Murder most holy

and bran and threw a little hay into the stable, for Philomel, despite his ponderous gait and slow ways, had a voracious appetite. When he returned to the church, Leif the one-legged beggar was sitting on the steps. ‘Good morrow, Father.’
    ‘Good morrow, Leif, and how is Sir John?’
    The beggar scratched his head and his horsy face became even more sombre.
    ‘My Lord Coroner is not in a good mood,’ he answered. ‘I told him I was coming across the bridge to beg so he sent a message. He hopes to see you this evening.’
    ‘Oh, bugger!’ Athelstan whispered under his breath. ‘Father,’ Leif pleaded, ‘I’m hungry and it was a long walk.’
    ‘The house is open, Leif. There’s some broth on the fire and wine in the buttery. Help yourself.’
    Leif needed no second invitation and, despite his ungainly gait, rose and sped like a whippet into the house. Athelstan watched him go and thought about Cranston . Another murder? he wondered. Or was it something personal?
    ‘Who cares?’ he muttered to the cat. ‘It’s going to be a fine Sunday.’ Athelstan screwed up his eyes and looked at the sky. Perhaps it was time he acknowledged the real reason for his happiness — he hadn’t been called to attend the Inner Chapter of the Dominicans at Blackfriars. Nevertheless he felt a twinge of regret. After all, some old friends would be there... but there again, so would William de Conches, the Master Inquisitor from Avignon . He would be in attendance on the debate about the new teaching of that brilliant young theologian, Brother Henry of Winchester .
    ‘At least I’m spared that,’ Athelstan murmured.
    ‘Who are you talking to, Father?’ asked Crim, popping his head round the church door.
    Athelstan winked at him. ‘Bonaventure, Crim. Never forget, there’s more to this cat than meets the eye.’
    Athelstan went up the nave, through the rood screen, genuflecting before the winking sanctuary lamp, and into the small sacristy. He washed his hands and face again, brushed some of the straw from Philomel’s stable from his robe and began to don gold-coloured vestments for the church was still celebrating the glory of Eastertide.
    He jumped as the door at the back of the church opened with a crash. Surely not Cranston? he thought. But it was only Mugwort the bell-ringer, who went into the small alcove and began to toll the bell for mass. Crim sped in and out of the sacristy like a fly as he prepared the altar. Water for the lavabo, wine and the wafers for the Offertory and Consecration, the great missal, suitably marked for the day, a napkin for Athelstan to wipe his hands on. At a solemn nod from the priest, candles were placed on each side of the altar, their wicks cleansed and lit as a sign that mass was imminent.
    Athelstan went to the sacristy door and stared down the church. This would be the last time he said mass in the old sanctuary. He had gained permission from the Bishop of London to remove both the altar and the sanctuary stone, and take down Huddle’s rood screen for a while so the old sanctuary could be broken up and the new flagstones laid. He watched Mugwort yank the end of the rope, the man’s twisted face alight with pleasure as he pulled on the bell like some demented spirit. Athelstan grinned to himself. Whether they came to mass or not, by the time Mugwort was finished, everyone for a mile around would know that it was Sunday and time for prayer.
    His parishioners began to arrive. First Watkin the dung-collector, sexton of the church and leader of the parish council: a formidable, squat man, his face covered in warts, nostrils stuffed with hair, sharp-eyed and vociferous. A step behind him came his even more formidable wife; the way she walked always reminded Athelstan of a knight in full armour. Pernel the Fleming came next, her white face half-crazed, eyes staring as she chattered to herself about this or that. Ranulf the rat-catcher followed with two of his children. Athelstan had to hide a grin behind his hand for, like their father, the children were dressed in black with tarry hoods concealing their pale, pinched features; all three looked like the very rodents Ranulf was supposed to catch. He caught Athelstan’s eye and grinned knowingly, and the priest remembered his promise that, once the new sanctuary was built, St Erconwald’s would become the Chantry church of the newly formed Guild of Rat Catchers. Others came, led by Huddle the painter, with his dreamy expression and