The Chapter was run by the senior canons, and although the bishop was a member, he had no direct control over the business, his remit being the whole diocese of Devon and Cornwall, rather than the cathedral itself — though in practice, his will and word were never challenged. Inside the room contained a quadrangle of benches, with a wooden lectern in the centre for the reading of the scriptures. In one corner, an open wooden staircase rose to the floor above, which was the ‘Exchequer’, the scriptorium and library of the cathedral. It was old, cramped and outdated, and plans were afoot to build a bigger Chapter House in stone, once the bishop had confirmed the gift of part of his adjacent palace garden.
‘Come upstairs, we can talk there awhile, before Chapter begins,’ invited de Alençon, leading the others up to the Exchequer. It was a musty chamber, with a number of high desks and stools. There were shuttered window openings in each wall, between which were shelves carrying scores of parchment and a few books, some chained to the sloping reading boards below the shelves.
Two priests were working laboriously on the diocesan accounts at a couple of the desks and another was reading at a desk. The Archdeacon crossed to a corner furthest from them, and motioned de Wolfe to a stool and took another facing him. The coroner’s clerk melted into the shadows behind his uncle, determined not to be left out of anything even remotely ecclesiastical.
‘This is a tragic state of affairs, John,’ began de Alençon. ‘I have sent a message to the Bishop, who says he will receive us later today to discuss this matter. Thank God he is in Exeter for once, because of the arrival of the Justices.’
De Wolfe perched on his high stool like some great hunched crow, his mantle hanging from his shoulders like a pair of folded wings. ‘The culprit has to be one of your priests, John. He must be stopped quickly, for he seems to have developed a taste for killing. Unless we find him, I doubt this will be the last tragedy.’
The canon anxiously fingered the wooden cross hanging around his neck. His thin face was furrowed with concern and he passed his other hand through his wiry hair in a gesture of despair. ‘But how can we trap such a madman — for crazy he must be?’
‘Crazy and cunning, it seems. Have you no idea who among your flock of clerics might be deranged enough to act like this?’
De Alençon gave a heavy sigh. ‘I have not the slightest notion, my friend.’
‘But you must know every priest in Exeter, if not the whole of Devon,’ said de Wolfe, impatiently. ‘Surely you can narrow down our search to those who are in some way unbalanced in their minds?’
The troubled archdeacon rubbed his forehead in anguish. ‘Some of these matters involve the confessional, John. That is inviolate, even in murder.’
‘I’m not asking you to reveal any detail, only to help me list those priests you consider worthy of investigation. Ones who have some marked peculiarity of character.’
John de Alençon cast around for some means of assuaging his conscience. ‘Well, naturally the number from whom I personally have heard confessions is very small — all priests have their allotted confessor and the ones that I have taken are few. What I have heard of some priests has come from my administrative role as archdeacon, aided by common cathedral gossip!’
De Wolfe managed to conceal his impatience. His old friend was sometimes as long-winded as Gwyn. ‘So, can you name a few, John? I must get started soon — this series of killings cannot be kept from the king’s Justices next week. They will not look kindly upon a community that cannot protect its citizens from one of it own priests!’
The Archdeacon nodded, convinced by the coroner’s appeal to the public good and the possible censure of his monarch’s judges, for like John de Wolfe, John de Alençon was devoted to Richard the Lionheart.
‘There are certainly some odd characters among our clerics, John. For example, Adam of Dol, down at St Mary Steps, has a most ferocious notion of Christianity — but apart from that, he seems sane enough. Peter de Clancy at St Lawrence is eccentric in that he shouts every word of the services, instead of speaking or chanting, but that is a far cry from being a multiple murderer.’
De Wolfe felt that this was not getting him very far in his quest. ‘Do you know every priest here?’ he asked.
‘I know their names, certainly, and I have probably met every one, too. But I cannot claim an intimate knowledge of each. As I said, every priest has his own confessor — even the Bishop — and they would be more acquainted with the nature of their charge. But that brings us back to the sacred trust of the confession and you cannot expect to get far along that road.’
The coroner scowled. ‘Is confession so inviolate that it conceals a killer and puts others of God’s flock at risk?’
De Alençon turned up his hands in a gesture of supplication. ‘All depends upon the person confessing. If his confessor advises or pleads with him that such a dire sin must be brought into the open, then the subject may disclose it outwith the religious confession. But that would be extraordinarily rare — who is going to put their head voluntarily into the hangman’s noose?’
There was a heavy silence.
‘So how are we to proceed?’ asked de Wolfe.
‘Take this matter to the Chapter, when it assembles below. There are many there who know different priests better than I. They can at least offer some suggestions as to who to interrogate — if the bishop allows, of course.’
De Wolfe bristled. ‘The Bishop allows? He may be able to divert accused clerics from the secular courts to his own, but he cannot stop me asking questions of anyone I choose, priest or not.’
The Archdeacon smiled wryly. ‘You may find that Henry Marshal has powers you had not guessed at. But let us meet that problem when it comes.’ He sighed. ‘Meanwhile, the urgent task is to place this affair before the members of Chapter. Now that one of our own brethren has fallen victim, you should find that the Church will stir itself to take action.’
As if to underline his words, John heard the shuffle of feet and the murmur of many voices below, as the canons and their vicars began to assemble for the short service before their daily meeting. De Alençon rose to his feet, but motioned to John to stay where he was.
‘We have some chants to sing and prayers to say first, then there will be the usual daily business. When that is done, I will send up for you to join us to discuss this sad affair.’
He gathered his black robe about him and set off for the steps in the corner of the library. Thomas moved towards his master and whispered urgently into his ear, causing de Wolfe to call after the Archdeacon, ‘Thomas has a caution for us, John.’
The senior canon stopped and came back to the pair.
‘What has that fertile mind of yours thrown up now, nephew?’
The coroner answered for him: ‘He points out sensibly that for all we know the culprit may be a member of your Chapter.’
The clerk, looking slightly shamefaced, crossed himself hurriedly, as if insuring himself against his uncle’s displeasure at what he was about to say. ‘Whoever is leaving these messages must be well versed in the Vulgate, sir. Perhaps someone quite senior in the priesthood is responsible, for it is a matter of regret that many parish priests are unlikely to have that degree of learning.’
De Wolfe agreed. ‘When we had that problem over treasure in Dunsford church a few months back, it was your canons who helped — especially Jordan de Brent, the curator of this very scriptorium.’
‘Not that my master is accusing him of anything, Uncle,’ gabbled Thomas hastily, touching his head, heart and shoulders rapidly as if warding off the very thought.