Murder for Christ's Mass - By Maureen Ash Page 0,78
two men.
Thanking the men for taking time from their work to answer his questions, the Templar left the workshop and rode back along Masons Row. As he neared the small row of houses, Cerlo came out of his home. Mindful of his thought that the mason may have robbed Brand of his scrip, Bascot reined in his horse.
“I wanted to speak to you again, Cerlo. We now know for a certainty that Brand was killed on the day of the snowstorm, and must have arrived in the quarry just as dusk was falling. Are you quite certain you were not abroad in the pit at that time?”
Cerlo shook his head but, still holding his head in a cocked manner to compensate for his failing vision, moved his eyes slightly sideways as he mumbled an assurance he had remained in his house all day. It could be a sign he was lying, Bascot thought, or at least not telling a complete truth.
“Your answer seems evasive, Cerlo,” he said. “I want to know why.”
Cerlo looked down, his weathered face hidden from view as he said, “’Tis only that I should have gone down into the pit that evening, lord, and I didn’t. While I was acting for the quarry master, one of my duties was to ensure the covers on the equipment were secure at night. But, just as I was on my way out the door to check all was in order, my wife spilled a cauldron of hot pottage over herself, all down her arm and hand and even some on her foot. She was near to faintin’ and I had to help her, but by the time I’d got her seen to, it was dark and the snow had started to fall, so I left my task in the pit undone. That’s why I went out so early on the day of Christ’s Mass, lord. I was worried the sledges would be damaged and I would lose my post for dereliction.”
Even though Bascot remembered seeing a bandage on the hand and arm of Cerlo’s wife on the morning he had gone to their home, the mason’s words had a false ring to them, as though he was using the incident to cover an omission in his tale. The mason’s next statement, however, rang as true as one of the bells in the cathedral tower. It quickly disabused the Templar of the notion that Cerlo had robbed the dead clerk of his scrip. The mason lifted his head and, turning his dimmed eyes in the direction of the cliff top, said with heartfelt emotion, “If I had of gone out that night like I should of done, then perhaps I could have prevented that thievin’ bastard from murdering young Master Brand.”
Twenty-six
BASCOT’S MOOD AS HE RODE BACK DOWN MASONS Row was one of disappointment. His questioning of the stonecutters had not gained any information, and Cerlo’s passionate words made it seem unlikely the mason had robbed the clerk’s corpse. He felt frustrated. It was as though the elusive facts he sought had been buried with Brand and Fardein’s bodies underneath a screen of swirling snowflakes.
He slowed his horse, an even-tempered grey, as he approached the gate, trying to place the little he knew of the sequence of events on the night of December twenty-first in some sort of order. As he did so, a pile of refuse caught his attention. Comprised of pieces of broken stone, old shards of timber and leafless branches of dead trees, it was about thirty feet from the gate into the Minster and heaped against the high stone wall that encircled the cathedral ground. As Bascot looked at it, he could have sworn he saw one of the branches move. The quarryman’s remark about only homeless beggars being out on a night of such terrible weather as the one when Brand was murdered came into his mind and he guided the grey towards the pile. As he approached it, the horse tossed its head slightly and gave a soft whicker.
Bringing the grey to a halt, Bascot sat regarding the pile and, after a moment or two, thought he could see an eye watching from the depths of the debris. Dismounting, he walked towards the heap. He felt, rather than saw, the presence of something living within it. It was probably only an animal—a feral cat or even a rat—but he decided it was worth investigating and, as he drew close enough for his feet to almost