Murder most holy

his morose look disappeared in a grin which seemed to stretch from ear to ear. He roared, snapped his fingers for more ale and nudged Athelstan furiously, trying to make him tell what he had deduced. But when the friar refused to be drawn, Cranston fell back into a sulky silence.
    ‘I cannot tell you yet, I must be certain. Until then I insist on keeping secret what I do know. After all, Sir John, you drink deeply.’
    ‘Bollocks!’
    ‘Sir John, you do, and if in your cups you began to boast, it might prejudice the whole solution.’
    ‘The young king himself holds the solution in a sealed document.’
    ‘Sir John, it has been known for such documents to be changed.’
    ‘Tits and bollocks!’ Cranston replied.
    ‘Such comments, Sir John, are not helpful and show little gratitude for what I have done.’
    ‘Gratitude! Gratitude!’ Cranston mimicked cuttingly. He lifted his tankard, drained it and flung it on the table, half-turning his back like a sulky boy.
    ‘How are the poppets?’ Athelstan asked mildly.
    ‘Lovely, lovely lads!’ Cranston breathed.
    ‘And the Lady Maude? As sweet as ever?’
    Cranston threw one wicked glance across his shoulder and Athelstan knew the source of Sir John’s discomfort.
    ‘I see,’ the friar concluded.
    Sir John made a snorting sound and turned back. ‘Athelstan, I am sorry. I feel like a bear with a sore head.’ He chose not to disagree.
    ‘You received my second message?’
    ‘Yes, and within the hour the city’s swiftest messenger was riding north with a change of horses. I have done all I can there.’
    ‘Then, Sir John, let us see what we can do at Blackfriars.’ To all intents and purposes, despite the dreadful deaths which occurred there, the monastery seemed back in its usual serene routine. The porter let them in and Brother Norbert greeted them warmly, handing their horses over to an ostler and leading them across to the guest house.
    ‘All the books are there now,’ he announced proudly. ‘Every single one, though I think the brothers know that you are searching for something.’ The young lay brother smiled at Cranston . ‘And there’s mead, ale and wine for you, Sir John. I think your search is going to be a long one.’
    He was correct. In the upstairs chamber, more vast leather-bound volumes awaited them. Cranston moaned and shot like an arrow down to the buttery. Athelstan washed his hands and face and immediately went back to his search, with the occasional assistance of Sir John.
    As night fell Athelstan asked Norbert for more candles and immersed himself in his studies, taking only occasional respite to snatch some food or a sip of watered wine. He fell asleep poring over the books and awoke, back and shoulders aching, to continue his search. The next morning he said mass soon after dawn, returned to the guest house and, trying to ignore Cranston ’s snores, wearily picked up another volume to begin leafing through the parchment pages. Cranston woke up, claiming he had a raging thirst. Athelstan nodded absent-mindedly whilst Sir John washed, changed, went across to the refectory then returned, describing in great detail what he had eaten. Athelstan ignored him so the coroner, sulky and protesting, picked up one of the small volumes, muttering in a loud whisper.
    ‘Hildegarde! Hildegarde! Damn Hildegarde!’
    At noon Father Prior and other members of the Inner Chapter came over to see them. They had all recovered from the shock of the discovery in the sanctuary and stood in a cold, rather distant huddle in the kitchen, refusing to sit down or accept anything to eat or drink. William de Conches and Eugenius stared scornfully at Athelstan. Henry of Winchester adopted an air of studied patience to hide his exasperation, whilst Brother Niall and Peter made their anger at the long delay in the proceedings most apparent.
    ‘We can’t stay here for ever. Brother Athelstan!’ Peter insisted. ‘This matter has to be concluded. A judgement reached on Henry’s thesis. Brother Niall and I must return whilst the Master Inquisitor and his assistant have a long journey to make.’
    Athelstan stared at the prior but Anselm was cold and impassive.
    ‘All I want, Athelstan,’ he replied, ‘is this matter resolved, so the house can go back to its normal routine.’
    ‘And what about those who died?’ Cranston barked. ‘Bruno, Alcuin, Callixtus, Roger? Their blood stains the earth and cries to the heavens for vengeance.’
    Anselm’s eyes