Shroud for the Archbishop by Peter Tremayne

and drew forth a stick and a pair of leather sandals, together with a heavy leather-bound book. Beyond these was a rolled up tapestry which she also dragged out. Then she rose turning a bland gaze on them.

    Eadulf was smiling broadly behind his hand at their sudden chagrin.
    ‘I would presume that these are some of the missing items. The staff and sandals of Augustine and the book from Lindisfarne and the tapestry made by the ladies attending the Queen of Kent.’
    Eadulf moved forward and eagerly examined them.
    ‘There is no doubt that these are the items from the treasure,’ he confirmed.
    Licinius was shaking his head like a pugilist recovering from a blow.
    ‘How …?’ he began.
    ‘Because no one searched thoroughly,’ Fidelma replied evenly, enjoying their discomfiture. ‘It seems whoever took the treasure was only interested in the items of immediate mercenary value. The thief wanted nothing that could not be quickly converted into exchangeable currency.’ Fidelma could not help a sly dig at Eadulf. ‘It somehow weakens the point you made that these artifacts were what the thief wanted as a means of hurting the authority of Canterbury.’
    Eadulf pulled a face. He was far from convinced. Instead he turned to Marcus Narses and asked in tones of innocence: ‘Perhaps, the decurion Marcus Narses should make another and more thorough search of all the chambers on this floor?’
    Marcus Narses mumbled something which Fidelma was charitable enough to accept as assent.
    ‘Good. Now while you do that, Furius Licinius can conduct us to see Brother Ronan Ragallach.’
    ‘I think it would be the next logical step,’ Eadulf agreed solemnly.
    ‘And at least,’ Fidelma smiled mischievously, ‘we can report
to the Bishop Gelasius that not all of Wighard’s treasures have been stolen.’
    They were turning towards the door when it burst abruptly open. The agitated figure of the Superista, Marinus, stood framed in the portal. His face was flushed and his breath came quickly from the exertion of running. His eyes moved rapidly over the group until they came to rest on Sister Fidelma.
    ‘I have just heard from the guard house … Brother Ronan Ragallach has escaped from his cell and is nowhere to be found. He has vanished.’

Chapter Six
    The last notes of the chant echoed into silence against the great vaulted roof of the austere round basilica of St. John of Lateran. Massive oriental granite columns towered upwards on either side of the short nave, above which brightly coloured frescoes depicted scenes from both Old and New Testaments. The smell of incense and the fragrance of beeswax candles, in their opulent gold and silver stands, mixed into a heavily scented aroma which created a stifling atmosphere. Marble was omnipresent, blending in with the stones and granite which supported a tower above the ostentatious high altar approached by a variegated pavement of semi-precious stones inserted into mosaic form. Little chapels led off from the main domed area of the basilica; unobtrusive little chapels compared with the splendour of the area of the high altar. Here were some of the remarkably modest sarcophagi of the Holy Fathers of the Roman Church, although the custom now was, whenever possible, to have their remains interred in the basilica of St Peter to the north-west of the city.
    Before the richly endowed high altar, resting on trestles, was the opened wooden coffin of Wighard, the late archbishop-designate of Canterbury. A dozen bishops and their
attendants sat to one side and behind them a score or more of abbots and abbesses, while on the other side of the altar sat the official mourners from the band of Saxon religious, who had followed the Kentish priest to Rome for his ordination. Now they were witnesses to his funeral rites.
    Sister Fidelma had positioned herself behind Brother Eadulf who had taken a prominent place as the scriba of Wighard. Next to Eadulf sat an austere-looking abbot whose features were