Unholy Innocence Page 10

  I sat up sharply. ‘Yes, erm, thank you Jocelin,’ I said trying to cover my embarrassment. ‘That’s exactly what I had intended doing next.’

  I indicated a stool for him to sit then glared pointedly at Gilbert to disappear. He did so with his hand over his mouth. I could hear him sniggering all the way down the passage, damn the boy.

  ‘What – erm - have you managed to discover, brother?’ I said to Jocelin.

  He read coldly from his notes: ‘The family are t-tenants of the abbey. The father, William, worked the abbey’s fuller watermill a m-mile south of the abbey on the f-field of Haberdon next to the river. Matthew was training with his father until he d-died.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘Eight months ago. An accident involving the m-mill wheel. Which left Matthew as head of the household, the eldest of six ch-children who all live at the mill with their m-mother.’

  ‘That must be the woman we saw this morning at the Moy house.’

  He nodded. ‘When the father died the t-tenancy reverted back to the abbey.’

  ‘So the family was made destitute. That seems unjust.’

  ‘Father Abbot had n-no option,’ defended Jocelin. ‘I spoke with the Sacrist’s office. F-fulling is heavy work involving much scouring and thickening of wool cloth, apparently. And then there is the fuller’s earth to dig…’ he looked up, ‘…that’s the clay used to c-clean the wool. No work for a child, even one as strong as Matthew, and certainly no work for a f-female. Brother Hugh has, of his charity, allowed the f-family to remain in the cottage until they can find alternative dwelling.’

  ‘And have they found anywhere?’

  He folded his arms over his notes. ‘It seems n-not.’

  ‘All right,’ I said. ‘That tells us a bit about the family but nothing about why Matthew was murdered.’

  Jocelin pursed his lips. I was beginning to know that look. He thought the question irrelevant if not actually irreverent. He thought he knew why Matthew had been murdered and it had nothing to do with human frailty; he’d made that clear at the Moy house although he had not come out and said so directly. It was a growing source of tension between us that was threatening the investigation and could not be allowed to continue. I didn’t mind him holding different views from me – disputation is what fuels debate and it is debate, as I knew from my student days, that produces solutions. But this constant clamming up amounted to – well, if he were a child I’d call it dumb insolence. There was a crisis looming, the air between us thick with unvoiced grievances. It had to be cleared if we were to make progress.

  ‘Brother,’ I said quietly, ‘if you think this investigation is pointless then I would prefer it if you said so now. It is going to be difficult enough negotiating through this maze of prejudices. Without your full commitment it may become impossible. So if you feel we cannot put our personal differences to one side then you may as well leave now. I will tell Abbot Samson that it is my fault – which I’m sure he will have no difficulty believing. I’ll tell him we are incompatible. You won’t be blamed.’

  He fumed. He really did look quite put out for the first time since we got together on the case. If I didn’t know better I’d have sworn his bald pate was actually steaming.

  ‘F-father Abbot has ch-charged me to ass-ssist you,’ he stuttered, ‘and th-that is what I int-tend to do. It matters not a j-j-jot what I p-privately think. I w-w-ill continue to aid you as b-best I c-c-can.’

  I nodded. ‘Very well. So long as we understand that.’

  ‘Although if asked I would s-say we are w-wasting our time. It seems p-perfectly clear to me that poor little Matthew was m-martyred. All this examining and s-seeking for witnesses is merely confirming the obvious. “What God has wrought no man maketh nought.” All else is v-vanity. Nevertheless,’ he went on before I could interpose, ‘it is equally c-clear to me that the means by which the boy was dispatched was through human agency – or r-rather two human agencies – and it is my sacred d-duty to help you discover th-their identity however irrelevant it may be.’ He took a deep breath: ‘And s-snipe as you might at me and m-my af-f-f-flictions, Master Walter, we will not be able to gainsay God’s purpose for this boy whether it be with my c-crooked tongue or your st-st-star-raight one.’

  Well! That was me well and truly rebuked and no mistake. He clearly harboured strong feelings about the case and my thoughtless jibe seemed to have provoked him out of his introspection. Good. If nothing else it proved he wasn’t such a cold fish after all but had passion in his belly. And what passion! He was almost panting with fury. I chuckle now to think of it. Dear old Jocelin. At that moment I believe I could have hugged him – except that any such physical contact would probably have filled him with horror. Well, we may disagree on the significance of the murdered boy’s death but not on the route he came to it, it seems. I could work with that. But there was still a path leading from the watermill to the Moy house along which Matthew had travelled passing from young innocent life to violent and premature death. Along that path there were clear signs of human intervention, and divine purpose or not we had a duty to follow that path until we discovered its source. God may not wish us to succeed in which case we will fail, but we had to try.

  The bell for vespers started to toll filling the awkward silence between us and I suddenly felt the need for spiritual renewal having been too much in the world for one day.

  ‘Enough for today,’ I said. ‘Daylight is long this time of year. We will both rise early tomorrow morning and travel down to the Haberdon together. Let us hope that the boy’s mother has managed to recover herself sufficiently to throw some light on why her child should have met with such a violent end.’

  He grunted agreement and stood up collecting his documents together.

  ‘Oh, and brother,’ I said.

  ‘Yes?’

  I smiled. ‘Thank you for that.’

  He blushed, nodded, then left.

  *

  The Haberdon is a damp meadowland adjacent to the River Lark approximately one mile south of the abbey and the fuller’s mill occupies the south-east corner. We arrived there early the next morning to find we had already been beaten to it by another delegation made up of five monks from the abbey. These five were the most senior among the twenty who had heckled me in the abbey church the previous day and had been most vocal in calling for Matthew’s canonization. They consisted of James the Third Prior, Ranulf the Sub-Sacristan, Walkin the Pittancer, old Jeremiah and - yet again - Egbert. All were fairly second-league in the monastery hierarchy and none very surprising – except perhaps Jeremiah who was one of the oldest, brightest and most respected of the choir monks and who lent the rest a degree of gravitas. The five of them were dispersed around the walls of the tiny one-roomed cottage that was home for the milling family with old Jeremiah seated on the only stool, his walking stick held before him like a caduceus wand. They were all looking pretty grim and none seemed surprised to see me.

  There were no windows in the house, the only light entering through the open door. Once my eyes had adjusted to the gloom I could see that half the room was taken up with one huge bed out of the middle of which stared five pairs of bewildered eyes - the three younger sisters and two younger brothers of the dead boy, I presumed. In front of them and perched precariously on the edge of the bed was the woman who had attacked Isaac ben Moy in his garden the previous day, the children’s mother. She looked younger today and would be quite pretty once her puffy eyes, swollen from two nights of crying, went down.

  ‘God bless all in this house,’ I said making the sign of the Cross. There was a subdued murmur of responses from my brother monks. I stared at each individually. Most had the decency to avoid my eye, except for Egbert who held it defiantly. I was secretly furious - with them for managing to outmanoeuvre me in this way and with myself for not foreseeing the possibility. But I was equally determined not to let them see it.

  ‘Good day to you, brothers,’ I smiled. ‘I am here to questio
n this woman about the death of her son. May I ask what your purpose is?’

  ‘The same,’ replied Egbert.

  ‘With whose authority?’

  ‘With God’s,’ said Egbert.

  ‘Really?’ I smiled. ‘Weighty authority indeed. Funny He said nothing to me about it.’

  James, Ranulf and Walkin all gasped at my blasphemy and I bit my tongue regretting my impetuosity. Egbert merely curled his lip and nodded.

  ‘Let us not play games,’ said Jeremiah in his fluting, old man’s voice. ‘You know why we are here, Walter, to ensure God’s Will is done. That is all Egbert meant.’

  ‘And that is all I meant. But who is to say what is God’s Will? You?’

  ‘I should not so presume,’ he smiled. ‘The interpretation of the Divine Will is in the gift of no single man however well-qualified he may – or may not - be.’

  That was a deliberate challenge to me. And strictly speaking he was right. I was no more competent to perform the task Samson had laid upon me than anyone else in the room. But it was to me that he had entrusted it and any challenge to me was also a challenge to him. For the moment, though, Jeremiah had caught me off-guard and I had no reply.

  ‘The more minds bent to the task,’ Jeremiah continued more genially, ‘the more likely we are to correctly interpret God’s purpose. You would at least agree to that.’

  But I was not in a mood to be genial. ‘So, it’s to be beatification by committee, is it? The Abbot and the Pope are not to be consulted?’

  ‘There was no pope when Edmund was canonized,’ retorted Egbert. ‘It was the people’s will then.’

  ‘Oh, so not God’s authority after all but the people’s.’ I nodded. ‘I see.’

  ‘It amounted to the same thing - then.’

  ‘Perhaps. But those were barbarous times. Today we have the rule of law.’

  ‘Forgive me,’ interrupted Jeremiah again, smiling. ‘This talk of law. Remind me Walter, your accreditation was in physic was it not?’

  Damn the man! He would keep harking on the same point. ‘I admit I am no lawyer,’ I stumbled feeling my colour rise. ‘Father Abbot asked me to head this enquiry because of my background and training in the science of diagnosis. He thought such skills might be useful in this case. Be comforted that I will let his grace know that you think his judgement misplaced.’

  ‘Ah, well there you have me at a disadvantage,’ said Jeremiah smiling sweetly and shaking his clever ancient head. ‘I do willingly confess I have no expertise in the science of martyrdom.’

  ‘If indeed this is a martyrdom,’ I blurted.

  ‘So you have made up your mind,’ shot back Egbert. ‘It seems we were right to be concerned.’

  ‘And is that your concern?’ I rounded on him wondering how I had suddenly become the one having to defend myself. ‘That I have a closed mind? If so let me assure you that my concern is only with discovering the truth.’

  ‘As is ours,’ said Jeremiah punctuating each word with the point of his stick on the ground.

  ‘Is it? It seems to me that you are guilty of the exact same error of which you accuse me.’

  Jeremiah sighed. ‘No-one is accusing you of anything, Walter.’ He looked over my shoulder. ‘Where do you stand on this, Brother Guest-master? I notice you are keeping very quiet.’

  In the heat of the moment I had quite forgotten Jocelin was behind me and that he was one of the senior obedientiaries, too.

  ‘I f-feel I am half-way between the two,’ mumbled Jocelin.

  ‘Fence-sitting as usual, Jocelin,’ tutted Jeremiah. ‘You may find that an uncomfortable place to be in the coming days.’

  Jocelin opened his mouth to reply but shut it again, much to my irritation. I suppose I should have been grateful he said that much in my favour and did not declare his true position which it was clear from yesterday’s outburst was more with Jeremiah and the others than with me.

  ‘Brother Jocelin is here to help me question this grieving woman about her dead son,’ I said indicating Matthew’s mother who had said nothing so far but stood silently while we monks bickered between ourselves. ‘Whom we all seem to have forgotten. So far you have prevented us from carrying out that duty.’

  ‘Then ask away,’ said Egbert standing aside from the murdered boy’s mother with a self-satisfied smirk on his face.

  I looked at the woman who did not meet my eye but kept her lips set in a tight line. With a sinking heart I could see there was little point in questioning her now. The others had plainly coached her before I arrived so that any answers I might get would be theirs, not hers. Even so, I had no option but to try.

  ‘Mother,’ I said gently. ‘Do not be afraid, simply speak the truth. Begin, if you would, by telling me what was Matthew doing the night he died?’

  Jeremiah replied for her: ‘He was preparing for his coming martyrdom, of course. What else?’

  ‘He left the house that night at some stage,’ I said to her. ‘Can you ell me what time that was?’

  ‘It was at the hour appointed by God for his sacrifice,’ shrugged Jeremiah looking round at the other monks who murmured their agreement.

  ‘Did he know the Moy family?’ I persisted with her.

  ‘I cannot see the relevance of that question,’ answered Jeremiah. ‘If he was abducted it would just as likely be by a stranger…’

  ‘You are all very keen to have the boy murdered by this Jew,’ I blurted out angrily. ‘I wonder why?’

  ‘Ah, I see we all are to be suspects now,’ laughed Jeremiah.

  ‘Not all,’ I replied too hastily. ‘Any one of you could have killed him – or rather, any two.’

  Jeremiah’s eyes lit up. ‘What - with these?’ He took from the sleeves of his robe his two hands crippled into useless claws by arthritis. I felt my face flush crimson and the others laughed at my gaffe.

  ‘We know who killed the boy, and why,’ said Egbert triumphantly. ‘The Jew, Moy, in mockery of Our Lord’s Passion.’

  Still embarrassed by my faux pas I turned desperately to the mother. ‘That’s what you thought yesterday, mother. Do you still think the same today?’

  She did not reply but instead kept her eyes firmly fixed on the floor. There was a long pause as we waited for her response, the silence hanging heavy in the air. Egbert, who clearly thought the argument won, broke the silence. ‘Come brothers, let us go. We have what we came for.’

  ‘Oh? And what was that?’ I turned on him shaking now with impotent fury.

  He casually handed me a piece of parchment. It appeared to be a declaration by the boy’s mother detailing Matthew’s life. I flipped through most of it my eye catching the last two paragraphs:

  ‘When he had reached his eighth year of life he was taught the fuller’s craft by his father. Gifted with a receptive mind in a short time he far surpassed boys of his own age and was the equal of his own father. So it came to pass that when he reached his twelfth year this boy of exceptional innocence, ignorant of the treachery that had been planned for him, befriended the Jew, Moy, who seduced him with cunning words and tricks.

  Then like an innocent lamb the boy was led to the slaughter. He was treated kindly at first and, ignorant of what was being prepared for him, he was kept hidden till the day of the Jewish Passover. On that day after the singing of hymns the Jew Moy suddenly seized the boy, bound and gagged him and placed a crown of thorns upon his head in mockery of our Lord’s Passion. Finally he slew the boy by the severing of his head from his body. Thus the glorious boy and martyr, Matthew, entered the Kingdom of Heaven where he lives now in glory for ever.’

  ‘This is preposterous!’ I blurted throwing the document away from me in contempt. I pointed at the mother. ‘She could not have composed that…that calumny.’

  ‘She has put her mark,’ said Walkin bending to retrieve the document from the floor. ‘The oath is authenticated.’ He held it out for me to see the woman’s cross.

  I turned to the woman again in desperation. ‘I do no
t know what these monks have told you but they have no authority. Abbot Samson will reverse any promises they have made.’ I had a sudden thought and turned on Jeremiah. ‘Where is Abbot Samson? Does he even know of your visit here today? I cannot believe he gave his permission for you all to be excused at this hour.’

  ‘Samson is away today, Walter. It seems there has been some…irregularity…at our manor of Mildenhall that required his urgent attention. He will doubtless be back tomorrow if you wish to take this up with him then.’

  I nodded. ‘By which time it will be too late. You will have had the boy declared a martyr by then. And you call Samson de Tottington the Norfolk Trickster,’ I sneered with contempt. ‘It seems this time it is he who has been tricked.’

  Now the mother spoke for the first time her face livid with anger. ‘Look!’ she yelled at me dragging one of the little girls roughly by the shoulder to stand before me. The poor child was so surprised that she instantly burst into tears. ‘See her? I’ve another four like her, eight if you count the three who God in his spite took from me at birth. I have no husband, no man at all now that Matthew’s gone too.’ She spat on the floor. ‘You monks. You don’t live in the real world. You have no children. You don’t work. You fill your bellies on the toil of others.’

  ‘This oath,’ I said going over it again in my mind. ‘It speaks of the boy as though he were singled out for particular attention by God. But he has no connection with the abbey other than being its tenant. He has not led a specially holy life. As far as I can see he was just a regular, ordinary boy.’

  ‘Oh, but that is where you are wrong,’ sneered Egbert. ‘He was being prepared as a postulant training for the priesthood. Ask Ranulf. He was his novice tutor.’

  ‘It is true, Walter,’ said Ranulf. ‘I have been training him for the past year.’

  ‘That was why the Jews chose him,’ Egbert continued triumphantly. ‘It’s obvious. They recognized that he was already a saint. What greater prize could they have and what a victory for their Christ-hating religion.’ He sneered again. ‘Where are your cynical theories now, Master Physician?’