Cuthbert's Way (DCI Ryan Mysteries, #17)(3)

“Then let us not be the ones to move him,” Henley reasoned. “The monks can tend to the body, and we’ll tend to the gold.”

*

While the commissioners filled two horse-drawn carts with gold and silver, ivory and other valuable commodities to please the King, the monks filled another cart with a plain wooden coffin and covered it with caskets of ale and baskets of fish, intended for distribution to the poor. As night fell, the Prior came out to the courtyard to speak to the monks entrusted with its safe passage, knowing they should never meet again.

“Brothers,” he said quietly, as each fell upon his hands to kiss the fingertips. “Kneel, and receive God’s blessing.”

He delivered a prayer, their bent heads illuminated by the pearly light of the moon, before a cloud passed over the sky and cast the landscape in shadow once more.

“William, George,” he began. “May God grant you grace and fortitude, all your days. Only we three know of our saint’s final journey, and so it must be until one of us dies. Only then can the knowledge be shared with another of our brothers, and they must be wise and true. Do not speak in haste, nor under any threat of worldly harm, for your Maker will decide your fate upon the Day of Judgment and will not look kindly upon cowardice.”

The others nodded.

“Then, go, brothers. Seek out Elven Moor, for there are many there in need of hope.”

“Hold!”

They turned, to find one of the commissioner’s guards approaching.

“Who goes there?” he demanded.

“Alms for the poor, my son,” the Prior told him. “Fish and a little ale, to ease their plight, for there are many running from the plague who are living wild on the moors, and many remaining to starve or else die a black death.”

“Plague, you say?” The guard took an involuntary step back.

“Aye, they say it’ll reach us, soon enough,” the Prior continued, and it was no lie. The country was beset with a pandemic and many were already decamping the city, running for the sweet-smelling air of the hills.

“Soon? How soon?” the guard asked, all thoughts of checking the cart now forgotten.

“Any day now,” Whitehead told him. “It would be as well for you to tell your masters to make haste, else none may live to return home.”

The guard bade a hurried retreat, and the Prior turned back to his brothers.

“Godspeed,” he said, and raised a hand in farewell.

He watched the cart rumble across the cobblestones, disappearing into the murky night until it was no more than an apparition, a memory of what once had been, and wondered if he had made the right decision.

Only time would tell.





CHAPTER 1


Crayke College, Yorkshire

Sunday 6th December 2020

All was blessedly quiet in St. Cuthbert’s boarding house.

The boys had taken themselves off to attend ‘Movie Night’ in the main school hall, chattering and laughing as they crossed the grassy quadrangle and, as the hallways fell silent in the wake of their departure, Father Jacob could only thank God there was a double feature that evening, which meant he could look forward to at least four hours of restful, child-free contemplation.

Praise be.

Heaving a sigh of pure contentment, he followed the wood-panelled corridors towards his private rooms, where he took his time selecting a book from the overstuffed shelves in the small library he’d developed over the twenty years he’d been a monk and housemaster at Crayke. Given his vocation, it would, perhaps, have been more pious if he’d selected a religious text to while away his free time; however, when his hand strayed towards a volume of The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, the matter was decided.

“To a great mind, nothing is little,” he murmured, and settled himself down to read, cracking open the window to allow a steady gust of wintry night air to swirl around the room.

Father Jacob had barely finished the first page of The Red-Headed League before his solitude was interrupted by the sound of shattering glass somewhere on the floor below. He jolted in his chair, and half wondered whether it was God’s way of telling him that he should have chosen different reading material, after all.

“Who is it this time?” he muttered, heaving himself up to go in search of the culprit.

Felix Haynes, no doubt. Perhaps Peter Alverton, if the others spurred him on…

It wouldn’t be the first time either of them had been chastised for low-level property damage, but Jacob was disappointed to find that previous punishments hadn’t been enough to deter them from acting up.

He’d have to call their parents—again.

Jacob lifted the sash window higher and stuck his head outside, where the bracing December wind rushed against his face, stinging his cheeks. The grounds were illuminated all the way to the trees lining either side of the manicured grounds, and motion-sensor security lights shone brightly upon the pathway skirting the perimeter of the boarding house. They continued to shine, which told him that someone, or something, had activated the sensor very recently.

There was no sign of anyone there now and, when he opened the door to his study and stepped into the hallway beyond, there was not a soul to be seen nor a sound to be heard in any direction.

“Haynes? Alverton?”

He waited for the inevitable sound of scurrying footsteps and raucous laughter, but the air remained heavy and silent, as though the very walls were watching him.