01 - Murder in the Holy City by Simon Beaufort

was why his dog was winding so enthusiastically around his legs. Inside, the church was silent, and he saw a line of monks standing in front of the altar. One of them turned at the sound of someone entering, and came to greet them. Geoffrey, steeling himself for more unpleasant interviewing, was taken aback when the monk smiled in a friendly way and offered them some wine.
    “We have come to ask about Brother Pius,” he said, wondering if the offer would be revoked when the nature of their visit became clear.
    “Poor Pius,” said the Cluniac monk, speaking Norman French and shaking his head sadly. “His death was a great loss to us. There are so very few Cluniacs in Jerusalem, you see, and he was invaluable to us in many ways.”
    “I am sorry for your loss,” said Geoffrey gently. “But you understand it is important we discover who killed Pius, and why, and I must ask you some questions.”
    The elderly monk’s eyes glittered with tears, but he nodded acquiescence.
    Geoffrey smiled encouragingly at him. “What can you tell me about Brother Pius’s death?”
    “Only that he was found dead in the house of a local butcher,” said the monk. “I do not know how he came to be there in the middle of the night. When we saw he was missing from the dormitory, we assumed he was praying in the church until a messenger came to tell us he was dead. Pius often had difficulty in sleeping, and he frequently came to the church in the night when he was restless.”
    “What of Pius himself? What was he like? Did he have many acquaintances outside your community here?”
    “Not that I know of,” replied the monk, reaching out to refill Roger’s goblet. “We tend to keep to ourselves, as far away from the disputes and quarrels of the Church as possible. We are just grateful to be here in this Holy City, and we do not wish to spend our time in useless rivalries and arguments.”
    “Could he write?” asked Geoffrey, wondering if Pius, like Jocelyn, might have acted as an occasional scribe.
    The monk smiled and shook his head. “Not at all. Not even his name. He preferred the more physical labours to the intellectual ones. He usually worked in the kitchens and did all the cleaning and cooking. We have not had a clean house or a decent meal since he died.” The tears sparkled again, and he looked away.
    “He came from Ripoll,” said Geoffrey. “Are any other of your brethren from Spain?”
    The Cluniac shook his head. “We are all from France. Pius was the only Spaniard. We met with him on the journey here from Constantinople in 1098.”
    The monk could tell them nothing more, and reluctantly Geoffrey led the way out of the cool shade of the church and into the sun. The day was at its hottest, and the streets were deserted except for the occasional animal and, of course, the flies. The dog whined piteously, and Helbye and Fletcher began to walk more and more slowly. Geoffrey’s shirt under his chain mail was soaking, and it began to rub. He considered stopping at one of the refreshment houses until the heat began to fade, but despite its considerable size, Jerusalem was in many ways a small community, and word that the Advocate was now investigating the curious murders of two knights and three monks would soon be all over the city. Geoffrey had a strong feeling that he should question the witnesses to the two remaining deaths as quickly as possible. If Hugh was correct and there was some kind of conspiracy, Geoffrey might never unravel the mystery if he allowed the culprits time to consolidate their stories.
    Ignoring the sighs and exaggerated panting of Helbye, Fletcher, and the dog, he walked briskly along the empty streets toward the house where he had seen the body of John the previous day. Their footsteps echoed in the eerily silent roads, and Geoffrey was aware that their progress was being watched surreptitiously from the windows of the houses they passed. Since so few people were out, four armed men on foot in the