‘This is not St Erconwald’s,’ Cranston murmured, staring in amazement at the silent beauty of the sanctuary. ‘Poetry in stone and marble,’ he added. ‘But did Alcuin die here?’
Athelstan blinked as if he had allowed the serenity of the church to obliterate his reason for coming here.
‘How many entrances are there?’ Cranston asked harshly.
‘Only two,’ Athelstan replied. ‘The one we came through,’ he pointed to the main door, ‘and one from the sanctuary.’
‘No trap doors or secret passageways?’
‘None whatsoever, and Father Prior said that both doors were locked. Alcuin apparently wished to be alone.’
‘And where would he go?’
Athelstan beckoned and led him round the high altar. A scarlet carpet lay spread behind, on each corner of it a stout wooden pillar.
‘What are those for?’ Cranston asked.
‘When a brother dies, the coffin is placed on those pillars above the red carpet,’ Athelstan replied. ‘The corpse has to rest before the altar for one entire day and night. The Requiem mass is sung.’ Athelstan tapped the sanctuary floor with his foot. ‘After that the coffin is lowered into the huge vault beneath.’
‘Could Alcuin have been thrown into the vault?’
‘I doubt it. Remember, Bruno’s coffin was lowered there. Our lay brothers may not be the brightest of people but they would certainly notice the corpse of one of their brethren lying about.’ Athelstan pointed to the prie-dieu and stared round, taking in the life-sized statues standing in their niches. ‘This is the last place Alcuin was seen alive,’ he murmured. ‘Father Prior is certain he went into the church. But what happened then?’
His half-whisper sounded eerie in the silence and Cranston, despite the beauty of the church, felt a shiver of menace.
‘I don’t know, Brother,’ he replied, ‘I really don’t. But I feel we are standing at the mouth of the Valley of Death!’
CHAPTER 6
Athelstan and Cranston stood for a while discussing the possibilities behind Alcuin’s disappearance before walking back into the main area of the sanctuary.
‘I am hungry,’ Cranston mumbled.
‘You’re always hungry. There’s something else you have got to see before we eat.’
Sir John pulled his face into a sulk like a little boy who has been refused a sweetmeat.
‘My Lord Coroner,’ Athelstan continued patiently, ‘you have been called here to investigate. So what does a coroner do?’
Cranston leaned against the wall.
‘Views the corpse,’ he said out of the corner of his mouth. ‘What do you suggest, Athelstan, dig up Brother Bruno?’
‘No, but Callixtus lies waiting for burial.’
‘Come on, Athelstan,’ Cranston mumbled. ‘First work, then eat!’
They left the church and walked back through the cloisters to the refectory where an old lay brother stood on duty. Athelstan beckoned him over.
‘My apologies,’ he whispered. ‘But be so courteous as to go and tell Father Prior that Sir John Cranston needs to view Brother Callixtus’s body.’
The lay brother looked surprised but, at Athelstan’s urging, went into the refectory. Athelstan stood by the half-open door, watching the candlelight set the shadows flickering. He listened to the lector read from the lives of the saints as the rest of the community ate their silent meal, the serenity broken only by the clatter of pots and the patter of sandalled feet.
The lay brother returned.
‘Father Prior has agreed to your request,’ he announced. ‘Brother Callixtus lies in the infirmary and I have to take you there.’
The infirmary stood a slight distance from the rest of the buildings. A brother, his robes covered by a white apron, greeted them and took them to the back of the building where a small lime-washed room served as a mortuary.
‘We have done what we can,’ the infirmarian muttered. ‘Brother Callixtus will be buried on Saturday.’
He waved them over to the lonely table covered by a white, purple-edged pall. Athelstan drew back the sheet. Callixtus’s body had been washed and dressed in the full robes of a Dominican monk yet the manner of his death was obvious: his thin, sour face was covered in purple-black bruises. Athelstan studied the pinched features. Already the nose had sharpened, the cheeks were more hollow, the eyes sunken into their sockets. He felt a surge of compassion as he remembered Callixtus in his prime, with his sharp brain and sardonic sense of humour. He carefully studied the gash which scarred the temple of the dead friar. The embalmer had done his best but Athelstan saw how deep the gash was, sharp and broad like a furrow in a field.
‘Brother!’ he called out. ‘Did you collect Callixtus’s corpse from the library?’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘And he had struck his head against the stones or some sharp object?’
‘He was just lying on the floor.’
‘What have you found?’ Cranston came closer. He felt a little nauseous. His stomach was empty and his nose wrinkled at the sour smell of the room.
‘Look, Sir John. Brother Callixtus’s fall bruised his face and head, but I suspect that this is the death wound.’ He pointed to the gash in Callixtus’s temple.
Athelstan folded the sheet back over the corpse. ‘What I am saying,’ he whispered, ‘is that Callixtus fell but then he was struck by something sharp. Oh.’ Athelstan turned to the infir-marian. ‘When you removed Brother Bruno’s corpse from the crypt, was the torch alight?’
‘Of course. The place is as black as night. Alcuin discovered the corpse. Ah!’ The infirmarian’s fingers flew to his lips. ‘Yes, I thought that was strange.’
‘What was?’
‘Alcuin discovered the corpse, but only after he himself had lit the torch. I remember him saying that.’ The infirmarian’s face creased in puzzlement. ‘So what was Bruno doing, staggering around in that pit of blackness?’
‘Only Alcuin can answer that,’ Cranston replied tersely. He stared at Athelstan. ‘Which means the mystery of Bruno’s death lies with a man who has now disappeared!’
They thanked the infirmarian. Athelstan made the waiting lay brother take them to the library and, despite the man’s protests, ordered all the candles to be lit. Athelstan went across to the long, narrow ladder which stretched up to the darkened shelves. He tried to ignore Cranston’s murmurs of admiration: the room held sweet memories for Athelstan. Here at the tables, in one of the finest libraries in the kingdom, he had studied as a young monk. The rich smell of leather and the sweet perfume of freshly cured manuscripts were deeply nostalgic and brought a lump to his throat. Yet it was here that Athelstan had made his decision to leave the monastery and take his brother to serve in the King’s wars in France. He stared quickly around. Were there ghosts here? he wondered. That of his brother, or of his parents who later died of a broken heart? Athelstan blinked furiously and grasped the ladder.
‘You see, Sir John, Callixtus climbed up here. He slipped and fell.’ Athelstan pointed at the floor. ‘The paving stones are even, there’s no sharp object. Sir John, would you help the lay brother gather all the candlesticks together?’
‘Why?’ Cranston queried. ‘Brother, what on earth are you doing?’
Athelstan held up a finger. ‘Reflect and think,’ he said. ‘I am applying the very lesson you taught me. Callixtus’s head was smashed by a sharp object. Apart from the corners of tables and stools, the only sharp and heavy objects in this library are the candlesticks.’
Sir John shrugged and helped a bemused lay brother move all the candlesticks into the centre of one of the long study tables.
‘He could have struck himself on the side of a table,’ Cranston protested.
Athelstan stood by the ladder and shook his head.