Murder most holy

shuffled his feet. ‘What is it?’ Athelstan asked sharply.
    Cranston produced a small scroll of parchment.
    ‘The messenger returned yesterday evening from Boulogne .’ He tapped the parchment. ‘The fellow travelled fast for I paid him well.’ Cranston gave a great sigh, unable to gaze directly at Athelstan’s watchful face. ‘It’s bad news,’ he murmured. ‘The French do not have Benedicta’s husband.’
    Athelstan turned away and stared at the wall. Sweet Lord, he thought, and what do I feel? What did I really want?
    ‘Oh, bugger!’ Cranston shouted.
    Athelstan turned to see Bonaventure slide like a shadow through the door, purring with pleasure. He looked beseechingly up at Cranston . Sir John retreated.
    ‘Bugger off, you bloody cat!’
    Athelstan, glad of the distraction, picked up the battered tom cat, stroking it carefully, even though Bonaventure still stared appealingly at the coroner. The cat’s fur was sleek and clean.
    ‘You’ve been well fed,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘I know your type — the professional beggar. Go on now!’ He put the cat outside the door and closed it firmly.
    ‘Well, what are you going to do?’ Cranston barked.
    ‘I’m going to check the church and say mass. Sir John, you can serve as altar boy. Even though you have broken your fast, I’ll absolve you.’
    They went across to the church, Athelstan exclaiming in pleasure as he stepped into its cool darkness for it, too, had been swept and cleaned now the workmen had gone. Fresh rushes lay on the nave floor, the rood screen had been replaced, and what delighted Athelstan most of all was that the sanctuary had been finished. The new flagstones glowed white and Athelstan admired the precision and care of the masons. The altar too had been cleaned whilst someone, probably Huddle, had given the rood screen a thorough polish. Even in the poor morning light the rich dark wood gleamed.
    ‘Very good!’ Athelstan murmured.
    ‘It’s still here!’ Cranston shouted from the transept, and Athelstan heard the lid of the parish coffin being opened.
    ‘But the thieving bastards have made their mark! Four of the finger bones are missing and three of the toes! Some bugger is making a profit from selling relics!’
    Athelstan chose to ignore the coffin. Whoever the skeleton had been, he knew she was a murder victim. Someone who had been killed in the last ten to fifteen years. Whilst Cranston tramped round the church Athelstan opened the sacristy door dressing in gold chasuble and stole because the church’s liturgy was still celebrating Easter and the miracle of Pentecost. He filled the cruets with wine and water and couldn’t help smiling at the way his parishioners, probably marshalled by Watkin and Benedicta, had cleaned the dust from everything. He put a cloth across the altar, brought out the huge tattered missal and, with Cranston kneeling piously before him, made the sign of the cross and began mass. Of course Bonaventure turned up but behaved himself, sitting by a suspicious coroner like the holiest cat in Christendom.
    A good ‘cat-holic’ Athelstan thought, but kept a straight face and continued with the mass, giving Sir John communion under both rites. The coroner emptied the chalice in one gulp.
    Afterwards Athelstan divested in the sacristy, Cranston , lounging at the door, watching him.
    ‘None of your parishioners has turned up,’ he remarked.
    ‘That’s because they don’t know I’m here, Sir John.’
    The words were hardly out of Athelstan’s mouth when Crim burst into the sanctuary.
    ‘Father, I saw the door open.’ His dirty face screwed up in disappointment. ‘I would have served mass for you!’
    Cranston glared down at him, brows knitting, but Crim stared cheekily back and poked out his tongue.
    ‘Look, Crim, will you run me an errand?’ Athelstan intervened briskly. ‘Sir John, the letter? You know, the one from Boulogne ?’
    Cranston handed it over and Athelstan studied it quickly. The Dominicans in Boulogne sent him fraternal greetings. They ministered to the prisoners’ camp in the fields outside the city where they’d made careful investigation but found no trace of any prisoner fitting the description or name Athelstan was searching for. He folded the note, took a penny Out of his wallet and crouched before Crim.
    ‘Take this to the Lady Benedicta,’ he said. ‘On no account must you lose it.’ He seized the boy by a bony shoulder. ‘Do you understand?’
    ‘Yes,