Murder most holy

they killed him,’ the tinker continued, ‘they came here, killed any poor sod who believed in Jesus and sacked the monasteries.’ He looked confidently around. He was proud of the little schooling he had received and could never resist an opportunity to show it off.
    ‘Romans,’ Athelstan answered. ‘The Romans invaded England . Yes, and when the Christian faith spread here, they killed those who believed in Christ. Men like St Alban whose holy corpse lies in its own church north of London .’ He saw the disappointment in Tab’s eyes. ‘But perhaps you are right, Tab. The Vikings who came much later were actually in London . They also killed Christians, and God knows this may be one of their victims.’ He stared down. ‘But we don’t know whether it’s male or female. Look,’ he continued, ‘Pike, Huddle, Watkin, take the body up carefully.’ He pointed down the nave to where the parish coffin, a great oaken chest, lay in one of the transepts. ‘Place the bones in there and let us see what we can find.’
    His chosen parishioners picked up the skeleton slowly and reverently, as if it was the most sacred thing under the sun, whilst the rest, including the workmen, knelt and made the sign of the cross. They all jumped as Bonaventure, who had crept into the church, suddenly realised how the upturned flagstones had disturbed the rats and mice and raced across the sanctuary in a flash of black fur to pounce on his prey. ‘Come on!’ Athelstan urged.
    The skeleton was plucked out of the pit resting on a canvas sheet. Athelstan, ignoring the whispered protest of his council, examined it, noticing how fine and white the bones were, carefully turning to scrutinise the skull and ribs. He failed to find any sign or mark of violence.
    ‘Strange,’ he muttered.
    ‘What is, Father?’
    ‘Well, I am no physician but this cannot be all that old. Notice how fine and firm the bones are. I suspect it’s a woman, and from what I remember of the Roman martyrology, most died barbaric deaths: crucifixion, hanging, impalement or decapitation. Yet this skeleton bears no mark.’
    He wanted to study the skull more closely but his parishioners now ringed the coffin. He gestured at Tab. ‘Go down and get the bailiff, Master Bladdersniff,’ he ordered. ‘You’ll find him in one of the ale-houses.’ Athelstan stared down at the skeleton again. ‘And also Culpepper the physician. His house stands on the corner of Reeking Alley. He may be old but he is skilled.’
    He then shooed everyone outside the church, telling the workmen to continue and make up for lost time. For a while the parishioners stood in the sunshine gossiping excitedly whilst Athelstan felt his own gloom deepen. He had a premonition of what was about to happen. Everyone would flock to the church, miracles would be sought, relics scrambled for, and the daily tranquillity of his parish would be shattered. The counterfeit-men would follow: the pardoners from Avignon and Rome eager to cash in on people’s fears; the relic-sellers with their bags full of the usual rubbish, followed by the relic-buyers — men who would pay good hard silver for the finger joint of a saint or a piece of the skull; finally the professional pilgrims and other religious zealots who lived their lives in a state of near hysteria. Athelstan walked away from the group, Benedicta following him. He stopped and looked back at the church.
    ‘How old is the building?’ she asked, sensing his thoughts. Athelstan stared up at the dirty grey stone of the weatherbeaten tower.
    ‘I am not sure,’ he replied. ‘But a great fire here during King Stephen’s reign levelled every building, so the earliest it could have been built would be during the reign of his successor, King Henry II.’ Athelstan bit his lip, trying to remember his history. ‘That was about two hundred years ago.’ He smiled at the widow. ‘And before you ask, Benedicta, there are no charters or books — they have all gone. You see, I have only been here a short while, and before I arrived the church was served by visiting curates or chantry priests.’
    ‘And before that?’ asked Benedicta.
    Athelstan vaguely remembered the scandalous stories he had heard and stared over at his parish council.
    ‘Watkin!’ he shouted. ‘May I have a word, please?’
    The sexton came bustling across, his face alive with excitement.
    ‘Look, Watkin,’ Athelstan snapped, ‘we must keep our heads over this matter. What do you