Unholy Innocence Page 11

  *

  The five of them left, doubtless congratulating themselves at having managed to out-manoeuvre me - as well they might. It simply had not occurred to me that anyone would wish to manipulate events to satisfy their prejudices rather than seek the truth. It made me think once again that I was quite the wrong person for this task. Maybe someone else would be better suited, someone less naïve and more pragmatic who would accept a simpler path. I had to face it, I simply wasn’t up to the job.

  The mother was standing before me evidently uncomfortable that I was still there. Her entire demeanour spoke of defiance, her features set hard and her stance resolute. She was clearly expecting an attack and was readying herself to fend it off. In truth, I felt like shaking the woman for her complicity in the deceit. That outlandish document she had signed could never have been composed by her. The wording, the construction, was too scholarly - more like the work of an academic than a simple mother’s testimonial to her child. It was probably even beyond the capabilities of those five monks to compose and I wondered where they had got it from. They had made some sort of deal with the mother in return for her signature on it, but what that deal was would not be rung out of her by bullying from me. What was needed was subtlety - as Joseph was so fond of reminding me, more flies are caught with honey than with vinegar. So I sat down on the stool vacated by Jeremiah and composed my features into what I hoped approximated a smile.

  ‘You must still be grieving deeply for the loss of your child, daughter,’ I said gently. ‘Have you anyone to visit you? Family? Friends?’

  Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. She looked at her hands and realising she had been wringing them, let them drop. ‘Father Paul has been twice,’ she said.

  ‘Your parish priest?’

  She nodded. ‘From Saint Botolph’s.’

  ‘But no-one closer. A sibling or parent perhaps?’

  She shook her head. ‘There’s no-one. I have a sister living still in Sudbury but that is too far for her to travel. Besides, she and my husband never got on. There was a family rift.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ I nodded. ‘Your husband. I heard the tale. A dreadful tragedy. Matthew must have been very capable to have been able to step into his shoes. You must have been very proud of him.’

  ‘Fulling is heavy work,’ she agreed pushing a stray brown curl back beneath her coif. ‘Strong as he was, it was too much for him alone.’

  ‘So, what you said in your testimonial, that Matthew was the equal of his father, was not entirely accurate.’

  She shot me a fiery look of anger. ‘I see what you are about. Trying to trip me up. I can’t remember what I said in that document. But whatever I said I hold to.’ She stuck out a defiant chin.

  ‘Of course you do, I never meant to imply anything else,’ I agreed, rowing back quickly. ‘But you were telling me about Matthew’s character. What sort of boy was he? Jolly? Serious? He must have been quite serious to want to train for the priesthood.’

  She shrugged. ‘He seemed like just a normal boy to me. I had brothers, I know what boys get up to. He worked hard when he was needed. What those monks said about him was true enough. He was a good boy. They’re now saying he’s a saint. I don’t know about that. All I do know is that when his father died he became the bread-winner for his brothers and sisters and me and he never let us starve. For all I know that’s what a saint is. And you, brother, will not trick me into saying otherwise.’

  I could see I was not going to get any more out of her about Matthew, she was too wily for that. Instead, I asked her about how she had managed to get into the back of the Moy garden since she insisted she had never been there before. She said she had been directed there by a man. What sort of a man? I asked. Her answer was very vague and her response halting as though having to construct each detail from imagination rather than memory. I doubted if any such man ever existed. When I pressed her to describe him, how he was dressed, his age, his manner, she became agitated and insisted that he had kept his face hidden but that he was well dressed like a gentleman. I decided not to press her further but instead went over to her five remaining children and stroked the youngest girl’s hair.

  ‘Who’ll feed these poor mites now that both your husband and Matthew are gone?’

  Their mother gave me a reply I was already expecting. ‘Oh, they will be cared for, do not fear for them.’

  I presumed she was referring to the money the other monks had given her for her signature, but when I suggested it she snorted contemptuously. ‘What those old misers gave me wouldn’t keep a beggar alive.’

  *

  As Jocelin and I walked back to the abbey I reflected upon the labourers already hard at work in the fields and wondered how many of them knew or cared that a new saint was in the making just yards from their hovels. I also noticed Jocelin was looking pretty pleased with himself.

  ‘Why so smug?’ I asked him. ‘Did you enjoy seeing me humiliated, too?’

  ‘I was actually th-thinking about that oath,’ he said. ‘It must have been drawn up quickly to get it to the b-boy’s mother so early and I think I know how. I recognised some of it. It’s almost identical to Thomas of Monmouth’s c-commentary on the life of Saint William of Norwich.’

  I harrumphed. ‘If you’re right it would certainly explain where it came from. I thought it was too sophisticated for Egbert and Walkin to have concocted.’

  Jocelin smiled non-committally. ‘They seem to have l-lifted sections of it virtually word for word. But in their haste they made a mistake.’

  ‘What mistake?’

  ‘D–didn’t you notice? It said that Moy kept Matthew hidden until Passover. Well, William of Norwich may have died at Passover but Matthew certainly did not. As we already know, P-passover this year was in April and Matthew d-died in J-june’

  I slapped my forehead. ‘Of course! I knew there was something about it that rankled with me. I was too angry to think clearly. Damn! I wish I’d seen it while they were there. So, that means the oath is meaningless,’ I said, and laughed out loud. ‘I wonder if the boy’s mother realised what she was signing was a lie.’

  ‘Probably not. I d-doubt if she can read and since she could hardly have dictated the testimonial herself she p-probably doesn’t even know what was in it. And why should she care? It is quite a thing to be the mother of a saint. Imagine that m-mill turned into a shrine. She could make a f-fortune from selling the water alone.’

  I laughed again and clapped my hands. ‘Why Jocelin, I do believe you are becoming as cynical as I am.’

  He shook his head. ‘I am no cynic. You haven’t proved that Matthew is not a saint m-merely that others are prepared to bend the truth to achieve their own purpose. I am interested in God’s purpose, not man’s. If the boy t-truly is a saint then there is nothing you or I or Brother Jeremiah or anyone else can do to p-prevent it. Remember the words of Our Lord: A prophet is not without honour save in his own country, and in his own house.’

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘a twelve-year-old child has died and not at his own hand. Whether the hand that slew him was God’s or someone else’s we shall have to find out. I think we may achieve both goals – ours and God’s. And possibly bring justice in their wake.’

  ‘Amen to that, brother,’ nodded Jocelin.

  I was feeling lighter already. Maybe I would stick with the case after all – for the moment at least.

  Chapter 11

  ROYAL EXPECTATIONS

  Despite my misgivings about Jocelin I was secretly glad to have him around to bounce my ideas off. Whenever my own prejudices were in danger of soaring too high one glance from his beaky censorious face soon brought me back down to earth again. Whatever I may have thought of his uncritical devotion to Samson and his sometimes exasperating credulity he did have a keen mind which was open to persuasion so long as the argument was well-grounded and thorough which kept me on my toes. It was a great loss to me as well as a sadness when he died all too prematurely a few short years later. But that was t
o be in the future. For now he was the whetstone that sharpened the blade of my dull wits and I was grateful for that.

  In truth, there was really no-one else with whom I could discuss my thoughts about the murder. Gilbert was a fine fellow, useful and willing, but he had no academic training - indeed, I’m not sure he could even read beyond the rudimentary. The one person I would dearly have loved to confer with, Joseph, had seemingly vanished from the face of the earth. Now when I had more need of his sharp brain than ever before he seemed to have abandoned me. Even though I knew he had left I made a special trip out of the town in the hope that one of his neighbours might know where he’d gone. But his shop was shut up and if his neighbours did know of his whereabouts they were not going to tell me. That they were wary about speaking to someone from the abbey didn’t really surprise me. These people were not the same as the traders within the town walls, existing as they did on the edge of a society which was as suspicious of them as they were of it. Indeed, their very existence was technically illegal since in order to trade they needed a licence from the Abbot and, more importantly, to pay their market dues. While I was there I once again had the sense that someone was watching me, but though I looked around at the dense huddle of rough traders and vagrants I could see no-one who seemed to be paying me any particular attention. I shivered involuntarily despite the continuing warm weather and walked disconsolately back into town.

  *

  Following our frustrating morning at the fuller’s mill Jocelin and I agreed to meet up again at midday in the refectory. Now, we at Saint Edmund’s have always taken a relaxed attitude towards the Benedictine rule of silence and have never gone in for too much sign-language which can be very confusing - except at mealtimes when we were supposed to listen to some uplifting passage delivered from the pulpit while we ate. Brother Cedric was particularly keen on this rule when he was reader, as he was today, but try as I might I could not concentrate on the – doubtless inspiring - thoughts of Saint Jerome of Stridonium while so much else was spinning around in my head. I was still fuming over the behaviour of Jeremiah and the rest of the delegation that had ensnared me at the mill but I was mostly angry with myself for allowing them to outmanoeuvre me.

  While I sat mulling over the morning’s events Jocelin bustled in looking very pleased with himself and sat down heavily on the bench opposite me. Out of deference to Brother Cedric he held his tongue but I could see he was bursting to speak. At last he could contain himself no longer and leaned across the table to whisper:

  ‘I’ve been taking another look at Brother T-thomas’s treatise on Saint William of Norwich. I was right: Th-that d-document the mother signed this morning was lifted from it v-virtually word for word,’ he beamed.

  His enthusiasm was infectious. ‘So the oath is worthless,’ I exclaimed. ‘This is excellent news.’ I rubbed my hands together. ‘Ho ho, that’s one in the eye for Jeremiah and his crew!’

  My outburst caused Brother Cedric to look up from his lectern and give us a stern look of rebuke before turning a page and carrying on reading.

  Jocelin smiled apologetically and lowered his voice. ‘I would c-caution against celebrating too early. Discrediting Jeremiah and Egbert may weaken their case but it does not eliminate Moy as a s-s-suspect.’

  I raised a sardonic eyebrow. ‘Do I detect a note of doubt creeping into your voice, brother?’

  He bristled slightly. ‘I m-merely p-point out an area of w-weakness in their argument. Other evidence against Moy remains as strong as ever – the chains in the c-cellar; the very fact that the b-body was found in his garden. The legitimacy or otherwise of the mother’s oath I’m afraid is largely ir-r-relevant.’

  ‘Even though we know it to be false?’ I objected. ‘That matter of the date of Easter…’

  ‘…is a d-detail which will be l-lost on most people who will believe whatever they w-want to believe regardless of facts. Such is the nature of faith.’

  I wondered if he was conscious of the irony of his last sentence. After all, it was faith rather than fact that had coloured his own attitude thus far. But I let the observation remain unspoken.

  ‘The point I make,’ he continued undaunted, ‘is that our brother monks are already halfway convinced of Moy’s guilt. All they see is that an innocent child has been m-murdered in mockery of Christ’s Passion and someone has to be accountable. Isaac Moy - a Jew, a Christ-denier - f-fits the role perfectly.’ He sighed. ‘In truth, I doubt if they even see this in terms of a m-man’s life. To them Isaac Moy is just a name hardly a r-real person at all. After all, they have never met him. The mother’s testament, whether true or false, just adds w-weight to their conviction. Th-that, I am sure, was Egbert’s purpose in extracting it.’

  I could see the logic of his argument. There was no direct proof that Isaac Moy was the killer but without another credible suspect who else was there to blame? And with so much circumstantial evidence against him and the desire to blame someone, the belief that Moy was the killer was growing daily. We continued to eat our lunch in gloomy silence while Brother Cedric’s voice droned on and Jocelin chewed for an inordinate amount of time on his cheese and bread before swallowing.

  ‘One thing has been t-troubling me since this morning,’ he said at last. ‘The mother’s behaviour. It was so d-different from yesterday.’

  ‘Go on,’ I encouraged.

  ‘Well, if that c-captain had not restrained her in the garden I thought she could have killed Isaac with her b-bare hands. Yet today she did not mention him once. I would have expected, if she truly believed him to be the m-murderer, she would have pressed us to indict him. Yet today she seemed…’

  ‘Indifferent?’ I suggested, leaning aside to allow the servant put down our flagon of beer on the table.

  ‘Resigned,’ he corrected.

  ‘So, what is your conclusion?’

  He took another bite of his cheese and began chewing interminably slowly. At last he said, ‘I think someone must be paying her to keep silent. She v-virtually admitted as much as we were leaving.’

  I thought back to the interview with Matthew’s mother. She said she had no family other than an estranged sister in Sudbury, no pension or means to earn a wage and yet she insisted her children would not go hungry. I agreed with Jocelin, she must be getting help from someone other than the charity of neighbours. So who? Not Jeremiah and his fellows – when I made that suggestion she dismissed it with contempt.

  I was about to remind Jocelin of this when we were interrupted by one of the refectory servants bending to whisper in my ear.

  ‘Your f-face has turned suddenly very pale,’ said Jocelin glancing nervously at the pulpit. ‘Are we adm-monished by B-brother C-cedric again?’ He looked anxiously at the pulpit.

  ‘No,’ I said hurriedly draining the last of my beer. ‘The King. It seems I am summoned.’ I quickly intoned my departing grace and added a prayer for myself before scurrying out of the refectory bowing low to Brother Cedric as I passed.

  *

  This was the call I had been dreading. I’d been expecting John to try to influence the direction of the investigation and Samson’s absence gave him the ideal opportunity to do so. It was in John’s interests to have Isaac convicted of the murder in order to get his hands on his considerable wealth, and from what I had seen of the King I didn’t doubt he would try. The question was, would I be strong enough to resist? As I hurried to answer the royal summons I cursed Jeremiah under my breath for tricking Abbot Samson into being away just at the moment I needed his protection for there was no-one else remaining in the abbey with any influence over the King.

  I hadn’t seen John since my attempt to cure his constipation which already seemed an age ago. To be truthful, I’d almost forgotten he was still here, so much had happened since that afternoon. If I needed reminding I had only to look out of the window to see the army still camped on the Great Court of the Abbey although much reduced from the numbers which had arrived a week earlier. Those that had not a
lready left with Earl William and the Justiciar had begun to drift back to their home villages to tend their crops. Even so, enough remained to place a considerable burden on the resources and patience of the townsfolk who were becoming ever more resentful of their presence – and there was little hope of another football match to release pent-up energies. If the King knew any of this he didn’t seem to care, apparently preferring to indulge his favourite pastimes of whoring, eating and lying in his bed.

  When I got to the palace I found a gaggle of about a dozen local merchants and others milling at the foot of the stairs that led up to the King’s apartments, all hoping to win an audience with him. They were being held at bay by a very unsympathetic-looking guard in full body armour who completely filled the stairwell with his vast form and was not about to let anybody past, least of all me. I tried to remonstrate with him but he seemed impervious to reason. I’m not even sure he understood what I was saying to him or what nationality he was – German I suspected, for he didn’t respond to either English or French. I was about to give up when I saw with a sinking heart Geoffrey de Saye skulking on the sidelines clearly enjoying the spectacle. I had hoped our paths would never cross again but there was no avoiding him now. Indeed, he was probably responsible for the obstructive attitude of the guard who was doubtless another of his bully boys. Unfortunately with the Justiciar gone de Saye was the most senior courtier still with the King and would therefore have known about my summons. When he realised I’d seen him he stepped out from the shadows.

  I put on my most obsequious smile wishing to avoid another altercation. ‘My lord de Saye, good day to you,’ I bowed. ‘Is this one of your men? I can’t seem to get through to him. I have an appointment with the King so I would be obliged if you could get the fellow to step aside and let me pass.’

  De Saye curled his lips into a smile but there was nothing friendly in that smile. ‘And what if I choose not to get the fellow to step aside?’