‘As you did on the eve of St Damasus during your visit to Sir Robert? You and Prior Alexander visited the Queenshithe or elsewhere. You made the arrangements then?’
‘Yes, yes, Prior Alexander is very understanding.’
‘I am sure he is. Your visit with Kilverby. .?’
‘We’ve explained that.’ Prior Alexander spoke up. ‘It was a courtesy visit. Sir Robert was not coming to St Fulcher’s. There was the business of Crispin being given lodgings here and other minor items.’
‘Such as?’
‘Sir Robert was a most generous benefactor,’ Lord Walter intervened. ‘His donations for Masses to be sung helped us build the new hog pen on our farm as well as re-gild some of our sacred vessels. We wanted to assure him that such gifts were both appreciated and well spent.’ The reply was rather rushed and from Prior Alexander’s face Athelstan concluded that a great deal of such gold and silver revenue stuck to the abbot’s greedy fingers. Little wonder Lord Walter’s beloved niece and sister lived so high on the hog! Athelstan recalled Isabella’s chatter at their recent meeting; he was sure she’d let slip that she had come of age. Was Abbot Walter preparing a generous dowry for his beloved kinswoman?
‘Tell me.’ Athelstan glanced around. ‘Let us establish the times and seasons of all that has happened here.’
‘In what way?’
‘The Wyvern Company arrived here when?’
‘Four years last summer.’
‘And you, Richer?’
‘I have been here just under three years.’
‘And the first fatality amongst the Wyvern Company was William Chalk?’
‘That was not murder,’ Prior Alexander answered flatly. ‘I examined him and so did local physicians. Master Chalk had growths in his belly and groin — I’ve told you this.’
‘When did he fall ill?’
‘About eighteen months ago.’
‘And who gave him ghostly comfort?’
‘I tended to him first,’ Prior Alexander retorted. ‘Brother Richer later on.’
‘Did you shrive him?’
‘Of course,’ Richer snapped. ‘I also gave him the last rites but,’ the Frenchman glared at Athelstan, ‘Chalk turned to God. You’ve been through his chamber. You must have seen his prayers scrawled on scraps of parchments pleading for mercy. You’re a priest. You know, under pain of excommunication, Brother Athelstan, no priest can break the seal of confession.’
‘He must have talked outside the seal.’
‘Everything is covered by the seal.’
‘You hate the Wyvern Company?’
‘You know I do. They are thieves, blasphemers, killers and the perpetrators of sacrilege.’
‘So Chalk did not abuse you of that.’
‘What passed between us, Brother, is protected by the seal.’
‘Where do you think the Passio Christi truly belongs?’
‘St Calliste.’
‘Is your uncle still abbot there?’
Richer smiled. ‘Yes, he enjoys robust health, thank God.’
‘And Kilverby,’ Athelstan continued, ‘he brought the Passio Christi here at the appointed time for the Wyvern Company to view?’
‘He used to,’ Prior Alexander declared. ‘We’ve told you that.’
‘And his relationship with the Wyverns was cordial? After all, he did finance them during the war with France.’
‘From what we know,’ Lord Walter intervened, ‘Kilverby was always distant and aloof but he was amicable enough towards the Wyverns.’
‘And this changed?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘Sir Robert began to reflect most carefully about them. He changed his opinion of those he once patronized.’
‘Encouraged by you, Brother Richer?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You know precisely. Did you advise Sir Robert?’
‘Of course I did. He was a man much burdened with sin,’ the Frenchman replied. ‘I shrived him. I gave him ghostly advice.’
‘Did he tell you his true opinion of the Wyvern Company?’
‘He grew to dislike them intensely. He claimed he’d always believed their story about the Passio Christi but he came to the conclusion that they hadn’t found it but stolen it.’
‘A conclusion you helped him reach?’
‘I didn’t disagree with him.’
‘Then Kilverby,’ Cranston asked, ‘stopped bringing the Passio Christi here?’
‘Yes,’ Lord Walter replied, ‘last year it was brought by Crispin and Mistress Alesia.’
Athelstan tapped a sandalled foot against the floor.
‘You don’t believe us?’ Richer asked. ‘You think we lie?’
‘No,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘You’re not lying but you’re not telling the full truth either. Kilverby was a leading London merchant, hard of heart, keen of wit and cunning as a snake. He financed and profited from the Wyverns. He must have suspected their story about the bloodstone years ago so why the change now?’
‘God’s grace,’ Richer declared, ‘my counsel.’
‘No,’ Athelstan retorted, ‘something else.’
‘Such as?’ Richer had recovered his arrogance. ‘Why not ask Master Crispin?’
‘Did you give Crispin ghostly comfort too, Brother Richer?’
‘Master Crispin and Sir Robert were regular visitors here,’ Richer replied. ‘I counselled Sir Robert but only exchanged pleasantries with Crispin.’
‘Can any of you three,’ Cranston gestured around, ‘cast any light on Sir Robert’s murder or the disappearance of the Passio Christi?’ The coroner’s question was greeted with muttered denials. ‘And the murders here in your abbey?’
‘Sir John,’ Lord Walter retorted, ‘you know as much as we do.’
‘And the fire in Brokersby’s chamber?’
‘Most unfortunate.’ The abbot sighed.
‘Would he,’ Athelstan insisted, ‘have any reasons to keep oil in his chamber?’
‘Not that I am aware of.’
‘And the bedside candle?’
‘Visit our chandler, Brother Athelstan,’ Prior Alexander replied. ‘Such candles are dispensed to all chambers in the guest house — tall, thick, fashioned out of tallow but still the best. They are fixed on a stand with a cap. I don’t think such a fire could be caused even if this candle was knocked over. I mean,’ the prior flailed a hand, ‘such a conflagration.’
Athelstan glanced at Cranston and raised his eyes heavenwards.
‘We have to go.’ The coroner abruptly rose to his feet, bowed and, followed by Athelstan, walked to the door. Cranston abruptly turned.
‘Lord Abbot, your sister Eleanor Remiet — her maiden name?’
‘Why, the same as mine, Chobham. She married a Gascon, Velours, then remarried Master Remiet, who also died. My niece is the only child of her first marriage. Is that all?’
‘No.’ Athelstan pointed at Richer. ‘Brother, if I could have a word with you in private.’
The Frenchman looked as if he was going to object.
‘Just we two.’ Athelstan smiled. ‘Sir John will not be present.’
Richer shrugged and followed them out down to the courtyard. Athelstan waited until Cranston was out of hearing and turned.
‘Brother Richer, are you an assassin?’
‘How dare you!’
‘The day Hyde was stabbed to death close to the watergate — you went down there that afternoon. You were seen carrying a sword.’
Richer’s lower lip trembled.
‘You took a sword out of the Barbican when the lazy brother-in-charge was elsewhere. You took it because of the killings here, whilst the quayside on a lonely mist-filled afternoon could be a dangerous place. You were going to meet a boatman from a foreign ship to give him whatever you really do send from this abbey. I suspect Hyde followed and spied on you close to the watergate.’
‘Are you accusing me of murdering him?’
‘No, but Hyde had also been followed. The mysterious assassin pierced Hyde’s belly and he gave the most hideous scream. You must have heard that. You told your boatman to wait and hurried back to find Hyde dying of his belly wound.’ Athelstan paused. ‘You really hate those archers, don’t you? Did Hyde, an old soldier, ask for the mercy cut or did you see him as the hated enemy? Did you stab him with that sword then carry it back to your friend the boatman?’