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The books the Franciscans gave you that belonged to Bishop
Grosseteste.
 I & er & 
Falconer gave him no time to respond, and opened the catalogue
close to where he had got to in his chronological search.  They
must be recorded hereabouts. He flipped another page over and
gasped.
 What s wrong? asked the worried Westerdale.
 Look at this.
The monk peered down to where Falconer was pointing. The
page that Falconer had previously noted was misaligned when
the catalogue was closed was now uppermost, and a long cut ran
halfway down it close to the binding. There was a crease from the
bottom of the cut across the whole page, causing it to stick out.
But that was not the worst of it. The cut had obviously been
caused by the wholesale removal of the page above it. All that
was left of that was a long stub of parchment.
The church gradually grew silent as the brothers filed out at the
end of midday Mass. They now had three hours for their own
devotional tasks until they reassembled at sext for the fifth
service of the day. John Whitehed, the sacrist, found comfort in
this inexorable cycle that came and went each day like the tide
on Leven Sands. Before and after each service he was fully
occupied in preparing the vessels, and the bread and wine for
Holy Eucharist. In between this tidal flow of devotion were the
low points where stretched the endless mudbanks of time, during
which he thought only of the perdition that faced him on his
death. He tried to busy himself with other matters, but his office
relieved him of the necessity to carry out any manual labour,
other than to supervise the burial of the dead. It was also his
duty to respond to the letters that arrived at the priory.
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One such letter had come from Regent Master Falconer some
months previously. Unfortunately, Ralph Westerdale had been
present when he had opened it, or he would have firmly denied
Falconer the opportunity to visit Conishead. The precentor,
however, had insisted that they invite the man, especially as
he had been a student of Bishop Grosseteste. To have a scholar
with such illustrious antecedents visit the priory and its library
could only enhance its reputation. Whitehed was sure that
Brother Ralph was thinking about enhancing his own reputation
in the process also. So the die was cast, and the sacrist began
to fear the day that would bring the man from Oxford. Then the
inevitable would happen. Now he was here, Brother John could
only wait in fear of imminent discovery, and pray that it might
not take place. That his terrible secret was known to Brother
Adam already had been enough to make his life a misery these
past few years. But that was almost tolerable  still allowing
him to continue in his office at the priory  compared to the
possibility of having what he had done becoming public
knowledge.
Nervously he washed out the vessels, storing them in the
cupboard ready for the next Mass. His hands trembled, causing
the silver cups to strike one against the other, and the sound,
like cymbals, echoed through the stillness. Try as he might he
could not still the tremor in his hands, and he grasped the altar
rail hard until his knuckles turned white. He was a weak man,
he knew, but he also knew that only drastic action would resolve
his situation.
Brother Martin Albon s head was bowed over the nameless
remains in the side chapel when Falconer returned, accompanied
by a whey-faced Ralph Westerdale. The back of his habit was an
immaculate white, as was the custom with Cistercians, but when
he turned round to see who was disturbing his work, Falconer
saw that the front was already stained with mud and grains of
sand. The sleeves were rolled up, and exposed a pair of stringy
but muscular forearms. Bits of the suety remnants of the body
stuck to his fingers, and Falconer knew he was not afraid to
delve into the innards of the bodies that confronted him. To
complete the picture of a man of science, a wispy halo of white
hair floated around his pink scalp.
 Ah, you must be the celebrated scholar from Oxford, come to
look at Brother Ralph s library. I am Martin Albon, appointed
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coroner by the King to investigate the many deaths the sands
throw up for us.
His voice was firm, but half an octave higher than it would
have been in his prime. And as he droned on, Falconer wondered
for a moment if his mind also betrayed his advancing years.
 And many deaths there have been over the years. There are
always those foolish souls who underestimate the dangers of
Lancaster Bay. Most of them end up in the same position as this
poor soul. He flicked a piece of soft pulp from the body off the
end of his index finger.  Why, I remember once being called to
verify the demise of a cartload of people, who had tried to cross
the bay without the guide. The whole cart and its contents were
swallowed up at Black Scars Hole, and no one knew what was
happening as the wind drowned out their cries for help. They
must have stopped the cart, or slowed down  you see, if you do
so the sand washes from under your wheels, and the cart tips
up.
 Can you tell us anything about the body? asked Falconer
bluntly, not expecting much. If the old monk rambled on so, the
master wasn t certain he would get any useful information from
him at all. He was probably just a cipher, there to confirm the
obvious.
Albon looked across at Henry Ussher, who was standing in the
shadow of a pillar as though not wishing to be associated with
the unpleasant task in hand. In response to Albon s quizzical
look, the prior waved his hand in resignation. Falconer was here,
and might as well hear what the Cistercian had to say. Albon
pointed to the pile of bones, which he had now arranged as they
would have been in life.
 It is the body of a man. It s sometimes difficult to tell when
you lay the bones out on the ground, but I would say this was a
tall man. As tall as you, Master Falconer.
Falconer grunted in agreement, and Albon continued.
 And his hair was black  you can see some remains of it on the
skull. Now I cannot be sure, because most of the flesh is gone,
but there is no hair on the top of the scalp. So he was either
naturally bald, or he had a tonsure. Here &  between his forefinger
and thumb, he picked up a shred of material &  we have a piece
of cloth I found stuck to the ribs. No doubt I would have found
more in the sand that formed his grave, had I been present. It is
finer linen than a fisherman would wear. All things considered, I
would say he was a wealthy merchant or a brother monk.
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Falconer was pleasantly surprised, and had to rapidly revise
his earlier opinion of this man. He clearly had an eye for detail
as Falconer did. He was going to mention the silver cross that
Henry Ussher had taken from him, but a quick glance at the
prior told him there was something wrong here. Ussher was
looking away, not wishing to assist in the identification. Maybe
he was distracted by more important matters, or maybe he had
something to hide. For the moment, Falconer decided to keep
quiet.
 Of course, I am used to having more recent remains in order
to assist in my examination, Albon continued.  Lungs full of
water clearly speak of a drowning, and there are other signs, if
the quicksand was their downfall. Here I have nothing but the
bones and this soft mass that is all that remains of his outer
form.
Henry Ussher spoke for the first time.  Then there is nothing
here to tell us it was more than an unfortunate accident.
It was a flat statement, not a question, but Albon ignored the
clear suggestion.  Oh no. It was no accident. It was undoubtedly
murder.
The prior s eyes were cold and blank  Falconer was reminded
of the stare of a dead fish on a fishmonger s slab. But his own
eyes lit up at the word the old monk had spoken.
 Murder, eh?
 Oh, without a doubt. Look here. Albon knelt, drawing Falconer [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]