Read Online The Lord Bishop's Clerk by Sarah Hawkswood - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sarah Hawkswood
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interfere in serjeanting business. It was with deeply uncharitable thoughts that Catchpoll accompanied Hugh Bradecote back into the silence of the abbey church.
The body, a shapeless mass beneath the dark cloth that had hidden its horrors from the worshippers, lay incongruous in the tidy splendour of the choir; it was a thing of no worth, discarded in haste. Serjeant Catchpoll uncovered the corpse. It was both repellent and impersonal, lying as it did face down. There were no staring, accusing eyes, but the remains of the back of the head were a grim mess of splintered pale bone, blood and brain matter. The two sheriff’s men stood gazing thoughtfully for some time at what had so recently been Henri de Blois’s clerk, each drawing his own conclusions. Neither was squeamish. Bradecote squatted down on his haunches and disturbed the tatters of vellum with a finger.
‘What do you make of these, Serjeant?’
‘Charred vellum, my lord,’ answered the older man, woodenly.
‘Don’t try my patience, Catchpoll. I am as tired as you are, and did not ask for this task. However, I will do my best, and expect no less from you.’ He paused. ‘Do I make myself clear, Serjeant?’ The tone brooked no argument.
‘Aye, my lord, very clear.’ Unspoken animosity crackled between them.
‘Well, then. What does the charred vellum tell us?’
‘Either the clerk was killed in the process of burning some very private material, using the candle which I extinguished when I covered the body,’ he pointed to the solitary candle on the altar steps, ‘not wishing to burn both the blanket and corpse together, or he was killed so that the material could be destroyed. The second reason is, of course, the answer.’
‘Why?’ Bradecote stood up, frowning, and Catchpoll, noticing the expression, smiled unpleasantly.
‘Firstly, because the documents have been totally burnt, not removed. Secondly, because a man does not read or burn letters while lying face down on the floor, and thirdly,’ Catchpoll paused for a moment for effect, ‘because he did not die here.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Bradecote equably, thus successfully ruining Catchpoll’s moment of triumph. ‘The murderer may have read the documents and then decided to destroy them, rather than risk being found with them, but I agree that it seems unlikely that the clerk burnt them himself. It does tell us something about the murderer, of course.’
Catchpoll looked mildly interested, but said nothing.
‘The murderer can read, Catchpoll.’
Serjeant Catchpoll sniffed. ‘That may well be so, my lord, although they could have been sent to commit the murder and told to burn any documents, even if they could not tell what was in them. In some ways it is a cleverer thing to do, for if caught, the killer can reveal nothing of what was written. Very handy if it implicated someone in dark dealings.’
It was a fair point, and Bradecote acknowledged it. ‘And I assume that you think the body was moved because of the stains on the scapular?’
Catchpoll regarded Bradecote with narrowed eyes. The man was quicker than he had expected. This fact did not necessarily please him.
‘As you say, my lord.’ Catchpoll knelt beside the corpse, grunting as his ageing muscles complained, and lifted the back of the scapular, which was marked some way from the top by a large, dark and drying stain. He shook his head slowly, and spoke almost to himself.
‘The blow which broke the skull could not have marked the cloth so far down the back like this, nor with little trace above.’ Catchpoll outlined the limit of the stain upon the stone slabs with his finger. ‘You can see the way the blood has gathered on the floor, and not as much as if it happened here, nor with the splashes you’d expect. No, this man was killed somewhere else and dragged here on his own scapular. The stain matches. I’d swear he was not long dead, though, because of the amount of blood soaked in the
The body, a shapeless mass beneath the dark cloth that had hidden its horrors from the worshippers, lay incongruous in the tidy splendour of the choir; it was a thing of no worth, discarded in haste. Serjeant Catchpoll uncovered the corpse. It was both repellent and impersonal, lying as it did face down. There were no staring, accusing eyes, but the remains of the back of the head were a grim mess of splintered pale bone, blood and brain matter. The two sheriff’s men stood gazing thoughtfully for some time at what had so recently been Henri de Blois’s clerk, each drawing his own conclusions. Neither was squeamish. Bradecote squatted down on his haunches and disturbed the tatters of vellum with a finger.
‘What do you make of these, Serjeant?’
‘Charred vellum, my lord,’ answered the older man, woodenly.
‘Don’t try my patience, Catchpoll. I am as tired as you are, and did not ask for this task. However, I will do my best, and expect no less from you.’ He paused. ‘Do I make myself clear, Serjeant?’ The tone brooked no argument.
‘Aye, my lord, very clear.’ Unspoken animosity crackled between them.
‘Well, then. What does the charred vellum tell us?’
‘Either the clerk was killed in the process of burning some very private material, using the candle which I extinguished when I covered the body,’ he pointed to the solitary candle on the altar steps, ‘not wishing to burn both the blanket and corpse together, or he was killed so that the material could be destroyed. The second reason is, of course, the answer.’
‘Why?’ Bradecote stood up, frowning, and Catchpoll, noticing the expression, smiled unpleasantly.
‘Firstly, because the documents have been totally burnt, not removed. Secondly, because a man does not read or burn letters while lying face down on the floor, and thirdly,’ Catchpoll paused for a moment for effect, ‘because he did not die here.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Bradecote equably, thus successfully ruining Catchpoll’s moment of triumph. ‘The murderer may have read the documents and then decided to destroy them, rather than risk being found with them, but I agree that it seems unlikely that the clerk burnt them himself. It does tell us something about the murderer, of course.’
Catchpoll looked mildly interested, but said nothing.
‘The murderer can read, Catchpoll.’
Serjeant Catchpoll sniffed. ‘That may well be so, my lord, although they could have been sent to commit the murder and told to burn any documents, even if they could not tell what was in them. In some ways it is a cleverer thing to do, for if caught, the killer can reveal nothing of what was written. Very handy if it implicated someone in dark dealings.’
It was a fair point, and Bradecote acknowledged it. ‘And I assume that you think the body was moved because of the stains on the scapular?’
Catchpoll regarded Bradecote with narrowed eyes. The man was quicker than he had expected. This fact did not necessarily please him.
‘As you say, my lord.’ Catchpoll knelt beside the corpse, grunting as his ageing muscles complained, and lifted the back of the scapular, which was marked some way from the top by a large, dark and drying stain. He shook his head slowly, and spoke almost to himself.
‘The blow which broke the skull could not have marked the cloth so far down the back like this, nor with little trace above.’ Catchpoll outlined the limit of the stain upon the stone slabs with his finger. ‘You can see the way the blood has gathered on the floor, and not as much as if it happened here, nor with the splashes you’d expect. No, this man was killed somewhere else and dragged here on his own scapular. The stain matches. I’d swear he was not long dead, though, because of the amount of blood soaked in the
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