Dissolution

'Yes,' he replied. 'I went in through the door from the cloister yard, which is always locked at night, then up the short passage leading to the kitchen. The kitchen itself is not locked because the only way is via the passage. I opened the door and at once I slipped in something and almost went over. I put my lamp down, then saw that headless body.'

'Dr Goodhaps said he slipped too. So the blood was liquid?'

The infirmarian considered. 'Yes, it had not started to congeal.'

'So the deed had not been done long?'

'No, it cannot have been.'

'And you saw no one on your way to the kitchen?'

'No.'

I was pleased to find my brain working again, my mind racing along. 'Whoever killed Singleton would himself have been covered in blood. He would have had bloody clothes, left bloody footsteps.'

'I saw none. But I confess it was not in my mind to look, I was shocked. Later, of course, when the house was roused, there were bloody footprints everywhere from those who had entered the kitchen.'

I thought a moment. 'And the killer may then have gone to the church, desecrated the altar and stolen the relic. Did you, did anyone, notice any traces of blood on the way across the cloister to the church, or inside the church?'

Brother Guy gave me a sombre look. 'There was blood spilt about the church. We assumed it came from that sacrificed cock. As for the cloister, it started to rain before dawn and went on all day. It would have washed away any traces.'

'And after you found the body, what did you do?'

'I went straight to the abbot, of course. Now, here we are.'

He had led us to the largest of the crypts, a one-storey building in the ubiquitous yellow limestone, set on a little rise. It had a stout wooden door, wide enough for a coffin to be carried in.

I blinked a snowflake from my eyelashes. 'Well, let us get this over with.' He produced a key and I took a deep breath, breathing a silent prayer that God might strengthen my weak stomach.

***

We had to stoop to enter the low, whitewashed chamber. The ossuary was bitterly cold, the wind slicing in through a small barred window. The air held the faint, sickly tang all tombs possess. In the dim light of Brother Guy's lamp I saw the walls were lined with stone sarcophagi, figures representing the dead carved atop the lids, hands clasped in poses of supplication. Most of the men wore the full armour of past centuries.

Brother Guy put his lamp down and folded his arms, tucking his hands inside the long sleeves of his habit for warmth. 'The Fitzhugh crypt,' he said. 'The family were the original founders of the monastery and were buried here till the last of them died in the civil wars of the last century.'

The silence was suddenly broken by a jangling metallic crash. I jumped involuntarily and so did Brother Guy, his eyes wide in his dark face. I turned to see Mark bent over, picking the abbot's bunch of keys from the flagstones.

'I'm sorry, sir,' he muttered. 'I thought they were securely tied.'

'God's death!' I snapped. 'Oaf!' My legs were shaking.

There was a large metal sconce filled with fat candles in the centre of the room. Brother Guy lit them from his lamp and a yellow glow filled the chamber as he led us across to a sarcophagus with a bare stone lid, without inscription.

'"This tomb is the only one without a permanent occupant and will never have one now. The last male heir perished at Bosworth with King Richard III."' He smiled sadly. '"Sic transit gloria mundi."'

'And Singleton is laid there?' I asked.

He nodded. 'He's been there four days, but the cold should have kept him fresh.'

I took another deep breath. 'Then let us have the lid off. Mark, help him.'

Mark and Brother Guy strained to slide the heavy stone lid onto the neighbouring tomb. It resisted their efforts at first, then slid off in a rush. At once the chamber was filled with a sickening smell. Mark stepped back a pace, his nose wrinkling with distaste. 'Not so fresh,' he murmured.

Brother Guy peered in, crossing himself. I stepped forward, gripping the edge of the sarcophagus.

The body was wrapped in a white woollen cloth; only the calves and feet were visible, alabaster white, the toenails long and yellow. At the other end of the blanket a little watery blood had run out from the neck, and there was a pool of darker blood under the head, which had been set upright beside the body. I looked into the face of Robin Singleton, whom once I had outstared across the courtroom.