Murder most holy

followed Athelstan and the man with the miraculous cure back into St Erconwald’s. Athelstan ordered them to sit down on a bench and keep quiet. He went outside and leaned against the door as an excited clamour broke out behind him. He crouched and examined the pile of dirty bandages: they were soiled with dark stains and gave off a putrid odour. Athelstan was still scrutinising them when Pike returned with an aggrieved-looking Culpepper.
    ‘Father, what is it now?’
    ‘Master physician, I apologise but there’s a man in the church, one of your patients. He claims his arm had some putrefaction of the skin, that you dressed and bandaged it.’ Culpepper hitched his fur-trimmed robe closer round his bony shoulders, his usually humorous face now tense with vexation.
    ‘Father, is this all it’s about? I can’t remember every injury!’
    ‘Go in there,’ Athelstan pleaded. ‘Go in, see the man, look at his arm and then come back and tell me.’
    Shaking his head and muttering curses, Culpepper obeyed. Athelstan stayed outside. The babble of voices behind him stilled for a while and then broke out again as Culpepper, a surprised, anxious look on his face, re-emerged from the church.
    ‘Well?’ Pike asked, his face and body tense as a whippet’s. The physician looked sheepishly at Athelstan.
    ‘It’s true, Father. Some days ago Raymond D’Arques came to me with a terrible skin infection. I examined it carefully, put some ointment on, bandaged it and charged him a fee.’
    ‘The arm was putrefying?’
    ‘Definitely, Father. Some sort of fungus-like rash which coarsened the skin and caused a terrible itching.’
    ‘And now it’s healed?’
    ‘You have seen it, Father. So have I.’
    ‘Could such an infection be healed by the ointment you put on it?’
    ‘I doubt it, Father. Not in the time. Such infections, and I have seen them before, take weeks, even months to heal. The skin is now wholesome and fresh.’
    Athelstan kicked the small pile of bandages. ‘And these are yours?’
    The doctor picked them up without a second thought and sniffed them carefully. ‘Yes, Father, and if you don’t need them, and he certainly doesn’t, I’ll take them back to use again.’ The physician pushed his face close to Athelstan’s. ‘I can’t explain it, Father, and neither can you. Anyway, why shouldn’t God work miracles in St Erconwald’s?’ He turned on his heel and stamped off down the street.
    Athelstan looked at Pike. ‘What do you know of this Raymond D’Arques?’
    ‘A good man, Father. He and his wife Margot live off Dog Leg Lane . He owns quite a big house near the Skinner’s Yard.’
    Athelstan leaned against the wall. Dog Leg Lane was just within the boundary of his parish.
    ‘I never see them at church,’ he muttered.
    ‘Ah,’ Pike replied, ‘that’s because he and his young wife are prosperous and go to St Swithin’s. They are good, pious people, Father, and give regularly to the poor. He’s a fair tradesman, well liked and respected. You ask old Bladdersniff. He knows every man’s business.’
    Athelstan sighed and went back into the church where his excited parishioners now ringed Raymond D’Arques and his wife. The man came towards him, waving the others back.
    ‘Father,’ he whispered, ‘I am sorry. My arm was sickly, I came here to pray. All I can do is thank God and you. Please accept this.’ He pushed a silver coin into Athelstan’s hand. The priest stepped back. ‘No, no, I can’t.’
    ‘Father, you must. It’s my offering. If the church won’t have it, give it to the poor.’ D’Arques clasped Athelstan’s hand. ‘Please, Father, I won’t trouble you again. Margot,’ he called over his shoulder, ‘we have bothered this poor priest enough.’ He walked away. His wife smiled at Athelstan, touched him gently on the hand and slipped quietly through the door after her husband.
    ‘Well, Father!’ Watkin the dung-collector, arms folded, legs apart, confronted his priest. ‘Well, Father,’ he repeated, ‘we have our miracle. The cure proves that we have a saint here in St Erconwald’s.’
    Athelstan saw the gleam of anticipated profit in the dung-collector’s eyes.
    ‘There’ll be pilgrimages!’ the sexton shouted. ‘St Erconwald’s will become famous. You can’t stop us,’ he added defiantly. ‘You know church law. The nave belongs to the people. This is our church!’ He pointed a stubby finger towards the transept. ‘That’s our coffin, our