‘You discovered nothing else?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Nothing,’ Brother Odo replied mournfully. ‘He doesn’t smell now but when they first brought him in he reeked of oil.’
Athelstan knelt down and sniffed; the stench of oil was still very pungent.
‘Brother Athelstan?’
He turned and recognized the keeper of the Barbican, who took one look at the charred corpse and hastily withdrew, indicating with his hand that Athelstan follow. Once outside the lay brother retched and coughed.
‘Brother Athelstan,’ he gasped.
‘The weapons?’
‘There’s no crossbow or arbalest missing.’
‘What?’
‘Brother, I counted most scrupulously – the only weapon missing is a sword.’
‘Who took that?’
‘No one can, no one should without permission of the prior, yet the ledger has no entry. I am sure; I checked it.’
Athelstan thanked him and walked back to the still-smouldering chamber. Only a senior lay brother was present. He explained how the Wyvern Company had moved all their belongings to the abbot’s guest house whilst the damage was inspected and repaired. Like Virgil did with Dante, the monk led Athelstan through the devastation. The guest house was built of solid stone. This, and the heavy oaken door sealing Brokersby’s chamber, had confined the fire, the greatest damage being to the ceiling and the supporting beams as well as the chamber above. Ignoring the good Brother’s warning about the heat, the fiery cinders and acrid smoke, Athelstan insisted on inspecting the dead man’s chamber. The fire still smouldered despite the layers of wet sand thrown in. Everything had been consumed or deeply scorched, whilst the stench of oil remained strong.
‘Where’s the source?’ Athelstan murmured.
‘Pardon?’
‘Talking to myself,’ Athelstan replied. ‘If I could have a pole?’
The lay brother left and brought one back. Athelstan was grateful that his stout sandals and thick woollen leggings protected him from the floating sparks of red-hot fragments. He began near the door sifting carefully through the debris. He swiftly concluded how the traces of oil were fainter, less congealed and thinner nearest to the door, whilst close to where the bed and lantern table must have stood the oil appeared much thicker.
‘Would Brokersby have a night candle?’
‘Yes, he did, or so I learnt from his comrades. He had a large stout tallow candle under a metal cap. He liked to keep it burning. He had trouble sleeping. He also took a potion of poppy juice.’
‘But a tallow candle would not create the fires of hell here,’ Athelstan declared. ‘Was there oil in the chamber?’
The monk abruptly turned and walked away. Athelstan thought he’d forgotten him, then he returned with a small stout colleague, his belly round as a barrel.
‘Brother Simon might be able to help you.’
‘Yes, I can.’ The newcomer smiled in a show of near-toothless gums. ‘I clean poor Brokersby’s chamber. I assure you there was no oil, just a wine skin. That was all.’
Athelstan picked his way over to the remains to the door and examined the twisted lock, bolts and clasps. He studied these closely; they had definitely been rent apart. He glanced back at the shattered, scorched shutters and the open window now drawing off the worst of the smoke.
‘We had to force the door,’ Brother Simon declared. ‘But, of course, it was too late.’
‘So,’ Athelstan walked out of the room, carefully picking his way, ‘Brokersby retired for the night and his chamber was devastated by fire.’
‘So it seems,’ both monks chorused.
‘But we can’t find a reason for it,’ Brother Simon added.
Athelstan nodded his thanks and left, crossing into the gardens as he tried to deduce what had happened. Both the door and window of Brokersby’s chamber had been sealed. The grille at the top of the door was too narrow to pour oil through so how could anyone get it so close to the bed? Had oil been stored there? But how was it ignited? Did the candle topple over? Yet that had probably been planted on a firm spigot with a cap covering it. An unlucky spark? However, that would mean the fire depended on fickle chance, yet Athelstan was certain Brokersby was murdered. The assassin had deliberately flooded the area close to the bed with burning oil. Brokersby may have been drugged with some opiate and woke too late or, mercifully, never at all. So how had it all been achieved? Brokersby, probably frightened, had sealed himself in that chamber. He had then been murdered by a raging fire cunningly planned and contrived. Brokersby had no chance to escape. He had been utterly destroyed along with everything else in that room.