He went to the stable where Philomel leaned against the wall, chewing as lazily as he always did. Athelstan chatted to him then went across to the priest’s house; it was tidy and clean. Bonaventure had apparently gone hunting.
‘Or to visit that bloody relic!’ Athelstan murmured to himself.
He sat down on a stool and closed his eyes, breathing in deeply to calm himself. He drank a little ale, ate some bread and cheese, then went up into the loft where he sat on the edge of his bed reading through Richard of Wallingford’s work, admiring the skilful sketches and drawings.
‘When this business is over,’ Athelstan declared loudly, ‘I’m going to ask Father Prior for a little holiday. I’m going to St Albans to see Wallingford’s clock.’
He closed the book and sighed. He dared not approach Father Prior: he was still deeply uneasy about Brother Niall’s recent visit. There was something in the air, something was about to happen which would change his life. He lay down on his bed and thought of Alcest. Athelstan was sure he was a murderer, but guilty of which deaths? Athelstan, slowly but surely, went through all the circumstances. Something was wrong! He didn’t need to write it down, he could list the problems in his mind. He had a solution but did he have the proof?
‘I’ll have to wait,’ he muttered. He felt Bonaventura, who had appeared silently from somewhere, jump on the bed beside him. ‘Let’s sleep,’ he murmured. ‘Let’s sleep, at least for a while.’
Athelstan was woken by a loud knocking on the door and his name being called. Getting up, he wearily went down the steps and unlocked the door. Benedicta and Alison Chapler stood there.
‘Come in! Come in!’
He sat them down at the table and served them cups of ale and some of the bread and cheese left over from what he had eaten earlier.
‘Brother,’ Alison began. ‘I apologise but I’ve come to say goodbye.’
‘You are leaving now?’
‘No, early in the morning. I’m taking the road to Epping. My brother’s murderer? You’ve apprehended him?’
‘Alcest is under arrest at the Tower,’ Athelstan replied. ‘There are further questions he may be asked but…’ He smiled at her.
‘Tomorrow morning you may go. I am sure Sir John will not detain you.’
‘Watkin told us about your temper,’ Benedicta intervened.
‘Watkin is going to feel more of my temper,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘Benedicta, it may interest you, so stay until the Vespers bell rings. You, too, Mistress Alison. Perhaps you can tell the story in Epping. Will you stay there when you return?’
‘Perhaps.’ Her sweet face smiled back. ‘Or perhaps I’ll return to Norfolk.’
‘What?’ he asked, then changed the subject. ‘Do you know about Master Lesures?’
‘The Master of the Rolls!’ Alison made a face. ‘Edwin said he liked small boys. He was lazy and inefficient and didn’t care very much. A frightened man, but Alcest ruled him and the rest like a cock rules the roost.’
‘And he was right.’
Athelstan went across to the window and realised he had slept longer than he’d thought. For a while he sat with the women, Alison chattering about Mass offerings for the soul of her dead brother.
Athelstan half listened. He felt tired, slightly weary, and started when Cranston burst through the door, bellowing greetings at Benedicta and Alison.
‘Has the bugger arrived?’ he roared, picking up the jug of ale and drinking from it.
‘If you are referring to the Sanctus Man,’ Athelstan said crossly, ‘no, sir, he has not.’
‘Well, he’ll soon be here. Listen now!’ Cranston took off his beaver hat and cocked his head. ‘Any moment now, Brother.’
Sure enough, Athelstan caught the sound of the bells of St Mary Overy tolling across Southwark calling the faithful, and there weren’t many, to evening Vespers. Benedicta and Alison caught the coroner’s mood and, when the tolling stopped, sat up expectantly.
‘He won’t come,’ Cranston moaned. ‘I bet the Vicar of Hell is out of the city and into the woods.’
Athelstan looked towards the door and jumped. Somehow a figure had slipped through and stood standing on the threshold like a ghost.
‘The Sanctus Man?’ Athelstan asked.
He watched fascinated as his visitor, dressed completely in grey, hose, tunic and cloak, walked silently across to meet him, hands outstretched.
‘Brother Athelstan.’ His voice was low and caressing.
Athelstan took the soft hand and shook it.
‘I am the Sanctus Man.’
Cranston gaped in astonishment at this legendary figure of London’s underworld: a cheerful, cherub-faced man with crinkling eyes and rosy red cheeks.
‘Sir John, you look surprised.’
Cranston gripped the man’s hand: the Sanctus Man’s grasp was surprisingly strong.
‘Don’t squeeze so hard, my Lord Coroner,’ the Sanctus Man pleaded. ‘My fingers are my trade.’
‘Your fingers will lead you to the gallows one day,’ Cranston replied gruffly.
‘Now, now, Sir John, all I do is part rich fools from their money!’
‘They still talk about your sale of the crown of thorns,’ Cranston declared. ‘I saw a set, even down to the bloodstains.’
‘A work of art,’ the Sanctus Man replied. ‘A veritable work of art. After all, what is a relic? People want to see what they want and I am here. To help the faithful in their devotions,’ he continued, ‘to concentrate their minds on things supernatural.’
‘As well as enrich yourself?’
‘A labourer is worthy of his hire, Sir John.’ The Sanctus Man now turned. ‘And these lovely ladies?’
Athelstan made the introductions. He was scarcely finished when there was a knock on the door and Watkin staggered in.
‘Well, Father, we’re ready,’ he announced swaying slightly as if the floor was beginning to move. ‘Who’s this?’
‘Good evening, Watkin.’ Cranston brought his hand down on the dung-collector’s shoulders. ‘Don’t you know your manners, aren’t we friends?’
Watkin belched noisily and squirmed in Sir John’s grip.
‘This is a friend of mine,’ said Athelstan, bringing the Sanctus Man forward. ‘He would like to see your miraculous crucifix.’
‘It’s not for sale.’ Watkin glared at Athelstan’s visitor suspiciously.
‘Oh, I don’t want to buy it, sir. But come on, the evening is drawing on and time is money.’
‘Is the cemetery cleared?’ Athelstan asked.
‘It is, Father,’ Watkin replied.
Athelstan led the way out, across the yard and in through the lych-gate. The miraculous crucifix at the far end stood on a specially made altar of bricks and clods of earth; these were almost covered with lighted candles, placed there by the visitors.
‘It looks the part,’ Cranston murmured. ‘You can even see the red streaks of blood above a sea of fire.’
The Sanctus Man walked forward and, before Watkin or any parishioner could stop him, he knocked a few candles aside, picked up the crucifix and brought it down.
‘Put it back!’ Pike the ditcher bellowed to a chorus of shouts and threats.
‘Stand away!’ Cranston warned.
The Sanctus Man studied the crucifix carefully. Athelstan glanced at the streaks of blood now covering the face and body of the Saviour. ‘It is blood,’ he declared.
‘I’m sure it is,’ the Sanctus Man replied.
‘How did they do it?’
The Sanctus Man examined the figure and the cross itself. ‘There is no secret lever or clasp,’ he murmured. He tapped the figure. ‘And this is solid. Good wood.’ He glanced round the group. ‘It’s going to be a beautiful night,’ he declared surprisingly and pointed up to the sky. ‘A balmy evening.’
‘What’s that got to do with it?’ Hig the pigman shouted.
‘I just said it was a very pleasant evening. However, if it had been raining or snowing…’ He stared closely at the eyes of the crucified Christ carefully. ‘Who carved this?’
Huddle the painter shuffled forward sheepishly, turning sideways as if he didn’t want to meet Athelstan’s eye.