The Anger of God

Street to the rather sombre church of St James Garlickhythe. The priest, Father Odo, cheery, red-nosed, and much the worse after a generous lunch, came out of the priest’s house and took them into a rather overgrown graveyard where three labourers were resting under the cool shade of a yew tree. At first there was absolute confusion as Father Odo tried to read the burial book and discover where Sarah Hobden had been buried.
    ‘I can’t find it,’ he mumbled, swaying dangerously on his feet.
    Athelstan peered over his shoulder, realized the inebriated priest was reading it upside down, and took it out of his hand.
    ‘Let me help, Father,’ he offered gently.
    Glaring defiantly at Cranston and daring him not to laugh, the friar sat on a tombstone and leafed through the pages until he found the entry: ‘Sarah Hobden, obiit 1376, North West ’.
    ‘Where’s that, Father?’
    Odo pointed to the far corner of the graveyard. Athelstan smiled and returned the burial book.
    ‘Father, you sit down and take your rest.’ He patted the old priest gently on the shoulder.
    ‘Don’t you dare!’ he hissed at Cranston as the Coroner’s hand went to where his miraculous wineskin was hanging beneath his cloak. ‘The poor man has had enough and, to be quite frank, Sir John, so have I!’
    They called the labourers and crossed to that part of the cemetery Father Odo had pointed out. After some searching, they found Sarah Hobden’s grave, derelict, overgrown and neglected; the wooden cross, battered and lopsided, still bore her faded name. Cranston snapped his fingers and the grumbling labourers began to hack at the hard-packed earth.
    ‘What will this prove?’ Athelstan asked.
    ‘Ah.’ Cranston leaned on the grave stone, cradling his wineskin as if it was one of the poppets. He tapped his nose and pointed at the physician. ‘Master Theobald, instruct our ignorant priest!’
    The physician winked at Athelstan. ‘When I received Sir John’s invitation, I made careful study of the cause of death.’
    ‘And?’
    ‘Well, if it’s arsenic, particularly red arsenic, we might well see what the populous would call a miracle. Let me surprise you, Father.’
    The physician went and watched the labourers as their spades and picks began to ring hollow as they reached the coffin lid. More earth was dug out. Athelstan peered round the graveyard and shivered. The shadows were growing longer. The birdsong had stilled. Nothing except the grunting of the labourers and the shifting of earth broke the eerie silence.
    ‘Why are these places so quiet?’ Athelstan murmured. He strained his ears: he could just hear the sound of chatter and laughter as the traders and tinkers on the other side of the church cleared away their stalls.
    ‘We are ready, Sir John!’ the physician called.
    ‘Then pull it out, lads!’
    One labourer jumped down into the grave on top of the coffin, ropes were attached and, after a great deal of heaving and cursing, the faded, dirt-covered coffin was hoisted out of the earth. Cranston thanked the labourers and told them to go and rejoin Father Odo. He pulled out his long dagger and began to prise open the coffin lid. Athelstan watched attentively as the clasps were broken. The lid creaked open slowly, almost as if the person inside was pushing it up and threatening to rise. He pushed his hands inside his sleeves, closed his eyes and muttered a prayer.
    It’s God’s justice, Athelstan thought. This is God’s work.
    The last clasp broke free. Cranston lifted the tattered winding sheet. Athelstan opened his eyes as he heard Cranston ’s gasp. The physician was kneeling beside the lid of the coffin, carefully examining the inside. Athelstan drew a deep breath and walked over and looked down in the deep wooden coffin. The friar stared in stupefaction at the corpse’s face; fatty, white and waxy as if fashioned out of candle grease. Nevertheless, it was free of any corruption; the dead woman’s features were quite pretty, oval-shaped and regular, with a generous mouth and aquiline nose.
    ‘For God’s sake!’ Athelstan breathed. ‘She’s been dead three years! Corruption should have set in!’

CHAPTER 13

    The physician touched the face carefully then ran his hand inside the coffin. When he brought it out Athelstan could see it was covered by fine red dust.
    ‘Nothing remarkable,’ the physician observed dryly. ‘You see, Brother, arsenic is a subtle deadly poison, particularly red arsenic. Its