Murder most holy

Father.’
    ‘Off with you!’
    Crim left as quickly as he had entered.
    ‘Should you have done that?’ Cranston asked. ‘Why not tell her yourself? Art thou afraid, monk?’
    ‘No, Sir John, but there are some things best left alone. I think Benedicta will want to mourn in private. But, come, we have other business.’
    ‘Where?’ Cranston barked.
    Athelstan indicated with his hand that Cranston should sit on the altar steps beside him.
    ‘I have to thank you, My Lord Coroner.’
    ‘For what?’
    ‘For telling me the difference between a genuine beggar and a false one.’
    Cranston eased his bulk down. ‘What on earth are you talking about, monk?’
    ‘Just listen, Sir John. I am going to tell you what will happen.’

CHAPTER 11

    Athelstan locked the doors of the church and, with Cranston swaggering behind him and Bonaventure following for some of the way, they threaded through the alleyways of Southwark to the house of the carpenter, Raymond D’Arques. His wife, her face crumpled with sleep, answered Athelstan’s impatient knocking and led them into the kitchen. She went to the foot of the stairs and called for her husband. D’Arques came down, swathed in a robe, his unshaven face lined with anxiety.
    ‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan, good morrow.’
    ‘Good morrow, Master D’Arques,’ Cranston replied.
    ‘The business at the church?’ the fellow asked wearily. ‘Please,’ he waved to stools round the table, ‘sit down.’ He turned to his wife. ‘Margot, some ale for our guests.’
    They sat in silence till the tankards and a basket of bread were placed before them. Despite appearances, Athelstan sensed the couple’s deep agitation.
    ‘Enough is enough,’ he began quietly. ‘I have not come here to play games with you, Master D’Arques. You know that the skeleton found under the altar of the sanctuary of my church is not that of a martyr. Why? Because you put it there. About fifteen years ago, Father Theobald asked for the sanctuary to be paved. Now, he was a poor priest and the revenues of St Erconwald’s are a mere pittance. So instead of hiring from the Guild, he bought the services of a young carpenter who was also prepared to do some mason’s work. That carpenter was you.’
    Athelstan paused and Raymond put his face in his hands whilst his white-faced wife pressed a clenched fist to her mouth.
    ‘I know this,’ Athelstan continued, ‘because I have seen the muniment book: payments to a carpenter, Raymond D'Arques, and for the stonework to a mason who used the initials A.Q.D., a device used to hide him from the prying eyes of the Guild.’ Athelstan sipped from his tankard. ‘During the work on the sanctuary, for reasons yet unknown, you killed a young woman, either by suffocation or strangulation, and buried her in a hole beneath the altar. You then gave up your mason’s work, determined the crime would never be laid at your door. You became solely a carpenter and took every step to ensure you never used your old mark, A.Q.D., the rearranged initials of your last name. Master D’Arques, am I correct?’
    The man looked up and Athelstan felt a surge of compassion at the look in those staring eyes.
    He continued, ‘You thought your crime would go undetected or, if the skeleton was discovered, the blame would not be laid at your door. However, you heard the news of a new priest arriving at St Erconwald’s. A Dominican who acted as a coroner’s clerk and was also determined to renovate the church. You kept a wary eye on St Erconwald’s and when I began renovating the sanctuary, plotted your scheme. You arranged that miracle.’
    ‘How?’ his wife cried out.
    Athelstan saw the guilt in her eyes.
    ‘Oh, come!’ Cranston snorted. ‘The news of the skeleton’s being found and rumours of its being the remains of a saint played into your hands. Indeed, you prepared yourselves for just such a possibility. After all, you’d had years to prepare, reflect and plot. Now, any professional beggar can dress his body in the most terrible wounds to fool even the most skilled physician or apothecary, never mind old Master Culpepper. A good, upright citizen comes to him with an infection of the arm, so he dresses it. You bide your time, wash your arm, go down to St Erconwald’s, and heigh-ho, a miracle is worked.’
    ‘Others had cures!’ she snapped.
    ‘Yes, I considered that,’ Athelstan replied. ‘But nothing substantial. The human mind is mysterious in its working.