Murder most holy

theologian rose, nodded and strode away just as Father Prior, folding back the sleeves of his gown, joined Athelstan. ‘You slept well, Brother?’
    Athelstan allowed the fixed smile he had reserved for Brother Henry to fade from his face.
    ‘Father Prior,’ he whispered, leaning across the table, ‘I want you to search amongst the possessions of Brothers Callixtus and Alcuin. You have the power and authority to do this. If you find anything untoward then please let me see it.’
    The prior looked sharply at him. ‘Why?’
    ‘You were right to bring me here, Father. Callixtus was murdered, beaten over the head with a candlestick. Bruno was killed, and God knows where the corpse of poor Alcuin is hidden!’
    The prior’s face paled. He put his head in his hands and rubbed his eyes.
    ‘You are sure?’
    ‘As God is my witness, Prior. You shelter an assassin here at Blackfriars. I want that search carried out, and the Inner Chapter must assemble this afternoon so I can present my conclusions to them.’
    ‘Must a man starve to death?’ Cranston stood in the doorway and bellowed round the refectory, making one of the old friars almost jump out of his skin. ‘By a fairy’s tits!’ He glared at Athelstan. ‘I wake cold and hungry to find you gone and no food served!’
    Father Prior raised his hand, clicked his fingers and a servitor appeared with a tray bearing a bowl of deliciously fragrant lamb broth, a pile of white bread rolls and a flagon of ale. Cranston almost snatched the tray from the poor man and slumped down next to Athelstan. The coroner gazed round the refectory, tapping his ponderous girth. He saw Athelstan’s grin, the prior’s astonishment, and the roundeyed amazement of the other brothers.
    ‘Hell’s teeth!’ Cranston muttered. ‘I forgot about your vow of silence!’
    He sniffed the meat and beamed round.
    ‘Ah, well, apologies to all. Morning, Father Prior, Brother Athelstan.’ He picked up the large horn spoon and attacked the bowl of meat with gusto. He wiped his mouth with the napkin covering the bread, and burped. ‘A good meal,’ he roared for at least half the monastery to hear, ‘is a celebration of the Eucharist. If the good Lord hadn’t meant us to eat — well, he wouldn’t have given us bellies and delicious food to fill them! For, as the psalmist says, “Wine gladdens the heart of men”.’
    ‘That’s the only line of the psalms he knows,’ Athelstan whispered to the prior.
    Cranston , however, continued to eat with relish, the meat, the bread and the beer disappearing in a twinkling of an eye. He made a swift sign of the cross, rose and nudged Athelstan.
    ‘Come on, Brother, it’s a fine morning. Father Prior, I saw your orchard. Apples and plums, eh? And the beehives are kept there?’
    The prior, fascinated by Cranston , just nodded again. Athelstan could only shrug, raise his eyes heavenwards and hasten after Cranston who was now striding out of the refectory across the pebble-dashed path leading down to the monastery gardens. He stopped, put on his beaver hat and squinted up at the mist-covered sky.
    ‘You wait, Brother, it will be a fine day. Did you resolve my mystery?’
    ‘I was trying to when you fell asleep, My Lord Coroner.’
    Sir John made a rude sound with his lips. ‘And I suppose there’s been no further progress in the pretty mess here?’
    ‘No, Sir John.’
    They walked through the herb garden, past the guest house and into the large orchard which swept down to the boundary wall of Blackfriars. Cranston was busy giving a description of his night’s sleep when Athelstan suddenly stopped, grasping his companion by the arm.
    ‘My Lord Coroner, look!’
    Cranston peered for the mist was still swirling round the trees.
    ‘By Queen Mab’s buttocks!’ the coroner muttered, taking a step forward. ‘What is it?’
    But Athelstan was now running through the trees.
    ‘Oh, no!’ he groaned, slumping down on his knees and staring up at the white, grotesque face of Brother Roger. The poor half-wit swung from an overhanging branch of the tree, his neck twisted to one side, his hands and legs dangling like some pathetic doll’s.
    ‘God have pity!’ Cranston shouted from behind him. He grasped his large knife, stretched up and sliced the rope, catching the dead man’s body as if it was light as a child’s and laying it gently down on the dew-soaked grass. Athelstan knelt beside the corpse and whispered quickly into the dead man’s ear