Murder most holy

know of the history of the church? Especially your last parish priest?’
    The fellow scratched his head, fingered the large wart on his nose and looked sheepishly at Athelstan.
    ‘Well, Father, the church has always been here.’
    ‘And your last parish priest?’
    Watkin turned down his mouth. ‘A strange fellow, Father.’
    ‘What do you mean?’
    Again Watkin scratched his head and looked at the ground as if searching for something. ‘Well, he was called William Fitzwolf: he was one of your hedgerow priests, a rogue and jackanapes. He used St Erconwald’s as a gambling den and held strange meetings here at night.’
    ‘Such as?’
    ‘You know, Father, the gibbet-men.’
    ‘You mean magicians?’
    ‘Yes, Father. But then he disappeared, taking all the records and books of the church. Someone said the archdeacons’ court were looking for him after he became involved with the likes of young Cecily.’ Watkin shuffled his great, dirty boots. ‘He was a bad man, Father. They said he was behind a lot of the wickedness here. False measures ip the taverns; the hiring of mermaids.’ He glanced sideways at Benedicta. ‘Prostitutes, whores... that’s what we call them!’
    ‘How long ago was all this?’ Benedicta asked.
    ‘Oh, about five years ago. Is that all, Father?’
    Athelstan nodded and watched his sexton waddle away. ‘So, Benedicta, you have your answer. No records, no books, no history.’ He shrugged. ‘Who knows? That skeleton may have something to do with Fitzwolfe’s nefarious activities.’ Benedicta looked at him sharply. ‘I doubt that. The likes of Fitzwolfe, a veritable king amongst rogues, would have had a myriad places to conceal a body. After all, Father, the river is only a short walk away. No, either the body was put there before the church was built or...’
    ‘Or,’ Athelstan interrupted, ‘placed there during its rebuilding. Concedo, Benedicta, your logic is unimpeachable. Which means,’ he added, ‘I need to find out when this church was built, and if the flagstones have ever been moved. Cranston will have to help us here.
    ‘But please tell me,’ he added, changing the conversation, ‘your husband’s first name? And what did he look like?’ Benedicta blinked and glanced away. ‘He was called James. He was tall, of medium stature, and blond-haired. He wore his hair thick and long, had a moustache and a scar from a knife cut under his right eye.’
    Athelstan thanked her and they stood for a while speculating on how the parish would react until the tinker returned with the pompous, weak-eyed Bladdersniff and the white-haired, cheery-faced Culpepper.
    ‘What’s the matter, Father?’ The bailiff held his head like that of an angry goose, eyes narrowed, lips pursed.
    Athelstan sighed and chose to ignore the thick, cloying ale fumes which hung around the fellow as thick as any perfume.
    ‘I need you, Master Bladdersniff, and you my good physician, for a body has been found — or rather a skeleton. Come with me.’
    They went back into the church. Bladdersniff, swaying slightly, inspected the skeleton, sniffing and muttering to himself. He then stood straight, tucking his thumbs into his broad belt and announced, ‘It’s dead, and it’s a skeleton!’
    Cecily and Benedicta immediately giggled. The bailiff looked suspiciously at Pike who had been standing behind him mimicking his every movement so accurately even Athelstan had to look away. The physician Culpepper was more helpful. He crouched down and examined the skeleton carefully.
    ‘No marks of any violence,’ he declared. ‘The bones are fine, subtle and fresh.’
    ‘So it’s been recently buried?’ Athelstan asked hopefully.
    ‘Ah, no.’ The old physician’s rheumy eyes met Athelstan’s. ‘You know London clay, Father. It can keep a bone nice and fresh, so God knows when this poor thing was buried. But,’ he continued, ‘I tell you this — the skeleton belongs to a young woman.’
    ‘How do you know?’
    ‘A mere guess, Father. But from the fineness of the bone, the contour of the ribs, arms and legs, I think I am right.’
    Athelstan thanked them both and once again insisted that everyone leave the church, shooing them forward like a farmwife would a group of hens whilst shouting at the workmen to continue. Outside he ordered Watkin to allow no one in. His parishioners then gathered round Bladdersniff and Culpepper, full of eager questions. Benedicta touched Athelstan on the hand.
    ‘All