fingernails and the muddy marks on the palm of each hand.
‘If he was knocked unconscious elsewhere,’ Athelstan explained, ‘I would expect to see bruises where Sir Oliver’s body was either dragged along the cobbles or thrown into some cart. However, as you can see, apart from the bruise on the back of his head, there are no others. But there are the dirt marks under his nails and on the palms of his hands. Bouchon must have been near the river edge. His assailant knocked him unconscious and Sir Oliver fell face down, probably in some mud. His body was then lifted up and rolled into the river.’
‘But wouldn’t the water wash the stains off his hands and nails?’
Athelstan shook his head. ‘It might from the clothes, even from the face.’ He knelt down and examined Sir Oliver’s stubby features. ‘Though even here, apart from these small red crosses, there’s no mark or contusion, which is strange. Whatever, to answer your question directly, Sir John, the river water would remove any superficial mud stains from the face and clothing. But tell me, my lord Coroner, have you ever seen a corpse, the victim of some brutal assault, where the hands are open and the fingers splayed?’
Sir John smiled and shook his head.
‘Sir Oliver was no different,’ Athelstan continued. He held his own hands up, curling the fingers. ‘Next time you look at your poppets, or the Lady Maude when asleep, notice how they curl their fingers into their hands. The unconscious man is no different. After a short while, even in the river, rigor mortis sets in. The body stiffens, hence the faint dirt on the palms of his hands and beneath the nails from where he fell. What is more,’ Athelstan grasped Sir Oliver’s right hand, ‘notice how the dirt is deeply embedded. Sir Oliver must have fallen and, for a few seconds before he lost consciousness, gripped the mud as he fell, clawing it like an animal.’ Athelstan shook his head. ‘Poor man. May God grant him eternal rest! Now, for Sir Henry.’
Sir John went across to the other side of Swynford’s coffin. Athelstan knelt down and loosened the shift tied under the dead man’s chin. The friar had to pause and close his eyes at the terrible rictus of death on the grey-haired knight’s face. The mouth was still contorted in a grimace, the eyes half open, the head slightly turned so that the coins placed on the eyes had slipped away. It looked as if the corpse was about to waken and utter some terrible snarl of fury at being thrust so swiftly into the darkness. Swynford’s face, too, had been disfigured by the red crosses gouged in his skin. Athelstan tilted the man’s chin back. He studied the angry weal around the throat, digging deep where his Adam’s apple now hung.
Athelstan loosened the shift and pulled it down, but could detect no bruise or contusion; though Sir Henry, like Sir Oliver, bore the weals and scars of a soldier’s life. Then, with Sir John’s help, he turned the corpse over and stared at the bruise on the small of the man’s back.
‘How did that occur?’ he whispered.
‘Kneel down, Brother.’ Sir John smiled at his secretarius. ‘Go on, kneel down, and I’ll show you how he died.’
Athelstan knelt.
‘No, no, on one knee only,’ Sir John declared. ‘That’s how a knight prays: one leg up, one down, ever ready for action.’
Athelstan obeyed. He heard Sir John come up quietly behind him: suddenly his head went back as Sir John’s belt went round his throat, biting into his neck even as he felt Sir John’s knee dig into the small of his back. Athelstan spluttered, his hands flailing out, the belt was whisked away. Sir John pulled him to his feet and spun him round. He saw the alarm in the gentle Dominican’s face.
‘Here, Brother, have a sip from the wineskin!’
This time Athelstan did not refuse: he took a generous mouthful and thrust the wineskin back to Sir John.
‘Well done, Coroner. You were so quick!’
‘The mark of a
‘If he was knocked unconscious elsewhere,’ Athelstan explained, ‘I would expect to see bruises where Sir Oliver’s body was either dragged along the cobbles or thrown into some cart. However, as you can see, apart from the bruise on the back of his head, there are no others. But there are the dirt marks under his nails and on the palms of his hands. Bouchon must have been near the river edge. His assailant knocked him unconscious and Sir Oliver fell face down, probably in some mud. His body was then lifted up and rolled into the river.’
‘But wouldn’t the water wash the stains off his hands and nails?’
Athelstan shook his head. ‘It might from the clothes, even from the face.’ He knelt down and examined Sir Oliver’s stubby features. ‘Though even here, apart from these small red crosses, there’s no mark or contusion, which is strange. Whatever, to answer your question directly, Sir John, the river water would remove any superficial mud stains from the face and clothing. But tell me, my lord Coroner, have you ever seen a corpse, the victim of some brutal assault, where the hands are open and the fingers splayed?’
Sir John smiled and shook his head.
‘Sir Oliver was no different,’ Athelstan continued. He held his own hands up, curling the fingers. ‘Next time you look at your poppets, or the Lady Maude when asleep, notice how they curl their fingers into their hands. The unconscious man is no different. After a short while, even in the river, rigor mortis sets in. The body stiffens, hence the faint dirt on the palms of his hands and beneath the nails from where he fell. What is more,’ Athelstan grasped Sir Oliver’s right hand, ‘notice how the dirt is deeply embedded. Sir Oliver must have fallen and, for a few seconds before he lost consciousness, gripped the mud as he fell, clawing it like an animal.’ Athelstan shook his head. ‘Poor man. May God grant him eternal rest! Now, for Sir Henry.’
Sir John went across to the other side of Swynford’s coffin. Athelstan knelt down and loosened the shift tied under the dead man’s chin. The friar had to pause and close his eyes at the terrible rictus of death on the grey-haired knight’s face. The mouth was still contorted in a grimace, the eyes half open, the head slightly turned so that the coins placed on the eyes had slipped away. It looked as if the corpse was about to waken and utter some terrible snarl of fury at being thrust so swiftly into the darkness. Swynford’s face, too, had been disfigured by the red crosses gouged in his skin. Athelstan tilted the man’s chin back. He studied the angry weal around the throat, digging deep where his Adam’s apple now hung.
Athelstan loosened the shift and pulled it down, but could detect no bruise or contusion; though Sir Henry, like Sir Oliver, bore the weals and scars of a soldier’s life. Then, with Sir John’s help, he turned the corpse over and stared at the bruise on the small of the man’s back.
‘How did that occur?’ he whispered.
‘Kneel down, Brother.’ Sir John smiled at his secretarius. ‘Go on, kneel down, and I’ll show you how he died.’
Athelstan knelt.
‘No, no, on one knee only,’ Sir John declared. ‘That’s how a knight prays: one leg up, one down, ever ready for action.’
Athelstan obeyed. He heard Sir John come up quietly behind him: suddenly his head went back as Sir John’s belt went round his throat, biting into his neck even as he felt Sir John’s knee dig into the small of his back. Athelstan spluttered, his hands flailing out, the belt was whisked away. Sir John pulled him to his feet and spun him round. He saw the alarm in the gentle Dominican’s face.
‘Here, Brother, have a sip from the wineskin!’
This time Athelstan did not refuse: he took a generous mouthful and thrust the wineskin back to Sir John.
‘Well done, Coroner. You were so quick!’
‘The mark of a
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