He inched the door open and spoke in a hoarse whisper.
‘Who’s there?’
‘Ralph?’ said a familiar voice.
‘What are you doing here, Gervase?’
‘I might ask the same of you.’
Ralph stepped into the chamber and closed the door behind him.
‘I suspect that we would each give an identical answer.’
‘Curiosity.’
‘Yes, Gervase. And suspicion.’
‘When I heard that Martin Reynard lay in the castle morgue, I had to come and see him for myself. Since the lord Henry would never have permitted this visit, I decided to make it when nobody was about.’ He nodded towards the chapel. ‘I had not counted on Brother Benedict keeping vigil.’
‘He is quietly snoring his way to heaven.’
‘Then let us conclude our business swiftly before he awakes.’
Ralph set his candle down beside the one which his friend had brought and it cast a little more light across the stone slab on which the naked body of Martin Reynard lay. Gervase had already peeled back the shroud to expose the cadaver. Even though herbs had been scattered to sweeten the place and even though the icy temperature further dispersed the smell in the stone-built chamber, the stench of death was quite unmistakable. It took Ralph a moment to get used to it and he was grateful for the fresh air which came whistling in through the narrow windows.
Reynard was a compact, muscular man in his late thirties with a body which had been strong and healthy. He was comprehensively dead now, his face discoloured by heavy bruising, his eyes closed, his ribs crushed and his spine snapped, forcing him to lie in a twisted position. Both men felt immediate sympathy for him but it did not hamper their scrutiny.
It was Ralph who first reached an important conclusion.
‘When was the fellow discovered?’
‘Yesterday morning,’ said Gervase.
‘That is not when he was killed.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘I have looked on death too many times,’ sighed Ralph. ‘Walk any battlefield and step among the corpses. You soon learn to tell the difference between those that have lain there a day and those that were slaughtered much earlier. Martin Reynard did not meet his grisly end yesterday, Gervase. I would swear to it.’
‘Then the evidence against Boio may be misleading.’
‘Evidence?’
‘Yesterday morning a witness saw him leaving the part of the forest where the body was found. The lord Henry assumed that Boio was sneaking away from the murder scene. Our discovery throws that notion into question.’
‘Not necessarily.’
‘Oh?’
‘The blacksmith may have killed him elsewhere on the previous day then brought the corpse to the forest to hide it. Then again,’
he continued, ‘he might simply have gone to check that Martin Reynard still lay where he had earlier struck him down. Boio is not exonerated yet.’
‘True,’ admitted Gervase. ‘It would help if we had a more precise idea of the time of death. It is so difficult to see him properly in this light. You think that he was killed two days ago?’
‘At least.’
‘More like three,’ said a voice behind them.
The two men jumped in alarm and swung round. Brother Benedict had entered the room soundlessly and stood there with a wan smile on his face. Moving into the pool of light, he gazed down at the body.
‘I came to view the deceased earlier,’ he said, ‘and stayed to pray for the salvation of his soul. Fatigue then got the better of me.’ He touched the corpse gently with his fingertips. ‘When I first entered the enclave, I was set to work in the abbey morgue and helped to lay out the bodies. It quickly developed my instincts.
The nature of death is a most rewarding subject of study. The first thing you must do is to take account of the cold weather, which would have delayed the onset of decomposition. If this poor creature was found yesterday morning, I can tell you with certainty that he had been dead for thirty-six hours at least. The signs are clear. Do you wish me to enumerate them?’
‘No, thank you,’ said Ralph.
‘We will take your word for it, Brother Benedict,’ said Gervase.
‘He was first rendered unconscious before having the breath of life squeezed out of him.’ The monk pointed to the darkened left temple of the corpse. ‘This was the blow which knocked him senseless. Delivered with force by a strong fist.’
‘Or a blacksmith’s hammer,’ guessed Ralph.
‘No, my lord. That would have split his head open. There was no blood. I think he took a fearsome punch to the head. Have you seen enough?’ They both nodded. ‘Then I will cover him up again,’ he said, pulling the shroud over the body with great reverence. ‘He has suffered enough already. Let us leave him to rest in peace.’
‘Yes,’ said Ralph. ‘Thank you, Brother Benedict.’
‘I have my uses.’
‘So we have seen.’
‘Monks can sometimes go where laymen are forbidden.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Gervase.
‘In the hall last night you asked the lord Henry for permission to visit the prisoner and your request was summarily turned down. He might not have been so unhelpful to me. I do not think that our host would prevent a harmless monk from calling upon this blacksmith to offer spiritual sustenance.’
‘What are you telling us?’ said Ralph.
‘I am here to help.’
‘You would go to Boio on our behalf?’
‘Willingly, my lord. Especially if it will help to prevent what you suspect may be an injustice. For that — if I am not misled — is what must have brought you both here tonight.’
‘It was,’ conceded Gervase. ‘When a murder is committed, the trail to the killer must start with the body in question. Your comments are salutary. Do you really believe that you could get to Boio?’
‘Of course. It is only a question of biding my time and choosing an opportune moment. Now,’ he said, spreading his arms wide in a gesture of magnanimity. ‘What would you like me to ask him?’
Ralph blinked in amazement. ‘Am I dreaming this?’
*
*
*
Snow fell throughout the night but without any real conviction, leaving only a powdery covering across the county, blown hither and thither by a capricious wind. When they set out from his manor house shortly after dawn, Thorkell of Warwick and his men were able to make reasonable speed. They entered the town through the north gate and made their way through the winding streets to the castle before coming to a halt in the bailey.
Remaining in the saddle, Thorkell issued a stern summons to one of the guards.
‘Fetch the lord Henry,’ he said crisply. ‘I would speak with him on a matter of great urgency.’
The man nodded and headed for the steps which led up to the keep. Thorkell and his four companions waited impatiently. The other soldiers on guard duty studied them from the ramparts.
Thorkell himself looked like a human embodiment of Jack Frost, his cloak flapping open to reveal the old man’s lean, sinewy, angular body, his mane of white hair falling to his shoulders from beneath his cap and his long beard tapering to a point. Ice-cold eyes glistened in the haggard face. His bare hands had a skeletal appearance.
Norman soldiers usually had little respect for Saxons but their visitor was an exception. Thorkell was one of only two thegns in the entire realm who retained their estates intact after the Conquest. Most had been forcibly dispossessed. Along with Robert Beaumont, Count of Meulan and brother of Henry, Thorkell was the wealthiest overlord in the county and, while he paid the Normans the compliment of learning their language, he did not sacrifice one jot of his pride or his identity. Thorkell of Warwick was a glorious reminder of the time when the Saxons held sway over England. The gaze which now raked the bailey was quite fearless.
Henry Beaumont was in no hurry to meet his guest. Sensing why Thorkell had come, he kept him waiting below and gave him time to cool his temper in the gusting wind. When he finally emerged, it was with a leisurely saunter, a cloak around his shoulders and a cap upon his head. Thorkell dismounted, handed the reins of his horse to one of his men and walked across to confront the constable.