‘He killed himself!’ Cranston observed. ‘He committed suicide.’
Athelstan stared at the angry weal round the dead man’s neck.
‘I don’t think so, Sir John.’ He looked closer at the red-black wound caused by the rope’s chafing. He gently turned the corpse over. ‘Yes, as I thought. Look, Sir John.’ He traced with his finger the mark left by the noose but, just under the jaw, beneath the ears, were two finer cuts, little red weals.
‘What are those?’ Cranston asked.
‘Come on, Sir John, you’ve seen them before.’
The coroner peered closer, turning the body over, trying not to look at the popping eyes, the swollen blackened tongue clenched tightly between yellowing teeth.
‘This poor bastard didn’t hang himself!’ Cranston muttered. ‘He was garrotted! Those red marks are left by a garrotte string.’
Athelstan, who had clambered up the tree and was now loosening the piece of rope left there, shouted his agreement.
‘You’re right, Sir John. The rope here has left a mark but only that caused by the corpse’s weight. If Roger had committed suicide the branch would be more deeply frayed. Even a man who kills himself by hanging fights for life. The branch would bear deeper marks. ‘Athelstan, who was standing gingerly on the limb of the tree, pushed the branch where the rope had hung.
‘What are you doing, friar?’ Cranston roared, as hard, unripe apples rained down on him.
‘You’ll see, Sir John.’
Watched by a surprised coroner, Athelstan grasped the branch with both hands and edged his way over until it bore his full weight. He kept flexing his arm, making the branch dance. Suddenly there was a crack, the branch snapped, and Athelstan almost tumbled on to a surprised Cranston. The friar picked himself up, grinning, wiping his hands and dusting his robe down.
‘It’s years since I’ve done that, Sir John.’ He stared grimly up at the broken branch, then at Roger’s corpse on the grass. ‘We can prove it was murder, Sir John. First, the marks of the garrotte string. The assassin hoped the bruise left by the noose would hide those. Secondly, the branch is not scored deeply enough, which means Roger must have been dead when he was hoisted up there. Finally, if Roger had hanged himself, his body would have twisted and not only marked the branch but probably broken it. He’s heavier than me and they say a hanged man can dance for anything up to half an hour.’ Athelstan scratched his head. ‘No, Sir John, as you would put it, this poor bastard was probably invited here either last night or early this morning before daybreak, and garrotted.’ He paused. ‘You see the problem, My Lord Coroner?’
Cranston blinked. ‘No.’
‘Well, Roger was killed, but how did the assassin climb a tree with a corpse and tie the rope round the branch?’
Cranston looked round, studying the ground carefully.
‘Well, the assassin had the noose already prepared. Roger’s garrotted, the body is lifted up, and the noose tightened round the neck.’
‘The assassin must have been very tall.’
‘No.’ Cranston walked amongst the trees and came back with a stout wooden box about a foot high and a yard across. He placed this squarely on the spot over which Roger’s body had hung.
Athelstan smiled. ‘Of course! These boxes litter the orchard. The brothers use them in autumn when they harvest the fruit. It would be merely a matter of standing on the box, dragging Roger’s corpse up, tightening the noose, taking the box away and, heigh-ho, it looks as if Roger hanged himself.’
‘And, as you have so aptly proved, my dear friar, that branch would have broken if Roger had tried to crawl across it, and would certainly have snapped in his death throes.’ The coroner went and stood over the dead man’s body. ‘Murder,’ he declared, ‘by person or persons unknown. But God wants justice and so does the king! We will find out who, and I would love to know why!’
‘Because Brother Roger saw something in that church,’ Athelstan answered. ‘Hence the phrase: “There should have been twelve”. I wonder what it meant?’
CHAPTER 7
Athelstan and Cranston walked back to the monastery. Athelstan sought out Father Prior and tersely told him of what they had found and the conclusions they had reached.
Anselm’s face paled. Athelstan could see his superior was on the verge of breaking.
‘Why?’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘Why so many deaths?’
‘Tell me, Prior,’ Cranston asked, ‘what would Brother Roger be doing in the orchard?’
‘He often went there. It was his favourite place. He said he liked to talk to the trees.’ Anselm blinked back the tears in his eyes. ‘Roger was a half-wit. He worked in the sacristy; Alcuin was severe but very kind to him. Roger really didn’t do much: a little polishing, sweeping, and picking flowers for the church. He never liked to be in enclosed places. He liked the open air so I never stopped him. When the other brothers gathered in church to sing Lauds, Matins or Evensong, Roger would go into the orchard. The poor fellow said he felt closer to God there than anywhere else.’ The prior banged the top of his desk with his fist. ‘Now the poor soul’s with God and his murderer walks round like a cock without a care. Athelstan, what can you do?’
‘Father Prior, all I can, but I must beg leave. I have to go back to St Erconwald’s.’ His eyes pleaded with the prior. ‘Father, I will return later in the day. I just need to see that all is well.’
‘Ah, yes, the famous relic!’ Prior Anselm answered sourly. ‘God knows why you care, Athelstan! Your parishioners do not heed you.’ He made a face. ‘Yes, I have heard the news. The fame of your mysterious martyr is spreading through the city. If you are not careful the bishop himself will intervene and you know what will happen then.’
Athelstan closed his eyes and breathed a prayer. Oh, yes, I know what will happen, he thought. The bishop’s men will remove the skeleton and transfer it to some wealthy church, or break it up and sell it as relics, whilst the door of St Erconwald’s will be sealed pending an investigation. And that could last months.
‘This first miracle,’ Anselm asked, ‘are you sure it was genuine?’
He made a face. ‘A physician dressed the skin, the man’s a burgess of good repute and claims his arm is now cured.’
Athelstan, his mind distracted, took a half-hearted farewell of Prior Anselm and went back to the guest house, Cranston trailing behind him. The Dominican packed his saddle bag, still thinking about what the Prior had said whilst the coroner fluttered around him like an over-fed chicken.
‘Why are you leaving, Brother? Why go back there?’
‘Because, Sir John, for the time being there’s nothing to be done here and I have business there!’ He looked sharply at Cranston. ‘And I suggest, Sir John, you return home to the Lady Maude. I am sure she will be expecting you.’
Cranston groaned like a mischievous boy who knows he has been caught. ‘By a fairy’s buttocks!’ he breathed. ‘If Domina Maud knows about my wager, she’ll clip my ears!’
Athelstan looked at him squarely. ‘Sooner or later, Sir John, you have to face her wrath. Better sooner than later. Come on!’
They sent for Norbert to lock the guest house and decided not to ride to the city but go by skiff from East Watergate to London Bridge. They found Knight Rider Street and the alleyways which cut off it still deserted. Apprentices, heavy-eyed with sleep, were preparing the stalls while the rest of the city had yet to wake to another day’s business. At East Watergate, however, the sheriffs’ men were busily involved in the execution of four river pirates — grizzled, battered men who were hastily shoved up the ladder to the waiting noose. Athelstan and Cranston looked away as a mounted pursuivant gave the order for the ladders to be turned, leaving the bodies of the pirates to dangle and dance as the nooses tightened, cutting off their breath. Athelstan closed his eyes, muttering a prayer for their souls. The executions brought back bitter memories of that ghastly apparition Athelstan had seen in the Blackfriars orchard. He looked back at the row of black scaffolds, their arms jutting out above the river. He heard a shout as relatives of the river pirates ran forward and jumped on the still jerking corpses, dragging them down roughly until a series of sharp clicks indicated their necks had been broken and at last the corpses hung silent. The sheriffs’ party, although they protested, did nothing to stop this act of mercy. The pursuivants declared that justice had been done and moved off.