The Grim Reaper Read online

  As the deputation filed into the audience chamber on the ground floor, the Bishop of Devon and Cornwall was already seated in a large high-backed chair on a podium at one end of the room. The other churchmen filed past him, bending their knee to kiss his ring. Richard de Revelle followed suit with an obsequious flourish and an even deeper bow, with de Wolfe bringing up a reluctant rear. Grudgingly, he bobbed his head and knee and brought his face near to Henry Marshal’s hand without actually touching the ring with his lips. He disliked these sycophantic gestures, but was obliged to go through the motions, albeit with an ill grace.

  Servants had placed a row of stools in front of the Bishop’s dais and after paying homage to their prelate, the six men sat awkwardly before him, like pupils in a classroom. Henry Marshal, who was clothed in a sombre cassock of dark red, had a sallow young priest at his shoulder, presumably his personal chaplain. The Bishop had an unusually long face, his clean-shaven jaw adding to the smooth sweep of his features. A fringe of grey hair peeped from under his skull-cap and a large silver cross hung from a chain around his neck. He opened the meeting without any preamble, his mellow voice directed at the Archdeacon.

  ‘Brother John, you appear to have the most profound involvement with this sorry affair, so please begin.’

  De Alençon stood to outline the circumstances of the death of the priest at St Mary Arches. Then he related the details of the earlier killings, emphasising the common factors. ‘So the intimate knowledge of appropriate texts from the Bible – and the ability to write – can only mean that the culprit is an educated man, inevitably one in Holy Orders,’ he concluded.

  Bishop Henry digested the facts for a moment, his chin cupped in a hand gloved in soft leather. His grey eyes scanned the row of men before him and stopped at the sheriff. ‘Sir Richard, how do you think we can assist you?’

  De Wolfe suppressed a snort of derision: de Revelle had taken not the slightest interest until a priest was killed, giving him the chance to parade his importance before the Bishop, a potentially powerful political force if and when the Lionheart’s brother took the throne.

  ‘I fear more killings of the same pattern, my lord, unless we find the miscreant very soon,’ he brayed sententiously, as if the matter occupied all his waking hours. ‘If indeed it is a clerk in Orders, then we urgently need to know whom we should interrogate.’

  De Wolfe wondered who the ‘we’ might be and charitably hoped that the sheriff included the coroner in the description.

  Henry Marshal’s brow furrowed. ‘I must admit that my duties, both in such a large diocese and especially elsewhere in England and Normandy, have given me little time to know all my labourers in the vineyard of this city. My canons and their assistants will have a far more intimate knowledge of them.’

  De Revelle’s foxy face slid into an obsequious smile. ‘Your Grace’s heavy burden is well known to us all, but your assent to my using the wide knowledge of your senior priests would be of inestimable value.’

  The coroner, who sat next to his slimy brother-in-law, felt like ramming his elbow violently into Richard’s ribs, but managed to control himself as the Bishop spoke again. ‘We most certainly will do all we can to bring this killer to book. If it is a priest, then only his speedy apprehension can help reduce the shame it brings upon the ministry of Christ in this diocese.’ He ran his piercing gaze along the row of canons, sitting like magpies on a branch. ‘Let us see what suggestions each of you can offer. I think you have all had time to seek other opinions among your fellow prebendaries and your vicars?’ His eye stopped at Thomas de Boterellis, a podgy man with a pale waxy-complexioned face and small piggy eyes. ‘Precentor, have you any suggestions?’

  De Boterellis was a favourite of Henry Marshal and he launched into an opinion with no hesitation. ‘My Lord Bishop, among our devout and hard-working brothers, there are a few who have somewhat strange personalities. I hesitate to name them, but in these urgent circumstances, some enquiries seem justified.’

  For the Virgin’s sake, get on with it, you crawler, thought de Wolfe savagely.

  Thankfully, the Bishop expressed the same sentiment, if more politely, and de Boterellis hauled a small sheet of parchment from his pouch and consulted it.

  ‘There is Ralph de Capra, the incumbent of All-Hallows-on-the-Wall, who is a strange man, to say the least! He is solitary, even in a calling where many are withdrawn and not given to socialising. He does his job, but his flock complain that he is unapproachable and aloof. He seems to spend much of his time staring into space, talking to himself, and appears to be getting worse by the week.’

  John thought that was also a fair description of Thomas de Peyne, but listened as the Precentor continued. ‘My brother John de Alençon can confirm this, I know, as he has had parishioners petition him on the matter.’

  ‘Is there nothing more specific, Precentor?’ asked the Bishop. ‘Being surly or disinterested is hardly suspicion of homicide.’

  De Boterellis turned up his hands in a gesture of resignation. ‘I agree, my Lord, but we are grasping at straws, suggesting any man who varies from the norm. Another might be Henry de Feugères of St Petroc, who is well known to have a flaring temper when crossed. Two weeks ago, it seems he was involved in a brawl with one of his flock over some minor dispute about money.’

  ‘But these well-planned crimes seem at odds with such eruptions of anger, however reprehensible they may be.’

  ‘Indeed, Bishop, but again I say we are stabbing in the dark, if that is not too crude a phrase in the circumstances.’

  ‘So far we have not had a stabbing, thanks be to God,’ commented Henry Marshal wryly, seemingly determined to have the last word.

  He turned to John de Alençon. ‘What about you, Archdeacon?’

  The gaunt priest rose again to speak. ‘I concur with the Precentor’s choice, but have several other suggestions. The incumbent of St Mary Steps, Adam of Dol, is also a peculiar person. He proclaims and preaches an extreme version of hell-fire and damnation, which terrifies some of his flock, though I admit he attracts a large congregation.’

  ‘There is nothing wrong with reminding people of the penalties of sin,’ objected Thomas de Boterellis, anxious to claim the high moral ground before his bishop.

  ‘Certainly, but with Adam it has become an obsession. One has only to look at the murals he has painted on the walls of his nave to appreciate that he has a very morbid view indeed of life and death.’

  John of Exeter, the cathedral Treasurer, broke in to offer support to the Archdeacon. He was an amiablelooking man, rather florid of face and with a shock of curly brown hair. ‘I have had several complaints from residents at the lower end of town about Adam’s style of curacy. Of course, we should always keep the wages of sin before our congregations, but with him punishment and retribution seem to be the only issues in his religious teachings.’

  Henry Marshal, who had also received communications about the situation at St Mary Steps, let the matter pass for now. ‘You said you had several suggestions, Archdeacon?’

  ‘Yes, my Lord, I also feel uneasy about Walter le Bai, who is a vicar to our brother Canon Hugh de Wilton. He is older than many others of that rank in the clergy, probably because he has not been given preferment on account of his fondness for wine and ale. He has been absent from many of his duties and the canon informs me that he is seriously considering discharging him from his service.’

  ‘Does being a drunkard have any relevance to multiple murder?’ asked the Bishop, rather testily.

  ‘Not in itself, my Lord – but it seems that Walter le Bai is taking this prospect of discharge badly and when in his cups has been heard to utter threats against Canon de Wilton and indeed the diocesan powers generally.’

  In turn, the remaining prebendaries offered their suggestions. John of Exeter rose again to point out Edwin of Frome, the priest of St Martins. ‘As we all know, Edwin is one of the few Saxons to have the cure of souls in this city and I am afraid that he feels this
distinction adversely. He fails to blend well with his fellow priests and, perhaps from some unjustified conviction of persecution, has been heard to utter disparaging remarks about we Norman conquerors, even to the point of suggesting that another Saxon rebellion might be a good thing.’

  There were contemptuous snorts and cluckings from the Precentor and the sheriff at this, but the Treasurer was undaunted. ‘Of course we know it is nonsense, but Edwin slides these ideas into his preaching. As it happens, the congregation at St Martin’s is small, but it points to a man who has other matters than the care of his parishioners in his mind, which divert him from his true vocation. He also has an obsession, like Adam of Dol – only Edwin’s is the literal accuracy of the Vulgate, which thesis he rams down the throat of almost everyone he meets.’

  The Bishop nodded, though his face showed he thought little of Edwin of Frome as a murderer.

  ‘Finally you, Jordan. What have you unearthed from your rolls and manuscripts?’ His attempt at jocularity fell flat.

  Canon de Brent lumbered to his feet. ‘I would point out that there is one priest in Exeter whose living is not in the gift of this diocese. Along with the priory of St Nicholas, St Olave’s is a daughter establishment of Battle Abbey. I know that its incumbent, Julian Fulk, is another disappointed man – indeed, an embittered man. He thought himself ready for far higher things than curator of a small church in the city. He has been to the archives several times, searching for all the details of the exclusion of St Olave’s from the general run of Church affairs in Exeter – our own copy of the Exon Domesday Book, kept here in this building, even mentions it as “Battle Church”, granted personally by King William.’

  He caught the Bishop’s cold eye and realised he had wandered too far into his passion for history. He returned hastily to his story. ‘On those occasions, he has waxed angrily to me – indeed, once working himself up to a frenzy – about the iniquity of the Church authorities in denying him the high status to which he feels his education and character entitle him.’

  He sat down again and the Bishop spent another moment or two musing on their suggestions, before passing his opinion.

  ‘It seems to me that the grounds for suspecting any of these men of crimes of violence are sparse indeed. It is true that, like any profession or calling, there will be a proportion of drunkards, libertines, disgruntled and disaffected men among our brethren, but from what you have just told me, I see no realistic suspicion of the sin of Cain among them.’ He paused and looked directly at the coroner and then the sheriff. ‘But we must do all we can to support our law officers, so I have no hesitation in consenting to whatever questioning they think fit. The royal judges are due here in a day or two, and let us hope that some resolution of this unhappy affair can be found before then. It would be a sad reflection on our city and county if the Justices in Eyre discovered a series of unsolved murders on their doorstep.’

  He made as if to rise from his chair and the chaplain jerked forward to help him – but Henry Marshal sank back on to his red velvet cushion to make one last appeal. ‘Are we certain that there is no more to be said? Is there any last-minute thought in the minds of any of you?’

  There was a short silent pause, then Thomas de Boterellis got to his feet again, with a show of reluctance. ‘My Lord Bishop, your final appeal causes me to speak again, for previously some embarrassment concerning the crowner here kept my tongue still.’ He half turned to give John de Wolfe a false smile of apology. ‘But it has to be said, no matter what offence I might give. You asked for names of priests whose behaviour might lead to suspicion. Perhaps we should cast our net a little wider to include former priests, those who have been ejected by our Mother Church for scandalous behaviour.’

  There was a dead silence, as everyone knew what was coming.

  ‘It is no secret that the clerk to the coroner falls into that category and not only has a shameful history of indecent assault but since then is well known both to have attempted the mortal sin of self-destruction and for acting in a most abnormal manner. As reported to me by junior clerks who share his company in the cathedral precinct, he constantly mutters to himself and is in an unstable frame of mind, almost as if he is possessed by some unclean spirit.’

  John de Wolfe hauled himself up to counter this blatant antagonism to himself, using his servant as the means. The only problem was that the Precentor was telling the bald truth, but John felt honour bound to defend his clerk.

  ‘Your Grace, it is true that Thomas de Peyne has suffered much recently, in that his deepest desire to be reinstated into Holy Orders has been peremptorily rejected. It is not relevant here to record that he claims his original ejection was ill-founded – but there is no possibility at all that he is involved in these crimes. Indeed, it has been his expertise in Latin and scripture that speedily explained the cryptic messages left by this cunning murderer.’

  As he sat down, the Bishop turned his stern gaze upon de Wolfe. ‘That’s as may be, Sir John – but can you swear that he was within your sight at the time of every one of these deaths?’

  There was another profound silence, during which de Wolfe realised that this was a trap, primed by the Precentor, who must have told the Bishop previously that Thomas had no alibi for any of the killings.

  ‘If you cannot so prove, Crowner, then I see no reason to exclude your clerk from the list of potential suspects. What is good for the parish priests of this city must also be good for your servant.’

  At this he rose and swept away rapidly to a door behind the platform, leaving his audience to rise and bow after his departing figure.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  In which Crowner John goes to church

  That Saturday evening was surprisingly peaceful for de Wolfe, as Matilda was again visiting her cousin in the town – more from a desire to ignore him, he suspected, than from any feeling of familial affection. He spent his time in the Bush, some of it eating, drinking and yarning with some of the locals – the rest upstairs in Nesta’s closet. He was tempted to risk spending the whole night there but caution got the better of him and by midnight he wound his way unsteadily back to Martin’s Lane. He undressed in the dark and crept on to his side of the wide palliasse, thankful that the loud snores from his wife removed the need for attempted explanations and the inevitable recriminations.

  In the morning, he was not so fortunate: when he awoke, Matilda was sitting bolt upright. Her head was swathed in a cloth that concealed wooden pegs put there by the rabbit-toothed Lucille, intended to torture her hair into the ringlets alleged to be the latest fashion in France. Her husband was reminded of a turbaned Saracen warrior, the impression reinforced by the fierce look on her face.

  However, after the usual sarcastic jousting, her manner moderated a little and John, reading the signs from years of practice, knew she wanted news of his meeting with the Bishop, who to Matilda was only a finger’s breadth below the Almighty Himself.

  He avoided any reference to Thomas de Peyne, whom she hated like hemlock, because he was, as she thought, a renegade and perverted priest. However, he unwisely forgot also to censor the reference to Julian Fulk as one of the suspects. To his wife, the priest of St Olave’s was but a shade less saintly than the Bishop and she took umbrage at the slur on his character. De Wolfe lay patiently under the sheepskins, waiting for this latest squall to blow over. It subsided quite rapidly and he correctly guessed the reason.

  ‘When you were at the Bishop’s Palace, did you learn anything of the festivities laid on for the royal Justices this week?’ she demanded.

  ‘There will be a feast on Tuesday, given by Henry Marshal in their honour.’

  ‘We will be invited, of course?’ It was an aggressive statement rather than a question.

  ‘I have little doubt of that, wife, though I am not in the Bishop’s best favour, these days.’

  ‘That’s because you’re a fool, John de Wolfe. Why you antagonise persons of stature and influence, I cannot imagine.’
/>   Her condemnation was of necessity muted: she knew that Henry Marshal trod the same dangerous political path as her brother, whose reputation, and possibly his neck, depended upon her husband’s forbearance in proclaiming his treachery. ‘And what of the burgesses – and the castle? What are they putting on?’

  ‘The Portreeves are entertaining them next Thursday – and your brother will have them at Rougemont on the following Saturday. No doubt we will be there, as your dear brother could hardly disappoint you,’ he added sarcastically.

  The prospect of three grand occasions in one week mollified Matilda and diverted her into concern for which gowns, wimples and mantles to wear. Thankful for the distraction, de Wolfe crept out of bed and dressed. Under her cold gaze, he took a bone comb from a wall ledge and dragged it perfunctorily through his tangled black hair, then with his boots in his hand, he opened the solar door and padded down the stairs. He had had his weekly wash and shave the day before, so went straight to Mary’s kitchen-hut to eat the oat porridge, salt bacon, butter-fried eggs and fresh bread that she put before him.

  ‘And what mischief is the king’s crowner up to today?’ she asked, with blunt affection.

  ‘Chasing around after these bloody priests, I suppose,’ he growled, washing his food down with murky cider. ‘It’s Sunday, so at least they should all be at their duties. Though what good it is likely to do, I can’t imagine. No assassin as clever as this one is going to break down and confess to us. And we can’t even drag them to Stigand’s dungeon for a little persuasion, as the Bishop has made it clear that he’s doing us a favour by even letting us talk to them.’

  ‘I suppose Gwyn will be with you – but what about Thomas?