‘And what about the interval between the meal and the games?’ pressed Michael, to be sure of his facts.
There was a brief pause as the friars exchanged more uncertain glances, and then someone seemed to recall that Ailred had already told them the answer he wanted them to give. ‘There was no interval,’ he said, and everyone obligingly agreed, although there were a few downcast eyes and shuffling feet: some of the friars were uncomfortable about lying in a church. Godric was one of them; he gazed at the floor with his cheeks burning. Ailred, however, was smiling his victory at Michael, and did not notice his colleagues’ discomfort.
‘Interesting,’ murmured Michael to Bartholomew as they went to continue their search of the north aisle. ‘I think Godric is telling the truth and Ailred is lying. Now, why would Ailred lie, do you think? I did not seriously imagine last night’s intruders would be from Ovyng, because I cannot imagine why they would feel a need to enter by force when they own a key, but something odd is going on. Something very odd indeed.’
When their devotions were completed, the Franciscans lined up to walk back to Ovyng, leaving the church deserted and silent again. Bartholomew and Michael turned their attention to the nave and then the Stanton Chapel. The nave was basically bare, and there was not so much as a leaf on the flagstones, since it had been swept and cleaned for the Christmas season. There was a bench against the back wall, set there for the old or the infirm who were unable to stand, but there was nothing else except the line of smelly albs and a chest so ancient and fragile that only water jugs for flowers were kept in it.
The Stanton Chapel was much the same. There was the founder’s elaborate tomb, which had been decorated with holly boughs and a sprig of ivy, and on a windowsill stood a tiny chest containing pebbles that were supposed to have come from Jerusalem – although Bartholomew thought they were identical to ones in the river near the Great Bridge. He rummaged through the box, wondering whether something might have been stored among the stones, but found nothing there.
‘This is hopeless, Brother. What did you think you might find? Documents? A knife with a broken blade? What?’
‘It was your idea to return this morning and search, not mine,’ Michael pointed out testily. ‘And I have no idea what I expected to find. All I know is that it must have been fairly important to warrant that pair waiting until Kenyngham finished his prayers. You know how long-winded he can be while he is about his devotions.’
‘But the intruders would not necessarily know that. Perhaps they imagined it would be a matter of a few moments, and found themselves waiting a good deal longer than they anticipated.’ Bartholomew sighed. ‘I have finished, Brother. There is nothing here and nowhere left to look.’
‘There is one thing we have not examined,’ said Michael, his eyes straying to the mortal remains that inhabited the chapel.
Bartholomew stared at him. ‘You think they wanted something from Turke’s body?’
Michael raised his shoulders in a shrug. ‘Why not? We were going to have another look at it last night, so perhaps they were, too. Maybe there is something hidden on it, which you missed when you gave Turke that very cursory examination the day he died.’
Bartholomew lifted the sheet that covered the fishmonger and pointed. ‘He has been washed and dressed in a shroud. We will find nothing here.’
‘Look anyway,’ instructed Michael.
Hoping Philippa would not choose that moment to pay her respects to her husband, Bartholomew began a careful examination of Turke. The corpse’s skin was icy to the touch, and in places it felt hard, where it was partially frozen. There were ancient scars on the calves, although Bartholomew could not begin to imagine what had caused them – short of riding a horse through knife-brandishing foot-soldiers. He found cuts on the hands and a mark on Turke’s face that had probably occurred when he had fallen through the ice and attempted to claw his way clear. Bartholomew completed his examination, replaced the sheet and shroud, and gave Michael a helpless shrug.
‘Damn!’ muttered Michael. ‘Turke’s corpse was my last hope. I thought that someone might have left something with it – a letter or some message – that last night’s intruders wanted to collect, but I see I was mistaken.’
‘I suppose there is always Gosslinge’s body,’ suggested Bartholomew, unable to think of anything else. ‘I cannot see why anyone would leave a message with him, but it may be worth looking. But then I am leaving this freezing church. There is nothing here, and I think we should go elsewhere for clues – like trying to find out what Ailred was up to last night, or interviewing Harysone again.’
