‘Very well,’ Athelstan lifted his head, ‘I would like to see all these items now.’
‘That’s impossible!’
‘Of course it is,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘How many of these items have now been returned to St Calliste?’ He closed the book. ‘Prior Alexander, stop looking offended, it’s not honest. Sit down.’ Athelstan rejoined Cranston. ‘I shall tell you what happened,’ Athelstan continued. ‘The Wyvern Company’s plunder was handed over to the Crown within a year because all the items were sacred. They were then granted to St Fulcher’s, some twenty-three years ago.’ Athelstan tapped the book. ‘You cannot erase or change these entries. A few years ago the Abbot of St Calliste decided it was time to get his property back. Did he exchange gifts with you, Abbot Walter? Or was it bribes?’ Athelstan asked. ‘So that his beloved nephew Richer, the skilled copyist and illuminator, could visit St Fulcher’s on an extended course of study? He would definitely work for this privilege, being given the position of Sub-Prior.’ Athelstan stared at the Frenchman who looked relaxed but poised. ‘I cannot prove this but the Abbot of St Calliste also learned as he would through the chatter and gossip of his order, how the remnants of the Wyvern Company were now at St Fulcher’s. What an excellent opportunity! What a prize! To recover everything lost as well as wreak vengeance on the sacrilegious English who’d dared plunder the great Abbey of St Calliste with such impunity.’
‘Are you, yet again,’ Richer demanded, ‘accusing me of murder? Where is your proof, your evidence?’
‘Seeds grow, stalks thrust up,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘Gathering time always comes, Richer. You definitely arrived here to right a whole series of wrongs and, to begin with, God was good. You must have even thought St Benedict himself had intervened on your behalf.’
‘Explain!’
‘You know full well. One of the Wyverns, William Chalk, fell ill; a defrocked priest, he desperately wanted to make his peace with God. You Richer, with Prior Alexander’s connivance, wormed your way into that man’s soul. I am not accusing you of breaking the seal of confession but you used the second miracle which presented itself. Kilverby was also undergoing conversion. Like the subtle cozener you are, you struck hard and fast. Kilverby realized that the free company he’d financed in France were sacrilegious thieves and he’d profited from them. Worse was to come. He learnt that the Passio Christi, the sacred bloodstone, had been blasphemously stolen and he was also part of that. He was under God’s doom.’ Athelstan shook his head. ‘I admit, I confess. I still do not fully understand Kilverby’s motives.’
‘I am sorry?’ Prior Alexander’s voice seemed hoarse and dry.
‘Richer, you are persuasive. Kilverby had his doubts but something other than your honeyed words influenced both him and Master Chalk.’
Richer half-smiled, as if he was playing a chess game and was acknowledging a cunning opponent.
‘Anyway.’ Athelstan sighed. ‘Kilverby asked what could he do? He distanced himself from the Wyvern Company. He probably promised you the bloodstone. Of course all this did not happen at once. I suspect it took almost the first two years of your stay, Richer, before you were able to reap your hidden harvest and send it home.’ Athelstan glanced quickly at the abbot and his woman; their fearful faces showed he was close to the truth.
‘Which was what?’ Prior Alexander asked.
‘Oh, you all know. Kilverby offered reparation of a different kind; influenced by Richer, he made very generous donations to this abbey on one condition.’
‘Which was?’ Prior Alexander whispered.
‘All the goods plundered from St Calliste were to be gradually returned. You, Abbot Walter, agreed to this in order to swell the coffers of your beloved kinswoman. Prior Alexander, you cooperated out of your great love for Richer. .’
‘I. .’
‘Please, Brother, why lie? What you feel is not my business.’ Athelstan pointed at the Frenchman. ‘Richer, you were delighted. You weren’t sending messages home but the objects listed in this ‘Book of Gifts’: cruets, crucifixes, sacred items not to be entrusted to simple river folk but specially selected emissaries who, with Prior Alexander’s full connivance, you met with on your visits to the city. I’m sure most of these objects are now gone.’
‘We could prove. .’ Prior Alexander protested but his voice faltered.
‘What?’ Athelstan moved in his chair. ‘How you still have these items? Of course you could produce a crucifix, cruets, a triptych and claim they were those from St Calliste. One chalice looks like another, yes, but,’ Athelstan tapped the ledger, ‘give me the “ Liber Passionis Christi”.’ His invitation was greeted with silence. ‘Well,’ Athelstan declared, ‘where is the Book of the Passion of Christ? I suspect it’s a manuscript written by Pope Damasus — yes? This too has gone back to France. Richer gave it to some trusted envoy on a foreign ship, well?’
‘The book has been returned.’ Prior Alexander was flustered. Trying to regain his dignity, he glanced sharply at Richer. ‘The book has been restored to its proper owner.’
‘With the permission of the Crown,’ Athelstan asked, ‘did you make a copy?’ Athelstan demanded, ‘Well, did you?’
Richer simply spread his hands, Prior Alexander slipped further down his chair.
‘There’s no “Liber”, no copy,’ Richer muttered.
‘I might insist on searching this abbey, including your chamber, Richer.’
‘You can’t. .’
‘We can and we might,’ Cranston retorted.
‘The Passio Christi,’ Athelstan asked, ‘do any of you know where the bloodstone is?’
‘No,’ Richer’s voice was restrained, ‘I swear, no!’
‘The Passio Christi,’ Athelstan got to his feet, ‘and the book about it hold the key to all this mystery, and the question which lies at the very heart of it: why did Sir Robert change so radically? There was more to that than his own scruples or your eloquence, Richer.’
‘I cannot help you on that!’
‘Never mind.’ Cranston rose and stood over the Frenchman. ‘You, Brother, whoever you may be, are confined to this abbey. Any attempt to flee will be construed as a treasonous act.’
‘I’m a Frenchman.’
‘And His Grace, King Richard,’ Cranston thrust his face down, ‘also claims to be King of France. Richer, you are confined to this abbey under pain of treason. Brother Athelstan?’
The coroner and friar stepped out of the chamber. Once they’d left the courtyard Athelstan paused.
‘Perhaps we should begin now, Sir John.’
‘Begin what?’
‘Our search!’
Cranston agreed. He and Athelstan adjourned to the library. Richer joined them. Athelstan told him to stand aside, yet even as they searched Athelstan realized they would find nothing amongst this precious collection of books. Richer was cunning. Should they, Athelstan wondered, demand that the sub-prior’s chamber also be searched? But, there again, the Frenchman was now alert to the danger. Moreover, although the ‘ Liber Passionis Christi’ might prove very useful, its disappearance did not prove Richer, or anyone else, to be an assassin or a thief. Athelstan sighed as he placed the last book, a copy of Lucretius, back on the shelf.
‘Sir John, I’m ready!’ The firedrake in all his garish glory marched into the library. Cranston smiled at Athelstan and both followed this eccentric character out through the cloisters to Mortival meadow where the abbey chandler waited.
‘I’ve everything prepared.’