Murder most holy

in a drunken stupor was prodigiously heavy.
    ‘Father Prior,’ he said quickly, ‘this matter of Henry of Winchester, why is there so much debate?’
    Prior Anselm, fascinated by Cranston , found it difficult to drag his eyes away from the jovial coroner who sat on the stool like a huge, burping baby.
    ‘Henry has produced a tract,’ he replied slowly, ‘in which he argues that God became man, not to save us from sin but to make us beautiful again.’
    Athelstan raised his eyebrows. ‘Father Prior, where’s the heresy in that?
    ‘At first I thought the same, but if we accept Brother Henry’s thesis that Christ came to return us to our former state of blessedness, then where is the importance of sin? Where is the idea of divine justice and retribution?’
    Cranston belched. ‘Too much bloody sin!’ he murmured. ‘That’s all you priests talk about. How can the good God send a man to hell because he drinks too much?’
    Cranston smacked his lips and was about to launch into his own original dissertation when there was a knock at the door and the lay brother entered.
    ‘Father Prior, the rest of the Inner Chapter are waiting.’ Athelstan, who’d been staring in disbelief at Cranston the theologian, rose to his feet. ‘Father Prior,’ he said hastily, ‘we should meet them now.’
    Anselm winked at Athelstan and led them down a maze of corridors, Cranston lumbering behind them like a fat-bellied ship in a storm. The members of the Inner Chapter, together with a bemused Brother Roger, were already seated round the table. They half-rose to their feet but Anselm gestured at them to sit down. The introductions were quickly made and Athelstan was pleased Cranston was with him. He knew he was considered a black sheep in the Order; some of these men might dislike, even object to, his presence here. Now everyone just sat fascinated by Cranston , who slumped in Prior Anselm’s chair without a by-your-leave and beamed down the table like a jovial Bacchus. Athelstan saw the sniggers and heard the whispered comments. The words ‘toper’ and ‘drunkard’, and condescending looks were passed his way.
    Whilst the prior made an embarrassed speech, Athelstan studied his brothers in Christ: William de Conches and the cheery-faced Eugenius he knew by reputation. Dangerous men with their sharp eyes and rat-trap souls, who believed the good Lord really did like to see people burnt in barrels of oil for his sake. The jovial Brother Peter and the Irishman Niall were strangers. They both seemed pleasant enough and Athelstan could see Peter was on the point of bursting into peals of laughter at the way Cranston now leaned, bleary-eyed, against the table. Brother Henry of Winchester sat like a statue, his dark face a mask of serenity. He smiled shyly at Athelstan and nodded. Athelstan did likewise. He had heard of this brilliant young theologian, a powerful preacher with a razor-like intellect. Poor Brother Roger beside him was a complete contrast, with his foolish face and strange tufts of hair sticking up on his head. Athelstan looked at the man’s crazed eyes, the saliva drooling from his lips, and wondered if he was insane enough to commit murder.
    Anselm finished the introductions, turned and looked at Cranston but he was now half-asleep, a serene smile on his face. Athelstan coughed to divert attention, placed his ink horn, parchment and quill on the table and touched them nervously. He stared down at them, picked up his quill and gazed round the group.
    ‘Father Prior,’ he began slowly, ‘has asked me to come here to elucidate certain mysteries which concern the Inner Chapter. This assembled on Monday the thirty-first of May. Within a week of its starting Brother Bruno slipped on the steps leading down to the crypt. On the following Saturday, last Saturday to be precise, Brother Alcuin the sacristán went into the monastery church, locking the door behind him, to pray in silence for the repose of the soul of his dead brother who lay coffined before the high altar. Is that correct, Father Prior?’
    Anselm nodded. ‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘Alcuin went into that church. The door remained locked, yet when Brother Roger went in, Alcuin had disappeared.’ Anselm paused and Athelstan saw the half-wit grin vacuously. ‘On Monday evening,’ Anselm continued, ‘Brother Callixtus, contrary to the rules of this house, went into the library to do private study. There, he apparently slipped from a ladder and was