Athelstan reached the sand-covered bowling ground. The skittles with their carved demonic faces had all been set up, the bowls gathered in their box. Athelstan was tempted to make a cast to see how many he could bring down. Instead he sat on a turf bench, hands up the sleeves of his gown as he considered further possibilities. What if Osborne had truly fled? What if he, for his own secret purposes, was the assassin? Then why and how had he killed Brokersby in such a fashion? The fire had been deliberately started close to the bed in a secure, locked chamber. How could anyone ignite it from outside? The grille high on the oak door was very narrow. A line of oil-soaked string or cord might be used but that left a great deal to chance. The fire, if it was started in such a fashion, would begin slowly. Anyone near that door would be noticed; if not by a passer-by then Brokersby himself. And why had the soldier not tried to escape? Was he so drunk with wine, an opiate or both? Brokersby had certainly been murdered. Athelstan entertained an equal foreboding about Osborne. But where was his corpse? Athelstan glanced across at the crude stone table on which the monks played checkers. He glimpsed the shard of bone used in one of the games. He got up and touched this with his fingers.
‘The charnel house!’ Athelstan exclaimed. He’d passed this on the other side of the abbey church, those narrow steps leading down to a massive ancient crypt. St Fulcher’s had stood for centuries; every so often its cemetery would overflow so the brothers would remove the bones of the long deceased to make room for others. Blackfriars had a similar ossuary, a place much avoided by everyone, a macabre crypt full of dry bones and sightless skulls, reeking of corruption yet an ideal place to conceal a corpse. Most people would be reluctant to explore it. Athelstan startled as a flock of jays nesting in a large oak on the fringe of the adjoining garden burst out in a flurry of shrieks and fluttering wings. Athelstan peered at the oak. Was someone hiding there, watching him? Athelstan took a deep breath. He wanted to question Richer but that could wait. In the meantime . . .
Athelstan reached the abbey church. The choir was filing out. He went round to the north-east corner and the ancient steps leading down to the charnel house. The thick oaken door at the bottom was blackened with age, its iron studs rusting. Athelstan heard a sound behind him; he glanced over his shoulder but there was nothing. He fished into the small wallet on his belt then pulled out the sconce torch from its rusted coping; the torch was dry and fully primed. Athelstan, using his tinder, fired the pitch; the blueish yellow flame fluttered then strengthened. Satisfied it was fully caught, Athelstan lifted the latch and entered the grim mausoleum. He fired the cressets just within the door and gazed round that morbid crypt with its stout, barrel-like columns, fretted arches and mildewed walls. A truly macabre sight, the charnel house was filled with yellowing bones and skulls over a yard high, the air thick with the dust of the dead.
‘A place where Mother Midnight lurks,’ Athelstan whispered.
The bones had been unceremoniously tossed behind a crude wooden palisade which had been erected to create a path between the pathetic remains of former monks. The ominous words of the liturgy of Ash Wednesday sprang to mind.
‘Remember man,’ Athelstan murmured, ‘that thou art dust and into dust thou shalt return.’ Lifting the torch Athelstan made his way through what he called this garden of the dead, past the mound of bones heaped high behind their great wooden casing. He ignored the squeak and rustle of vermin. Bones loosened in the pile clattered down, skulls rolled and bounced to crash against the fencing. Athelstan made his way towards the steps he’d glimpsed at the far end of the crypt. He felt as if he was going through a maze. Torch held out, he scrutinized the gruesome pyre looking for any disturbance, a flash of colour or glint of metal which would indicate something untoward. A disembodied shadow, black and fluttering, flittered past the dancing torchlight. Athelstan’s mouth went dry. Others followed, the bats squeaking in protest. Athelstan continued on, now regretting his decision to come down here. He could detect nothing.
Abruptly the door he’d entered opened and shut with a crash. The torches on either side of it were swiftly extinguished but not before Athelstan glimpsed a darting shadow and the glint of steel. Athelstan fled up the path crashing against the wooden palisade. Bones and skulls tumbled down. Behind him echoed the soft slither of boots. Athelstan grabbed a skull, turned and hurled it at the moving shadow. The midnight figure faltered and slipped on some of the shiny bones smashing on to the floor. Athelstan hurried on. He stretched out the torch and glimpsed the steep steps built into the far wall. He turned. The shadow was not yet up and following. Athelstan leaned over the palisade, dragging down more skulls and bones, then he hurled the torch. Blackness descended. Athelstan, however, had glimpsed the steps and the path leading to it. He reached the staircase, sweat starting, and clambered up. He tugged at the door but it held fast. His pursuer was still slipping and slithering along the narrow path, bumping into the fencing. Athelstan desperately beat on the door shouting, ‘Aux aide! Aux aide!’ The door shook. Bolts on the other side were drawn and it creaked open. Athelstan pushed the gaping monk aside, turned and slammed the door shut, shoving across the rusting bolts.