‘A simple accident,’ Cranston murmured.
Athelstan stared down the staircase. It was truly dangerous. Anyone who missed their footing would sustain serious injury, yet Joycelina must have gone up and down those steps time and again. So why now? Athelstan walked into the death chamber. The bed was half stripped, the chest and coffer lids flung back. A broom and bucket rested against the wall.
‘Joycelina was cleaning here,’ Mistress Cheyne explained again. ‘We wanted to put matters right.’
Athelstan went back up the staircase. Had Joycelina been up here alone, he wondered, or had someone else been waiting for her to leave? A sudden push, maybe? And could her death be connected to that of Whitfield? Perhaps Joycelina had seen something. If so, had she tried to blackmail someone here at the Golden Oliphant and been murdered to silence her threatening mouth?
‘Brother, are you suspicious?’ Cranston came up beside him.
‘As ever, but let us return to the refectory.’
The people waiting there were now growing restless. Athelstan noticed how easy it was for someone to slip in and out of the taproom. He made sure they were all present and asked about Joycelina’s death. Each protested how they had been here for the evening meal just after the vespers bell and knew nothing about the mishap. The only exception was Anna, a wiry young woman with a high-pitched voice and ever blinking eyes. She confirmed in ringing tones everything Mistress Cheyne had said.
‘You reached the foot of the stairs?’ Cranston asked her.
‘Joycelina was just lying there,’ Anna’s voice was almost a screech, ‘body all twisted.’
‘Was her sandal broken?’
‘I didn’t notice, Sir John. It was her neck, the terrible marks on her face … I ran to the mistress; she came and …’
‘And so did I.’ Griffin spoke up. ‘It was obvious Joycelina was dead. I arranged for the poor woman’s corpse to be moved to the outhouse.’
‘Remind me,’ Cranston asked, ‘when was this?’
‘The vespers bell had sounded,’ Mistress Cheyne declared wearily, ‘the curfew was imposed. Anyway, I sent a message to the Guildhall but you were not there.’
Athelstan plucked at Cranston’s sleeve. ‘Sir John, I believe we can go no further on this, not now, not here.’
They made to leave when Athelstan felt a tug on his shoulder. He turned. Stretton, angry faced, jabbed a finger.
‘Friar, I have to be gone.’ Behind him stood Odo Gray and an equally truculent Matthias Camoys. Cranston stepped between Athelstan and Stretton, poking the mailed clerk in the chest.
‘Stay, Master Stretton, stay, Master Gray, stay, Master Camoys. Stay with us all until this matter is resolved. Until then you have a choice: remain here or lie in Newgate. Rest assured, that is not a threat but a solemn promise.’
Cranston grasped Athelstan’s arm and they left the Golden Oliphant. Outside, they stood beneath the ornate sign as the friar ensured his chancery satchel was properly buckled and the coroner, still huffing over the sudden confrontation, adjusted his warbelt.
‘Sir John, you have other business,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘I know you must confer with those who protect our king. I also have matters to attend to. I need to reflect, to study, to pray. I will not return to St Erconwald’s; you will find me at Blackfriars …’
PART FOUR
‘Secreta Negotia: Secret Business.’
Athelstan loved the library and scriptorium at his mother house – two long chambers with a meeting hall in between – a world adorned with oaken tables, lecterns, chairs and shelves, all shimmered to a shine with beeswax. The delicious odours of leather, freshly scrubbed parchment, polish, pure candle smoke, incense and trails of sweet fragrances from the crushed herbs wafted everywhere. Chambers of delight where even the sunshine was transformed as it poured through the gorgeous stained-glass windows to illuminate the long walk between shelves piled high with manuscripts, calfskin-backed books, ledgers and leather-covered tomes, some of which, because of their rarity, were firmly chained to shelf or desk. Athelstan, walking up and down the library passageway, recalled his glorious days of study here. The Sentences of Abelard, the logic of Aquinas, the fiery spirit of Dominic’s homilies, the poetry of Saint Bonaventure and the caustic sermons of Bernardine of Siena. Now he was here for a different purpose. London might be about to dissolve into murder and mayhem, but he had been summoned to resolve a problem, and he would do so faithfully until he reached a logical conclusion.
Athelstan returned to the table he’d sat at during his novitiate: a smooth topped, intricately carved reading table with a spigot of capped candles to hand when the light began to fade. For a while he sat in his favourite chair watching the dust motes dance in the beams streaming through the painted glass. He half listened to the sounds of Blackfriars as he summoned up the ghosts of yesteryear, scampering around this library eager to search for proof of some argument he was drawing up in philosophy, scripture or theology. He recalled the sheer exuberance of such days, his dedication to his studies, the intense conversations he had with his brethren. Now all was different. Even Blackfriars had been caught up in the coming storm. Prior Anselm was distracted, while the librarian and the master of this scriptorium were deeply concerned about any threat to their beloved repository of books. Athelstan crossed himself, sighed and returned to the problems which confronted him. He was in the best place to try and resolve the enigmas and puzzles left by Reginald Camoys. He needed to do this so he could confront Matthias with his gnawing suspicions as well as ensure that these riddles were not connected in any way with the mysterious deaths at the Golden Oliphant.
Athelstan was certain Whitfield had been murdered, and the same for Joycelina. He had no evidence regarding the young woman’s deadly fall, just a suspicion that a very cunning murder had been committed. He stared up at the shelves of books and manuscripts. Where should he begin? He had questioned both librarian and the master of the scriptorium, yet both brothers had been unable to assist. Athelstan tapped his fingers on the table top. If this was a question of scripture, where would he begin? He rose and found the library’s great lexicon, but though he easily discovered an explanation for ‘IHS’, the Greek title given to Jesus Christ, he could not explain the additional ‘V’. He then turned to the many entries on ‘sol, sun’ and came to an extract from the history of Eusebius of Caesarea who wrote about the Emperor Constantine and the establishment of Christianity as the state religion of the Roman Empire. The library owned a copy of this. Athelstan found it and, as he turned the pages, felt a deep glow of satisfaction. The ‘Soli Invicto’ was a paean to the sun which lay at the heart of the pagan religion of Mithras, popular with the Roman army and undoubtedly something that Reginald Camoys had discovered amongst those ruins in the crypt of St Mary Le Bow.
Athelstan reached one chapter of Eusebius’ History and clapped his hands in joy. He had found it! The well-known story of a famous vision that the Emperor Constantine had experienced before his great victory at the Milvian Bridge in the year 312. The letters ‘IHSV’ were an abbreviation for ‘In Hoc Signo Vinces – In this sign you will conquer’. He then consulted a word book, wondering if Reginald had continued to hide behind a play on words. ‘Vinces’ in Latin was ‘you will conquer’, but ‘vinceris’ could be translated ‘you will be released’. What did that refer to? He sat and reflected on the clever word games that contrived to hide a treasure. In many ways they might have little relevance to the mysterious deaths at the Golden Oliphant, though they did prompt some interesting questions.