Gwyn looked at the coroner. ‘Then we’re wasting our time trying to compare it with our suspect’s hand,’ he complained.
Thomas shook his head. The challenge of this hunt had lifted his spirits somewhat, by distracting him from his own problems for a while.
‘There might just be some particular thing that gives it away. Even if a man tries hard to disguise his writing, the way he makes some stroke or line may unconsciously be repeated.’
They were approaching the next church now. St Mary Steps stood behind the West Gate, at the foot of the hill leading towards the Saracen Inn and the Bush. When they entered, there was no sign of the priest. Gwyn and de Wolfe stood in the nave, gazing with astonishment at the lurid murals painted along the high walls, some not yet completed and partly obscured by sacking draped from nails in the roof-beams. Thomas scuttled off to the sacristy to see if Adam of Dol was lurking there.
‘What sort of priest wants these hell-fire pictures in his church?’ murmured John, gazing at the graphic illustrations of sinners being disembowelled and tormented by devils with tridents. Some female victims were suffering agonising indignities that seemed grossly out of place in a house of worship.
‘Must be a madman, Crowner. Do you think we might have found him already?’ asked Gwyn, scowling at the sadistic promises of the after-life for those who failed to tread the straight and narrow path of righteousness.
There was a slam behind them and they turned to see a thick-set priest dropping the hasp of the big door to the street. He strode towards them, his long robe swishing across the bare flagstones, the expression on his ruddy face anything but welcoming. Short-necked and bull-chested, he was an aggressive-looking man of middle age, his brown hair cut strangely into a thick circular shelf below his shaven tonsure.
‘I know who you are — and what you want!’ he shouted, still yards away.
Gwyn sighed. ‘Is this bloody man going to behave himself or am I going to have to break his neck?’ he growled under his breath.
Adam of Dol marched up to them and stood with his fists aggressively planted on his hips. ‘I’ve heard what went on in Chapter yesterday! You’ve come to persecute any priest who doesn’t fit in with the milk-sop notions of those gutless canons down in the cathedral Close!’ Almost purple in the face now, he swept Thomas aside with his brawny arm and advanced so that his fleshy nose was within a hand’s breadth of de Wolfe’s chin. ‘Well, you will leave my church now, d’you hear? I’ve nothing to say to you, except to tell you that, alone in this God-forsaken city, I have the courage to tell the people the truth about the wages of sin!’
John looked back calmly at the irate priest, holding up a hand to restrain Gwyn from the violence that he could see building up in his officer.
‘I care nothing for your religious beliefs or methods, priest. I am here as an officer of King Richard, to uphold his peace through the office of coroner.’ He paused and looked intently into Adam’s protuberent eyes, which reminded John of an angry bull surrounded by baiting dogs.
‘I can take it, I trust, that whatever your views on theology, you revere the name of your king, as well as that of your God?’ He had hoped that this invitation to reject treason would cool the man’s temper, but Adam seemed impervious to such an approach.
‘All you law men — crowners, sheriffs and those pompous asses of judges who come tomorrow — are misled by Satan!’ he snarled. ‘Your efforts at punishing the evildoer are futile. The only way is to convince the weak-minded people of this world that sin leads to eternal damnation!’
The coroner sighed, resigning himself to another wasted visit. Men like this were deaf to argument, steeped in obsession and unwavering in their delusions, but he had to try to make some progress. ‘Where were you last night, after Matins?’ he snapped.
‘In my bed, gathering strength for the never-ending battle against the legions of Lucifer! And alone, not with a wench or a young boy, like some of the vermin who call themselves priests!’ screeched Adam, a dribble of froth appearing at the corner of his mouth.
De Wolfe tried to pursue his questions, asking about the other nights on which a killing had occurred, but it was in vain. The burly priest became more and more agitated and abusive, almost dancing with rage and throwing his arms about. One of his fists swung back against Thomas as the little man was getting out his pen and ink for another sample of writing. The bottle flew across the nave and smashed on the floor, a spray of ink blackening the flagstones. The clerk screeched in fright, though he was not hurt, but Gwyn, ever-protective of his feeble friend, gave a roar of anger, grabbed the priest by the collar of his robe and shook him.
Though physically no match for the huge Cornishman, the raging Adam promptly smashed his fist into Gwyn’s prominent belly and a full-scale brawl erupted before the chancel steps. As the two men rolled about on the cold stones, Thomas was jumping up and down in horror at this desecration of God’s house, crossing himself frantically and squeaking at his master to do something to stop the blasphemy.
Groaning with frustration at the way the interview had turned out, John yelled at the two men and gave them a few random kicks, but to no avail. Looking around, he saw a large stone ewer against the foot of the chancel arch, for replenishing the holy water in the piscina. He picked it up and threw the contents over the heads of the combatants, like dousing a pair of dogs fighting in the street.
The two men fell apart, spluttering at the impact of the cold fluid, while Thomas looked on aghast, for once bereft of his twittering protests at the enormity of this sacrilegious misuse of holy water.
Gwyn sat up on the flagstones, his red hair plastered to his face, and laughed uproariously. ‘I’ll be purified for at least month after that lot, Crowner!’ he crowed, climbing to his feet and dragging the priest up with him.
Where Adam had been puce with rage, he was now white with anger, and shaking as if he was about to explode. With water dribbling down his face and neck, he held up an arm and pointed his forefinger at the door. ‘Get out, damn you! I shall pray tonight that you roast in hell for all eternity!’
De Wolfe ignored him and turned to the clerk. ‘Thomas, it is pointless to try to get this man to write for us. It occurs to me that there must surely be parish records of some sort, so look now in the sacristy for your samples of writing.’
Reluctantly, Thomas made a wide circle around the gibbering priest and tiptoed towards the small door where books might be kept along with vestments and the materials for the Host.
Adam of Dol screamed in protest and began to follow the clerk, who scuttled away with squeaks of terror — but Gwyn grabbed the priest again and this time held him fast in an armlock around his neck until Thomas reappeared. With an almost imperceptible shake of his head, the clerk gave the three men a wide berth and hurried towards the door.
‘Leave him be, Gwyn,’ commanded the coroner, signalling his officer to release the almost apoplectic cleric. ‘Priest, you have resisted the lawful enquiries of the King’s officers — and even assaulted one,’ he said sternly. ‘We are here with the full permission of the Bishop, who has authority over you and every other priest in the diocese, so spare me your righteous indignation! I will be back if necessary — with the sheriff’s men-at-arms, if I so decide. You are an intolerant, violent man, Adam of Dol, and I advise you to watch your step.’
With this admonition, he stalked to the door and left, followed by Gwyn, who covertly raised two fingers at the furious priest, the derisory gesture of archers who had evaded having their bow-string fingers amputated by the enemy.