Free King Arthur's Bones by The Medieval Murderers

when the villain left no witnesses and no clues as to his identity?’
    ‘By using our wits.’ She shot him a mischievous glance. ‘Well, my wits and your authority as constable, to be precise. No wicked murderer shall best us .’
    Gwenllian spent a restless night reviewing all Cole had learned about the murder, although it was frustratingly little. Daniel had left the castle at roughly nine o’clock, and John had found him dead just after first light. Priory Street was a major thoroughfare, and although there was a curfew during the hours of darkness it was not very rigorously enforced, and she was sure someone must have seen something that would help them solve the crime.
    She decided her first task would be to question John, to ascertain what he had been doing out discovering bodies at such an hour, and her second would be to inspect the scene of the murder. Cole claimed the culprit had left no clues, but he would have been thinking along the lines of dropped weapons or easily identifiable items of clothing, and it would not have occurred to him to look for more subtle evidence. And if grilling John and examining the place where a man had been bludgeoned to death did not provide answers, then she would interview the residents of Priory Street. Cole said that Boleton – whose remit it was to investigate crime – had already done that, but Boleton’s legendary laziness meant Gwenllian could not be sure he had been sufficiently diligent, and she felt it needed to be done again.
    She was awake and dressed long before dawn, and she and Cole ate a hurried breakfast of bread, cheese and summer berries in the hall, both eager to begin their search for answers as soon as possible.
    ‘Is Daniel’s body in the priory?’ she asked, wondering whether anything might be gained from examining it. She doubted Cole – or Boleton, for that matter – would have thought to check it for clues.
    ‘I brought him here.’ Cole hesitated, but then pressed on. ‘Mistress Spilmon said it was wrong to foist a bloodstained corpse on his brethren, and asked if she might be allowed to . . . She will come to tend him this morning.’
    ‘Mistress Spilmon?’ asked Gwenllian, mystified. The wives of wealthy merchants did not usually volunteer to prepare bodies for the grave – that was a task performed by impoverished widows who needed the money. ‘Why would she do that?’
    Cole shrugged sheepishly, in a way that made her sure he was holding something back. ‘He was her confessor – perhaps she wanted to perform this one last service in return. Did you want to see him?’
    Gwenllian followed him across the bailey to the chapel, an unassuming building with wooden walls and a thatched roof. Daniel lay on a trestle table, and someone had covered him with a clean blanket. Cole removed it, then rolled the monk on to his side, so she could see the back of his head. The wound was not as fearsome as she had anticipated, and it seemed Daniel had been unlucky – the blow had caught him at an odd angle and he might have lived had it struck a little higher or a little lower.
    ‘Mistress Spilmon must have tended him already,’ she remarked. ‘There would have been some blood, but someone has washed it away. And his hair is damp.’
    ‘I did that last night,’ said Cole. ‘There was blood, and I did not want her to see it.’
    Gwenllian regarded him askance. ‘She offered to lay him out, Symon, so I doubt she is squeamish about gore. But it was kindly done, and it certainly helps me, because I can see the wound has a very clear imprint. Can you?’
    Cole bent over the body, squinting in the unsteady light of the lamp. Then he looked at her in confusion. ‘It looks like a cross. There is a long mark that leads from his crown towards his neck, and a shorter one that transects it.’
    ‘Precisely.’
    He continued to regard her uncertainly. ‘Are you saying the culprit is another monk – that a cross from the priory was the murder