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  For a moment neither abbot said anything, both trying to absorb what I was saying.

  ‘Left-hand rods, right-hand rods,’ snorted Eustache at last. ‘I too was there, monsieur le détective. We all know who killed Fidele. It was glove-seller.’

  ‘With respect, father, no we don’t know that. Not for certain. And there’s more,’ I said ignoring his jibe. ‘I also think the blow came from behind which would further rule out Hamo as the killer.’ I went on to explain my theory about the rod projecting further from the side it entered the body. By the time I’d finished the two of them were staring at me in incredulous silence. But I could tell from Samson’s expression that I had sown a seed of doubt there at least.

  ‘Where is the murder weapon now?’ he asked. ‘The one that did end up in Fidele’s chest?’

  ‘Ah. There’s a bit of a problem there. It seems to have gone missing.’

  ‘Ha!’ Eustache snorted. ‘How convenient!’

  ‘It was still in Fidele’s body when he was taken to the abbey,’ I insisted. ‘But it was removed so he could be laid out on the altar. Since then it appears to have, erm…disappeared.’

  ‘Is that the reason you wanted to view the body?’ asked Samson tapping a thoughtful finger against his chin.

  Eustache jumped in before I could reply: ‘You have been to view the body? Well then, that’s the answer. You, maître, took the rod, planted it under the rubble and then pretended to find it.’

  My jaw dropped in astonishment at that. ‘Why on earth would I want to do that?’

  ‘Because you do not want this man to be caught. That has been obvious from the start.’

  ‘Now just a minute,’ interrupted Samson. ‘Don’t let’s get carried away. Brother Walter hasn’t planted anything - except a lot of confusion. There’s obviously an explanation. I also saw the body. There was a rod protruding when it was brought to the abbey church, Walter’s right about that.’

  ‘You saw the body, father?’ I said. ‘In that case you’ll know which side the rod was projecting from.’

  ‘I…can’t remember.’

  ‘Father!’ I groaned with exasperation.

  ‘I can’t be expected to notice something like that,’ defended Samson. ‘It meant nothing to me which side the damn thing was sticking out until you mentioned it just now.’

  Eustache gave a snort of contempt. ‘C’est une théorie très fragile. I have a better one. What if Fidele had been running away when he was attacked? In that case he would have had his back turned to his killer.’

  I admit that was the one weak part of my theory. But would Fidele have been running away? He was the attacker. Why would he run? No, I was sure he would have been facing Hamo when the fatal blow was struck.

  But Eustache was looking pleased with himself. ‘If you want my opinion there never was a second rod. This,’ he said pointing to the one on the desk, ‘is the only one.’

  ‘Then where is the blood? And before you suggest it, no I did not wipe it clean. It’s exactly as I found it. Bent and covered in dirt.’

  ‘It was lying beneath rubble. It is also hollow. Anything could have bent it. Or anyone.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  Eustache gave one of his exaggerated Gallic shrugs so that his neck practically disappeared into his shoulders. What a shame if he got stuck in that position.

  ‘Perhaps we should ask Jocelin and Jocellus,’ I said to Samson. ‘I’m sure they’d support me.’

  ‘There’s no need to ask them. I have their witness statements here,’ he said tapping a pile of parchments on his desk. ‘They make no mention of iron bars.’

  ‘I’ll ask them anyway.’

  Before he could reply the bell for vespers started to sound.

  ‘Well,’ said Samson, ‘I doubt if we will get the answers we want sitting here. It is time to pray. Shall we rise for the Angelus?’

  He was right. It was a convenient moment to stop. Eustache and I both had entrenched opinions which because of our mutual dislike of each other we were never likely to compromise. We all three stood and bowed our heads as Samson recited the Angelus ending with the usual entreaty to the Virgin:

  ‘Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and in the hour of our death.’

  To which I for one responded with a heart-felt:

  ‘Amen!’

  Later at supper I gave Jocelin and Jocellus a run-down of the afternoon’s events. We three were rapidly turning into a little cohort of our own whispering in corners. We shouldn’t be talking at all during supper but listening to the uplifting words of the devotional reading from the pulpit while we chewed in silence. Fortunately the reader for the day was Brother Cyril who was a little deaf.

  ‘You really should t-try to do as Samson advised and n-not antagonize the abbot-legate, Walter,’ said Jocelin when I finished telling my tale.

  ‘Me antagonize him? The man practically accused me of being Hamo’s accomplice.’

  ‘All the s-same, he is an abbot - and the p-pope’s representative.’

  I just glared at him. Sometimes Jocelin’s unquestioning devotion to authority figures infuriated me. Anyone would think the pope was infallible. His Holiness’s appointment of Eustache as England’s legate certainly nailed that one.

  ‘Where is the iron bar now?’ asked Jocellus. ‘The one you found in the market.’

  ‘I left it with Samson. I’m not sure he was entirely convinced by my argument but it gave him pause for thought. I think he realises Father Eustache is a bit too keen to have Hamo convicted and won’t listen to anyone who disagrees with him.’

  ‘In the s-same way as you are to h-have him exonerated?’ said Jocelin.

  ‘That’s because I’m right.’

  ‘F-father Eustache thinks he is right.’

  I pouted. ‘Whose side are you on?’

  Jocelin smiled graciously. ‘You don’t think your j-judgement is being clouded by your d-dislike of the abbot-legate?’

  ‘Well you tell me. Do you think Hamo is the murderer?’

  He shrugged. I ripped a roll of bread in half and aggressively stuffed it in my mouth.

  ‘What do you think happened to the other iron bar - the real murder weapon?’ asked Jocellus.

  ‘Well that’s the ultimate question, isn’t it. Did it simply get lost or was it deliberately taken?’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘By the murderer, presumably.’

  ‘He was taking a risk. If anyone saw him it would immediately draw suspicion.’

  ‘W-we are right in assuming it was a “him” and not a “her”?’ frowned Jocelin, ever the pedant.

  I looked at him in astonishment. ‘Well of course it’s a man. No woman would have the strength to put an iron bar through a man’s chest.’

  ‘You haven’t seen some of those fish-wives I have to deal with,’ said Jocellus.

  ‘Why would the m-murderer risk being caught just to retrieve it?’ frowned Jocelin.

  ‘That’s what’s been puzzling me. And how did he know? It’s not as if it could identify the murderer. It was just one of the bars from Hamo’s stall.’

  ‘Unless Hamo is the t-true murderer and he came back for it.’

  ‘With half the town looking out for him?’ I shook my head. ‘I doubt if he could get within half a mile of the abbey without being apprehended. Anyway, why would he?’

  ‘Maybe the murderer was seen but no-one took any notice,’ suggested Jocellus.

  ‘Now that’s an interesting point. Who wouldn’t be noticed in an abbey chapel?’

  We all said in unison: ‘Another monk.’

  ‘B-but we three were the only monks in the m-marketplace this morning,’ objected Jocelin. ‘Ap-part from Fidele and the abbot-legate, of course.’

  ‘The only ones we know about,’ I said. ‘A monk out of his robe is just a man.’

  Brother Cyril had stopped reading to glare at us. Jocellus nudged me in the ribs and we immediately lowered out heads and concentrated on our food. As s
oon as Cyril looked away we started again:

  ‘We’re forgetting something,’ whispered Jocellus. ‘Saint Denis’s chapel is up near the west door. Dozens of people pass it every day on their way to the shrine. Any one of them could have taken the rod, and for perfectly innocent reasons. They wouldn’t know it was the murder weapon.’

  ‘That’s more or less what Brother Mark said. Oh, it’s so confusing. I’m afraid, brothers, that unless we can come up with a credible alternative Hamo will remain the prime suspect - for now at least.’

  ‘Do you s-suppose he knows the m-murderer’s true identity?’ asked Jocelin.

  ‘If he does why didn’t he stay to identify him?’

  ‘Perhaps if we c-could discover where he went and who is p-protecting him?’

  ‘Yes, that would be a help,’ said Jocellus.

  ‘No no,’ I said quickly trying to expunge the image of Joseph’s face from my mind. ‘I don’t think that’ll be much use. He’s obviously long gone from there - we’d only be wasting a lot of time trying to find out where he went. We need to know where he is now.’

  And, I could have added, if Abbot Eustache caught the merest whiff that Joseph was involved he’d have him thrown out of the town and who knew what else. There was going to have to be another way to catch this murderer.

  Chapter Eight

  TO ELY…

  I didn’t sleep at all well that night and awoke next morning with a start. I realised I’d been dreaming. Normally I don’t remember my dreams but on this occasion I did - not that I was any the wiser from having done so. Dreams are funny things. Events that would seem absurd when awake often make perfect sense when asleep: falling down bottomless wells, or soaring through the air like a bird, or reliving episodes in one’s youth as though they were happening now. That night I dreamt about Bury market except the market wasn’t in its usual place but in the quire of the abbey church, which is patently absurd, yet in my dream-world it didn’t strike me as odd at all. Some of the previous day’s events I re-enacted except that it wasn’t Eustache berating Hamo at the market cross but Samson from atop Saint Edmund’s shrine. Again, it all seemed perfectly reasonable. The abbey church, incidentally, had grown to twice its real size and stood open to the sky. As I looked up I could see the heavens through the roof. And Hamo wasn’t pole-axing Fidele but was force-feeding him pies. “You hid them therefore you must eat them!” he was yelling. As I awoke the sound of the bell was summoning me to lauds and I felt exhausted as though I hadn’t been asleep at all.

  I often wonder about the purpose of dreams. In the Bible Pharaoh dreams of seven fat cattle and then seven lean cattle which Joseph interprets as seven years of feast followed by seven years of famine. It’s a good story if a little literal. In my experience dreams aren’t really like that. But whether dreams have meaning or not I do find that after a fitful night, events that seemed confused and bewildering when I went to bed often take on clarity the next morning. So it was on this occasion. I was now more convinced than ever that Hamo could not be Fidele’s murderer. The iron bar, the body on the altar top, all was clear in my mind. Someone else had murdered Fidele.

  But who?

  Whoever it was I wouldn’t find them today, alas, for in a very short while Gilbert and I would be on our way to Ely leaving Abbot Eustache to fester in his prejudices. I wondered if he dreamed and if so whether he changed his opinion. Somehow I doubted it. I couldn’t imagine Eustache de Fly ever changing his mind about anything. At least this morning for the first time in many weeks I awoke without the throbbing pain of toothache, a blessèd relief for which I heartily thanked God - and the guard in the marketplace.

  Shortly after lauds I found Gilbert working in my laboratorium.

  ‘What are you doing, boy?’

  ‘Sewing, master.’

  ‘I can see you’re sewing. What are you sewing, and why?’

  ‘Money bags for our journey. Because father abbot told me to.’

  Gilbert can be a little pedestrian at times.

  ‘I count eight. Why so many? We are only going as far as Ely, not Rome.’

  ‘Father Abbot never said anything about Rome, master.’

  ‘No, I didn’t mean…’ I shook my head. ‘Never mind. Did father abbot say why we needed so many?’

  ‘No master. But he did leave a message for you. He said as soon as you arrived you are to speak to Brother Lionel.’

  Lionel is our sacrist. If the office of cellarer is the busiest in the abbey, that of the sacrist is arguably the most important since it is upon his skills that the abbey’s finances, and therefore its viability, depends. The sacristy was where Samson trained before he became abbot and it was largely because of his financial acumen that he was elected. Under the previous abbot our books had got into an awful mess. As sub-sacrist Samson had the necessary skill to put them in order but even then it had taken him a decade to do so. Ever since he had kept a close eye on all matters pertaining to both the abbot’s and the monks’ financial interests and was frugal to the point of meanness, which was why I was surprised to find he thought so much coin was needed just to get us to Ely.

  ‘It’s a bribe,’ explained Lionel. ‘Well, call it something else if you like but a bribe nonetheless. It’s the price of getting Bishop Eustace to close down his new market at Lakenheath.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ I nodded. ‘The cost of their charter from King John. I remember Samson saying.’

  ‘There’s no need for it,’ said Lionel pertly. ‘No need at all. The market is illegal and everybody knows it. I tried to dissuade Samson from such foolhardiness but sometimes there’s no reasoning with him.’

  That didn’t sound at all like the Samson I knew.

  ‘How much is there?’

  ‘Fifteen marks.’

  ‘Good Lord! That’s…’ I tried to do the mental arithmetic ‘…an awful lot of pennies.’

  Lionel nodded. ‘Two thousand four hundred to be precise. Eight bags of three hundred each, every silver penny of which minted here at the abbey’s mint,’ he added with pride. ‘When your assistant has finished sewing the bags I’ll get my clerk to count them out for you. Please try not to lose them. I don’t want anyone knocking at my door for recompense.’

  The implications of what was being proposed started to dawn on me. ‘Does Samson really expect Gilbert and me to travel alone, without an escort, to Ely with eight bags of silver on our mules?’

  ‘What you do with them, brother, is entirely up to you. Once you sign for them they are no longer my responsibility.’

  But that was exactly what Samson was expecting us to do, as he told me when I went to see him about it.

  ‘Bluff,’ he explained. ‘No highway robber will believe two monks stupid enough to travel alone with so much cash. Bluff will be your mask. Taking an escort would only attract attention. It would be like holding up a sign saying, “Here, we have goods worthy of protection, so come gentlemen and chance your arm”. Without a bodyguard robbers will think you’re just a couple of impoverished monks with nothing worth stealing. They may cut your throats but they would not think of looking under the sacking.’ He chuckled at my look of horror. ‘No truly, it’s much safer that way. I once bluffed my way across Europe armed with only my wits and a faith in God. No bodyguard, no weapon, nothing. I made it to Rome and back safely enough - more or less. One day I’ll tell you about it.’

  ‘You fill me with confidence, father.’

  He smiled. ‘That’s what I’m here for. Was there something else you wanted to see me about?’

  ‘Only to thank you for supporting me yesterday over that business about the rod.’

  ‘Did I support you?’

  ‘You told Abbot Eustache you saw the body in the chapel when I knew you hadn’t.’

  He shrugged. ‘I trust you. If you said the rod that killed Fidele was not bent then that’s good enough for me. And I’m not having anyone, not even the papal legate, accuse one of my obedientiaries of lying. Mistaken - possibly. Disobedie
nt - definitely. But lying - no. Besides,’ he sniffed, ‘if you had been lying I would have to lock you up and that would mean you couldn’t go to Ely. The business with the Lakenheath market is far too important to delay over a little misunderstanding with Abbot Eustache. The other matter can wait for the coroner. Then if you are lying he will soon get it out of you and deal with you in the appropriate manner - once you’ve returned from Ely.’

  ‘Father - what can I say?’

  ‘How about “goodbye”?’

  Gilbert and I set off immediately after prime for the twenty-six mile journey to the Isle of Ely hoping to complete it in a single day. The days are getting longer at this time of the year so baring unforeseen calamities we should manage to get there before dark. We’d also recently had a period of dry weather so the mud should have hardened and the bogs dried out.

  We did as Samson suggested and hid the money bags under sacking, four on Gilbert’s mount and four on mine. Samson had generously given us the use of his two best mules, Agamemnon and Clytemnestra. Like their namesakes who in real life had been the husband and wife rulers of ancient Greece, they made a feisty couple, although I mustn’t forget that the original Clytemnestra murdered her husband in a fit of jealous rage.

  The country to the west of Bury is very different from that around the abbey, much flatter and boggier, and became increasingly so the further west we went. I could see the adventure was enthralling Gilbert who in his twenty summers had never ventured this far from Bury before.

  ‘Master, why is it called the Isle of Ely? Surely the sea is a thousand miles from here.’

  ‘Not quite a thousand Gilbert, but you are right, Ely is nowhere near the sea. Look around you. The land hereabouts is wet and flat. Ely cathedral was built on the only dry promontory rising above the fens and can be seen for miles around like a glorious vessel floating upon the ocean, which is why today it is known as the ship of the fens.’