The Burgundian's tale

I explained the nature of my enquiry and asked about Fulk’s visit to St Dunstan’s on the night that he had been killed; and I had the satisfaction of seeing the priest grow more mellow towards me. He was not, as he had feared, being called upon to account for any misdeed or misconduct, but rather to assist royalty in their quest for a murderer.

‘The young man who was killed,’ I finished, ‘came here on the night of his death, May Day …’

‘To celebrate the Feast of Saint Sigismund of Burgundy.’ The priest nodded. ‘Yes, I recollect his visit well. Mind you, I don’t say I should have done, otherwise. Saint Sigismund is not, as a general rule, much remembered in this country. A violent man who had his own son strangled. He repented of it afterwards, of course — they always do when it’s too late — and founded the Monastery of St Maurice at Agaunum, where, if memory serves me aright, the praises of God were sung day and night.’ The priest added grudgingly, ‘He was very good to the poor. But in spite of that, I’ve never thought Sigismund a suitable candidate for sainthood.’ His face brightened a little. ‘He got his comeuppance in the end, you know. He was defeated in battle by the three sons of Clovis and executed at Orleans. His body was thrown down a well.’

‘Thank you, Father,’ I said gravely, and frowned at Bertram, who had begun to fidget. ‘It’s always good to know these things. But about the young man who came here that night-’

‘Yes, yes, I’m coming to that. He was an admirer of Saint Sigismund and wanted me to offer up special prayers for the repose of the saint’s soul on his festival day.’

‘And did you?’

‘Naturally. I’m a priest.’

I didn’t ask if money had changed hands. It undoubtedly had, but there was no point in antagonizing my informant.

‘What was your impression of the young man?’ I asked. ‘I mean, was he drunk? Frightened? Nervous?’ I moved an inch or two around the table in an effort to avoid the sunbeam.

The priest pursed his mouth and contemplated the smoke-blackened ceiling. ‘Now, it’s odd that you should ask me that, because I did think him jumpy. A couple of times, he glanced over his shoulder as though to reassure himself that he hadn’t been followed. But when I thought about it later, I decided I might have imagined his nervousness.’

‘You know that he was the young man found dead in Fleet Sreet the following day?’

‘Of course I know! The body was carried into the church while we awaited the arrival of the Sheriff’s men. The back of his head may have been caved in, but his face was untouched.’ The priest frowned and went on, ‘I’ve wondered since if he might have come that evening to pray for Saint Sigismund’s protection.’

‘From whom? You didn’t see anyone? No one came into the church while he was there?’

The priest thought long and hard for a moment, then shook his head.

‘The church was empty that evening apart from you and Fulk Quantrell?’ I pressed him.

‘Was that his name? I don’t believe I ever knew it. No, the church wasn’t completely empty. A man had come in some half-hour beforehand and remained on his knees quietly praying throughout all the time this … this Fulk? — is that what you called him? — all the time this Fulk and I were talking.’

Bertram and I looked at one another.

‘Did this man show any interest in Master Quantrell?’ I asked eagerly.

‘None whatsoever, nor the young man in him. In fact, now I come to consider the matter carefully, Master Quantrell, as you call him, might not even have noticed the stranger, who was kneeling in the shadow of the confessional, deeply absorbed in his own prayers.’

‘Could this man have overheard what you and Fulk were talking about?’

‘I should think it very unlikely. Our voices were low and, as you can see, the confessional is halfway along the nave. We were standing near the altar.’

‘When Master Quantrell left the church, did this stranger follow him out, do you remember?’

The priest frowned, then shook his head. ‘No, but nor do I recall seeing him still … Wait a minute! Something comes back to me! Another member of my flock entered the church to make a confession just as the young man left, and there was no one kneeling near the confessional then. The stranger must have got up and gone before this unfortunate Fulk Quantrell finished his prayers.’

‘And you didn’t think to mention any of this to the Sheriff’s men when they came making their enquiries?’

The priest looked a little sheepish, but retorted sharply, ‘I did not. I believe God will uncover the truth of any crime if He wishes it known without any help from me.’

‘You mean, Father, that you believe in not getting involved in what doesn’t directly concern you. Probably a wise philosophy in the troubled times of these past thirty years.’

He shot me a suspicious look from beneath his tufty eyebrows, but ‘Quite so,’ was his only answer.