Murder most holy

whilst sketching a sign of the cross, ‘Absolve te a peccatis... I absolve you from your sins.’ He continued with a quick absolution whilst Cranston leaned against the tree and stared at the piece of rope which still swung there, a grisly reminder of the tragedy.
    ‘What’s the use?’ the coroner muttered. ‘The man’s been dead for hours. His soul’s long gone.’
    Athelstan undid the rope from Roger’s neck. ‘We don’t know, Sir John,’ he replied over his shoulder. ‘The church teaches that the soul only leaves the body hours, perhaps days, after death, so while there’s hope, there’s always salvation.’ He knelt back on his heels. ‘Though I think this poor man will surely benefit from Christ’s mercy. A sad end to a tragic life.’
    ‘He killed himself!’ Cranston observed. ‘He committed suicide.’
    Athelstan stared at the angry weal round the dead man’s neck.
    ‘I don’t think so, Sir John.’ He looked closer at the red-black wound caused by the rope’s chafing. He gently turned the corpse over. ‘Yes, as I thought. Look, Sir John.’ He traced with his finger the mark left by the noose but, just under the jaw, beneath the ears, were two finer cuts, little red weals.
    ‘What are those?’ Cranston asked.
    ‘Come on, Sir John, you’ve seen them before.’
    The coroner peered closer, turning the body over, trying not to look at the popping eyes, the swollen blackened tongue clenched tightly between yellowing teeth.
    ‘This poor bastard didn’t hang himself!’ Cranston muttered. ‘He was garrotted! Those red marks are left by a garrotte string.’
    Athelstan, who had clambered up the tree and was now loosening the piece of rope left there, shouted his agreement.
    ‘You’re right, Sir John. The rope here has left a mark but only that caused by the corpse’s weight. If Roger had committed suicide the branch would be more deeply frayed. Even a man who kills himself by hanging fights for life. The branch would bear deeper marks.’ Athelstan, who was standing gingerly on the limb of the tree, pushed the branch where the rope had hung.
    ‘What are you doing, friar?’ Cranston roared, as hard, unripe apples rained down on him.
    ‘You’ll see, Sir John.’
    Watched by a surprised coroner, Athelstan grasped the branch with both hands and edged his way over until it bore his full weight. He kept flexing his arm, making the branch dance. Suddenly there was a crack, the branch snapped, and Athelstan almost tumbled on to a surprised Cranston . The friar picked himself up, grinning, wiping his hands and dusting his robe down.
    ‘It’s years since I’ve done that, Sir John.’ He stared grimly up at the broken branch, then at Roger’s corpse on the grass. ‘We can prove it was murder, Sir John. First, the marks of the garrotte string. The assassin hoped the bruise left by the noose would hide those. Secondly, the branch is not scored deeply enough, which means Roger must have been dead when he was hoisted up there. Finally, if Roger had hanged himself, his body would have twisted and not only marked the branch but probably broken it. He’s heavier than me and they say a hanged man can dance for anything up to half an hour.’ Athelstan scratched his head. ‘No, Sir John, as you would put it, this poor bastard was probably invited here either last night or early this morning before daybreak, and garrotted.’ He paused. ‘You see the problem, My Lord Coroner?’
    Cranston blinked. ‘No.’
    ‘Well, Roger was killed, but how did the assassin climb a tree with a corpse and tie the rope round the branch?’
    Cranston looked round, studying the ground carefully.
    ‘Well, the assassin had the noose already prepared. Roger’s garrotted, the body is lifted up, and the noose tightened round the neck.’
    ‘The assassin must have been very tall.’
    ‘No.’ Cranston walked amongst the trees and came back with a stout wooden box about a foot high and a yard across. He placed this squarely on the spot over which Roger’s body had hung.
    Athelstan smiled. ‘Of course! These boxes litter the orchard. The brothers use them in autumn when they harvest the fruit. It would be merely a matter of standing on the box, dragging Roger’s corpse up, tightening the noose, taking the box away and, heigh-ho, it looks as if Roger hanged himself.’
    ‘And, as you have so aptly proved, my dear friar, that branch would have broken if Roger had tried to crawl across it, and would certainly