01 - Murder in the Holy City Page 9

  “It might matter a great deal,” said Geoffrey irritably. “It might help us discover who killed him, and so prevent another man from dying. This is important. Think back to the few days before he died. Did he leave then?”

  The Canon screwed up his face in thought. “I think I may recall something. Two days before he died, he was out all night. He returned at dawn and … well, he had a man in the room with him.”

  Geoffrey waited for elaboration, but none came. “Did you know this man?”

  “I did not, and I do not condone such activities.”

  “Can you describe him?”

  The Canon sighed heavily. “Not really. He was a Benedictine. And he had eyes of different colours. I heard them talking together in low voices.”

  “Could you hear what they were saying?”

  “No. And I did not wish to. But I heard the scrape of pen on vellum.”

  Geoffrey was astounded. The Canon pretended that he had only just recalled the incident, but it seemed to Geoffrey that it was clearly vividly etched in the man’s mind. He must have been very close to them to see that the eyes of the Benedictine were different colours, and if he had been able to hear one of them writing, then he must also have been listening very hard.

  “Have you seen this Benedictine since?”

  “Yes. He hovered around outside our premises the morning Brother Salvatori was found dead—that was two days after he had been in Salvatori’s room. Then news came of the murder, and he disappeared. I have not seen him since.”

  “Why did you not mention all this to the Patriarch’s men?”

  The Canon drew himself upright. “Brother Salvatori was a good man. And I feel he was sincere in his intentions. I did not want his name sullied with the incident of which I have told you.”

  “But it sounds as though Guido and this monk were only talking and writing,” Geoffrey pointed out. “Not engaged in any kind of activity that would besmirch the reputation of either.”

  The Canon eyed him pityingly, and Geoffrey wondered how the Canon could justify such conclusions from the information he had. He had encountered men like the Canon many times before and knew that a conviction, once held, would never be swayed, no matter what evidence was presented to the contrary.

  “Tell me what happened the morning Guido’s—Salvatori’s—body was found.”

  The Canon raised his hands. “I received a summons to go to the citadel—Salvatori’s body was taken there after it was removed from the Dome of the Rock. The Advocate knew of Salvatori’s intention to join the priesthood, and wanted me to pray over his body.”

  “Was there anything with the body when you saw it at the citadel?”

  “What do you mean? Salvatori had no purse or jewellery. He had forsaken such things in favour of a spiritual life,” replied the Canon sanctimoniously.

  Geoffrey looked from his own strong, tanned hands to those of the Canon who hastily hid them in the sleeves of his habit when he saw the knight’s sceptical gaze. The Canon’s hands were fat, white, and adorned with rings bearing heavy stones. Geoffrey wondered how the Canon could be so outrageously hypocritical in his piety and still expect to be taken seriously. Geoffrey had seen brave men waver before a battle: perhaps monks wavered when confronted with the easy pickings of the Holy Land.

  “I meant was the weapon that killed Sir Guido with his body?”

  “Oh, that. Yes. It was there. It was a huge thing, like a Saracen weapon, with a jewelled hilt. I inspected it, but the jewels were not real, only coloured glass.”

  “What happened to it?”

  “It was not worth keeping, so I left it with Salvatori’s body.” The Canon paused. “When I say it was not worth keeping, I mean I …”

  “Yes. Thank you. I know what you mean,” said Geoffrey, his dislike for the Canon increasing by the moment. He saw he would get no more useful information from him and, somewhat disgusted, he took his leave with curt thanks.

  “There is only one other thing,” called the Canon to his retreating back. Geoffrey stopped and looked back. “Brother Salvatori was sent a letter that arrived the day he died. We did not break the seal and read it, of course—that would have been most improper. I took it to the citadel myself, because the seal was that of the Advocate.”

  Wearily, Geoffrey and the others trudged up the Via Dolorosa toward the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, that most holy of Christian places, said to be the site of Jesus’ tomb. The Via Dolorosa was the route taken by Jesus at his crucifixion and was a narrow street where the earth underfoot was baked hard and dry. Unlike the rest of the city, this sacred area was full of people, for it was to this road, with the Holy Sepulchre at its end, that pilgrims came to walk barefoot to beg forgiveness for all manner of sins, some petty, most not. Here and there, voices were raised in desperate supplication in a variety of languages—Latin, Greek, French, Italian, and many Geoffrey did not recognise.

  He wondered whether crawling up the Via Dolorosa on bleeding knees, or stopping after every step to pray, would really atone for some of the foul acts to which some of these pilgrims were confessing. One man with an unkempt black beard was demanding redemption for murdering his children when he was drunk, and doing so in tones that were anything but repentant. Meanwhile, a woman begged that her husband be struck dead before he discovered how many times she had committed adultery and killed her.

  Geoffrey found his answer to the question of redemption in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre itself, which thronged with people, nearly all of them wearing smug expressions in the belief that their sins were forgiven and that they were free to go and sin again. Outside, beggars sat, revealing weeping sores, stumps of limbs, and fingers and toes eaten away by leprosy. Their chorus of demands as the knights entered the church rose furiously, and then turned into curses when Geoffrey’s handful of small coins—all he ever carried with him—did not meet their expectations.

  The church had been built during the last twenty years, after an older one had been destroyed in an Arab raid. It comprised a handsome dome, not as impressive as the cupola of the Dome of the Rock, but pleasing in its sturdy simplicity. Under the dome was the tomb itself, a small hollow in a rock, around which pilgrims clustered like flies, their hands reaching out to touch.

  This church had none of the reverent peace of the Dome or the little church of St. Mary’s: a constant babble of voices shattered the silence, wheedling, pleading, demanding, urging, fervent, jubilant, saintly, and ecstatic. Monks chanted constantly, different psalms and prayers for different Orders, all clashing and competing with each other. To one side, a man announced that he had fresh figs to refresh pilgrims weary after their ordeal, while a pardoner offered to sell Geoffrey pieces of the True Cross and hairs from Joseph’s beard that would assure his salvation. Geoffrey’s dog growled menacingly at the affray, and Geoffrey, knowing that it would be only a matter of time before it found someone to bite, pushed it outside to lie in the shade.

  A Benedictine with a pronounced limp came forward to tell them that weapons were not allowed in the Church, and that they would need to leave their arsenal of swords and daggers outside.

  “We are not here to make trouble, but we are not here as pilgrims,” said Geoffrey. “I want to talk to whoever discovered Loukas, the monk who was murdered last night.”

  The monk’s eyes narrowed. “Who are you, and why do you make such demands?”

  “We are here in the name of the Advocate,” said Geoffrey politely, wondering how long his good manners would last if forced to deal with yet more offensive monastics. “Please tell us where we might find the witnesses to Loukas’s murder.”

  The monk sized them up for a moment and then, limping, led them away from the dome and along a stone corridor with rooms leading off it. He stopped at one, gestured that they were to wait in the hallway, and slipped inside, closing the door behind him. The entrance opposite was ajar, and Geoffrey pushed it open curiously. It revealed a small chapel filled with tiny burning candles that illuminate
d it with an unsteady light. Two sheeted bodies lay side by side in front of a rough altar, and several monks knelt next to them, droning prayers. They looked up as he entered, and their voices faltered and then stopped.

  Geoffrey walked over to one of the corpses and lifted the sheet to look underneath. The white face of John of Sourdeval stared back at him, his hair washed and neatly combed and the blood rinsed from his body. Geoffrey’s stomach lurched as he looked into the face of the man who had been a friend. He stood for a moment, gazing down at the waxen features, memories of many evenings of discussion and debate flooding unbidden into his mind.

  He swallowed hard and, muttering a silent apology to John, quickly pushed the body onto its side and measured the wound in John’s back against his own forefinger. He eased him down again and replaced the sheet gently, ignoring the half-curious, half-outraged stares of the monks. He turned his attention to the other body.

  The man who lay there was small, and even in death his twisted and malformed limbs indicated a hunchback. His face was swarthy too, and although someone had carefully washed and shaved the body, there was a heavy growth of stubble on his chin and cheeks. Assuming it was Loukas, Geoffrey eased the body over, and noted that the gash in its back still oozed a little. He laid his finger next to it, noting that it was longer than the one in John’s back. But that meant nothing, for he knew that such wounds could be enlarged if the victim struggled, or fell awkwardly.

  “What do you think you are you doing?” came a sharp voice in aggrieved tones. “These men have been prepared to meet God. They died unshriven, and so we must do all we can to ensure their souls reach Him. Your poking and prodding will not help them.”

  Geoffrey smiled an apology at the surly monk who had ordered him to wait in the corridor, and followed him out of the chapel and into the room opposite. Roger was already seated with a goblet of wine, and Helbye and Fletcher stood to attention behind him.

  “This is Father Almaric, who rules the Benedictine community here,” said Roger, introducing Geoffrey to the white-haired monk who rose to greet him with a benign smile. “And this here is his secretarius Brother Celeste,” he added, eyeing the sharp-voiced monk who had escorted Geoffrey from the chapel with dislike.

  Father Almaric offered Geoffrey some wine, and then sat again with evident relief. “Forgive me,” he said, “but I have swollen ankles that give me much discomfort. Standing is most painful.” He took a grateful sip at the rich red wine in his cup. Geoffrey watched him.

  “The Arab physicians say that swollen ankles might be aggravated by red wines,” he said. “They recommend sufferers to drink white wines or, better yet, ale or water. And they say a poultice of mud from the Dead Sea brings some relief.”

  Almaric looked startled at this turn in the conversation.

  “Take no notice of him, Father,” said Roger comfortably. “He reads all the time and talks to these infidels in the language of the Devil, so it is no wonder that his head is stuffed with such nonsense. I always find red wine soothes pains better than white.”

  “Does it work, this Arab treatment?” asked Almaric, ignoring Roger.

  Geoffrey smiled. “I have no idea—I have never suffered from the complaint. I only repeat what I have read.”

  Almaric looked at the wine in his goblet and set it down. “I prefer white wines anyway,” he said. “And I will ask about this mud poultice. The pain is sometimes unbearable, and all the other remedies that I have tried have failed. But I should not regale you with my problems. I understand you are investigating these dreadful murders for the Advocate?”

  Geoffrey nodded. “I would like to speak to the person who found Brother Loukas, and to anyone who knew him well.”

  “It was Brother Celeste who found Loukas,” said Almaric, indicating his surly monk with a nod of his head. “And you are mistaken when you call him Brother. He was no monk or priest. When we Crusaders took over the Holy Sepulchre, most of the Greek community were banned from using the church. Lukas was the only one allowed to remain because we did not know how to rid ourselves of him. He was deaf and dumb, and sorely crippled. When the Greeks left, he simply continued to do his duties here—cleaning floors and doing odd chores around the kitchens. He was physically removed twice, but merely picked himself up and walked back in. I felt an admiration for his dogged devotion and gave permission for him to stay. But although he wore the robe of a monk—some castoff given to him—he was a layman.”

  “Did he have any particular acquaintances?”

  Almaric shook his head. “Not that I am aware. He could not speak, and he could not hear. The brothers here treated him kindly, but he had no particular friends, or even family.”

  Geoffrey turned to Celeste. “Please tell me what happened when you found Loukas dead.”

  Celeste looked annoyed. “I have already told the Patriarch’s men all I know. Ask them.”

  “I am asking you,” said Geoffrey with deceptive mildness, wondering why so many people were proving to be unhelpful, and beginning to find it aggravating.

  Celeste glanced at the benign features of Father Almaric and relented. “It was dark. I was walking around the Church as I always do to make certain all is secure, when I saw someone lying on the floor. It was Loukas, and he had been stabbed in the back.”

  “Stabbed with what?”

  “With a knife,” said Celeste heavily. “Like the one you see fit to bring within these holy walls.”

  “Like this one?” asked Geoffrey in surprise, drawing his dagger and holding it out to Celeste. Celeste gave a sharp, indignant intake of breath, and Almaric intervened.

  “Put your weapon away, Sir Geoffrey,” he said gently. “Celeste is correct in his disapproval. We do not like weapons in this house of God.”

  “But was the knife that killed Loukas like this one?” insisted Geoffrey, holding it so that Celeste could see the plain hilt and straight blade.

  Celeste glanced at it in exaggerated distaste. “No, I suppose not. It as different somehow. The handle was coloured, and it was bigger.”

  “What of the blade?” aked Geoffrey. “Was it like this, or different?”

  “I could not see much of the blade,” said Celeste heavily, “when it was embedded in poor Loukas. But it seemed to be bent, rather than straight like yours. I covered the poor man with one of the blankets we keep ready lest the pilgrims are taken ill—which they often are on entering this holy place after such long journeys—and I called for help. Other monks came, and I went personally to fetch Father Almaric.”

  “So, someone has been with Loukas’s body from the moment you found it until …?”

  “Until now,” snapped Celeste. “When death strikes so suddenly, the soul is in grave danger. We began a vigil for him immediately.”

  “And who removed the knife from his back?”

  Celeste frowned. “Now there was an odd thing,” he said. “The Patriarch’s scribes also asked about that. After Father Almaric had finished giving last rites—it is always possible the soul might remain with a corpse for a while and might be saved by granting it absolution, even after death—I went with the body to the chapel to supervise its laying out. When we unwrapped it, the knife was not there. It had gone.”

  “Did you see anyone remove it?”

  “Of course not,” said Celeste. “I did not even think about it until the Patriarch’s scribes pressed me on the matter.”

  “So, where is the knife now?” persisted Geoffrey.

  Celeste and Almaric exchanged a glance of incomprehension. “I really have no idea,” said Almaric frowning. “Oh, dear me. I hope you do not believe it to be stolen. What a terrible crime that would be in this most holy place.” He crossed himself quickly and turned to Celeste. “Will you ask among the brethren to see if anyone has seen this foul thing or has some idea what might have become of it?”

  “Did you know a monk called Jocelyn?” asked Geoffrey, changing the subject to curb the old man’s agitation. “Like you, he was a Benedictin
e, but he spent his time at the Dome of the Rock.”

  Father Almaric frowned, racking his brains. “You mean the monk who was murdered at the Dome?” he asked eventually. “No, I do not recall meeting him, although my memory for names is poor. What did he look like?”

  Geoffrey had to admit he did not know. He had never seen Jocelyn, dead or alive.

  “I knew Jocelyn,” mused Celeste. “He came here on occasion. He had curious eyes—one brown, one blue. You knew him Father. He came to you for confession some weeks ago.”

  The elderly monk looked taken aback. “Did he? Heavens! I must be more feeble-witted than I thought. Curious eyes, you say? I must say I cannot recall anyone of that description.”

  “What can you tell me about him?” asked Geoffrey of Celeste, leaving the old monk to sit back in his chair looking perplexed.

  “Nothing much. He spent most of his time at the Dome of the Rock and came here occasionally to pray. I never spoke to him myself.”

  “When did you last see him?”

  “I really cannot remember,” said Celeste. “Not recently, but then he has been dead for three weeks, so that can come as no surprise. Even a knight could work that out.”

  There was a silence. Father Almaric looked admonishingly at his evil-tempered monk, while Geoffrey studied Celeste intently to see if he could ascertain whether his unpleasant demeanour was usual or whether something in Geoffrey’s questions had touched a raw nerve. Almaric attempted to make up for Celeste’s rudeness with pleasantries.

  “You are Normans from England, are you not? I went to England once, to the shrine of St. Botolph at St. Edmundsbury. It is a Benedictine House, you know. What a beautiful place! So endowed with tranquillity and peace.”

  “You should see Durham,” broke in Roger. “Now there is a house fit for God. Strong too, like a fortress. I could hold it against the Scots easy!”

  Almaric looked bemused. “Do you miss it? England, I mean? The cool rain, and the mists, and the great green forests?”

  Geoffrey nodded. “I miss it very much,” he said softly. He looked away, out of the small window, through which he could see only a wall of baked yellow earth. “If Tancred gave me leave, I would return there tomorrow. I have grown weary of all this heat and dust.”