The Colour of Sin: A Sebastian Foxley Medieval Murder Mystery by Toni Mount

Author:Toni Mount [Mount, Toni]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: MadeGlobal Publishing
Published: 2024-03-28T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 11

Sunday after noon

Canterbury

The midday Angelus was ringing as we departed The Chequers, having taken long over our excellent repast and then, on my part at least, spent a deal of time attempting to persuade Kit that my concerns for the safety of the Warenne twins were based upon facts and not simply the conjuring of my overly active imagination. I determined to say no more of that matter for the present.

As we walked down Mercery Lane to the Buttermarket, who did we see but the twins, leading their horses into the passage betwixt The Chequers and The Crown next door to the stables behind?

‘The food here is of the very best,’ I told them. ‘I recommend the pork and dumplings. Have a care, both of you.’

‘Are you going to the cathedral now?’ Troilus asked. ‘The queues are longer than serpents’ tails. We waited for an age, but our hunger got the better of us, so we left. The brothers there say Monday is a quieter day, so we’ll try again tomorrow.’

‘My thanks for the advice,’ I said. Even so, we continued the few yards farther to the Buttermarket, intent upon viewing the cathedral through the gateway, if no more than that.

Christ’s Church Gate was impressive indeed; the great statue of Christ the Redeemer stood atop the cream stone arcading, gilded and sparkling in the chill sunlight, noble yet compassionate. I wondered who carved such beauty centuries ago – my Guide for Pilgrims did not say. Angels, wings spread, supported the pinnacles on either side and beneath the Christ, upon a shield, I could make out the Three Choughs of Archbishop Thomas Becket, the paint much faded now. Did he have this magnificent gateway erected, or was it raised to honour him once martyred? A frieze of kneeling figures, so worn I could not determine whether they be saints or sinners, either praised or made supplication unto Christ above the heavy oak doors. These last being silvered with age but their ironwork polished and gleaming.

Both doors stood wide and we gazed through to the cathedral itself. I was eager to be impressed but, in truth, found it somewhat disappointing. I realised that our own St Paul’s stood taller and larger. Here, the solitary southwest tower cried out for a partner upon the northwest corner, giving a lop-sided appearance. Beyond that, the barely begun central bell tower was wreathed in scaffolding. Of course, no work was in hand on the Lord’s Day but, on the morrow, it would probably be as a hive of bees labouring – much as we saw at Eltham Palace. I hoped I should find the interior of this, the Mother Church of England’s Christianity, more awe-inspiring but, to those who knew not our own beloved St Paul’s, no doubt it was a building of some magnificence.

There, by the cross in Buttermarket, we saw our failed minstrel, Hugo Harper, being harangued by a stranger and getting the worst of it. Had it been any other member of our band, I may have been tempted to intervene on his behalf.

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