Bloodstone (32 page)

Wenlock simply smiled to himself.

‘In the final conclusion,’ Athelstan continued, ‘you’d be cast as the thief, your maimed hands as proof of divine judgement. Once such a confession was made public, the church would declare you excommunicate and insist that the Crown use the full rigour of the law against you. His Grace the Regent would, despite any personal feelings, be forced to act or suffer similar ecclesiastical punishment.’

‘What proof do you offer?’ Wenlock snarled. ‘I was away from here when Hanep and Hyde were killed.’

‘I will come to that in a while.’ Athelstan shifted on his stool. ‘You,’ he pointed at Wenlock, ‘were fearful. Chalk’s confession, Richer’s presence, Kilverby’s alienation from you emphasized the real danger. In a word you persuaded Mahant to go with you, why or how I don’t know. Perhaps Mahant had assisted you in your sacrilege. Perhaps you threatened him that, if you were accused, you would implicate him in your confession. You decided, and so persuaded Mahant, that it was best if all your old companions died. Of course there were other motives. You’d use your comrades’ wealth as a bribe; perhaps they owned more than we ever suspected. You talked of a common purse and claimed Osborne held it. Another lie. I suspect you do and half of such money is better than a sixth.’

‘I was not here!’ Wenlock shouted fiercely, though Athelstan glimpsed the fear in those watery blue eyes. ‘I was not here,’ he repeated, ‘when Hanep and Hyde died.’

‘Oh, but you were.’

‘I was in London.’

‘No, you and Mahant went to London. You lodged at “The Pride of Purgatory” tavern. You made great play at revelling and feasting there. You ogled the ladies and loudly mentioned how you were waiting for your old friend Geoffrey of Portsoken, now known as Vox Populi. In truth you didn’t give a fig for him. You probably knew full well that he’d been taken up by the sheriff’s men.’ Athelstan paused as the abbey bells boomed out their summons to plain chant. ‘Sir John,’ he asked, ‘how long would it take two able bodied men to walk from Cheapside to here?’

‘Less than an hour.’

‘Which is what you did,’ Athelstan accused. ‘You left that tavern probably disguised in the black robes of a Benedictine, you’d easily secure such gowns. With your shaven heads and stout sandals, you appeared what you wanted to be, two monks returning late to their abbey. Who would know? You left that tavern with its many entrances in the dead of night. You walked through the darkness. Once here you were able and fit enough to scale the abbey walls, drop into the grounds and make your own way to the guest house. Hanep was your first victim. If he came out for one of his midnight saunters all to the good, if not you’d strike some other way. Of course Hanep did and died swiftly for doing so. You then returned to London disguised. No one would really notice you coming or going at the dead of night. “The Pride of Purgatory” tavern is busy with many entrances and exits, that’s why you chose it. You can slip in and out as easily as you did. You then prepared for your next victim. You also purchased an arbalest or crossbow, I am sure of that. I don’t believe that nonsense about never using one. You might despise it but that’s not the same as never using one. Mahant was a master bowman – he was skilled enough.’

‘We would never  . . .’

‘Yes, you did,’ Athelstan snapped, ‘or at least Mahant bought one on your orders. He confessed how he used it against me.’

‘What do you mean?’ Wenlock’s shock was obvious. He sat gaping at Athelstan, who spread his hands.

‘In a while,’ Athelstan murmured, determined not to glance at Cranston, ‘you and Mahant returned to St Fulcher’s late in the afternoon on the Feast of St Damasus. You stealthily entered this abbey, probably disguised as Benedictines. I have learnt, even from my short stay here at the dead of winter, particularly with the mist seeping in, how members of this community pass unobserved all garbed in black, hoods or cowls pulled forward.’ Athelstan ignored Wenlock’s mocking sneer. He sensed this killer was truly frightened behind his scoffing front. ‘You waited near the guest house. You would have chosen any of your coven but Hyde appeared. Mahant, with you trailing behind as guard, followed Hyde into the abbey church. Hyde glimpsed Richer and set off in pursuit, curious at why this Frenchman was armed and where he was going. In a word, Mahant killed Hyde near the watergate then fled across Mortival meadow, its mist shrouded bushes and copses provided an ideal place to hide. Mahant was very clever, disguised in the robe of a Benedictine monk. If Hyde had been alerted and turned round, Mahant could have simply reverted to being the old comrade wondering what was going on. Hyde paid for his trust in you. Of course you did not wish to be implicated in his death so once Hanep was dead, you both left the abbey then reappeared in your own guise at the abbey gates which, you thought, would place you beyond suspicion.’

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.’

Wenlock’s cheek muscles twitched as he fought to control what Athelstan considered to be a truly murderous temper.

‘You hunted Richer. You waited as he left his chamber to meet Prior Alexander. You and Mahant attacked. A swift blow to the head then, under the cover of dark, you both carried his body away from the abbey precincts to the hog pen. The swine were confined to their sty. You cut Richer’s throat and tossed his corpse over the half-door. No one would know how or why he died; the mystery would only deepen because he died alongside a member of the Wyvern Company. You then decided it was also opportune to rid yourself of Mahant. You waited out there in the hog pen, close to the sty. For one brief moment, a few heart beats, Mahant turned his back on you. Maimed hands or not, both together can lift a dagger, in this case Richer’s – you plunged or drove it deep into Mahant, a killing blow followed by another. You then threw his corpse into the sty and fled.’

‘I was ill, vomiting.’

‘Wenlock, you are a liar, you went back to your chamber. You changed. You made sure you removed all traces of your murderous foray. Only then did you act the part of the old soldier, pathetic in his night shirt, suffering from belly gripes.’ Athelstan paused. ‘Do you remember telling me about that first attack on you near the maze? How you were rescued by others? Of course there was no attack, that was just part of the web you and Mahant were beginning to spin, a sham fight with your accomplice Mahant acting as the assailant. At the time you told me how you had a great interest in herbs, that’s why you were out in the garden. You’d use such knowledge to protect yourself. You drank some concoction, harmless enough, to cause a mild disturbance of the belly to make it look as if you were genuinely sick – but only after the murders of Richer and Mahant.’

Wenlock was staring down at his maimed hands.

‘Wenlock!’

He did not move.

‘Wenlock!’

He lifted his head, hatred seething in those watery eyes.

‘You despise both church and state, don’t you?’ Athelstan leaned forward, determined not to show any fear. ‘That’s why you pillaged St Calliste. You have no compunction about committing sacrilege or murder. You hunted me as well.’ Athelstan ignored the fleeting smirk. ‘Actually very clever, especially the first attack. Mahant rattled the shutter of my chamber, probably with some pebbles. I opened it and he loosed that crossbow barb. He nearly hit his mark. I suspect Mahant was skilled enough with the arbalest. Of course it’s not the war bow of which he is a master; his possible inexperience saved my life. Or was it only meant as a warning to frighten me off? I left that chamber. You and others of your coven were outside in the passageway. You asked me to join you. You acted the smiling Judas, asking me questions, delaying me so by the time I got outside Mahant had joined the rest. You tried again in a more deadly fashion in the charnel house. You were hunting me, waiting for an opportunity. I was stupid enough to provide one. You and Mahant had listened to me, watched me and decided I was dangerous. I might not be misled by your farrago of lies. I might discover the truth behind the murders. You and Mahant decided I should die. I would have done so if it hadn’t been for God’s good grace. I wondered then at the speed with which my assailant entered the crypt and doused those torches. Of course there were two, not one intruder, which explains it. I thank God I escaped.’

Wenlock gave a final look around the chamber as if he was still searching for any gap or weakness.

‘Master Crispin stole the Passio Christi,’ Athelstan added softly. ‘He poisoned his master. He’s confessed. He’ll be spared the torture, the full rigours of a traitor’s death.’

Wenlock sighed deeply.

‘We will visit “The Pride of Purgatory” tavern,’ Athelstan added. ‘We’ll seize your possessions, all the money you and Mahant have stored there. You’ve tortured enough men in your life to know what to expect.’

‘Did Mahant really leave a sealed confession?’ Wenlock murmured. ‘Where? To whom?’

‘We’ll produce that when you are arraigned.’

‘You have further proof, witnesses?’

‘We’ll produce those,’ Athelstan repeated, ‘when you are arraigned before the King’s justices.’

‘A swift death,’ Cranston urged.

Wenlock began to hum a tune, shuffling his feet in a strange macabre dance. He stopped, smiled to himself then lifted his hands in a token of surrender.

‘I knew I was cursed,’ he remarked, ‘when the French cut off my fingers. I knew it was only a matter of time. Are you promising me a swift death?’