Crowner's Quest by Bernard Knight Page B

ample shoulders in a Gallic gesture. ‘God alone knows, Crowner! But I will say that recently his manner seemed to change somewhat.’
    The Archdeacon’s lean face inclined towards him. ‘In what way, Brother Jordan?’
    ‘For several weeks now, he had been – what shall I say? – well, excited. Normally he was quiet to the point of being withdrawn, a dreamy, contemplative fellow, his mind locked in the past.’
    ‘And do you know the reason for this change?’ demanded the coroner.
    ‘No, I can’t tell you that. But since, say, the first Sunday in Advent, he worked even longer hours. He was brisker, his eye shone – though sometimes he seemed almost furtive when I passed near his desk.’
    ‘You are in charge of this place?’ asked John, lifting a finger to point around the archives.
    ‘“In charge” is, perhaps, putting it too strongly. But for eight years the responsibility of caring for the books and parchments seems to have devolved upon me, for want of anyone else to do it.’
    The Archdeacon broke in. ‘Brother Jordan is too modest – he is looked on by the Bishop and the rest of us as the cathedral archivist. He has a thankless task – but, then, we need no thanks on this side of the grave.’
    ‘Have you any notion as to what he was working on that might have wrought in him this change?’
    De Brent lifted a hand to smooth the non-existent hair on his shiny red pate. ‘I can only assume that he found something of historical interest in the old rolls he was studying. He had written a few tracts on old churches from Saxon times, so I suspect he had made some new discovery.’
    Again de Wolfe looked around the cluttered room. ‘Have you no idea what he was working on, to become so elated?’
    De Brent glanced at Roger de Limesi, but the haggard canon regarded him blankly, although he said, ‘We could look through his parchments, I suppose. He always sat at that desk.’ He indicated one in the far corner, piled with vellum rolls and loose sheets.
    ‘That will take us a day or two,’ observed the rubicund de Brent. ‘His main interest was the early foundation of Norman parishes and how they were taken over from the previous Saxon incumbents.’ He looked around rather warily, then relaxed when he had confirmed that no Saxons were present.
    The coroner scowled at the lack of progress he was making. Then, deferentially, Thomas spoke up. ‘I could examine all the documents to see if they hold any clue to this matter – or help the canons to do so,’ he added hastily, afraid that in his enthusiasm he might have spoken out of turn.
    Before they could either approve or deny his offer, the Precentor spoke for the first time. Thomas de Boterellis had a round face, with an unhealthy waxy sheen, in which were set small, cold eyes. ‘I have something to add, though it may not be very helpful. I refrained from speaking before as the matter concerns the confessional – but as poor de Hane is dead I suppose no harm can be done.’
    Five pairs of eyes swivelled towards where he sat astride his stool as if on a horse, his chasuble flowing down to the floor on each side.
    ‘Carefully now, brother, if it is a sensitive issue of religious faith,’ warned the Archdeacon.
    The other canon shook his head. ‘It is not that – and may have some slight bearing on this affair. Some weeks ago, I cannot recall exactly when, Robert de Hane came to me after a Chapter meeting, as I am – I was – his confessor.’
    John de Alencon broke in to explain to the coroner. ‘Each of us – even the Bishop himself – is allotted a fellow priest to take his confessions. Often we pair up to take each other’s sins and give absolution.’
    De Wolfe thought this a convenient system and was glad that the heretical Gwyn was not there to give one of his scornful grunts at these ecclesiastical tactics.
    The Precentor continued with his story. ‘We went as usual to kneel before the altar of St Richard and St Radegund at the west