It was when the monk moved away that Gervase became suspicious. Time spent as a novice at Eltham Abbey had accustomed him to the gait of a monastic order. Older monks might shuffle and younger ones stride but all took account of the heavy cowl which swung around their ankles. The measured tread of the cloister was unmistakeable. The man who retreated from the churchyard, however, had such a lithe and hurried step that it was difficult to believe he spent his days within the enclave.
Curiosity made Gervase take a few paces after him but he was immediately distracted by another figure. This one stood a short distance away from the congregation, his head bowed in prayer, his hands clasped together in his lap. It was an affecting sight, all the more so when Gervase realised that Alain the Leper represented the whole community at the hospital of St. Nicholas.
On their behalf, he had struggled down to Canterbury to keep his vigil near the graveside.
As the mourners began to disperse, Reinbald the Priest made time for a moment alone with the stricken father.
“My thoughts go with you, Alwin.”
“Thank you, Father Reinbald,” said the other. “And thank you for your kind words in the sermon. Nothing will ever bring Bertha back but I took some crumbs of comfort from what you said.”
“I will visit you very soon to offer more consolation.”
“There is no need.”
“There is every need,” said Reinbald. “You have reached a time of trial in your life. It is my duty as your parish priest and my obligation as your friend to do all I can to sustain your spirit and bring you to an acceptance of God’s will.”
Alwin’s manner hardened. “I do not accept it.”
“You must.”
“Bertha died because of the will of a cruel murderer.”
“Do not look at it that way. It will only lead to endless bitterness and sorrow. Let me visit you, Alwin. You have lost a wife and a daughter now. You need me to ease you through these travails.”
“What could you do?” said the other sharply.
“Offer solace and guidance.”
“How?”
“By understanding your grief.”
“How could you possibly understand the sense of loss that I bear? You are a celibate priest. You have no wife and no idea what it is like to bring up a child. Leave me be, Father Reinbald.
I want none of your consolation.”
“In time, maybe.”
“Never!”
“But you need succour.”
“Not from the likes of you,” snapped the other.
Alwin swung away from the grave and blundered off through the mourners, leaving Reinbald the Priest stung by the rudeness of his departure and wounded to the quick by his harsh words. It was some minutes before he recovered enough to be able to offer condolences to other members of Bertha’s family but Alwin’s outburst still echoed in his ears.
When Golde had been escorted back to the house in Burgate Ward, Ralph and Gervase collected their horses from the stables and rode off toward Harbledown. Both were still muted by their attendance at the funeral. It was only when they were trotting up the hill that Ralph found his voice.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
“To the hospital of St. Nicholas.”
“Why?”
“To put an idea of mine to the test, Ralph.”
“What idea?”
“I have been thinking about Brother Martin’s death,” said Gervase, “and I believe that I may have the answer to the mystery.
Brother Martin went into an empty church. An hour or so later, I came along and entered myself, only to find him dead. Yet nobody had come or gone in that time. The explanation is simple.”
“Alain the Leper fell asleep on sentry duty.”
“No, Ralph. He was vigilance itself.”
“Then why did he not see the killer enter the church?”
“Because the man was already inside. He must have gained entry sooner in the evening and lain in wait until Brother Martin came in.”
“It is conceivable,” said Ralph, weighing the idea in his mind.
“And it would certainly explain why Alain did not spot anyone going into the church. But it does not account for the fact that the murderer was not seen leaving either.”
“Alain would never have seen him depart.”
“Why not?”
“Because the man stayed inside the church.”
“He was there when you discovered the body?”
“I believe so.”
“Where would he have hidden?”
“That is what we are going to find out now.”
Ralph was impressed. “Why did this never occur to me?”
“Because you were not at the hospital. You do not know the relation between the church and Alain’s hut. When I worried away at it long enough, the answer came.”
“The possible answer.”
“I know I am right, Ralph. What I am not sure about is the exact time of the killer’s departure.”
“He must have sneaked away as soon as you left.”
“I locked the door of the church.”
“When was it reopened?”
“By the six monks sent from Christ Church Priory, all of them good friends of Brother Martin. Imagine the scene,” said Gervase.
“Six shocked and bereaved men, standing around the dead body of a venerable colleague. They would have been far too distressed to notice anyone who slipped out of the church.”
“The lepers would have noticed him,” suggested Ralph. “Alain must have spread the word by then. They would have come out of their huts to watch Brother Martin being carried away on the cart. The killer must have been seen.”
An image from the funeral shot into Gervase’s mind.
“He was seen, Ralph. Seen but not seen.”
“Stop talking gibberish.”
“What exactly would the lepers have observed?”
“Six monks going into the church and a stranger sliding out to make a run for it. They could not have missed him.”
“They could. Six went in but one came out.”
“We are back to riddles, are we?”
“Six monks entered, Ralph. One monk departed.”
“One monk?”
“That was the man’s disguise,” argued Gervase. “Other monks occasionally visit the hospital to help with its work. The killer donned a black cowl so that he would attract no attention if he sidled into the community. He bided his time before stepping into the church unnoticed.”
“Yes,” agreed Ralph, warming to the theory. “The lepers would have been too heartbroken to count the monks who went in to gather up the body of Brother Martin. When a figure in a cowl emerges, they assume he is one of the party dispatched by Prior Henry. Brilliant, Gervase! How did you work it out?”
“I saw him.”
“Who?”
“The man himself. At the funeral.”
He told Ralph about the lone monk who had caught his eye with his speedy and irreverent withdrawal from the churchyard of St. Mildred’s. His companion became elated.
“By all, this is wonderful!”
“Why?”
“I have learned two things about the man we seek,” said Ralph.
“First, he has the cunning of a fox and will think through his villainy with care. He made Bertha seem the victim of a snakebite to deflect any suspicion of foul play. And he joins the Benedictine Order so that he can murder Brother Martin and escape through a whole crowd of lepers.”
“What is the second thing?” asked Gervase.
“He is still here in Canterbury! We can catch him.”
They reached the hospital and tethered their mounts. The two monks who were looking after the place listened to their request and complied at once. Ralph and Gervase were allowed into the church. At first glance, there were no obvious hiding places, especially for a man as tall as the monk Gervase had observed at the funeral. The church consisted of a simple nave and a tiny vestry. Its windows were too high and too small to allow an easy escape.
The vestry was a potential hiding place but its door was directly opposite the spot where Brother Martin had fallen to the ground.
Even six preoccupied monks would have been aware of a seventh member of their Order walking within a couple of feet of them.