‘But the smell cannot be emanating from the tomb of St Withburga,’ Prior Alan protested. ‘She’s a holy saint and saints’ bodies emit the sweet perfume of the rose of heaven, not the stench of corruption. Are you sure it’s not simply the odour of the pilgrims themselves? I saw one with such a stinking sore on his leg even his fellow pilgrims were gagging. Perhaps the smell lingered.’
Will shook his head. ‘Most pilgrims stay longest at St Etheldreda’s shrine, for she’s the one they most favour. If it was the pilgrims themselves, the smell should be worse there. Even the perfume of incense is no longer masking the stench. If we don’t do something soon, rumours may begin to spread that St Withburga is no longer at ease in her tomb and wishes to return to Dereham.’
The prior winced. St Withburga’s body had been taken from her grave in Dereham almost four centuries ago and brought to join her sisters in their tombs at Ely, but even after all these years the Dereham folk still regarded this act of piety as theft and regularly sent demands for her return, not least because of the valuable income this would bring from the pilgrims.
Having been sacrist himself for many years, Prior Alan was nothing if not a pragmatic man, and distasteful though it might be to disturb the resting place of a saint, he knew the pilgrims would soon cease to come if the shrine to which they came for cures made them want to vomit.
He sighed, pressing the tips of his fingers together, then finally nodded. ‘I dare say it’s nothing more than a family of mice that have crawled inside and died, or even a rotting eel that some wicked little brat has managed to push through a hole just to annoy his elders. But you and I will investigate tonight after the cathedral is closed. None of the monks or lay brothers must be present. The slightest hint of anything amiss and gossip will be all round the town before dawn, most of it wilder than a rabid wolf. The townspeople are already so anxious about the pestilence they will take anything as a sign of ill omen. There’s been quite enough upset with the murder of that player Martin; I want nothing more to agitate the people or the priory.’
The cathedral was in darkness save for the candles on the altars and those flickering around the tombs of the saints. Will had placed a few lanterns on the floor to illuminate the shrine, but in a position where they would not shine out through the windows. It was vital that the townspeople did not notice any unusual activity in the building. The gold, silver and jewelled offerings that normally adorned the tomb had been carefully collected and now lay in a heap on a piece of cloth, glittering in the flickering candlelight like a pirates’ hoard.
Working in silence, the prior and custodian together pulled away the back panel of the shrine, which allowed access to the inside, so that coins pushed through the holes could be removed. Prior Alan pressed a cloth to his nose. There was no mistaking it now that they were so close, the stench was coming from somewhere inside. He kneeled down, moving the lantern so that the light fell in turn into each corner of the tomb as he searched for rodent corpses or anything else that might account for the smell, but he saw only candle wax, the glint of a few coins and eons of dust scuffed by the sandal prints of the monks who had over the years squeezed in to retrieve the offerings.
He was just struggling to his feet again when Will tugged on his sleeve. ‘Look, Father Prior,’ he breathed, ‘the coffin’s been disturbed.’
Alan raised his lantern so that the light fell on the top of the stone coffin. The lid was still in place, but it had been twisted slightly at an angle so that the top corner lay open just a couple of inches. As soon as he bent over the gap Prior Alan was left in little doubt that the stench was coming from inside.
He crossed himself, and muttered a prayer for forgiveness to St Withburga for the offence he was about to offer. Then placing both hands against the stone lid, he pushed it. The rasp of stone on stone seemed to echo off the dark walls and for a moment he hesitated, unnerved by the ominous sound.
Then he gestured impatiently to Will, who had taken a few paces back.
‘Bring your candle, I need more light. Stop looking so fearful. It’s a saint not a revenant buried in this coffin.’
Reluctantly Will stood behind him and raised his lantern so that the light from the candle glowed yellow inside the hollow stone. The saint’s bones were wrapped in a cloth that had turned brown with age. Carefully, Prior Alan eased the rotting fabric aside. The bones and skull were still covered in strips of parchment-like skin and strands of grey hair. But there was something else in the coffin, something lying where St Withburga’s desiccated hand should have been. It was a human hand, a right hand, but it was not the hand of a saint. This hand had been severed at the wrist, and the rotting flesh was covered in a stinking mass of writhing maggots.
Prior Alan sat in the great carved chair in his solar, and pressed his fingers to his throbbing temples. Subprior Stephen and Custodian Will de Copham slumped opposite him, gazing equally morosely into mid-space. The bells for prime and for the early Mass for the servants had long since rung, but none of the three of them had moved.
‘You’re sure that is the hand of the dead actor, Father Prior?’ Will asked.
He glanced uneasily at the small lead-lined casket, which had been hastily emptied of its scrolls of parchment to provide a temporary resting place for the offending appendage. Fortunately the seal on the box was tight enough to stop the smell from escaping, but his stomach still heaved every time he remembered picking it up.
Alan grimaced. ‘Unless we dig up the body and match the bones to the arm we can’t be certain, but it seems most likely. I could ask the infirmarer if he’s heard of anyone in Ely who has recently lost his hand in an accident, but even so, men don’t normally leave such things lying around in the street.’
‘Then whoever put the hand in St Withburga’s coffin murdered Martin,’ Stephen said, ‘and that means those three actors must be innocent, for they’ve been in gaol ever since the body was discovered.’
‘I don’t see how that proves their innocence,’ Prior Alan snapped. ‘They could have placed the hand in the coffin before the body was discovered and that wasn’t until well past midday. Men who are capable of the heinous murder and mutilation of one of their own would think nothing of desecrating the body of a blessed saint, which is why we must redouble our efforts to capture the rest of the actors. Since the three felons in gaol didn’t have the hand of St Withburga in their possession when they were searched, then one of their fellow conspirators must have it.’
Will rolled his tongue around his mouth in disgust. He could still taste that stench. He rose and poured himself another goblet of wine in the vain attempt to settle his stomach.
‘But what I don’t understand,’ he said, ‘is if they intended stealing the saint’s relic, why draw attention to the theft by placing the severed hand in the coffin to stink. If they hadn’t done so the theft would have gone unnoticed for years.’
Prior Alan shrugged. ‘Perhaps they thought the hand would mummify and, in time, become indistinguishable from the other remains. As indeed it might well have done had the coffin lid not accidentally been left slightly ajar, allowing the flies to get in.’
‘But why replace it at all? Why not just take the relic?’ Will persisted stubbornly.
‘To mock us,’ Stephen said firmly. ‘It’s the Dereham men who have done this, not the actors. This is their way of thumbing their noses at us. I’m sure their plan was to display her hand in the church in Dereham, knowing we’d be forced to open the coffin before witnesses to prove we still have the body intact. Then the rotting hand would be revealed and we’d be a laughing stock.’ He turned eagerly to the prior. ‘We should send men at once to Dereham and-’