The Paths of the Air (11 page)

‘It could have happened as he tried to escape the flames,' he said. ‘It was dark; he had been wakened from profound sleep. He probably panicked, tripped and fell.'

‘Think again, Sir Josse,' Mark said darkly. ‘I was first into the guest room once it was possible to enter. Brother Jeremiah had not even sat up, never mind tried to get out. He lay dead in his bed and his poor smashed skull rested on nothing harder than his straw mattress.' His eyes, round with horrified astonishment, met Josse's. Just in case Josse had missed the point, Mark breathed solemnly, ‘He was dead before the fire began. Somebody murdered him and then started the fire in an attempt to hide what he had done.'

As Josse and Gervase rode briskly back up the road to Hawkenlye, Josse related to his companion everything that Canon Mark had told and shown him.

‘You agree that this dead Hospitaller was murdered?' Gervase asked curtly.

‘Aye,' Josse said. There was no other explanation for Brother Jeremiah's staved-in skull.

‘And you do not think Canon Mark is inventing this tale in order to cover up his own negligence in allowing a fire to start in his guest wing?'

‘No,' Josse said firmly. ‘I cannot vouch for Canon Mark's honesty, having only just met him, although I must say that I gained the impression of a conscientious man who insists on things being done according to his own careful rules. If he says he always makes sure no fires are left smouldering at the end of the day, then I believe him. Also' – and this, he thought, was what clinched it – ‘how else did Brother Jeremiah get those fatal wounds to his head unless by another's hand? He cannot possibly have fallen, for he was found in his bed.'

‘We only have Canon Mark's word for that.'

Josse's irritation spilled over. ‘Well, go back and ask the others! I did not think to do it, Gervase, but Canon Mark didn't fight that fire all by himself and I'm sure his companions will vouch for the truth of what he told me.'

Gervase grinned. ‘Sorry, Josse. Yes, you're right; I'm just thinking around the problem.' His expression becoming rueful, he added gloomily, ‘As if one violent murder wasn't enough, now it seems we have another.'

Gervase and Josse had decided to speak to the surviving Hospitallers in the hope that they might have seen or heard something suspicious before the fire broke out. It seemed quite possible for, as Josse pointed out, the murderer must have hoped that his fire would kill all three of them – it was only thanks to the quick-thinking and courageous Canon Mark and his fire drill that two had been saved – and therefore there was a good chance that the killer had not bothered too much about keeping out of sight.

On reaching the Abbey in the early afternoon, Josse had asked Sister Ursel to send word to the Abbess that they were back and then they had gone straight to the infirmary, where Sister Euphemia had put the Hospitallers on adjacent cots in the curtained recess at the far end of the long ward. The patches of cloth had been sponged off their flesh and now both appeared to be naked, covered as far as the waist with clean white sheets. Their burns were red and shiny.

‘This man –' Sister Euphemia indicated the monk on the left, who Josse identified as Brother Otto – ‘is the more badly wounded and he breathes only with great difficulty. His burns are extensive and he would now be in agony were he conscious. I thank the merciful God for Sabin de Gifford's skill.'

‘Amen,' Josse muttered. Gervase, he noticed, gave a faint smile at this praise of his wife.

‘The other one –' the infirmarer turned to look at Thibault of Margat – ‘suffered less damage and I guess this is because he was pulled out first. His burns are not so deep, and although he has been coughing and wheezing, his condition is not as severe as his companion's.'

‘How soon before he is able to talk?' Gervase asked.

‘He is very sick. Although I said his condition is less severe, that is relative, for he too will be in a great deal of pain when he recovers consciousness and I shall do my best to keep him asleep for as long as I think fit.'

‘Sister, the monk who died did not perish in the fire,' Gervase said in an urgent whisper. ‘He was murdered, and I must set about trying to find the man who killed him. These two lucky survivors –' he must have noticed her instinctive protest, for he held up his hand to silence her – ‘yes, I know full well they will suffer agonies before they are healed but at least they are alive! These two may have seen or heard something of the attacker who killed their brother, and the sooner I can speak to them, the sooner I can get on his trail!'

The infirmarer nodded. ‘I understand,' she said quietly. ‘All I can promise is that I will monitor my patients' condition when they wake up.' She stared down sadly at Brother Otto. ‘I fear it is
if
he wakes up, in this poor soul's case,' she added. Then, her eyes returning to Gervase's: ‘If I deem it suitable for you to speak to either of them before I sedate them again, be sure that I shall send for you.'

‘But—' Gervase began.

The infirmarer put both her hands on his chest and pushed him out of the recess, Josse following. Once she had ensured that the curtains had fallen closed behind her, she looked at Gervase and said, her voice exasperated, ‘That's the best I can offer you. Go and ask that pretty wife of yours about the treatment of badly burned patients and I'm sure she'll tell you I'm doing the right thing. It's the shock, you see – burns hurt so much that the pain alone can kill you even if whoever is caring for you manages to keep you clean so that you don't suppurate to death.'

‘Oh,' said Gervase. Josse felt quite sorry for him; he looked like a scolded child.

Sister Euphemia must have thought so too. She smiled and put a motherly arm around Gervase's waist. ‘Just be patient,' she said kindly. ‘The older monk is lean, wiry and tough as an oak tree. I'm not making any promises but I reckon it'll take more than a few burns and some lungfuls of smoke to kill him off. We'll see how he is in the morning. A good night's sleep can do wonders, and we'll all be praying for them both, so we'll have the good Lord on our side.' She nodded encouragingly, her face full of such trust that Josse was moved.

‘Come, Gervase,' he said gently. ‘There's nothing more we can do here. Everything the Hospitallers had with them, including the shifts they slept in, undoubtedly went up in flames, so we can't even go through their belongings in the hope of finding some clue as to who wanted them dead. Let's leave the nursing nuns to their task.'

Gervase let out his breath in a long sigh. ‘Very well.' Then, belatedly remembering his manners, he turned to the infirmarer. ‘I am sorry if I appeared heartless, Sister, and I did not mean to bully you.'

‘I know,' she replied serenely.

‘You will let us know the instant we can speak to one or both of the monks?'

‘I will.'

He stared down at her for a moment or two. Then, with a curt nod, he turned and strode down the long ward and out of the infirmary.

Outside in the crisp air, Josse recalled something he had intended to do today. Now seemed as good a time as any, and having a purpose might help Gervase's all too evident frustration.

‘I was going to suggest we went to report to the Abbess,' he said, ‘but before we do that, there's something I've been meaning to check.'

Gervase looked at him. ‘What?' he said eagerly.

‘I'd like to go over the ground where the first victim was found,' Josse replied. ‘I'd like to do so with you, my friend, for a fresh pair of eyes may pick up something that others missed. After all,' he added, ‘in mitigation, we who brought the dead man here to the Abbey were greatly disturbed by what had been done to him and it is quite possible we did not search around as thoroughly as we might have done.'

‘Indeed it is, Josse!' Gervase cried. ‘Show me the way and let's go!'

Josse went first along the track that ran beneath the forest fringes. He did not speak; he was reliving the moment two days ago when he had first seen the dead body. He reached the place and stopped, Gervase beside him.

‘He was lying just there,' Josse pointed, ‘on the edge of the track. No attempt had been made to hide the body. He was naked and anything he might have been carrying on him was gone.'

‘And you do not think that the merchant who reported the body stole anything? It's possible, Josse – I'm told that the fellow sent his lad to the Abbey for help, so could he not have stolen the dead man's pack and hidden it away before you all came along?'

‘It's possible, aye,' Josse admitted. ‘The merchant – he gave his name as Guiot of Robertsbridge and he was going to Tonbridge market with nutmegs and cloves – was insistent that they found the corpse robbed of every garment and possession, and I had no reason not to believe him. I—' He frowned, trying to put into words his conviction that the merchant had spoken the truth. ‘It was just so awful, Gervase, that somehow I don't think any of us who saw that body lying there would have wanted to take anything, even something valuable. It would have been like picking up a piece of the victim's horrible death.'

Gervase was looking at him interestedly. ‘I never thought you were superstitious, Josse.'

‘It has nothing to do with superstition. You weren't there, Gervase. You didn't see or smell that terrible death scene.'

‘You are probably right about the merchant,' Gervase said after a moment. ‘The fact that he volunteered his name and his business so readily suggests he was honest. I suppose I could send one of my men to speak to him . . .'

‘I don't think you'd learn any more from him than you will from me,' Josse said bluntly. ‘But it's your decision and your man's time you'll be wasting.'

‘Very well,' Gervase said meekly. Then: ‘I'm sorry you have to come back here. Clearly it's upsetting you.'

Josse shrugged but did not speak. Then both men quietly crouched down and, eyes fixed to the hard ground, began to search along the track and through the fringing undergrowth.

The cramp in Josse's damp knees suggested they had been at their task for long enough. Josse had not found a thing; from Gervase's continuing silence, he guessed the sheriff had had no more success. Slowly Josse made his way back to the spot where the body had lain and, staring at the short, frosty grass at the edge of the track, he made out the large area where it had been flattened, first by the corpse and then by the booted feet of those who had come to bear it down to the Abbey. There were still a few smears of blood.

Smears
of blood . . .

Josse straightened up. ‘Gervase, he wasn't killed here!'

Gervase hurried over. ‘There's not enough blood,' Josse said. ‘With those wounds – and assuming he was still alive when they cut his throat – he would have bled copiously. So where is it? Where's the blood?'

Gervase was now staring down as intently as Josse had done. ‘There's some there.' He pointed. ‘And there.'

‘Aye, but those patches are nothing but seepage from the dead body,' Josse said. ‘When you cut into a man's wrist – and the dead man's hand was all but severed – the blood spurts out like a fountain.'

Gervase was looking at him respectfully. ‘There, Josse, I must bow before your greater experience, for I have never seen a man's hand cut off. Nor a throat being slit,' he added, ‘and I pray I never shall.' Then, as if deliberately steering his thoughts away from such horrors, he said, ‘So, if he wasn't killed here, where? Is it worth our while looking around?'

Josse was thinking. ‘If you are going to torture a man, you want to do so in an out-of-the-way spot.'

‘In the forest?' Gervase suggested.

‘Aye, perhaps, although—' Although the forest would not like it and would soon rid itself of your presence, he was going to say. Deciding it would sound impossibly whimsical to someone like Gervase, who had had very little experience of the Great Forest and all that went on within it, he said instead, ‘Although if the slaying was done deep within the trees, why did they not leave him there? No – I think they probably jumped him on the track, took him a short distance into the undergrowth and afterwards dragged his body back to this spot.'

‘Why would they do that?' Gervase persisted. ‘If he was hidden in the bracken, why not leave him there?'

It was a good question. Josse was considering it when, as if out of nowhere, the answer was in his head:
We did not want the residue of such brutality within the forest. It was we who brought him out to the track.

And then he knew.

Would he be able to make Gervase believe him?

He could but try.

‘The forest people put him here,' he said simply. ‘They knew he would be found sooner or later, for the track is quite well used. They also knew he would end up at Hawkenlye Abbey.'

Gervase was looking at him wonderingly. ‘You know that?' Josse shrugged. Gervase took it as an affirmation. ‘Because of Joanna?'

But Josse did not want to talk about Joanna. He shrugged again and then said, ‘I suggest we go along the track for a mile or so in each direction, looking for any spot where flattened grass or disturbed undergrowth points to a body having been dragged out of the forest. You go back towards the Abbey; I'll go on that way.'

Gervase, Josse noticed, had the puzzled frown of a man who wants to ask further questions but does not want to risk offence. With a private smile, he set off along the track and presently heard the sound of Gervase's footfalls as he strode off the other way.

It was Josse who found the place. Had he not been actively searching for it, he would probably have missed it, for the signs were faint: a heel print on the edge of a muddy puddle right off to the side of the track; a slim hazel branch that had been partially broken; and, when he hastened off the track and in under the trees, the shadow of a line through the dying bracken that might have been made by a boar or a deer but that, under the circumstances, Josse was absolutely sure was the work of human beings.