‘By which time,’ Cranston whispered, sitting down on his chair, ‘Gabriel will have blown his horn for the end of days.’ Cranston shouted for all to withdraw except those summoned and the proceedings began. The coroner moved swiftly, Athelstan carefully noting what was said. The two lay brothers in charge of the hog pen were summoned first. They described how they had come out at first light to find the hogs highly agitated, snorting and casting about as if, in the words of one of their keepers, they were possessed by a legion of demons. The massive sty where they were usually confined for the night was barred by a great half-door. Cranston nodded and said he’d seen this. The brothers thought some fox or other night predator had climbed over this into the sty so they unbarred and opened the half-door. The hogs, now being slaughtered, one of brothers added mournfully, were so frenzied they had to drive them off with staves. Eventually, after the entire herd had spilled out into the great pen, they noticed blood on the snouts, flanks and legs of some of the hogs so they took lanterns and went back into the sty.
‘At first,’ one of the brothers shook his head, ‘we didn’t believe it. Two corpses horribly mauled. We dragged them out but even then the hogs tried to attack. We drove them off, placed the mangled remains outside the pen and raised the alarm. We then examined the dead and realized one was a monk from the remains of his clothing: robe, cord and sandals. The other was an outsider, Sir John. Most of his clothing, except for his belt and shoes, had been shredded.’
‘And the knife?’
‘We found it in the straw glistening in the light of the lantern.’ Athelstan stooped down and picked up the elegant, silver-hilted knife still encrusted with blood.
‘And you cannot say,’ Athelstan asked, ‘whether this knife was used on one or both of the victims or was it just stained when the hogs tore their corpses apart?’
‘Brother Athelstan, both men must have been dead, or nearly so when they were cast into the sty.’
‘Why?’
‘Hogs will attack children, even a man, but they can be driven off. It’s only when they become frenzied and their victims are helpless that they will feast.’
The monks who worked in the scriptorium and library then presented themselves. They could say little about Richer or what he was working on. Athelstan recalled the great table in the scriptorium which the Frenchman deliberately covered up; now he knew the reason why. Cranston questioned the brothers regarding the previous evening. They all reported that Richer had Prior Alexander’s permission not to attend divine office. Instead he stayed working in the scriptorium long after dark. They’d glimpsed the glow of candle and lantern horn through the window but more than that they couldn’t say.
‘Richer was working on copying the “Liber”,’ Athelstan murmured once the monks had left. ‘And when he finished, he placed that and the original in a pannier, returned to hastily hide them in his chamber, then left to meet whom?’
Cranston just pulled a face. Master Crispin was called next. The secretarius was sullen, openly resentful at being kept in the abbey. Once he’d taken the oath on the Book of the Gospels he admitted he was shocked at the horrid deaths.
‘And where did you spend your sleeping hours?’
‘In my bed, Sir John. I wish to be free of this place. I never liked it. I know nothing of these deaths.’
‘Murders,’ Athelstan broke. ‘Murders, Master Crispin, heinous slayings for which someone will undoubtedly hang. You’re on oath – do you have anything else you can tell us?’
‘No.’
‘Then, sir, go back to your chamber and wait.’
Prior Alexander came next. He looked woebegone and exhausted, face unshaven, eyes red-rimmed with weeping. He mumbled the oath and slouched like a broken man on the stool.
‘He’s gone.’ The prior lifted his head. ‘Beautiful Richer.’ He heaved a deep sigh. ‘My friend, oh . . .’ Prior Alexander seemed unaware of his surroundings or to whom he was talking. ‘He was a butterfly in many ways. I knew his only task here was to secure the return of everything plundered from St Calliste, including that bloodstone. God knows,’ Prior Alexander screwed his face up, ‘the curse that ruby carries, now he and one of the Wyvern are dead, murdered.’
‘By whom?’
‘God knows, Sir John. I would suspect the Wyverns but one of them died with him, perhaps they fought . . .’
‘Richer hated them, yes?’
‘Of course.’
‘Enough to meet one of them at the dead of night and attempt to kill him? After all, Richer was armed with a dagger?’