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pounce on his prey. ‘Come on!’ Athelstan urged.
    The skeleton was plucked out of the pit resting on a canvas sheet. Athelstan, ignoring the whispered protest of his council, examined it, noticing how fine and white the bones were, carefully turning to scrutinise the skull and ribs. He failed to find any sign or mark of violence.
    ‘Strange,’ he muttered.
    ‘What is, Father?’
    ‘Well, I am no physician but this cannot be all that old. Notice how fine and firm the bones are. I suspect it’s a woman, and from what I remember of the Roman martyrology, most died barbaric deaths: crucifixion, hanging, impalement or decapitation. Yet this skeleton bears no mark.’
    He wanted to study the skull more closely but his parishioners now ringed the coffin. He gestured at Tab. ‘Go down and get the bailiff, Master Bladdersniff,’ he ordered. ‘You’ll find him in one of the ale-houses.’ Athelstan stared down at the skeleton again. ‘And also Culpepper the physician. His house stands on the corner of Reeking Alley. He may be old but he is skilled.’
    He then shooed everyone outside the church, telling the workmen to continue and make up for lost time. For a while the parishioners stood in the sunshine gossiping excitedly whilst Athelstan felt his own gloom deepen. He had a premonition of what was about to happen. Everyone would flock to the church, miracles would be sought, relics scrambled for, and the daily tranquillity of his parish would be shattered. The counterfeit-men would follow: the pardoners from Avignon and Rome eager to cash in on people’s fears; the relic-sellers with their bags full of the usual rubbish, followed by the relic-buyers — men who would pay good hard silver for the finger joint of a saint or a piece of the skull; finally the professional pilgrims and other religious zealots who lived their lives in a state of near hysteria. Athelstan walked away from the group, Benedicta following him. He stopped and looked back at the church.
    ‘How old is the building?’ she asked, sensing his thoughts. Athelstan stared up at the dirty grey stone of the weatherbeaten tower.
    ‘I am not sure,’ he replied. ‘But a great fire here during King Stephen’s reign levelled every building, so the earliest it could have been built would be during the reign of his successor, King Henry II.’ Athelstan bit his lip, trying to remember his history. ‘That was about two hundred years ago.’ He smiled at the widow. ‘And before you ask, Benedicta, there are no charters or books — they have all gone. You see, I have only been here a short while, and before I arrived the church was served by visiting curates or chantry priests.’
    ‘And before that?’ asked Benedicta.
    Athelstan vaguely remembered the scandalous stories he had heard and stared over at his parish council.
    ‘Watkin!’ he shouted. ‘May I have a word, please?’
    The sexton came bustling across, his face alive with excitement.
    ‘Look, Watkin,’ Athelstan snapped, ‘we must keep our heads over this matter. What do you know of the history of the church? Especially your last parish priest?’
    The fellow scratched his head, fingered the large wart on his nose and looked sheepishly at Athelstan.
    ‘Well, Father, the church has always been here.’
    ‘And your last parish priest?’
    Watkin turned down his mouth. ‘A strange fellow, Father.’
    ‘What do you mean?’
    Again Watkin scratched his head and looked at the ground as if searching for something. ‘Well, he was called William Fitzwolf: he was one of your hedgerow priests, a rogue and jackanapes. He used St Erconwald’s as a gambling den and held strange meetings here at night.’
    ‘Such as?’
    ‘You know, Father, the gibbet-men.’
    ‘You mean magicians?’
    ‘Yes, Father. But then he disappeared, taking all the records and books of the church. Someone said the archdeacons’ court were looking for him after he became involved with the likes of young Cecily.’ Watkin