Bloodstone(90)

Wenlock’s sneer had disappeared. He was now openly nervous, looking around as if searching for any weakness in the allegations levied against him.

‘Sir John is behind you,’ Athelstan observed, ‘and this guest house is now ringed with men-at-arms.’

Wenlock just blinked and breathed in deeply.

‘Brokersby surprised you, didn’t he?’ Athelstan continued. ‘Admitting in my presence and that of Sir John how he was drawing up his own chronicle. God knows what he was writing. Was he also making a confession? Had William Chalk gossiped to him as well as to others?’

‘Brokersby was fey, madcap,’ Wenlock jibed.

‘Perhaps he was or perhaps he was converted,’ Athelstan replied. ‘After all, like Hanep he couldn’t sleep at night. Did his past come back to haunt him? Is that why he had to take an opiate before he could sleep?’

Wenlock refused to answer.

‘Whose idea was it,’ Athelstan asked, ‘to tamper with the night candle, scoop out the tallow, fill the void with oil, sprinkle in a few grains of salt petre then reseal it? Was it yours, Wenlock? Did you also put the small pouch of oil beneath Brokersby’s bed when you came to wish him goodnight? Oil is easy to obtain for a man like you who’s lived all his life stealing from others. You and Mahant acted the Judas. You wished the heavy-eyed Brokersby goodnight but insisted he lock the door behind you as protection against that mysterious assassin stalking you all. Poor Brokersby! He never realized this murderer was you and your comrade-in-sin, Mahant. In fact, Brokersby sealed himself in his own coffin. The candle dissolved. The spitting fire caught the oil in his room and everything in it, including his chronicle, was consumed by the inferno exactly as you wanted.’ Athelstan paused as Cranston lifted a hand and came up behind Wenlock.

‘You’re an old soldier, a professional killer,’ Cranston remarked, ‘you have taken part in sieges where oil and salt-petre are used to undermine walls. You’re well acquainted with their effects.’

Wenlock still refused to answer.

‘Osborne’s killing is also no longer a mystery,’ Athelstan persisted. ‘He must have been genuinely fearful. You and Mahant exploited that. Osborne would have only been too pleased to flee this place for what he thought was a safe refuge, “The Prospect of Heaven”. You told him to lodge there under Brokersby’s name just in case a search was made. Late on Sunday afternoon, when Sir John and I were busy with my parishioners, you moved to the second part of your plan to remove Osborne. You probably told him to leave “The Prospect” and wait for you at some deserted spot along the river. Did you promise that you’d meet him and all three of you would flee? That you were staying in the abbey to finish certain affairs and once completed you and Mahant would join him there? Well?’

‘Friar, you tell a good tale.’

‘A murderous one and no fable. You and Mahant killed Osborne. He was vulnerable, unsuspecting. You slit his throat, smashed his face with a rock or some weapon, stripped his body, stole his possessions then tossed his corpse into the river. If the Fisher of Men had not been so observant, Osborne’s corpse would have rotted away beyond recognition. He would be proclaimed as missing, even depicted as the assassin both for past crimes and any still to be perpetrated.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You know full well. You and Mahant planned to use Osborne as your cats-paw, at least for a while until this bloody tumult died down.’ Athelstan paused. ‘You and Mahant made a mistake. You said Osborne was your treasurer. You claimed he may have disappeared with the common purse.’

‘And?’ Wenlock mocked.

‘At no time, apart from a general question, did you mention this during our journey to and from the Fisher of Men – or indeed whilst we were there. No concerns about the great amount of gold and silver Osborne was allegedly carrying. Of course the truth is he was carrying very little except for his weapons and a few personal possessions. You are probably the treasurer – and a great deal more.’

Wenlock simply raised his eyebrows.

‘You are a murderous soul. You are steeped in blood, you thirst for it. You never intended Mahant to live. He recognized that, which is why he left a sealed confession.’

‘He didn’t, he couldn’t . . .’ Wenlock’s voice faltered.

‘How do you know that?’ Athelstan demanded. ‘You truly have no fear of God, do you? I am not sure when you planned to kill Mahant but there was one other death you and Mahant plotted: Richer the Frenchman.’ Athelstan paused, wetting his lips. ‘Thanks to William Chalk, Richer now had the full truth about the seizure of the Passio Christi. A very dangerous man, Richer the Frenchman, who had entered your world and turned it upside down. For that he had to be punished as well as silenced. Mahant would certainly agree – why not? His soul was like yours, black as midnight. Two nightmares in human flesh who kill whenever they wish.’