Read Chapter 21: The Real Killer

Thomas held the lamplight over the crypt floor, watching the dust settle around the marks Brother Mark had made earlier. The baron’s nephew, the steward, had been here. He had stood exactly where Thomas now stood, looking down at Anselm’s hidden body. Perhaps he had put it there himself.

“He knew,” Thomas said. “The steward knew Anselm was here. He’s the one who put him in the walls.”

Brother Mark stood at the crypt entrance, his face half-lit by the flame. “You think he killed him?”

“No.” Thomas crouched, tracing a scuff in the dust—a heel mark, pointed toward the stair. “The steward is a planner. He sits in the baron’s hall and counts acres. He wouldn’t risk his own hands. He found someone willing to do the work.”

“The abbot.”

“The abbot.” Thomas stood, brushing dust from his knees. “Fulke had Anselm killed because Anselm recognized the poison in the ink. He wrote the recipe himself—his own hand—and when he saw it being used, he knew what it meant. He came to Fulke first, not to the steward. He thought he could reason with his abbot.”

Mark shifted. “And Fulke sent him to Godfrey.”

“Or to the steward directly. It doesn’t matter. The chain is the same: Godfrey’s scheme, the steward’s execution, Fulke’s hands.” Thomas moved toward the stair. “But we have nothing that ties the steward to the murder. We have the ink, and we have Anselm’s body, and we have Fulke’s confession as to the scheme—but a bishop’s canon will ask who struck the blow. And the steward will say he never touched Anselm.”

“Then how do we prove it?”

Thomas paused on the bottom step. “We don’t prove it. We make him prove it.”

The refectory had been cleaned of its evening meal, the long tables scrubbed and the benches stacked. Thomas stood at the head of the room where Fulke had once presided, a single candle burning before him. Brother Mark had spread word that a final reading of evidence would take place at matins, and that the canon had requested the steward attend to answer questions about the meadow.

The steward arrived early, as Thomas had hoped. He was a lean man in a wool tunic, city shoes clicking against the flagstones. He looked at the empty hall, the single candle, and Thomas standing alone at the dais.

“Where is the canon?” the steward asked.

“He’ll come.” Thomas gestured to a bench. “Sit. We have time.”

The steward did not sit. He walked slowly along the tables, trailing a finger over the wood. “You’ve made quite a stir for a monk who copies books.”

“I’ve made a stir for a monk who reads them,” Thomas said. “Tell me—do you know how dragon’s wort works?”

The steward’s hand paused. “I don’t know herbs.”

“Then let me explain.” Thomas stepped down from the dais, the candle between them. “Crushed and steeped in water, it produces a poison that slows the heart. A man who takes enough falls into a death-like sleep. His breathing fades. His skin cools. If no one examines him closely, he is buried alive—except the dose he took was enough to stop his heart entirely within a day.”

“I don’t see what this has to do with me.”

“The ink,” Thomas said. “The ink that Brother Anselm made. The recipe called for dragon’s wort to make it dry faster. A clever trick—a poison that also speeds the work. But Anselm made his batch without the wort. He wrote it in the margin, a correction. When he saw the finished ink in the scriptorium, he knew someone had followed the original recipe. He recognized the poison.”

The steward’s jaw tightened. “That is a monk’s problem.”

“It was, until the monk came to you.” Thomas stopped a few paces from the steward. “Anselm was found under the floor of the crypt. Hidden. He had a belladonna seed in his pocket and a note on his person—a note asking for the cellarer. He thought the cellarer was the one brewing the poison. But the cellarer only knew what Fulke told him.”

The steward said nothing.

“I think you came to the abbey on the night Anselm died,” Thomas continued. “I think Fulke told you Anselm had grown wise to the ink, and you told Fulke to handle it. But Fulke was a coward. He couldn’t strike the blow. So you did it yourself.”

The steward laughed, a short, dry sound. “You accuse me of murder on the testimony of a dead abbot and a broken recipe?”

“I accuse you of murder on the evidence of your own shoes.” Thomas pointed at the steward’s feet. “Your boots are clean. Too clean. You walked from the meadow through mud to reach our gate tonight. But the soles show fresh wear at the heel, and the leather is scuffed as if you’ve knelt on stone. You knelt in the crypt, steward. You knelt to move Anselm’s body.”

The steward looked down at his feet. Then back up at Thomas. His eyes were flat. “That proves nothing.”

“It proves you’ve been in the crypt,” Thomas said. “I’ve sealed the door since I found Anselm. No one has been down there but Brother Mark and myself. Yet your heels show the dust of it.”

It was a lie. Thomas had not sealed the crypt door. But the steward did not know that.

The steward’s hand drifted to his belt. “You are a clever monk.”

“I am an observant monk,” Thomas said. “There is a difference.”

The steward’s fingers closed around the hilt of his dagger. “Then observe this.” He drew the blade and lunged.

Thomas had been watching the hand. He stepped aside, and the steward’s momentum carried him past, stumbling into the bench. Thomas seized the candle and threw it at the steward’s face. The man flinched, the flame sputtering against his cheek, and in that moment Brother Mark came through the refectory door with the porter and two lay brothers at his back.

The steward spun, dagger still raised, but saw the three men and the long iron key the porter held. He dropped the blade. It clattered across the flags.

“He threatened a man of God with iron,” Brother Mark said, his voice cracking. “In the refectory. In the presence of witnesses.”

The porter stepped forward and took the steward by the arm. The steward did not resist. His flat eyes found Thomas again. “This is not over, monk. The baron will hear of this.”

“The baron will hear of your meadow,” Thomas said. “And of your steward who poisoned a house of God for a few acres of pasture.”

The porter led the steward out, the lay brothers flanking him. Mark exhaled and leaned against the table. “That was a gamble.”

“It was a lie,” Thomas said. “The crypt is not sealed. But he believed me because he knew I was right—he was there.” Thomas wiped his hands on his robe. “We need the canon. We need a writ. And we need to find Godfrey before he learns his steward is taken.”

Brother Mark shook his head. “Godfrey is in the north, Thomas. He’s weeks away.”

“No.” Thomas looked toward the door where the steward had gone. “He’s not. The steward did not act alone in planning this. Someone told him about the poison. Someone who knew Anselm’s recipes and the scriptorium’s habits. The abbot knew, and the abbot is confined. But there was a third party who knew every step.”

Thomas turned. “Send word to the canon. Tell him we have the steward. And tell him we are coming to the abbot’s cell tonight, with witnesses, to take a full confession before the steward can send word to Godfrey.”

Mark hesitated. “Fulke will not confess to more than he already has.”

Thomas picked up the steward’s fallen dagger. “He will when he learns the steward was taken here, in the abbey, by my hand. Fulke is a coward. But he is not a fool. He will choose the shorter rope.”