‘I know her,’ Cranston murmured, dabbing his mouth with a napkin. ‘Friar, I am sure I do. A face from my past but I cannot place her.’
‘Has she recognized you?’
‘No, no. Ah well, what a strange place!’ He leaned closer. ‘Well, Friar,’ Cranston whispered. ‘When you were mumbling your prayers I despatched one of the lay brothers to His Grace the Regent at his Palace of the Savoy—’
Athelstan abruptly gestured for silence. The table conversation had now changed. Mistress Eleanor was asking about the murders amongst the Wyverns. Abbot Walter immediately assured her that he could not explain the deaths but added that they might be the work of malefactors from the river.
‘The Wyverns suspect me,’ Richer declared abruptly. ‘They think I am waging a feud over the Passio Christi.’
‘Are you?’
‘You asked me that before, Brother Athelstan. As I answered then, I am a Benedictine.’
‘You also served under the Oriflamme banner,’ Cranston declared. ‘You’ve been a mailed clerk, yes?’
Richer did not disagree.
‘So why have you come here – the truth?’
‘I have already explained.’
‘Brother Richer is a peritus,’ Abbot Walter retorted, shooing off his pet swan. ‘He has done excellent work in our library and scriptorium but . . .’ Abbot Walter smiled maliciously at Prior Alexander, whose jibe about his beloved Leda he’d not forgotten. ‘Perhaps, with all our many problems here, Brother Richer, it’s time you returned to St Calliste. I mean,’ Abbot Walter waved a hand, ‘sooner, rather than later?’
Richer simply shrugged. Prior Alexander, however, sat rigid, his wine-flushed face tense with anger.
‘Brother Richer,’ Athelstan intervened swiftly, ‘which manuscripts . . .’ His words were cut off by a sharp knock on the door. A servitor hurried in and whispered into Abbot Walter’s ear.
‘Bring him in, bring him in,’ the abbot insisted. ‘Sir John, a messenger – Kilverby’s man, his secretarius, Crispin.’
The arrival of the sad-eyed clerk eased the tension. The two ladies immediately rose and said they must retire, as did Prior Alexander who gestured at Richer to follow suit. As they left Crispin was ushered in. He assured Prior Alexander that his eyesight had at least not worsened and he was grateful for all his advice. Once the door was closed, Crispin was offered a vacant seat, Abbot Walter insisting he drank some white wine and eat a little of the cream tart. Crispin did so, muttering between mouthfuls how he and a manservant had travelled by horseback as the river had become swollen and turbulent.
‘Never did like the Thames at night.’ He cleared his mouth.
‘Crispin, what will you do now Sir Robert is so pitifully slain?’ Abbot Walter asked.
Crispin shook his head. ‘I have sworn to perform some act of loyalty to my dead master. Perhaps I might go on pilgrimage as Sir Robert wanted to do. I could fulfil his vow at Rome, Santiago and Jerusalem. Yes,’ he smiled bleakly, ‘that’s what I should do; after all, my master has gone and Mistress Alesia has her own plans.’
‘You’ll still be most welcome here,’ Abbot Walter reassured him.
Crispin thanked him and turned to Athelstan and Cranston.
‘I came here,’ he declared, ‘because I had to. His Grace the Regent came to our house.’ Cranston groaned and put his face in his hands.
‘Sir Robert’s chamber was not unsealed, was it?’ Athelstan asked.
‘No, no, His Grace was most strict on that but his temper was very sharp. He had the rest of the mansion searched from cellar to attic but they found nothing. His Grace also sent you this.’ Crispin drew from his wallet a small scroll sealed with wax. Cranston snapped the letter open and swore under his breath, forcing Abbot Walter, more interested in his beloved Leda, to glance up sharply.
‘And there’s more, isn’t there?’ Athelstan asked Crispin. ‘You bring other news?’
‘Master Theobald the physician has scrutinized Sir Robert’s corpse most thoroughly. Some potion stained his lips and created blueish-red marks here.’ Crispin gestured at his own thin chest and sagging belly. ‘Master Theobald also declared that the wine and sweetmeats were not tainted but he detected a smell from Sir Robert’s corpse which seemed to grow stronger after death: the odour of almonds.’
‘The juice of almond seed.’ Abbot Walter had now forgotten his swan. ‘We have some of that juice here. Prior Alexander would recognize it. I am glad however that the sweetmeats, our gift to Sir Robert, were not tainted but his death is so odd, so curious. Now sirs, please excuse me.’ The abbot, dabbing his sweaty, porkish face with a napkin, rose to his feet, sketched a blessing in their direction and, followed by Leda, swept out of the chamber.