‘It is possible,’ he nodded, ‘because he has a good command of the language, however, we must not discount the possibility that there might be others who know Greek. I suspect that the author of our little note would not have been so imprudent as to announce his identity in such an obvious way. Then there is Setubar . . . but he cannot use his hands, have you seen them? They are so gnarled that he cannot pick up a spoon, let alone a quill . . .’
‘Why Greek, then?’
‘That is a good question. Perhaps the author wanted only those who knew Greek to understand it?’
‘Perhaps he did so, master,’ I added, ‘to throw suspicion on the librarian?’
‘Perhaps . . . though monks are rarely so clever in matters of intrigue. Now help me up.’ I held out a hand to him and he took it. I knew his knees caused him endless suffering. ‘Damn the Count of Artois to the bowels of hell for ruining my legs!’ he said breathlessly, then, after a moment of recovery, ‘Now, we shall hunt for tunnels, there must be catacombs somewhere down there.’
‘Tonight?’ I inquired, hoping that I sounded calm.
‘There must be a crypt. A ghastly cold place . . . no, not tonight. My knees are frozen stiff and also, Asa awaits us in the infirmary.’
And so saying, we left the church, stepping out into the cold cloister, and made our way to the aperture. We found, however, that we could not exit through it because it was locked, so we tried the kitchen door. It was open. My master ventured to the larder from which he emerged holding two carrots, one of which he (most graciously) handed to me. Taking an audible bite of it, he tried the door that led to the garden, but it had been locked from the inside, forcing us to enter the church once more and exit through the north transept door which was customarily open throughout the night.
‘Strange that the cookhouse has one door locked and not the other . . .’ my master said, thinking out loud as he chewed.
The night was cold, but the sky was dotted with flickering stars. I noticed high above in the dormitorium the circa or night monk making his rounds and it occurred to me that his life must be very lonely, for he must pass the endless hours of the night alone, saying psalms. A moment later we entered the cheering warmth of the infirmary to see that Brother Asa had already begun his gruesome investigation by washing the body. Sitting a little way off, near a large fire of smouldering embers, was old Setubar. Everything in the room seemed moulded by his venerable will, including his pupil. But the old man’s face, so often sour and impassive, beamed in a benevolent smile as he offered me a place beside him, and I wondered what had occasioned his sudden good humour.
‘What have you found, Asa?’ my master asked almost immediately, carrot in hand.
The man looked up myopically from his work, a deep scowl creasing his thin face. ‘Nothing. I find nothing.’
‘Well then, the poor man must have died of excitement,’ my master concluded, ‘and yet I can see why you look troubled.’
‘You can? I mean . . . I do?’ the infirmarian asked, as bewildered as I.
‘Yes, of course, and I cannot say that I blame you.’
‘No? But . . .’ Asa looked to his master Setubar for guidance. ‘I do not understand, preceptor? You have not even seen the body?’
‘I do not need to see it, brother, to know that you have a problem.’
‘I do?’
‘Of course. You have a problem, a most unfortunate, puzzling one, because you know that the symptoms this corpse displayed in the throes of death coincide precisely with death by poisoning.’
The man was shocked into silence and my master savoured his next words. ‘A problem . . . and yet at this point we must be prudent, my dear colleague.’
‘Prudent?’
‘Yes, Asa,’ the old man broke in, in the solemn way of Germans. ‘The Templar preceptor, who is also a respected doctor as you know, is displaying wisdom. We cannot be certain, and so we must be very circumspect, for we do not wish to alarm our community nor disturb the inquiry with foolish assumptions.’
Asa’s eyes held the old man’s gaze for a moment. ‘Master, perhaps . . .’
‘Nonsense!’ the old man exclaimed with authority, ‘The monk was old, it was time he died, perhaps his heart ceased to beat?’
My master sensed that he had stirred up something between the two men, and this pleased him, for he took another bite and chewed his carrot smiling. ‘Brother Setubar, you were the infirmarian before Brother Asa?’ he asked, abruptly changing the subject.
The old man eyed Andre with a great, unreserved suspicion. ‘I held this esteemed position for many years, though I did not particularly relish it. Now I am enjoying the accomplishments of my pupil, though he still needs a little guidance.’