Murder most holy

Fitzwolfe has the same idea.’
    The ex-priest, however, sat elegantly on a stool, crossing his legs as daintily as a woman, hands clasped round one knee.
    The bastard’s mocking me, thought Athelstan.
    ‘I’m here of my own free will, Sir John, and if I wish to I can leave. There’s no warrant out for my arrest.’ Fitzwolfe sniggered. ‘Well, not one that’s valid. It’s six years since I left St Erconwald’s.’
    Cranston smiled and, drawing his sword, brought the flat edge straight down on Fitzwolfe’s shoulder, making the fellow jump and lose some of his poise.
    ‘I am going to kill you, Fitzwolfe!’
    The ex-priest tried to rise. Cranston forced him back with his sword.
    ‘You see, I am a law officer and I came in here to ask you some questions. You drew a dagger out of your boot so I killed you. Now, tell me, who’s going to mourn you? Or,’ Cranston put the sword away, ‘you can answer a few questions. Now, what’s it going to be?’
    ‘Your questions?’
    ‘When you were a priest at St Erconwald’s did you have flagstones laid in the sanctuary?’
    ‘Oh, come, Sir John,’ sneered Fitzwolfe. ‘I had better things to do than look after that Godforsaken place!’
    ‘So it was done before you came?’
    ‘Yes, that was one of Father Theobald’s bright ideas. Not a very good job, was it?’ Fitzwolfe glanced at Athelstan mockingly. ‘I was forever tripping over the damned things. Mind you, it wasn’t difficult after a skinful of wine.’
    Athelstan stared back. This man, he thought, was frightened of neither God nor man. And now he could understand his own unease. He was sure Fitzwolfe was a black magician, one of those lords of the crossroads, masters of the gibbet, who dabbled in the black arts — a common practice for defrocked priests who abused the spiritual power given to them. Fitzwolfe caught his glance and nodded imperceptibly as if he could read Athelstan’s mind. He rose lazily to his feet.
    ‘Any further questions?’
    ‘Yes, I have,’ Athelstan declared, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall. ‘I am sure the plate from St Erconwald’s is now melted down and sold but you also took the muniment book containing the church accounts. Now, Fitzwolfe, I suggest you either burnt it or still have it now.’
    ‘I tore it up.'
    ‘And the pages?’
    ‘Some of the parchment I used.’ Fitzwolfe shrugged. ‘It was no use to anyone else. It was full of Father Theobald’s meaningless scribble. Why, what makes you think I should still have it with me?’
    ‘Because I am sure you regard it as some form of jest, using a church book for your own filthy purposes!’
    Fitzwolfe jabbed a finger at the ceiling. ‘You can see what’s left. It’s in my garret at the top of the house.’
    Cranston gave a mock bow. ‘What are we waiting for?’ Fitzwolfe shook his head. ‘Not you. I am having no officer of the law poking his nose into matters that do not concern him!’
    ‘At the same time,’ Cranston replied, ‘I am not having you going up the stairs, disappearing over the roof, and not being seen again this side of Yuletide!’
    Fitzwolfe pointed a thumb over his shoulder. ‘The priest can come. You stay outside.’
    He led them back into the tap-room. Cranston and Athelstan followed, ignoring the muttered jeers and curses, through a side door and into a dank passageway which smelt of dog urine and was littered with all sorts of dirt. They went up the rickety, slime-covered stairs which wound up through the building.
    ‘A resting house,’ Cranston whispered.
    They passed wooden doors and landings.
    ‘Bolt holes,’ the coroner continued. ‘Secret passageways, rat tunnels for the human vermin to scuttle along. If I had my way I’d burn such places to the ground.’
    ‘But you won’t,’ Fitzwolfe sang out ahead of them. ‘Will you, Sir John?’
    At last they reached the top. Fitzwolfe produced a key, inserted it into a heavy iron-studded door, unlocked it and pushed it half-open.
    ‘You stay there, Sir John. Priest!’ Fitzwolfe grinned slyly and beckoned Athelstan forward.
    The friar entered, wrinkling his nose at the sweet, sickly smell, straining his eyes to accustom them to the darkness. Fitzwolfe flitted round the room like a shadow. A tinder was struck and long white candles in their brass holders, protected by a metal hood, caught the flame. Athelstan gazed around. A cold shiver prickled at the back of his neck, and for some strange reason he felt out of