Athelstan gazed coolly back, trying to hide the surge of rage. I hope you are the murderer, he thought, because there is murder here. He blinked, trying to clear such malicious thoughts from his mind.
‘And Brother Callixtus?’ Athelstan asked. ‘He, too, fell from the ladder?’
‘Yes, yes,’ Eugenius snapped, half-turning his head, refusing to look at Athelstan.
The friar leaned his elbows on the table and steepled his fingers, vowing not to look to his right where Cranston sat snoring like a baby. ‘Brother Henry, Brother Niall, Brother Peter?’ He smiled at the theologians. ‘You have all studied logic?’
All three men nodded.
‘And the theory of probability and the possibility of coincidence?’
Again there were nods of assent.
‘Then tell me, Father Prior,’ Athelstan continued, ‘how many violent deaths have there been at this monastery in the last three years? Not deaths due to natural causes but violent and unexpected deaths?’
‘There have been none.’
‘So,’ Athelstan concluded, ‘in three years before the Inner Chapter met, perhaps even in six, there are no violent deaths But this Inner Chapter meets, and within two weeks two brothers die and another disappears in mysterious circumstances. Now tell me, all of you, is that probable? Is that logical?’
Brother Henry of Winchester smiled and shook his head.
‘Brother Niall, Brother Peter?’
Their agreement with Brother Henry showed in their faces
‘Moreover, we have other evidence,’ Athelstan continued ‘Something Father Prior hasn’t told me.’
Anselm gazed back in surprise.
‘There is something else, isn’t there, Father Prior?’
Anselm licked his thin dry lips. Had he done the right thing, he wondered fleetingly, in bringing this young Dominican back? Athelstan was too quick, too sharp. Would the cure he proposed be worse than the disease? Was William of Conches right? Would it be best to leave these things be? Athelstan’s sea-grey eyes held his.
‘Yes, yes, there is,’ Father Prior replied. ‘Alcuin would never have fled the monastery. His cell was as he left it; he took no scrip, no wallet, no food, no money, no boots, nor a horse from the stables. And, if he fled, surely someone would have seen him? Secondly, Alcuin felt excluded from the Chapter. He and his close friend Brother Callixtus,’ Anselm smiled weakly ‘always did consider themselves theologians. The other brethren overheard their chatter. They dismissed the Inner Chapter as a farce. Alcuin said his friend Callixtus could prove that you, Master Inquisitor, were wasting your time.’
‘What did he mean by that?’ William of Conches barked
‘He meant, monk — ’ Cranston smacked his lips and opened his eyes.
The Dominicans jumped as the coroner brought himself fully alert, stretching and looking sharply round the room for anyone laughing at him.
‘He meant,’ the coroner repeated, ‘that there were two monks — ’ he smiled ‘- sorry, friars, who believed the Inner Chapter was a waste of time. One’s now dead, the other’s disappeared. Am I right, Father Prior?’
Anselm nodded quickly. Cranston held up a stubby finger.
‘I have not studied logic but always remember the old proverb, “Just because a dog has its eyes closed, that does not mean it’s asleep”. I am Sir John Cranston, King’s Coroner in the City. Even asleep I am alert.’
Athelstan groaned to himself. He wished Cranston would not play his trick of pretending to be a drunken toper.
‘Father Prior,’ Athelstan asked quickly, ‘what do you think Alcuin and Callixtus meant by saying the Master Inquisitor was wasting his time here?’
‘I don’t really know. The two of them were for ever in comers whispering and Callixtus was searching the library for some manuscript.’
‘The other one,’ Cranston rudely interrupted, glaring at Athelstan. ‘You know, the old one, the first to die — Bruno. Was he connected with the Inner Chapter?’
‘No, he wasn’t,’ Eugenius answered. ‘But Alcuin, for some strange reason, always claimed he was going to the crypt at the very time Bruno stumbled and fell.’ Eugenius pulled a face. ‘I leave you to draw your own conclusions, Athelstan, as to what he meant by that.’
Athelstan made a few notes of what had been recorded then, putting down his pen, rose and stood over Brother Roger who crouched like a frightened rabbit, his eyes fixed on the Master Inquisitor. Athelstan took the half-wit’s hand in his.
‘Brother Roger,’ he murmured, ‘what is it you want to tell Father Prior?’
Roger blinked furiously and licked his lips in a way which made his tongue look too big for his mouth, making the saliva run down his unshaven chin. The sub-sacristan rubbed his head with dirty fingers.
‘I saw something in the church,’ he said. ‘But I can’t remember, except that there should have been twelve, or was it thirteen?’ He smiled vacuously at Athelstan. ‘I don’t know. Brother Roger forgets so quickly.’
Athelstan shook his head and rose.
‘Father Prior, is there anything else we need to know? Does anyone here have further information on these mysterious occurrences?’
A wall of silence greeted his words.
‘In which case, Father Prior, Sir John and I would like to withdraw. We have a chamber here?’
‘Yes, the servitor will show you up. Sir John and you will stay in our guest house.’
Athelstan bit his lip. He knew Sir John wanted to stay at Blackfriars well away from Lady Maude’s sharp tongue but the idea of sharing a chamber did not appeal to Athelstan. He had travelled with Cranston on a few occasions and knew the coroner became very loquacious, especially after a good meal and a few cups of sack.
‘We have your leave to go round the monastery and see what we wish?’
‘Of course!’
The meeting broke up. Brother Roger half-ran from the room. Brothers Niall and Peter nodded smilingly at Athelstan. Brother Henry murmured how glad he was to see him here, but the Inquisitors totally ignored him. Prior Anselm handed Athelstan and Cranston over to the lay brother who took them out of the main monastery building, round by the church to a small guest house which overlooked the orchard. It had its own kitchen and buttery on the ground floor and a large spacious chamber above, containing two truckle beds, a chest, a prie-dieu, a table under the glazed windows, one chair, a few stools and pegs driven into the wall on which to hang up their clothes. It was clean and well swept. Fresh rushes lay on the kitchen floor sprinkled with a mixture of herbs whilst the bed chamber boasted woollen cloths on the wall and a pure wool rug stitched to a coarse backing on the floor.
‘Father Prior said you can join us in the refectory for a meal if you wish,’ the young servitor announced. ‘Or you may cook your own food or have something sent across from the kitchen.’
‘Who will bring the food?’ Athelstan asked.
‘I would,’ the young fellow replied. ‘My name’s Norbert. I am in the novitiate preparing for my final vows.’
Athelstan studied Norbert’s smooth face and clear brown eyes. He looked like a man to be trusted.
‘You have nothing to do with the Inner Chapter?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Oh, no, Brother Athelstan. Too grand for me.’
‘Then,’ Athelstan replied, clapping him on the shoulder, ‘you bring the food across from the refectory. Now, be a good fellow, check on our horses in the stables. Philomel, the old war horse, eats fit to burst!’ Athelstan looked slyly at Cranston. ‘And he’s not the only one! My Lord Coroner is a man with prodigious appetites. Make sure his trencher is well stacked.’
Norbert smiled and gave a gap-toothed grin.
‘And that mead,’ Cranston interrupted, sticking his thumbs into his belt, ‘I understand it’s very good for the gullet.’