Murder most holy

Saturday and the greater part of Sunday morning scrupulously searching each page of the leather-bound volumes. Athelstan rather enjoyed it. He felt he was a student again meeting old friends: St Thomas Aquinas, the sentences of Peter Lombard, the brilliant but sarcastic analysis of Peter Abelard. Each volume contained copies of their work, carefully written out by generations of Dominicans at Black-friars. Sometimes the copyist had written their own commentaries in the margin, now and again adding personal remarks such as: ‘I am cold’, ‘My eyes are aching’, ‘I find this boring’, and, ‘Oh, when will summer come?’ Some scribes had even painted the faces of gargoyles to poke fun at their brethren. The prior of over a hundred years ago must have been a proper tyrant for one copyist had drawn a crude gallows with his superior hanging from it. Cranston soon became bored, constantly going up and downstairs to refresh himself in the kitchen or falling asleep and disturbing Athelstan with his snores. At last, just before noon on Sunday, he announced he had had enough.
    ‘I’d better return, Athelstan,’ he announced mournfully. ‘I miss the Lady Maude and the two poppets. I am more of a hindrance than a help here. You will return to Southwark tomorrow?’
    ‘At first light, Sir John.’
    ‘Then I will meet you at London Bridge as the bells of St Mary Le Bow toll the beginning of day.’
    Armed with his miraculous wineskin, Sir John stumped off and Athelstan returned to his studies. The day drew on, punctuated by the sound of bells and the faint hum of the ordinary routine of the monastery. Father Prior came over to announce that both Brothers Roger and Alcuin would be buried on the morrow after high mass, now the sanctuary had been reblessed and purified. He stood in the kitchen wringing his hands and shifting from one foot to another as his eyes pleaded with Athelstan to bring an end to these terrible events. Athelstan reassured him and the prior left. Norbert brought across some food. Athelstan asked for fresh candles and continued his studies long after sunset. It must have been about midnight when he heard Brother Norbert pounding on the door shouting his name.
    ‘Athelstan! Athelstan! Quickly!’
    The friar opened the wooden shutters and looked down.
    ‘What is it?’ he called.
    The lay brother held up a lantern. ‘An urgent message from Sir John. It was delivered at the porter’s lodge. Brother, you are to come down now!’
    Athelstan picked up his cloak, slipped his feet into his sandals and went down.
    ‘Where’s the messenger?’ — Oh, he was some young lad. He just said something dreadful had happened at St Erconwald’s and that you were to come immediately!’
    ‘Saddle Philomel for me. Is the lad still here?’
    ‘He said he would wait for you outside the Blue Mantle tavern on the corner of Carter Lane .’
    Athelstan walked across to the main gate. He felt tired, his eyes ached and he wondered what could have happened. Had the church caught fire, or was one of his parishioners dying? Philomel was brought round, snorting and protesting at this unwarranted intrusion into his rest. A sleepy-eyed porter opened the gate. Athelstan led his horse through, mounted, and rode up the darkened street towards the tavern.
    On one side of him rose the dark mass of Blackfriars. On the other a row of houses, all lights extinguished except for the lantern horns placed on hooks above the door. Two members of the night watch walked by, poles over their shoulders. They glimpsed Athelstan’s black and white robes and passed on, chuckling about the strange habits of certain priests.
    Athelstan fought to keep his eyes open. He was near the tavern. Then he stopped. Despite the warm night air, he shivered and cursed himself for a fool. Why didn’t the messenger wait in the porter’s lodge? Why choose a tavern long after the beginning of curfew? The friar stopped and stared into the darkness, now fully alert. He sensed something was wrong. What was so urgent that he had to be dragged out in the middle of the night? He leaned forward, ears straining. He heard the clip-clop of hooves in the distance, the discordant yowling of cats, and the squeak and slither of rats as they foraged in the huge mounds of excrement piled high in the sewers.
    ‘Hello!’ he called. ‘Who is there?’
    Athelstan’s eyes, now accustomed to the darkness, tried to make out if there was anyone standing in the shadows on the