shouted as he threw himself up the other set of stairs. ‘The shutters are pulled back, it would be easy to enter from the stableyard.’
‘Off and up you go lad,’ Cranston shouted, twirling a penny at the ostler, who deftly caught it. Athelstan turned and tried the latch on the door to the chamber facing Scrope’s.
‘Empty,’ Thorne murmured. The taverner inserted a key and opened it. Athelstan went in. The room was neat and tidy, the window opened to air it. Everything was in order. The four-poster bed was made up, its curtains drawn back. There was a high-back chair, two stools, tables and an open aumbry for clothes, although the pole between the uprights had been taken down. Athelstan shivered at the draught created by the open door and hastily retreated back into the warmth of the gallery. He heard movement in Scrope’s chamber. Mooncalf’s exclam-ation followed by gasps and cries. The bolts on top and bottom were pulled back and the key turned. The door swung open. Cranston immediately ordered the white-faced ostler to stand with his master in the gallery as he and Athelstan stepped over the physician’s body into the chamber. Athelstan glanced quickly around. The room was very similar to the one he had just visited, though the physician’s clothing and possessions lay scattered about. In order to open the door Scrope’s corpse had been pulled back and rolled on to one side. Athelstan crossed himself and pulled the corpse further into the room, turning it over so they could see the crossbow quarrel embedded deep in Scrope’s chest. The dead physician’s pallid face, twisted in agony, was caked with the blood which had erupted through his nose and mouth. Athelstan felt the corpse’s hand: it was still slightly warm.
‘He was murdered very recently,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘Sir John, a moment, please.’
Athelstan took out the holy oils and anointed the corpse, reciting the absolution, followed by the final prayer for the departed. Once he had finished, Athelstan scrutinized the chamber door but could detect no interference with the bolts, lock and eyelet. He walked to the window, which was very similar to the one in the Barbican, with shutters on either side of a horn-covered door window. Athelstan pushed this back and stared down. The stableyard below was busy: yard ser-vants and customers were staring open-mouthed up at the chamber. Athelstan asked one of them to remove the ladder Mooncalf had used.
‘Did you see anything?’ he shouted. A chorus of denials answered his question.
‘Obviously not,’ Athelstan murmured, turning away. Anyone trying to climb into Scrope’s chamber would have been noticed. Athelstan went to the corpse and knelt by it, half-listening to Cranston’s theories. He noticed a manuscript, a small book, its pages tightly bound together by red twine. It had been opened and lay half-hidden by Scrope’s robes. He held this up.
‘Brother?’
‘A
vademecum
, Sir John.’ Athelstan leafed through the bloodstained pages. ‘A pilgrim’s book listing all the great relics at Glastonbury Abbey: Arthur’s tomb, Joseph of Arimathea’s staff. The Stella Cristi, the Star of Christ, a beautiful ruby. The Holy Thorn and other items. Scrope must have been clutching this when he died. I wonder why.’ Athelstan rose as Cranston opened the door and began to question others outside. The friar quickly sifted through the dead physician’s possessions: clothing, most of it very costly, two purses containing silver and gold coins, a set of spurs and a war belt finely stitched with gold thread. He emptied Scrope’s chancery bag on to the bed and sifted through the billae, memoranda, lists of herbs and other medicines as well as letters of attestation from different universities. He opened a bronze chancery cylinder, shook out a small roll of documents and went through these. His exclamations of surprise brought Cranston back in from the gallery. Athelstan handed over what he had
‘Off and up you go lad,’ Cranston shouted, twirling a penny at the ostler, who deftly caught it. Athelstan turned and tried the latch on the door to the chamber facing Scrope’s.
‘Empty,’ Thorne murmured. The taverner inserted a key and opened it. Athelstan went in. The room was neat and tidy, the window opened to air it. Everything was in order. The four-poster bed was made up, its curtains drawn back. There was a high-back chair, two stools, tables and an open aumbry for clothes, although the pole between the uprights had been taken down. Athelstan shivered at the draught created by the open door and hastily retreated back into the warmth of the gallery. He heard movement in Scrope’s chamber. Mooncalf’s exclam-ation followed by gasps and cries. The bolts on top and bottom were pulled back and the key turned. The door swung open. Cranston immediately ordered the white-faced ostler to stand with his master in the gallery as he and Athelstan stepped over the physician’s body into the chamber. Athelstan glanced quickly around. The room was very similar to the one he had just visited, though the physician’s clothing and possessions lay scattered about. In order to open the door Scrope’s corpse had been pulled back and rolled on to one side. Athelstan crossed himself and pulled the corpse further into the room, turning it over so they could see the crossbow quarrel embedded deep in Scrope’s chest. The dead physician’s pallid face, twisted in agony, was caked with the blood which had erupted through his nose and mouth. Athelstan felt the corpse’s hand: it was still slightly warm.
‘He was murdered very recently,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘Sir John, a moment, please.’
Athelstan took out the holy oils and anointed the corpse, reciting the absolution, followed by the final prayer for the departed. Once he had finished, Athelstan scrutinized the chamber door but could detect no interference with the bolts, lock and eyelet. He walked to the window, which was very similar to the one in the Barbican, with shutters on either side of a horn-covered door window. Athelstan pushed this back and stared down. The stableyard below was busy: yard ser-vants and customers were staring open-mouthed up at the chamber. Athelstan asked one of them to remove the ladder Mooncalf had used.
‘Did you see anything?’ he shouted. A chorus of denials answered his question.
‘Obviously not,’ Athelstan murmured, turning away. Anyone trying to climb into Scrope’s chamber would have been noticed. Athelstan went to the corpse and knelt by it, half-listening to Cranston’s theories. He noticed a manuscript, a small book, its pages tightly bound together by red twine. It had been opened and lay half-hidden by Scrope’s robes. He held this up.
‘Brother?’
‘A
vademecum
, Sir John.’ Athelstan leafed through the bloodstained pages. ‘A pilgrim’s book listing all the great relics at Glastonbury Abbey: Arthur’s tomb, Joseph of Arimathea’s staff. The Stella Cristi, the Star of Christ, a beautiful ruby. The Holy Thorn and other items. Scrope must have been clutching this when he died. I wonder why.’ Athelstan rose as Cranston opened the door and began to question others outside. The friar quickly sifted through the dead physician’s possessions: clothing, most of it very costly, two purses containing silver and gold coins, a set of spurs and a war belt finely stitched with gold thread. He emptied Scrope’s chancery bag on to the bed and sifted through the billae, memoranda, lists of herbs and other medicines as well as letters of attestation from different universities. He opened a bronze chancery cylinder, shook out a small roll of documents and went through these. His exclamations of surprise brought Cranston back in from the gallery. Athelstan handed over what he had
Similar Books
