Murder most holy

more can he do? Why should he stand trial now for murdering that scheming, horrible bitch?’ She laughed. ‘A martyr! A saint! Brother Athelstan, my husband did wrong both in slaying the whore and in playing upon the hopes of your gullible parishioners, but when he heard of your work in the sanctuary, he panicked.’ Athelstan turned and looked at Cranston .
    ‘Sir John, I believe Master D’Arques and his wife are telling the truth. What shall we do now?’
    The coroner, who had sat attentively throughout the confession, smiled.
    ‘I am the King’s Coroner in the city,’ he announced. ‘My judgements are always good and true. You, Raymond D’Arques, are guilty of the unlawful slaying of the woman called Aemelia. This is your punishment. First, you will come before the justices of the King’s Bench and swear to the slaying.’ The coroner’s sharp eyes now caught Mistress D’Arques’s white, anxious face. ‘You were his accomplice after the event. You, too, must purge yourself. If this purgation is made, I swear a pardon under the royal seal will be issued.’ Both the carpenter and his wife relaxed and smiled. ‘Secondly,’ Cranston continued, ‘you are guilty of the desecration of a church and the illegal burial of Aemelia’s body. You will pay for the proper Christian funeral of her remains, including coffin, grave fee and service. You will also pay a chantry priest to sing masses for her soul.
    ‘Finally, you have caused inconvenience and distress both to Father Athelstan and the parishioners of St Erconwald’s. You, Raymond D’Arques, are a carpenter. The final sentence is this: you will carve a statue, one yard high, of the finest wood, depicting St Erconwald and pay for its erection on a plinth in the new sanctuary. Brother Athelstan, do you agree?’
    The friar rose. ‘Justice has been done,’ he murmured. He looked at D’Arques and his wife and saw the gratitude in their eyes. ‘Continue your good works,’ he said. ‘Love each other. One final matter — seek out a good priest, someone outside Southwark, tell him what you have done and about the reparation you have made, and absolution will be given.’ He tapped Sir John on the shoulder. ‘My Lord Coroner, our work is finished here.’ They left the house and walked back through the now noisy alleyways of Southwark.
    ‘A good judgement. Sir John.’
    ‘They have paid enough,’ the coroner replied. He looked around. ‘Brother, where to now?’
    ‘Benedicta’s house. She will have received the message I sent with Crim.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s the least I can do.’
    They found Benedicta, pale-faced and red-eyed, crouched over her table, the letter Athelstan had sent lying open before her. She smiled bravely and welcomed them, wrapping her morning cloak tightly about her. Despite her tears, she looked beautiful, her thick black hair falling down around her shoulders, unruly and uncombed for she confessed Crim had wakened her with the message.
    ‘I am sorry,’ Athelstan apologised. ‘I did not mean to wake you with such unwelcome news but I thought the sooner the better.’
    ‘No, no,’ Benedicta replied. ‘I am at peace.’ She sat down, her face in her hands. ‘The waiting was the worst.’ She indicated the stools beside her. ‘For God’s sake, Sir John, Father, sit down! You are standing like two beadles come to arrest me! You wish some wine?’
    ‘No,’ Athelstan answered quickly, narrowing his eyes at her. ‘Sir John and I have a busy day.’ He reached over and touched her hand. ‘Benedicta, I am truly sorry.’
    The woman blinked and looked away.
    ‘Never mind, never mind,’ she murmured, and smiled through her tears at Sir John. ‘My Lord Coroner, I thank you for your help. Whatever this stem priest says, I think you deserve a cup of the finest claret.’
    Cranston needed no second bidding and his smile widened when Benedicta returned from the buttery with a large, two-handled cup and a pewter dish containing strips of beef covered by a rich brown sauce and lightly garnished with a sprinkling of peas. She put these down in front of Sir John and kissed him lightly on the side of his head, grinning mischievously at Athelstan.
    ‘There, My Lord Coroner!’
    Athelstan glared at her. At this rate Sir John would be unmanageable by the end of the day. Benedicta, putting a brave face on her sad news, just tossed her head and flounced upstairs. Athelstan had to sit and watch Sir John chomp like Philomel: the