The Paths of the Air by Alys Clare Page A

he has gone . . .’
    â€˜He is escorting his wife home,’ Josse said.
    â€˜Ah, yes, of course.’
    â€˜I will pass on to him anything that you tell me.’
    Josse guessed that the canon was going to voice his suspicions about the fire and he was correct. ‘I am worried about how this blaze was started,’ he said quietly, lowering his voice and leaning close to Josse. ‘There is a suggestion being bandied about that it was caused by carelessness with a brazier, but this simply cannot be so because I take it upon myself to check that all the workmen’s braziers are dead at the end of each day.’ No wonder the poor man is so agitated, Josse thought; he senses that his own reputation is at stake. ‘I know the dangers of fire,’ the canon added, ‘as do we all, and as soon as the alarm went up, the fire drill that I myself devised was set in motion. All of us were ready with our buckets, forming a chain from the river bank. Canon John and I soaked our garments, covered our noses and mouths with wet cloths and dashed into the guest wing, where we were able to grab the two Hospitallers nearest to the door and drag them outside. But, Sir Josse – and this is what both puzzles and disturbs me – the fire showed no inclination to spread to neighbouring buildings! There we all stood, water at the ready, yet once it was done with the guest wing, the fire went out!’
    â€˜ Went out? ’ Josse could not believe it. ‘Was it not rather that you and your men had already soaked the walls and roofs of the neighbouring buildings so that the fire could not take hold?’
    â€˜No, no, no , there was no time for that!’ Mark insisted, agitated. ‘I was at the head of the chain and I swear to you that only I and perhaps a dozen others had thrown the contents of our pails before the flames died. What do you make of that, Sir Josse?’
    â€˜I am not yet prepared to say,’ Josse replied cautiously.
    Mark tutted impatiently. ‘Then come and look at this,’ he said, grabbing Josse’s arm and dragging him back to the small room where the patients had been put. Striding across the floor, he drew back the linen that covered the dead man. ‘This one was Brother Jeremiah. God rest his soul,’ Mark said, and so great was his urgency that Josse decided the last four words were an afterthought. ‘Look, Sir Josse.’ Mark was turning the dead head on the muddy ground. ‘What do you say to this?’
    Josse crouched beside him, staring down at the left side of the dead monk’s head where Mark was pointing.
    â€˜I see nothing,’ he began, ‘and I—’
    Mark tutted again. ‘Don’t look, feel .’ Grabbing Josse’s hand, he pushed the fingers down into the smooth, dark blond hair. ‘There!’
    Under Josse’s fingers he felt a huge swelling.
    Something – or someone – had struck Brother Jeremiah very hard behind his left ear. And that was not all: as Josse continued to probe, he felt a deep depression right in the middle of the back of the skull. Sickeningly, he detected sharp splinters of bone.
    â€˜It could have happened as he tried to escape the flames,’ he said. ‘It was dark; he had been wakened from profound sleep. He probably panicked, tripped and fell.’
    â€˜Think again, Sir Josse,’ Mark said darkly. ‘I was first into the guest room once it was possible to enter. Brother Jeremiah had not even sat up, never mind tried to get out. He lay dead in his bed and his poor smashed skull rested on nothing harder than his straw mattress.’ His eyes, round with horrified astonishment, met Josse’s. Just in case Josse had missed the point, Mark breathed solemnly, ‘He was dead before the fire began. Somebody murdered him and then started the fire in an attempt to hide what he had done.’
    As Josse and Gervase rode briskly back up the road to