Murder most holy

Athelstan and murmured a speedy farewell. Father Prior just sat, hands on either side of the book, head bowed, tears running down his cheeks. Cranston , now the drama was over, coughed selfconsciously and went to look out of the window as if intent on the distant activities of the monastery. There was a rap on the door and Brother William de Conches re-entered. He stood staring at Athelstan.
    ‘I am sorry,’ he murmured.
    ‘For what?’
    The Master Inquisitor shrugged. ‘We were wrong. You are a good priest, Athelstan, a fine Dominican.’ He smiled thinly. ‘You would have made an excellent Master Inquisitor.’ He bowed, and before Athelstan could answer, closed the door gently behind him.
    Father Prior regained control of himself. ‘He’s right, you know, Athelstan. You were sent to St Erconwald’s as a punishment. I instructed you to help Sir John as a penance.’ He gazed at Athelstan. ‘I thank you for what you have done here. I apologise for my harsh words earlier. You were right. The truth is the truth, and a lie is like a canker — eventually it grows to spoil everything. Why did you think Hildegarde was the key?’
    ‘Father Prior, this was the strangest matter I have ever investigated. I had no proof. The only clue was that name.’ He smiled. ‘She must have been a great lady, a deep thinker. Her work should be more widely studied and read. Perhaps it was she who guided us.’
    ‘What will happen to him?’ Cranston asked abruptly. Father Prior rose, cradling the book in his hands. ‘He will be returned to the Papal Inquisition in Rome or Avignon . Believe me, Sir John, after they have finished with him, the horrors of being hanged at the Elms will seem as nothing.’ Father Prior walked down the room and clasped Athelstan’s hand. ‘You can come back any time you wish. Your penance is truly finished.’ He turned quickly. ‘But I forget myself. Sir John — the riddle you had to solve?’
    ‘Done,’ Cranston replied expansively. ‘As St Paul says: “in a twinkling of an eye”.’
    ‘Then,’ Father Prior answered, turning to Athelstan, ‘you will not need that letter?’
    ‘I have already destroyed it, Father.’
    Father Prior smiled at them both and left the room. Cranston and Athelstan returned by barge to Southwark. The coroner, proud as a peacock, insisted on accompanying the friar back to his church. Sir John chattered like a magpie, loudly proclaiming for half the river to hear what he would do with his thousand crowns, his eloquence aided and abetted by the miraculous wineskin. Nevertheless, the coroner kept a sharp eye on Athelstan. He sensed the friar’s depression at what had happened at Blackfriars. Athelstan gazed moodily across the river, now silent on a Sunday afternoon with only the occasional wherry or barge making its way down to Westminster . They landed at St Mary’s Wharf and walked through the alleys and streets of Southwark, strangely calm and still on this warm summer’s afternoon.
    ‘Lazy buggers!’ Cranston observed. ‘Probably sleeping off a morning’s drinking.’
    ‘Yes, Sir John. It’s terrible what people can pour down their throats.’
    Cranston gazed at him narrowly and pushed his miraculous wineskin deeper under his cloak. St Erconwald's was also quiet and placid, the church steps deserted, the cemetery and small garden round the priest’s house undisturbed except for the hum of bees hovering round the wild flowers which grew there.
    Athelstan made sure everything was in its place: the priest’s house was still locked, Philomel was busy eating in his stable, so Watkin had been conscientious in his duties. Ursula the pig woman’s enormous sow had finished off the last of the cabbages. Athelstan cursed loudly.
    ‘You’ve still got your onions,’ Cranston observed.
    Athelstan thought of Crim’s confession, smiled and shook his head.
    ‘Come on, Sir John, let us see how the church is.’ He unlocked the door and stood for a few seconds in the porch. ‘Strange,’ he said, ‘isn’t it, Sir John?’
    Cranston , standing behind him, snatched the miraculous wineskin away from his lips.
    ‘What do you mean, Brother? You’re in an odd mood.’
    Athelstan walked up the darkened church, noticing how the sound of his footsteps shattered the hallowed silence. He stopped halfway up and looked to where the parish coffin stood empty in the transept.
    ‘So much has happened here,’ he said in a half-whisper. ‘Joy, grief, anger, murder. A