Murder most holy

been committed here and the terrible sin seemed to hang over the place like an oppressive cloud. Was nowhere safe? he wondered. Did murder and dreadful homicides seep into every crevice and crack of human existence? He shivered and got up.
    ‘Sir John, you said you wanted to see me on business of your own?’
    Cranston made a face.
    ‘Yes, but not here, Brother. You still have some of that excellent wine?’
    ‘I used one bottle today but there’s another left for you, Sir John.’
    ‘Good, then let’s leave here. My flesh is beginning to creep and my belly roars for the juice of the grape.’
    Athelstan locked the church securely and led Sir John across to the priest’s house. Thankfully, Bonaventure had disappeared again. Athelstan closed the shutters, lit the candles and built the fire up with some dry twigs. He poured Sir John and himself two generous cups of wine. Cranston dragged the candle nearer and pushed a small roll of parchment across the table.
    ‘Read that, Brother.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Just read it.’
    Athelstan undid the parchment and studied the clerkly hand. He read it once and looked up, surprised.
    ‘A strange story, Sir John. Why does it affect you?’ Cranston told him and Athelstan let out a groan.
    ‘Oh, Sir John, for the love of God, you are trapped! Don’t you know about these riddles, clever puzzles in logic? Some are hundreds of years old and have never been resolved.’ Cranston shrugged. ‘I think this is a true story.’
    ‘Sir John, it could cost you a thousand crowns or, if John of Gaunt gets his fingers on to you, your very integrity.’
    ‘Then help me, Brother.’ Cranston drained the cup and slammed it down on the table.
    Athelstan glimpsed the anxiety in the coroner’s usually good-humoured face.
    ‘I will do my best.’
    Cranston made to fill his cup to the brim but thought again. He dared not. He did not wish to return home drunk. So far, he had kept this matter only to himself and Athelstan. He wondered if Lady Maude had heard any rumours.
    ‘You must tell her, Sir John,’ Athelstan murmured as if reading the coroner’s thoughts. ‘You must tell the Lady Maude.’
    ‘Aye, there’s the rub. My wife knows I’ll never ask Gaunt for help, but where can I get a thousand crowns? From the bankers? My great-grandchildren will be paying off the interest!’
    Athelstan leaned over and squeezed the coroner’s fat fist. ‘Courage, Sir John. Always remember, if a problem exists then logic dictates a solution must also.’
    Cranston rose, picking up both his beaver hat and cloak. ‘Aye, Brother, and I will make enquiries about your church and the whereabouts of the sainted Fitzwolfe.’ He shuffled his feet and squinted up at the rafters.
    ‘There’s something else, isn’t there, My Lord Coroner?’ Cranston sat down with a thump. ‘Yes, there is. I have had a visitor.’
    ‘Who?’
    ‘Your Father Prior.’
    Athelstan stared up in amazement.
    ‘Well,’ Cranston licked his lips and looked longingly at his wine cup, ‘as you know, there’s an Inner Chapter meeting to discuss the writings of one of your brethren.’
    ‘Yes, Brother Henry of Winchester . Why?’ Athelstan’s voice rose higher. ‘How does that affect me?’
    ‘It doesn’t, but to cut a long story short, Athelstan, something strange is happening at Blackfriars: one monk’s died and another, Alcuin, has disappeared.’
    ‘Alcuin!’ Athelstan breathed, recalling the ascetic face of his colleague. ‘Disappeared, Sir John? Alcuin was a friar from the moment he was born. I could never picture him leaping the friary wall and off heigh-ho to the shambles to meet some pretty doxy!’
    ‘Well, he’s disappeared and Father Prior has asked me to investigate.’ Cranston swallowed hard. ‘He’s coming to visit you on Wednesday. Both of us are. I think he’s going to ask for your help.’
    Athelstan put his face in his hands. ‘Oh, God!’ he prayed. ‘Not that. Not back to Blackfriars and the politics of the Order!’
    And then he swore, muttering every filthy word he’d learned from Cranston . He had been so happy; there were his usual duties as Cranston ’s clerk but nothing serious, not since those bloody murders at the Tower the previous Christmas. He had become immersed in his study of the stars, in talking to Bonaventure, helping his parishioners and, above all, renovating his beloved church. Now his hardwon peace and calm were to be shattered: by Sir John with his complex problem;