Murder most holy

in Milk Street , politely refused Cranston ’s invitation to a drink in the Holy Lamb of God, and made his way back to Southwark. He stopped at the booths in Three Needle Street and bought a roll of sponge-like material and in Comhill ajar of face powder. The old lady behind the stall grinned and winked knowingly at him.
    ‘Everyone to their own, eh, Father?’
    The friar bit back a tart reply and led a now sleepy Philomel down Gracechurch towards the bridge. He spent the rest of the day concentrating on the conundrum of the scarlet chamber, using the materials he had bought as he tried to replicate the story in every detail. At last, as the light began to fade, he went out for a short walk in the cemetery, staring into the west as the sun dipped in a red ball of fire. He felt a small glow of satisfaction and praised the beauty of Lady Logic. He had been through the conundrum time and again. There could be only one solution to the mystery, but what would happen if he was wrong?
    ‘Father! Father!’
    Athelstan looked over to see Cecily the courtesan standing warily at the lychgate.
    ‘What is it, Cecily?’
    ‘Father, I was only having a cup of wine in the tavern.’
    ‘There’s no sin in that, Cecily.’
    The girl moved towards him. She tried to walk demurely but Athelstan hid his smile at the way she flicked her flounced skirt and leaned forward, displaying her ample bosom in its tight bodice.
    ‘Father, I have been sent by the rest. We are really sorry about what happened and will all be at mass tomorrow. Benedicta has told us you have something very important to say.’
    Athelstan smiled and touched her gently on the arm.
    ‘You are a good lass, Cecily. I’ll see you at mass tomorrow.’
    The girl tripped away. Athelstan stared at the skies. Should he study the stars? The night would be cloud-free. Perhaps he might see one shooting through the heavens like Lucifer in his fall to hell. ‘There again,’ he murmured, ‘perhaps I’ll fall myself!’ He felt sleepy and tired, and remembering the attack of the previous night, stared round the deserted churchyard. He’d be glad when tomorrow’s mass was over and everything could return to normal, but until then it might be best if he kept within his own house. He went in, locking the doors and shutters firmly. ‘It’s a fine night,’ he said to himself, ‘and Bonaventure will be either courting or hunting.’ He realised there was no food in the kitchen so went and sat down, wondering if he would discover anything new when he returned to Blackfriars. His eyes grew heavy. He doused the candle and went upstairs to bed.

    Everyone appeared for mass the next morning. Mugwort rang the bell like some demented demon. Ursula turned up, sow in tow, followed by Watkin, Pike, Huddle — the latter gazing appreciatively round the new sanctuary. Benedicta was more composed than the previous day. She whispered to Athelstan not to be too harsh, whilst Pike reminded him that he was to hear confessions that day. Athelstan concealed his dismay behind a bright smile. Of course, he had forgotten about that! The great feast of Corpus Christi would soon be upon them and all his parishioners liked to be shriven of their sins so, after mass, he announced he would be in church all day in the west transept; the curtain would be put up and he would hear their confessions.
    Once all his parishioners were assembled, he quietly explained about the skeleton.
    ‘These are not the bones or remains of a saint,’ he began. ‘Dear children, you must trust me. Sir John and I have discovered the truth. They are the remains of a woman murdered many years ago.’ He shrugged. ‘That is all. Now, Watkin, do you accept what I say?’
    The dung-collector, squatting amongst his innumerable brood, nodded solemnly.
    ‘Very well,’ Athelstan continued, ‘you will take some of the profit which you assuredly raised and buy a proper shroud of thick linen. Pike, you will dig a grave, and this evening I will bless this poor woman’s remains and commit them to the soil. That will be the end of the matter.’
    ‘What about the cost of all this?’ Pike shouted.
    ‘Don’t worry,’ Athelstan answered, ‘the monies will be repaid.’
    ‘And the miracle?’ Ursula screeched. ‘What about the miracle?’
    ‘Only God knows, Ursula, but if there were miracles, perhaps St Erconwald is responsible?’
    A murmur of approval greeted his words.
    ‘Father.’ Watkin stood up, moving sheepishly from