Murder most holy

flagstone.
    ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.
    Benedicta looked up. He noticed the tear running down her olive face with more brimming in her dark restless eyes. Were they blue or violet? Athelstan wondered. Benedicta always reminded him of a painting of the Virgin Mary he had seen in a stained glass window. She had that same beautiful serenity, even now when she was troubled. Athelstan touched her gently on the shoulder.
    ‘What’s the matter?’ he repeated, closing his ears to the squabble back at his house and the sounds of workmen busy in the church.
    ‘Father, you know I have been a widow for three years.’
    Athelstan nodded.
    ‘Well,’ Benedicta looked away and bit her lip, ‘I have had news from France .’ She drew a deep breath. ‘My husband may still be alive!’
    Athelstan stepped back in amazement. ‘Your husband was a ship’s captain. I though he was killed at sea?’
    ‘Yes, he took out Letters of Marque to act as a privateer in the Channel. He was attacked by a French man-of-war and was making a run for Calais when a sudden storm blew up and his ship was sunk with all hands. Now I have had news that he may be a prisoner.’
    ‘How?’
    ‘An acquaintance, a journeyman, recently returned from France now the truce has been renewed. He claims he saw my husband in a prison stockade outside Boulogne .’ She laced her fingers together. ‘What can I do, Father? I cannot go to France , it might only make a bad situation worse, and it would take months to petition the council.’
    Athelstan took a deep breath, steeling himself against secret thoughts and desires.
    ‘The Dominicans have a house outside Boulogne ,’ he said. ‘I shall write to them tonight and ask Cranston to order one of the royal messengers to deliver the letter. Cranston will be able to furnish him with safe conducts.’ Athelstan smiled. ‘We are not called Dominicans for nothing, Benedicta. We are literally the Hounds of the Lord. If your husband is alive, this house will intervene, perhaps make a plea to the French officials. Some gold may change hands and your husband could be home within a month.’
    He patted her gently on the shoulder and felt guilty at the sheer pleasure he derived from being so close to her. Benedicta turned away as if to hide her face: as she did so, a tendril of her hair touched Athelstan’s cheek and he caught the fragrance of her perfume. She smiled at him over her shoulder.
    ‘You’d better go back, Father,’ she murmured. ‘Watkin’s wife has her mind set on murder!’
    Athelstan took the hint and strode back into the house. Benedicta was right; the soup had simply provided extra strength and now the entire group was standing, everyone shouting, no one listening. Athelstan clapped his hands noisily and refused to stop until every one of them had fallen silent. He stared at them sternly.
    ‘We have all taken the sacrament,’ he announced, ‘and have all exchanged the kiss of peace, so these arguments will end. When we meet again I will ask for a vote about the cemetery and, if there’s a majority, then our decision has been reached.’ He looked at the beggar man still crouched on his stool. ‘Leif!’ he shouted. ‘Stop eating my soup. It’s supposed to last me for a month!’ He stretched out his hand. ‘Now, the rest of you, take your seats, sit down and shut up!’
    He went into the scullery and brought out a flask of wine, an Easter gift from Cranston . He poured them each a small measure. His parishioners murmured their thanks, smiling secretly and winking at each other for it was very rare for their parish priest to lose his temper. Benedicta rejoined them and everyone took their seats again. After a short bantering conversation in which he made an appeal for unity, Athelstan deftly turned the discussion to the parish preparations for the feast of Corpus Christi .
    ‘The children,’ he declared, ‘will stage their play in the nave.’
    ‘There’s a procession,’ Watkin added.
    ‘And maybe a new painting?’ Huddle demanded expectantly. ‘Just near the door, Father. Christ feeding the five thousand.’ Athelstan smiled and held up a hand. ‘One thing at a time, Huddle.’
    ‘More importantly,’ Cecily interrupted, her face becoming angelic, ‘we must set up a curtain between the pillar and the wall just near the sanctuary. Remember, Father, you are to hear our confessions and shrive us before the great feast.’
    Athelstan closed his eyes. Hearing his