The Meadows of Murder, page 15
As he looked into the first casket, he gasped at the cold chill which prickled down his back. The casket contained the top part of a human skull, the forehead and the bones of the upper face. These were pinned to the bottom of the casket and rested on a piece of blue cloth cut to cover the wood. Athelstan then inspected the second casket, a true copy of the first, except that it contained the skeletal remains of a human hand. The two fingers of what had once been the right hand had been severed by a clean cut. Athelstan pulled the first casket closer so he could study what looked like the letter ‘F’ branded into the shiny white bone of the brow. Athelstan stared fixedly at each casket as different images emerged in his mind, glimpses of what he’d seen and heard around the parish over the past few days: Watkin and his coven clearing the cemetery; fragments of polished wood and the pieces of blue cloth he’d noticed lying around; Crispin the Carpenter being most reluctant for Athelstan to enter his shop; Michael the Minstrel, all smartly attired, pushing his covered barrow down to the bridge. Finally, above all, Archdeacon Tuddenham grumbling about the recent spate of relic selling.
‘Father, Father, are you all right?’ Tabitha, her worn face all concerned, closed the caskets, her little black eyes watching the friar intently.
‘What is this?’ Athelstan murmured. ‘Why bring these items here?’ He quickly glanced at Benedicta. The widow-woman simply pulled a face and shook her head as if she too could not understand what was happening.
‘It’s a miracle, Father,’ Tabitha exclaimed. ‘Let me explain. I am the relict, the widow of Picard the Pickpocket, who also flourished here some twenty years ago. Picard was arrested on a number of charges for which the letter “F” was branded on his forehead.’
‘F is for felon, a criminal,’ Athelstan interjected.
‘Very true, Father. Picard however could not be corrected. He returned to his old ways and, as usual, he was soon caught and lost the two forefingers of his right hand.’
‘God have mercy on him.’
‘Amen to that, Father. Picard still did not change his ways, however, and he was soon arrested for an attempted felony. He tried to lift the purse of a powerful merchant. Picard was seized and …’ Her voice trailed away.
‘And what?’
‘Why, Father, he was hanged on the gallows near the bridge, his corpse buried in a pauper’s grave here in St Erconwald’s.’
‘And why do you think this is a miracle?’
‘Ah let me tell you, Father. I was walking with Beatrice amongst the stalls outside the House of the Minoresses when we were approached by a handsome young man. He had these caskets in a covered wheelbarrow. He said he was a relic seller. He produced a warrant, properly sealed, that he was in truth a bona fide relic seller. He had been approved as such by Master Tuddenham, Archdeacon of London.’
‘Oh, sweet Lord above.’ Athelstan shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, please continue, mistress. Are you quite sure of that?’
‘Oh yes, he showed me a document, a small scroll kept in what I now call the skull casket. It’s here, Father, I know it is.’
Tabitha fumbled with the purse dangling from the white cord around her waist. She shook out the scroll and handed it to Athelstan. He undid the cheap red ribbon and opened the scroll. The parchment was of reasonable quality, its ink-black message easy to read. Athelstan read it in a clear voice.
‘This is to attest the veracity of these relics, the holy remains of Meningern, priest in the kingdom of Northumbria who was tortured and martyred by the Picts at Monkwearmouth in the year of Our Lord 636.’ Beneath this inscription was a small roundel of red wax with the imprint of what looked like a bishop’s head crowned with a mitre. Athelstan smiled as he handed it back. ‘And the miracle, mistress?’ he demanded.
‘Well, I bought both caskets.’
‘How much?’ Benedicta queried.
‘A shilling each. Beatrice helped me. Now,’ Tabitha continued in a rush, ‘now,’ she repeated, ‘when we returned to the House of the Minoresses, I studied these relics most closely. God be blessed. I realised that the injuries inflicted on that poor saint were the very same that Picard sustained. And so, I wondered …’
‘What, mistress?’
‘Had the good Lord, Brother Athelstan, sent me a sign? I mean, Picard was a sinner before the Lord. Nevertheless, he was also a good, decent man. He just found it very difficult to leave other people’s property alone. So, he would not be damned to Hell but kept in purgatory. Anyway, that’s what Beatrice reckoned, and she knows a great deal about the dead. She’s told me all about the Halls of Purgatory, full of fiery streams, fiercely burning fields, bitter black water …’
‘Yes, yes,’ Athelstan intervened. ‘Very true, and so?’
‘Beatrice believes, and I agree, that these relics suddenly appearing as they did were a sign from Heaven that Picard had joined the saints in paradise.’
‘Alleluia and praise the Lord, mistress. I sincerely hope so.’
‘And what now,’ Benedicta leaned forward, ‘what do you want to do with the relics?’
‘Well, that’s why I came. I would like the relics buried deep in God’s Acre here at St Erconwald’s. A thank you to the good Lord for his kindness and mercy.’ Tabitha cradled the leather bag on her lap. ‘And now I must go, Father, even though it feels good to be back here after all these years. You have certainly changed things, Father, and apparently all for the better. God bless you, Brother Athelstan.’
Tabitha rose, leaving the caskets on the table. Athelstan stood up and blessed this little old woman. He earnestly prayed that her husband Picard truly had joined the choir invisible and now sang with the angels. They exchanged the kiss of peace. Once finished, he took Benedicta aside.
‘Please,’ he whispered, ‘take our visitor down to London Bridge, without her bumping into any of our parishioners.’ He grasped Benedicta’s wrist. ‘Once Tabitha is safely gone, find Watkin and all his canting crew. I want to see them all sitting before the rood screen as the bell tolls for Compline. Tell him it is a matter of the greatest importance, so they must all be here! Each and every one of them!’
Benedicta promised she would do as he asked and left with Tabitha. Athelstan sat down by the fire. He put his face in his hands and laughed until the tears streamed down his cheeks.
By the time the bell for Compline tolled, Athelstan certainly wasn’t laughing. He, Mauger and Benedicta prepared the nave for the meeting. Candles and lanterns were lit. Braziers fired and the other doors firmly secured. Athelstan insisted that the lectern be moved so that he would have a good view of his flock who now assembled in the nave. Athelstan made them sit for a while in silence as he glowered down at them. They were all there. Each of them looked like scared rabbits as they stared down at the floor, anywhere except at the little friar standing behind the lectern, his face like thunder as he gripped the sides of the podium. He glared and he stared, managing his anger, but also counting heads and remembering faces. Watkin the Dung Collector; his nephew Michael the Minstrel; Pike the Ditcher; Ranulf the Ratcatcher with his two caged ferrets, Ferox and Audax; the Hangman of Rochester; Crispin the Carpenter; Joscelyn the Tavern Master; and all the rest of the motley crew, including a very sheepish-looking Moleskin. Athelstan abruptly made the sign of the cross and they all hurried to do likewise.
‘I will tell you a parable,’ Athelstan thundered, ‘a tale of our times. So, if I have your full attention, let me begin.’ Athelstan placed his hands on the lectern. ‘There was once a church, a parish, and the priest who served it. His parishioners were a loving, loveable and dutiful flock, but sometimes so foolish that the consequences of their wandering from the fold was truly disastrous. A case in point was their decision, completely unknown to their priest, to fashion relics of so-called long-dead saints: martyrs such as Meningern, slain by the Picts south of the Great Wall. Of course, no such person ever existed.
‘Nevertheless, the parishioners pressed ahead. The actual seller of the so-called relics was the nephew of the leader of the parish council. A handsome young man who, freshly attired, would load his covered barrow with small wooden caskets fashioned by the parish carpenter. They were cheap but cheerful, used to enhance the legitimacy of the so-called relics. Indeed, they were a very attractive prospect: a polished wooden case with a concave lid and handle. Inside the caskets were lined with strips of cheap blue cloth which emphasised the fragments of white bone – the so-called relics.
‘Now, these fragments of bone were washed and treated to make them look more eye-catching. The parish painter …’ Athelstan glared warningly at the Hangman of Rochester, who simply stared down at the floor as if seeing it for the first time. ‘Yes, the parish painter,’ Athelstan continued, ‘would wash, scrape and scrub the bones before treating them with some substance which would emphasise their whiteness; further evidence that the bones were truly holy. Of course, those involved had all the required necessities, especially the parish cemetery, with its thin soil and shallow burials. Bones of all kinds were there for the picking. The parishioners certainly helped themselves, under the pretence of clearing the cemetery in preparation for the great feast of Easter.
‘Ah well,’ Athelstan’s voice grew stronger, ‘let us return to our handsome seller. He would go deep into the city, probably stopping at the many churches. The minstrel, with his fine attractive voice, smart attire and clever tongue, sold these relics and earned a pretty penny. He would concentrate on the aged, the vulnerable, as possible customers. He would sell his wares in one place then move swiftly to another equally suitable spot.’
Athelstan paused to take a deep breath. ‘Of course, monies were made and the profits grew.’ Athelstan held up a warning hand. ‘Everyone thought that everything was running smoothly. However, what those parishioners did not know was that the archdeacon of that city, a veritable lurcher in human flesh, was following these sellers of relics along the track. In his own time he would pounce and, when he did, God help all those involved. They would be whipped into the Bishop of London’s prison, where they would really suffer whilst the indictments were drawn up. Indictments which could ask for the ultimate penalty.
‘You see, these same parishioners had forged warrants and documents which attested to the veracity of their relics. Such letters had apparently been drawn up and sealed by no less a person than our venerable archdeacon. Of course, that was a nonsense; both signature and seal were falsified, and that made it a capital offence.’ Athelstan paused at the deep moans echoing from the men seated in front of him.
‘However,’ Athelstan continued briskly, ‘their parish priest had discovered what mischief they had plotted. He saw himself as their pastor, their shepherd, but he was also their mastiff, their war hound, their guard dog. He promised he would keep silent on their wrongdoing, provided they immediately ceased their relic trade and solemnly promised never to do it again! To achieve this, the parish priest wanted all the false relics piled into the great fire pit in God’s Acre. Once there, they would be soaked in oil and consumed by fire until not a single trace remained of their infamous relic trade.’ Athelstan held up his hands, arms outstretched. ‘Do you understand me, my beloveds?’
‘Yes,’ they chorused back.
‘Do you promise to cease such activity immediately?’
‘Yes, Father.’ Watkin, face all sweaty, bellowed back his agreement.
‘In which case,’ Athelstan blessed them all and pointed to the corpse door, ‘the fire pit is waiting and so am I. I want to see the flames roaring within the hour. God bless you all.’
Athelstan adjourned to his house, where he was joined by Benedicta who sat down on the other chair laughing softly to herself.
‘They have certainly learned their lesson, Father.’
‘No, Benedicta, they have learned it for now, but God knows for how long that will last. Watkin and his coven take risks which, in some cases, could have them strangled on the gallows only a short walk away from here. I mean …’ Athelstan fell silent at a knock on the door.
Benedicta answered it and ushered in a crestfallen Michael the Minstrel. He slouched like a man walking to his death. Deeply embarrassed, he slumped down on the stool that Benedicta fetched for him.
‘Well, Michael?’
‘I bring messages from learned uncle, Father. The fires have been lit and you’ll catch the glow soon enough.’ Michael spread his hands. ‘I am, we are, truly sorry Father.’
‘No need for further protestation. Time will take care of the problem.’
Michael nodded in agreement. ‘There’s something else,’ he murmured.
‘What?’
‘Father, you know I went into the city with my barrow. Well, these fishmongers who have been murdered …’
‘Yes?’ Athelstan pulled himself up in his chair. ‘What about them?’
‘I saw one of the fishmongers being killed. From the gossip in The Piebald, I believe it was the last one, erm …’
‘Simon Crutchley. He was murdered close to Fishmongers’ Hall.’
‘That’s right, Father.’ Michael clapped his hands like a child. ‘That’s it,’ he repeated.
‘And you’ve told no one?’ Athelstan exclaimed. ‘Of course, you haven’t.’ He jabbed a finger at the minstrel. ‘That would be embarrassing, wouldn’t it? You’d be taken up by the sheriff’s men or Cranston’s bailiffs. All of these would be interested in who you are, what you were doing there, not to mention what was in your barrow. So, Michael, tell me, what did you see?’
‘I was returning home,’ he coughed. ‘I’d had a good day’s trading. I was heading for the bridge and of course, I walked past Fishmongers’ Hall. The victim, or soon-to-be victim, was garbed in his guild robes. He was about to enter the runnel leading down to one of the postern doors. I understand from learned uncle that each fishmonger has a key and a seal so they can admit themselves.’
‘Where were the guards?’
‘Oh yes, they were there, but you know what they’re like, Father. They were lounging against the wall or crowding around a game of hazard, rattling the dice and shouting a prayer for a good win.’
‘Yes, yes, I have seen the like before.’
‘Anyway,’ Michael continued, ‘as the fishmonger approached the mouth of the alleyway, a barrel of refuse collected by the rakers abruptly burst into flame. The fishmonger stopped whilst the guards hurried out of the alleyway to see what was wrong.’ Michael shook his head. ‘It all happened so swiftly, Father. I saw a peddler, one of those travelling chapmen. He wore a deep hood clasped to his battered leather jerkin. He had a tray slung around his neck. As he passed the fishmonger, he turned sideways as if to let him by. Instead,’ Michael sniffed, ‘he pulled out a small arbalest hidden under a cloth on his tray. The crossbow was primed and ready to loose, which he did, and the fishmonger’s head seemed to erupt in a torrent of blood. I admit, I just stood and gaped. I then quickly glanced around and, when I looked back, the tinker had vanished. People were now gathering. I didn’t want to be taken up for questioning, so I hurried, fast as I could, onto the approaches to London Bridge. Of course, later on in The Piebald, the murder was talked about. I mentioned to learned uncle what I had seen. He told me to keep my mouth firmly shut.’
‘I am sure he did, beloved nephew.’
The minstrel glanced up sheepishly.
‘What will you do, Father?’
‘Keep what you have told me to myself. So, do not have any worries on that score: it’s another clue, a valuable one, to a truly baffling mystery. For the first time we have the killer out in the open, being seen by someone commit the act. As with the murder of Clarendon on the bridge, and Biscop’s death, who was walking the same route as Crutchley, they all have one thing in common: a diversion staged just before the murder took place. In this case the burning of rubbish in a barrel. In this weather, people would relish the warmth but they’d still be very wary of the fire getting out of control. Of course, they would flock to manage it, or at least most of them would. So, Michael, anything else?’
‘Father, all I can say is that the assassin disappeared within a few heartbeats into the crowd. I have told you everything I saw. Now I must join the rest in the great bonfire of the bones.’
‘Wait.’ Athelstan went to pick up the caskets Tabitha had brought. ‘Give these to learned uncle. Tell him they must join the rest in the great bonfire of the bones. So, goodnight my friend.’ Athelstan sketched a blessing in the air and Michael left to join the others.
Adam the Anchorite sat staring into the flames of the fire he had lit in the crumbling cellar beneath the sacristy of the old parish church. The hollow-sounding chamber with its hard stone floor, ribbed ceiling and narrow vents to let in air, was ideal for his purpose. He was secure and he was warm. He could block and bar the door whilst he was comfortably close to his sacred cupboard or tabernacle, which held that manuscript and other items from another life. Adam thrust a pole, a makeshift poker, into the flames; the burning wood would crumble and the flames leap up, hungry for more kindling.
Adam sat drifting in and out of sleep. The visions returned as they sometimes did. Dreams which plagued his mind. He recalled heavy seas with waves crashing into a cog desperately battling to keep afloat. Men were shouting. A fiery tribe of demons gathered. War cries echoed. The clash of weapons, the clatter of battle, then that blow to his head. Sometimes the anchorite could recall both the accident and the life he had enjoyed before he sustained such a mortal injury. He recalled poring over his great book, the folio with its title Mappae Mundi – Maps of the World. He could see himself studying that, not here but somewhere else. In that place, the weather was warm and sweet. Then there was the woman, fair of face and form, her beauty framed by night-black hair which tumbled down to her shoulders. She was always there, smiling at him. Her lips moving, but he could not understand what she was saying. He felt heart-sore at not being able to pull her closer so he could run his fingers through her lustrous hair.
