Murder most holy

gravely.
    ‘My mother had cooked them specially.’
    Athelstan breathed deeply to stop himself laughing. ‘What else is there, lad?’
    But Crim had fallen strangely silent. ‘Father,’ he stammered, ‘I have committed fornication six times.’
    Athelstan’s jaw fell. He felt the hair on the nape of his neck curl. In the bishop’s precepts to confessors, the corruption of young children was not unknown and was considered a most grievous moral offence. Athelstan pulled the curtain back and stared at Crim’s dirty, startled face.
    ‘Crim,’ he whispered, ‘come round here!’
    The boy tottered round.
    ‘Crim, what are you saying? Do you know what fornication is?’
    The boy nodded.
    ‘And you have committed it six times?’
    Again the nod.
    ‘What is fornication, Crim?’
    Athelstan looked earnestly into the boy’s troubled eyes. Was this why the lad had been so quiet and rather withdrawn at times? Crim closed his eyes.
    ‘Fornication,’ he piped up, ‘is a filthy act!’
    Athelstan let go of the boy’s hand and leaned back in the chair. ‘Tell me, lad, exactly what happened?’
    ‘Well, Father, as you know my mother sends me up to the market. I am the fastest runner and she always gives me a glass of water mixed with honey as a reward.’
    Athelstan was now completely at sea. ‘What has this got to do with it, Crim?’
    The lad blushed and looked down. ‘Coming back from the market, Father, I want to piss and I do it in the open.’ Athelstan laughed and seized the boy’s hand. ‘Is that all, Crim?’
    The lad nodded.
    ‘And what makes you think that’s fornication?’
    ‘Well, Father, Mother always says that Cecily is guilty of fornication and other filthy acts.’
    Athelstan shook his head. ‘But, Crim, you often go for a piss outside. What’s so special about this?’
    The boy’s blush grew deeper.
    ‘Come on, lad!’
    ‘I do it on holy ground, Father.’
    ‘You mean, here in church?’
    ‘No, Father. I always want to go just as I pass your house so I go behind your wall and do it on the onion patch. I know it’s wrong, Father, to do it in a priest’s garden, but I can’t help it.’
    Athelstan couldn’t contain himself any longer but, bowing his head, put his face in his hands and laughed till his shoulders shook.
    ‘Father, I am truly sorry.’
    Athelstan looked up, wiped the tears from his eyes and grabbed the boy by the shoulder. ‘I absolve you from your sin.’ He pulled his face straight. ‘And this is your penance.’
    ‘Yes, Father.’
    ‘Next time your mother cooks onions, you eat every one. Now go and sin no more!’
    Crim sped from the church as if he had just been released from the gravest of sins. Athelstan watched him go, still caught by gusts of laughter. He was pleased the church was empty; if anyone had witnessed or overheard Crim, the lad would have been the laughing stock of the parish. Athelstan sat back and half-dozed for a while, thinking of possible solutions to Cranston ’s mystery and wondering if he would find what he was looking for at Blackfriars. He suddenly sat up, chilled by a thought. What if the murderer at Blackfriars had already discovered what he was looking for? He readjusted the stole around his neck. He was about to get up when he heard the slither of footsteps. He sat down, suddenly tense, for the church was silent. Outside everything was quiet, as hawkers, traders and members of his parish rested during the hottest part of the day. Who was coming now? He heard someone kneel down on the prie-dieu.
    ‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.’
    Athelstan froze as he recognised the voice of Benedicta. He closed his eyes, clenching his hands together. This was the first time Benedicta had ever come to him. Like others in the parish, perhaps too embarrassed to confess to their priest, she always went elsewhere. He relaxed a little at her litany of petty offences: uncharitable thoughts and words, being late for mass, sleeping through one of his sermons. When he heard this, Athelstan stuck out his tongue at the curtain. Then Benedicta stopped.
    ‘Is that all?’ he quietly asked.
    ‘Father, I am a widow. For a while I thought my husband might be alive. I was glad, yet I was also sad.’
    Athelstan steeled himself.
    ‘I shouldn’t have been sad,’ Benedicta continued. ‘And, if I wished him dead, I confess to that.’
    ‘Then you are forgiven.’
    ‘Don’t you want to know, Father, why I was sad?’
    ‘You must confess according