The House of Shadows

came here this is all I have worn. Isn’t that true, Sister Catherine?’
    The old nun could offer no help, pointing out that she was dressed the same as Edith: a ring symbolising her union with Christ, the cross around her neck, and the girdle around her middle, one of the ends being tied with three knots symbolising her vows of poverty, obedience and chastity. Sister Catherine left them for a while and returned with a tray bearing a jug of buttermilk, four goblets, and a dish of marzipan. Sir John helped himself to the sweetmeats, but politely refused the buttermilk, claiming his miraculous wine skin was sufficient.
    Suddenly there was a pounding on the door and one of the convent maidservants came in, shouting Athelstan’s name. The Dominican followed her outside. He’d heard the sound of horses in the yard but was surprised to find the Keeper of the Netherworld from Newgate Prison, face soaked in sweat, leaning down from his saddle.
    ‘Brother Athelstan, I had to come. I heard you say to Sir John that you were going to the Minoresses and so, when it happened, I had to tell you myself.’
    ‘What is it?’ Athelstan asked.
    The keeper closed his eyes and drew a deep breath.
    ‘The prisoner, the Misericord, he’s dead! I found him poisoned in his cell.’



Chapter 8

    Brother Malachi, of the Order of St Benedict, opened the door to St Erconwald’s Church, closed it behind him and leaned back, staring up at the vaulted roof. Malachi was frightened. There was so much to think about, so much to do, yet dangers pressed on every side. He drew a deep breath and stared round the church. He needed to talk to Brother Athelstan, but the priest’s house was locked up and the only inhabitants of God’s consecrated ground were Bonaventure the cat, that old warhorse browsing in the stable, and Thaddeus, the mournful-looking goat, who was staring out across the cemetery. Thaddeus obviously missed its owner, God-Bless. The beggar man, fast as a rabbit, had joined the rest of Athelstan’s parishioners in the Piebald tavern, summoned there by Pernel the Fleming, who seemed to have come into a mysterious inheritance. Crim the altar boy, playing on the lychgate, had told Malachi all this before running off to join the other children in the stable yard of the Piebald, where they too hoped to profit from the revelry with a slice of roast duck or a cup of mulled wine.
    Malachi tapped his foot. He had come here many years ago with his beloved brother, Richard Culpepper. He closed his eyes. Even now, twenty years on, he still felt the heart-pulling pain, a deep sense of loss which haunted his soul, and beneath that, a seething anger, a curdling rage. Sometimes in his monastery Brother Malachi could not sleep; he’d go out and stare at the pale-faced moon and wonder, yet again, what had really happened. Richard must be dead, he had proof of that, unless something equally hideous had happened. Malachi opened his eyes. He tried not to remember the old days, the glory time when Richard’s heart was full of passion, his tongue ever ready to chatter about the brave deeds of valiant knights. He still missed Richard. He cursed the day when that whore Guinevere the Golden had come into his life, pestering him for favours, hinting at what might be. Richard, gullible as ever, had thought a pretty face meant a fair heart. How wrong he had been!
    Richard’s fate vexed Brother Malachi, but two other questions dogged his soul. What was Richard planning the night he disappeared, and what did truly happen after darkness had fallen? Over the years Malachi had collected and sifted the information, yet the truth still remained hidden behind the blackness of that night twenty years ago.
    ‘ Tenebrae facta est ,’ he whispered to the gloomy nave. ‘And darkness fell.’ Wasn’t that how the Gospel writers described the time of Judas’ betrayal of Christ?
    Malachi licked his dry lips. He had come here to think, as well as to see the ring he had given Athelstan. He wanted to draw strength from it. He did not want to think of the others, of Chandler lying like a stinking carp in his dirty bathwater or Broomhill jerking on the bed as the blood spilled out of him like claret from a cracked vat. He heard the squeak of mice and a dark shape shot across the ill-lit nave, scurrying from one transept to another. If Bonaventure was here, Malachi reflected wryly, there would be another death. But wasn’t that how all life was? If he could only