‘Do you think he suspects the truth about Isabella Velours?’
‘Perhaps, but Lord Walter can also trap him. Prior Alexander has, I believe, an inordinate love for Richer. The truth behind that relationship is difficult to discern but I suspect Prior Alexander indulges Richer. When they go into the city the prior is willing to take his young friend down to the quayside to search for foreign ships. Indeed,’ Athelstan sat down, ‘it is Richer who is the key to this mystery. He was sent here, I am certain, by his uncle, the Abbot of St Calliste, to retrieve the Passio Christi. Has he suborned Prior Alexander in order to achieve this? Perhaps. Did he or both of them kill the old soldiers including Chalk? I cannot say. What I am certain of is that Richer lies at the root of this. Look,’ Athelstan got to his feet, unbolted the door and stared out. The gallery outside was deserted. He could hear the plain chant from the church as the full choir intoned the psalm: ‘The Lord trains my arms for war, he prepares my hands for battle.’ Yes, he does, Athelstan reflected, closing the door. ‘Sir John, look at the facts. Kilverby once financed the Wyvern Company. He held the Passio Christi without protest. Time passes. Death beckons. Kilverby wants to prepare for judgement. The Wyvern Company move here. Kilverby visits them but he encounters Richer. He also meets another man frightened of approaching death, a defrocked priest, Master William Chalk. Oh yes, he was, remember?’
Cranston nodded.
‘To move to the arrow point. Apparently Richer put the fear of God into both men, especially Kilverby. He points out the terrible sacrilege which took place after Poitiers. Kilverby breaks from the likes of Wenlock. He wants nothing more to do with them. He’ll do penance, perform reparation, give up his luxurious life and go on pilgrimage. On the very day he departs he will make decisive restitution. He will leave the Passio Christi at a Benedictine Abbey.’
‘But that doesn’t explain his murder?’
‘No, Sir John. It certainly does not. Moreover, as you discovered during your last visit to Kilverby’s mansion, what did compel this hard-headed merchant to change, to want to rid himself of a sacred bloodstone he’d blithely held for years? Richer’s persuasive tongue? I don’t think so. In my view Kilverby saw or heard something which literally put the fear of God into him and that’s what Richer exploited so successfully. However, what that was and how Kilverby came to be murdered? I admit, there’s no logical answer to either of these questions.’
‘And the murders here?’
‘Again, I cannot see any logic behind their deaths. Hanep and Hyde were killed when Wenlock and Mahant were absent. Wenlock’s maimed hands are an impediment, though Mahant is a master swordsman. They were all sleeping when Brokersby was burnt to death and Osborne, by all accounts, has fled the abbey. All three murders demonstrated the Wyvern Company are very vulnerable. Perhaps that’s why Osborne fled. The Wyvern Company can no longer protect itself. As for who is the assassin? Prior Alexander? Richer? Both of them or someone else? The anchorite is certainly skilled in violent death with his own grievances against these former soldiers.’ Athelstan picked up another quill pen, dipped it into the ink and made further entries. ‘As regards to the deaths of the first two Wyverns, well, it could be the work of an assassin despatched by the Upright Men. It’s Brokersby’s death which intrigues me. Why the raging fire?’ He put the pen down. ‘How was that oil not only poured into a locked chamber but so close to the bed?’
‘Brother,’ the coroner sighed, ‘my eyes grow heavy. I must adjourn and reflect. I also need to despatch certain letters to the city. I want them to go at first light.’ Cranston walked over and gripped Athelstan’s shoulder. ‘No wandering this abbey by yourself little friar, promise me.’
Athelstan did. Cranston put on his boots, picked up his cloak, made his farewells and swept from the chamber . . .
The anchorite had been dreaming about his days as the Hangman of Rochester. He woke in his anker house bathed in sweat and sat listening to the sounds of the abbey. Compline had been sung. The monks had shuffled out. Candles and lantern horns had been snuffed; only the occasional light gleamed but these solitary taper flames did little to repel the darkness. The anchorite peered around. The smells of the church, beeswax, burning charcoal, incense and that strange mustiness still swirled. The anchorite crossed himself, knelt on the narrow prie-dieu and stared up at the crucifix. He’d had a good day, cheered by the sight of Athelstan’s parishioners. During his long walk he had planned more frescoes and wall paintings but now the day, was gone, night was the mistress. He strained his ears for other sounds – nothing! The abbey church had yet to be locked. The sacristan and his entourage still had to make their nightly patrol to ensure all lights were extinguished, doors secured, especially after the peace of the abbey had been so deeply disturbed. The anchorite had quietly marvelled at the shocking news. Brokersby had been visited by fire whilst Osborne had apparently fled. Was this God’s justice? Perhaps it was. After all, why should such killers be allowed to end their days in peace?