House of Shadows Read online

  De Wolfe, cynical fellow that he was, felt the first twitchings of suspicion when he heard this. ‘No doubt there was some financial advantage for him in this arrangement?’

  The prior took up the tale again. ‘Roger Beaumont took half the income from the Glanville properties, the remainder going to the Exchequer on behalf of the king. It was reasoned that this was his due for sheltering Christina and the labour of running the very extensive estates, which were scattered over three counties.’

  John suspected that the labour involved would have been deputed to a bevy of bailiffs and reeves and that Roger would need to do little other than to sit back and rake in the profits from the farming of sheep and cattle. If Derbyshire was included, quite probably there would be lead-mining and quarrying as well.

  Thomas was wriggling a little on his bench, as his quick mind was looking further ahead. ‘Prior, what would have occurred when this young lady reached maturity?’

  Northam looked across at the little priest with interest. He had already formed the opinion that here was a sharp fellow and this last question confirmed his view.

  ‘This is where motive rears its ugly head, I suppose. Whether Christina married or not, she would have recovered the ownership of her estates on reaching sixteen.’

  Robert poured some wine for them before continuing.

  ‘Her father’s last will and testament plainly stated that when she came of age, she was to inherit the whole estate. The Curia Regis would no doubt have found a reliable steward to run the lands for her, though legally she would have been entitled to do what she wished with them. Of course, the king could have disregarded this and kept them for himself, but as both Glanville and his illustrious uncle had died fighting alongside the Lionheart at Acre, it would have been an unpopular act.’

  De Wolfe thought that the prior was going to say ‘churlish act’, but he avoided this potentially seditious remark in time. Instead, John’s bushy black eyebrows rose a little as he questioned the priest again.

  ‘Sixteen? But she was about to be wed, so when would she have reached that age?’

  Robert Northam sighed again, his worried features telling of the stressful time he had recently endured. ‘She was to be married at St Paul’s on her sixteenth birthday, coroner. And that would have been the day after she was found dead!’

  There was a silence as the three visitors digested the significance of this news ‘Might we ask to whom she was betrothed?’ asked Thomas tentatively.

  ‘A young man called Jordan de Neville, again from a well-known family. He was about five years older than the girl, the third son of the Nevilles, a rising family from the north country – Durham, I believe. The match was sponsored by several members of the Curia Regis and Hubert Walter was himself keen on the union, at the direct behest of the king, so I understand. King Richard, in a rare burst of interest in English affairs, decided that Jordan de Neville would make Christina an ideal husband and incidentally bring his manors as a useful addition to the Glanville lands. There must have been some covert petitioning going on in Rouen that I was not aware of.’

  ‘And who inherits, now that she is dead?’ asked John bluntly.

  The prior shrugged, holding his hands palm upwards, after the fashion he acquired in France. ‘It is not settled – but unless the king steps in to take the lot, Roger Beaumont has the best claim. He was Christina’s guardian and nearest relative, and has been administering the estate successfully for six years.’

  Again the coroner’s index of cynicism rose another notch. A political marriage, drafted by the machinations of the court. He wondered what the prospective bride and groom thought of being pushed together by external pressures – the fact that it had happened to him sixteen years ago made his doubts all the stronger. Still, that aspect was none of his business and he returned to the duty that had brought him to Bermondsey.

  ‘I need to know something of the background of the people who were with the girl before she died. What possible motives can there be for her murder, for she was not yet sixteen?’

  ‘Many a child younger than she has been killed for less than is at stake in her case,’ answered Robert sadly. John downed the last of his wine and looked quizzically across at the prior.

  ‘So who could gain what from killing the poor girl?’ he demanded.

  Robert Northam shrugged. ‘The obvious choice is Roger Beaumont. He had been sitting on a very handsome income for six years and had dug himself well into the administration of the Glanville lands. Now it would all be whipped away from him on the day of her marriage.’

  ‘Would her death make that much difference?’ asked de Wolfe. ‘The estates were not his, whatever happened.’

  The prior gave a cynical chuckle. ‘Possession is a very potent persuader in the eyes of the law – and of King Richard. Much as we both admire and loyally serve him, we must admit that he has a great attraction for money. He said not long ago that he would sell London itself if he could find a rich enough buyer! With no heir apparent after the girl died, Roger Beaumont no doubt could expect to be offered her escheated estates at a bargain price, after looking after them for half a dozen years.’

  De Wolfe nodded his understanding and got down to more immediate issues.

  ‘So how did the poor girl die, prior? What is it that requires the attentions of a coroner?’

  Robert Northam took a deep breath and used his arms to brace himself against his table. John had the feeling that his preamble so far had been partly to delay having to recount the more distressing events.

  ‘On Tuesday morning of last week, one of the obidentiaries who assists the cellarer had occasion to visit the vault beneath the cellarer’s building in order to make an inventory of some goods or other. This was a frequent task, often undertaken daily. When this brother descended the stairs, he was shocked to find the body of a woman lying at their foot. He raised the alarm by seeking out the cellarer, Brother Daniel, who with several other monks and lay brothers rushed down to the crypt. The infirmarian was called, as he was most skilled in physic, but he found that she had been dead for some time.’

  ‘But why should there be any suspicion?’ persisted de Wolfe.

  Robert shook his head sadly. ‘There were several factors, Sir John. Firstly, she was an honoured guest, a lady of high rank, and was to be wedded the next day, so what on earth was she doing in the cellarer’s storeroom?’

  He wiped a kerchief over his worried face, as if he was sweating.

  ‘Furthermore, none of us could understand why she was lying face down, with her head almost touching the bottom step. If she had fallen down the stairs, how could she have ended up in that posture?’

  He stopped and looked at John almost appealingly.

  ‘And it has to be said, coroner, that there had been some discord among the party that accompanied Christina. That cannot be overlooked!’

  De Wolfe sensed that the prior was in the grip of some strong emotion, and a sixth sense told him that it was time to create some diversion.

  ‘Perhaps it would be best if we were to view the scene of this unfortunate happening,’ he said gruffly. In addition to the prior’s acute discomfiture, John could hear Gwyn’s stomach rumbling and felt it would be a good time to break off for some sustenance. Robert Northam took the hint and sent them away with his chaplain to meet the monk who was in charge of the guest accommodation. He was waiting outside the prior’s parlour, a younger man with a smooth olive face and jet-black hair which suggested his origins in the south of France or even further afield.

  ‘I am Brother Ferdinand and I will attend to your wants while you are staying with us,’ he announced in a low sibilant voice. ‘No doubt you wish to eat without further delay.’

  He glided off in front of them and they retraced their steps through the cloister walk to the cellarer’s building and the refectory where guests and visitors were fed. It was a large, square room with a long table flanked by benches, capable of seating at least a dozen people. It was
empty, and to Gwyn’s relief the lectern from which the Gospels were read aloud during regular mealtimes was unoccupied. Ferdinand invited them to be seated and went off to the nearby kitchen to organize their victuals.

  ‘Odd sort of place, this priory!’ rumbled Gwyn. ‘What the devil do they do here all day? It must take a mint of money to keep going.’

  Thomas glared at him. ‘What do they do? They praise God, what d’ you think they do? And between times they meditate on life and heaven and earth.’

  ‘Bloody waste of time, I reckon,’ growled Gwyn. ‘At least in places like Buckfast Abbey back home, they breed thousands of sheep and cattle and till the soil and keep bees for honey and mead.’

  The perennial argument between them over religion was cut short by the arrival of two lay brothers with aprons over their habits, one of them bearing pitchers of ale and cider. The second servant, an arthritic skeleton, stumbled in with a large tray, which he set on the table. Thick trenchers of stale bread carried slabs of fatty bacon surrounded by fried onions. A wooden platter of roasted chicken legs was accompanied by a dish of boiled beans, dried from last autumn’s crop. Another bowl contained hot frumenty, wheat boiled in milk and flavoured with cinnamon and sugar. The potman came back with a large wheaten loaf, a pat of butter and a slab of hard cheese on a wooden board. Pottery mugs appeared for the drink, then the two minions vanished back into the kitchen.

  Conscious of their surroundings, Thomas stood and chanted a short Latin grace before sitting down to eat for the first time since he set foot on the ship in Dawlish.

  ‘When you have eaten, Brother Ignatius will return for you, Sir John,’ hissed Ferdinand before leaving them in peace to eat their fill.

  ‘Maybe this is not such a bad place after all!’ conceded Gwyn, eyeing the pile of food with relish.

  His friend the clerk was not so enthusiastic. ‘Much as I enjoy being in another of God’s houses, there is something about this place that troubles me,’ he said, his peaky face looking about him uneasily.

  ‘You mean this eating chamber?’ said Gwyn through a mouthful of bacon.

  ‘No, the whole establishment. There is a feeling of anguish about it, somehow, which I can’t explain. It is not a happy place.’

  ‘The prior looked more than a little drawn,’ agreed de Wolfe. ‘But I suppose it is wearying to have the Chief Justiciar breathing down your neck after some favourite of the king is found dead!’

  He tucked into his food enthusiastically as, like Gwyn, he had the old soldiers’ philosophy of always eating, sleeping and making love whenever the opportunity presented, in case it might be their last chance. By the time they had finished, it was mid-afternoon, calculated by the paling of the light seen through the solitary window opening, with its half-open shutter. The patch of sky was grey, and a cold breeze came into the unheated chamber.

  ‘Must be freezing outside,’ observed the coroner’s officer, wiping the last of the ale from his moustaches. ‘I wonder where they’ve left this cadaver for the past week or so?’

  He was soon to find out, as the prior’s secretary returned at that moment and ushered them out into the corridor of the cellarium.

  ‘I would like to see the place where this unfortunate lady was discovered,’ said John, deciding that it was time for him to show his authority a little more strongly.

  ‘Then you have not far to go, Crowner,’ replied Ignatius smoothly.

  He led them outside into the inner court, which they had entered an hour or two earlier, and walked along the wall of the building for a few yards. As Gwyn had prophesied, it was bitterly cold now, with a north wind whipping down towards them, a few flakes of snow twisting in its grip. Shivering, Thomas limped along in the rear, wishing he had not left his cloak in the dormitory. However, they were soon inside again, as Brother Ignatius opened another door and led them into a dark alcove. A tallow dip burned on a ledge and, feeling alongside it, the monk produced two candles, which he lit from the weak flame of the floating wick. Handing one to the coroner, he kept the other at shoulder height and cautiously advanced into the dark to pull the bolt back on another heavy door.

  ‘Be careful here, Sir John, or you’ll suffer the same fate as that young girl.’

  When his eyes had grown accustomed to the poor light, de Wolfe saw a flight of stone steps going down into the Stygian blackness below. The chaplain preceded them and cautiously they trooped down the precipitous stairway, the stone walls of which were barely wide enough for Gwyn’s massive shoulders. Thomas, as inquisitive as ever, counted twenty treads from top to bottom, each two hands’ length deep, the angle being very steep. On the packed earth floor below, Ignatius had stopped and turned to face the bottom of the stairway, his candle held high.

  ‘This is where she was found, Crowner. Spread-eagled on the floor, face down and arms outstretched. Her head was about there!’ He placed the toe of his sandalled foot a few inches from the bottom step.

  ‘You saw her yourself?’ asked John. When the monk agreed that he had been one of the first to respond to the lay brother’s agitated call for help, the coroner dropped to a crouch at the spot. At first, Thomas thought a sudden urge to pray for Christina’s soul had overcome his master, but then he saw that de Wolfe was holding his candle close to the ground and was searching the damp floor where the body had lain. After a few moments he clambered to his feet.

  ‘Nothing to be seen there. I gather you saw no blood at the time?’ Ignatius shook his tonsured head. ‘None at all, sir. She looked as if she were asleep, what could be seen of her face. Her clothing and nether garments were not disarranged.’

  He said this with a prim indifference that made John wonder if he had a deeper interest in a woman’s apparel than he wished to admit.

  ‘So where is the unfortunate lady now?’ he asked. ‘In the church, perhaps?’

  The chaplain looked slightly offended this time. ‘Indeed not, Crowner! She has been dead these past twelve days. We could not have the corrupt remains where we must hold our many offices each day. She is here!’

  He waved a hand into the deeper darkness behind him. Bemused, the trio followed cautiously into the gloom, the two wavering candles showing piles of kegs, crates and bales stacked on either side. Above them a vaulted stone roof was festooned with cobwebs, and an ominous rustling of rats could be heard from the corners. They passed through a wide arch into a similar store filled with old furniture, mattresses and discarded material, then another, similar arch led them into another large bay. This was an empty space with a blank wall opposite. Even de Wolfe, as insensitive a soul as could be found anywhere in England, felt a chill as he entered, a frisson that was not related to the temperature, which was the same in here as in the rest of the subterranean vault.

  There was something about this third chamber that he did not care for – but a moment later he decided that he had found the reason. Around the corner of the arch, the flickering lights fell on a makeshift coffin, resting on a pair of trestles. It was a crude box made from rough planks, larger than the usual coffin. In the sudden silence that the sight engendered, there was an eerie sound, a steady drip, drip as water fell from the seams into a widening pool beneath the trestles. Thomas jerkily made the sign of the cross and then repeated it several times for good measure. There was something about this empty vault that deeply disturbed him, apart from the ominous sight of a coffin as its only furnishings.

  The prior’s secretary seemed oblivious to any oppressive miasma and walked to the wooden box and peered in.

  ‘Not yet completely melted,’ he observed. ‘She is due for replenishment before evening.’

  De Wolfe and Gwyn walked across to stand beside the monk and stared down into the coffin. A linen sheet covering a still figure was soaked with water oozing from shards of melting ice spread over the corpse beneath.

  ‘Twice a day, two of the servants fetch a barrowful from the frozen pools on the nearby marshes,’ explained Ignatius. ‘It is fortunate that this tragedy occurred
in the depths of winter, or your task would have been much more unpleasant.’ He seemed to revel in the prospect and John began to dislike him.

  ‘We need more light than this,’ he said gruffly.

  ‘There are candles on a shelf near the foot of the stairs,’ said the chaplain. Immediately, Thomas volunteered to fetch them. He felt an overwhelming desire to get out of this chamber – and though he was still not fully hardened to the sight of violent death that was the coroner’s business, his present unease seemed unrelated to the presence of a cadaver. He borrowed his master’s candle and went off, taking his time in finding the spares, before reluctantly coming back with three more lit in his hands.

  In the improved illumination, John de Wolfe and Gwyn went to work. Though they had developed a routine for examining the dead, this was the first time they had had to operate under these strange circumstances, in the semi-darkness and with numb fingers. Gwyn peeled off the sheet that shrouded the body, to an accompaniment of splashes of icy water and the tinkling of innumerable fragments of thin ice. A young woman was revealed, dressed in a plain nightgown of cream linen, all soaked with freezing water. Her long hair was black, but stuck in wet strands to her face and neck.

  ‘We’ll have to get her out, Crowner. We can’t look at her properly like this,’ grunted the Cornishman. ‘Shall I lift her on to the floor?’

  They spread the linen sheet on the ground and Gwyn lifted the girl with surprising gentleness and laid her on it, her arms by her sides.

  The four men stood and looked down on the mortal remains of the young woman. In the dim light she looked as if she was asleep. The effect of the ice had been to blanch her features, so that her cheeks, forehead and chin looked parchment-white, especially by contrast with her dark hair. The eyes were closed, and for some reason she did not look pathetic in spite of the tragedy of a young life snuffed out a day before her wedding. There was even the hint of a smile on her pallid lips, as if she was amused at the havoc she was causing to the monastic community at Bermondsey.