Athelstan paused and Raymond put his face in his hands whilst his white-faced wife pressed a clenched fist to her mouth.
‘I know this,’ Athelstan continued, ‘because I have seen the muniment book: payments to a carpenter, Raymond D’Arques, and for the stonework to a mason who used the initials A.Q.D., a device used to hide him from the prying eyes of the Guild.’ Athelstan sipped from his tankard. ‘During the work on the sanctuary, for reasons yet unknown, you killed a young woman, either by suffocation or strangulation, and buried her in a hole beneath the altar. You then gave up your mason’s work, determined the crime would never be laid at your door. You became solely a carpenter and took every step to ensure you never used your old mark, A.Q.D., the rearranged initials of your last name. Master D’Arques, am I correct?’
The man looked up and Athelstan felt a surge of compassion at the look in those staring eyes.
He continued, ‘You thought your crime would go undetected or, if the skeleton was discovered, the blame would not be laid at your door. However, you heard the news of a new priest arriving at St Erconwald’s. A Dominican who acted as a coroner’s clerk and was also determined to renovate the church. You kept a wary eye on St Erconwald’s and when I began renovating the sanctuary, plotted your scheme. You arranged that miracle.’
‘How?’ his wife cried out.
Athelstan saw the guilt in her eyes.
‘Oh, come!’ Cranston snorted. ‘The news of the skeleton’s being found and rumours of its being the remains of a saint played into your hands. Indeed, you prepared yourselves for just such a possibility. After all, you’d had years to prepare, reflect and plot. Now, any professional beggar can dress his body in the most terrible wounds to fool even the most skilled physician or apothecary, never mind old Master Culpepper. A good, upright citizen comes to him with an infection of the arm, so he dresses it. You bide your time, wash your arm, go down to St Erconwald’s, and heigh-ho, a miracle is worked.’
‘Others had cures!’ she snapped.
‘Yes, I considered that,’ Athelstan replied. ‘But nothing substantial. The human mind is mysterious in its working. Ailments did clear up — colic and mild infections — helped, of course, by the outrageous claims of the professional miracle-seekers who love to profit from popular hysteria. I tell you this, Mistress D’Arques, if I took the stool I am sitting on and claimed it was fashioned by St Joseph, you would hear the most marvellous stories about the miracles it could work.’
He shook his head. ‘My parishioners wanted the skeleton to be the remains of a martyr or some great saint. The counterfeit-men saw it as a source of profit. The sick would seek any cure, and the human soul is insatiable in its search for wonders and marvels.’ Athelstan sipped his ale then pushed it away. ‘When I reflected on what had happened, when I searched the records, when I saw the state of the skeleton and the Lord Coroner’s judgement on how that woman died, I knew she had to be a victim of murder. Your husband laid those sanctuary stones and it is no coincidence that the miracle story originated with him.’
D’Arques lifted his head and clutched his wife’s hand.
‘You are correct, Father. Some fifteen years ago I was a young carpenter, a parishioner of St Erconwald’s. I loved old Father Theobald and, after his fall in the sanctuary, offered to do some work there. I bought the stones and in a moment of pride carved the mark “A.Q.D.” and told Father Theobald that I could lay them without his paying heavy costs to the Guild.’ D’Arques wetted his lips. ‘I forgot, you know, that I’d put “A.Q.D.” on the stone.’ He stared down at the table. ‘Now at the same time,’ he continued, ‘I met and fell in love with Margot Twyford, the daughter of one of the powerful merchant families across the river. However, I was a young man and the blood beat hot in my veins. There was a prostitute, a whore called Aemelia. She must have been about eighteen or nineteen summers old. I often used to pay her for her services. She heard about my courtship and began to taunt me. She asked for money in return for her silence so I paid. She came back for more. I refused so she crossed the river, sought out Margot and told her everything.’
‘I sent her packing!’ D’Arques’s wife snapped, her eyes blazing with fury. ‘I told her I’d see her boiled alive in hell rather than give up Raymond.’ Her fingers curled round those of her husband.
‘I thought that was the end of it,’ he continued. ‘But one evening, at the end of a beautiful summer’s day, she came into the sanctuary where I was working and asked for more silver. I refused. She told me about seeing Margot and said tomorrow she would cross the river and tell my betrothed’s father. She would proclaim the news for all to hear. I pleaded with her not to but she laughed, baiting me.’ D’Arques closed his eyes. ‘The image still haunts me: Aemelia walking up and down, hips swaying, arms folded, her painted face twisted with hatred. Father, I went on my knees, I begged her, but she just laughed. She stepped backwards and fell. The next minute I was on top of her. I had my cloak in my hand and forced it across her face. She struggled but I was young and strong. I held her down. She gave one last terrible lurch and lay silent.’ D’Arques gulped from his tankard. ‘I thought she had swooned but she just lay there, white-faced, her eyes staring. Father, what could I do? I couldn’t walk through Southwark with a corpse in my arms. And why should I hang for a murder I did not wish to commit? Now, during my work in the sanctuary I’d discovered a pit beneath the altar where the foundations of an older building had been. I stripped Aemelia of her clothes and laid her there with a wooden cross in her hands.’ D’Arques rubbed his face. ‘The rest you can guess. I laid the sanctuary stones myself.’ He smiled weakly at Athelstan. ‘The flags were not properly laid due to my lack of skill and eagerness to finish the task quickly.’ He pressed his wife’s hand. ‘I confessed all to Margot. No one missed Aemelia. Time passed. Father Theobald died and that bastard Fitzwolfe became parish priest. I could not abide the evil man so I attended another church, St Swithin’s.’
‘My husband did not mean to kill her,’ his wife sharply interposed. ‘He has tried to make reparation with carvings at St Swithin’s; he pays generously in tithes, helps the poor and has gone on pilgrimages to Glastonbury and Walsingham.’ Her tear-brimming eyes held Athelstan’s. ‘What more can he do? Why should he stand trial now for murdering that scheming, horrible bitch?’ She laughed. ‘A martyr! A saint! Brother Athelstan, my husband did wrong both in slaying the whore and in playing upon the hopes of your gullible parishioners, but when he heard of your work in the sanctuary, he panicked.’
Athelstan turned and looked at Cranston.
‘Sir John, I believe Master D’Arques and his wife are telling the truth. What shall we do now?’
The coroner, who had sat attentively throughout the confession, smiled.
‘I am the King’s Coroner in the city,’ he announced. ‘My judgements are always good and true. You, Raymond D’Arques, are guilty of the unlawful slaying of the woman called Aemelia. This is your punishment. First, you will come before the justices of the King’s Bench and swear to the slaying.’ The coroner’s sharp eyes now caught Mistress D’Arques’s white, anxious face. ‘You were his accomplice after the event. You, too, must purge yourself. If this purgation is made, I swear a pardon under the royal seal will be issued.’
Both the carpenter and his wife relaxed and smiled.
‘Secondly,’ Cranston continued, ‘you are guilty of the desecration of a church and the illegal burial of Aemelia’s body. You will pay for the proper Christian funeral of her remains, including coffin, grave fee and service. You will also pay a chantry priest to sing masses for her soul.