of him like claret from a cracked vat. He heard the squeak of mice and a dark shape shot across the ill-lit nave, scurrying from one transept to another. If Bonaventure was here, Malachi reflected wryly, there would be another death. But wasn’t that how all life was? If he could only discover what Richard had truly planned… Malachi sighed in exasperation and walked up the nave, footsteps echoing hollow. He went to the rood screen and genuflected; he found it hard to look at the pyx hanging from its chain in the sanctuary. He stared round the sanctuary. No Misericord now – he did feel sorry for that rogue. Didn’t they say he was rotting in some cell at Newgate?
Malachi climbed the steps to the high altar. He lifted the heavy green gold-lined coverlet, pushed back the linen altar cloth and stared at the relic stone. In the poor light he glimpsed the red cross carved there and felt the rim of the stone. It was still firmly set, which meant that Athelstan had not yet removed it to insert the ring. Malachi replaced the cloths, and recalled the chantry chapel of St Erconwald’s. A taper candle glowed in the Lady Chapel, so Malachi took this, lit another one, and carried both through the wooden partition door and placed them on the altar where he had celebrated Mass. The chantry chapel, despite the statue to St Erconwald, the candles and white linen cloth, did look rather bare and gaunt; no wonder Athelstan wished to furnish it more fittingly. Perhaps when all this was finished, Malachi promised himself, he would donate some money as reparation for what had happened.
Malachi moved across and stared up at the statue of St Erconwald, which gazed sightlessly back from its plinth. He didn’t really have any special devotion to a Bishop of London who’d lived and died hundreds of years before the great Conqueror came. No, Malachi reflected, his devotion was more personal, stemming from those glory days when he and his brother Richard had come into Southwark with the rest. They had often come to this church and lounged in the long sweet grass, resting against the gravestones as they shared wine and food, before that great bitch Guinevere the Golden had swept into their lives and everything had changed. Richard no longer met his brother, he became closeted with his paramour, secretive and withdrawn, often being absent for days and returning without any excuse or explanation.
After the great robbery and Richard’s disappearance, as the Fleet was about to leave, Malachi had come to this church and vowed to its patron saint that if he ever discovered the truth, he would make a special offering. Now he lifted the taper candle to study the relic statue more carefully, feeling beneath the linen cloths. He sighed with relief. Here, too, the relic stone held firm; Athelstan still had the ring in his possession. He was about to sit down on the small stool to continue his plotting when he heard a sound, a door opening or closing. He strained his ears. Was it the cat? He was sure he’d closed the door fully and leaned against it. Another sound, the slithering rasp of a soft boot. Malachi left the chantry chapel, holding up the taper light.
‘Who’s there?’ he called. The murky light deepened the shadows in the corners and transepts. ‘Who’s there?’ he repeated.
Malachi’s skin went cold. Was he, too, to become a victim of brutal murder? Surely not! But someone was in the church, slinking through the darkness, watching him like some gargoyle of the night. Again, a sound. Malachi drew back just in time. Something hard and glittering spun through the gloom and embedded deep into the polished wood of the chapel screen. His heart skipped a beat at the sinister glitter of the blade, the dagger’s dark brown handle. Another sound. He stepped back into the chapel, hastily dousing the taper lights. He felt beneath his robe and drew out his own small cutting knife. He didn’t want to become trapped here. He stared across the nave and sighed in relief at the glint of daylight – the side door was off its latch! Malachi tried to control his breathing, the beating of blood in his ears and those trickles of fear which made him want to scratch his neck and back. He had to get out of here before whoever was hunting him trapped and killed him here where he had made his vow. For Richard’s sake, he had to fulfil that vow!
Malachi’s hand went across the altar and snatched up the calfskin-bound missal. He edged to the door of the chapel and hurled the book down the nave. Another dagger whistled through the air, but Malachi was already racing across, even as he heard a third dagger smash against a pillar. He reached the door, opened it and threw himself out. He pulled the door closed and ran across to the priest’s house. The door was still locked and bolted. Malachi ran to the window. Thankfully, the two shutters were wide apart. Malachi quietly prayed to whoever was protecting him; the Dominican must have great trust in his parishioners. He slipped his knife through the slit, prising up the bar beyond. He heard it
