While her monk presented his arguments to the sheriff and steward in the stable, Eleanor had gone to soothe Stevyn’s daughter-in-law who had been left alone to cower in the shadows. For once, the woman’s rigid certitude had cracked, and she trembled like a doe sensing danger.
Eleanor’s conversation with Mistress Constance had been too short, and rather troubling, but the woman had begged leave to go to the chapel for prayer. Eager though the prioress was to question her and clarify details, this plea was not something she would refuse.
“Patience is a virtue,” the prioress now whispered aloud, knowing how often she needed the reminder. At least the woman had seemed willing to talk later.
Eleanor shuddered. Wasn’t that the same request made by Mistress Luce?
She stopped so quickly that her guard almost ran into her.
And now the steward’s wife was dead. But surely Mistress Constance would be safe enough in the brighter light of day, the prioress decided, then continued on her way as she pondered what she had heard in the stable.
The cause of Constance’s distress most certainly was not the sight of her mother-in-law’s corpse. On that discovery, the woman firmly declared she was glad Mistress Luce must face God with all her sins intact. Eleanor was not surprised there had been no affection between the women, but the statement was indicative of a spiteful heart and most unworthy of one who claimed to be pious.
Other than that one statement, Constance had said little that made sense, but Eleanor did pluck one potentially helpful detail out of the woman’s babbling: she had apparently followed Luce to the stable. If she had pursued her mother-in-law, Eleanor suspected the woman hoped to catch the steward’s wife with a new lover. From what she knew of Ranulf’s wife, she could well imagine the woman’s expression of sanctimonious pleasure when she confronted Master Stevyn with irrefutable proof of his wife’s latest sins. But perhaps she was just being uncharitable toward Constance, and the woman had meant only to stop Mistress Luce before she once again committed adultery.
When the prioress tried to find out why Ranulf’s wife had followed Luce, and how she even found out what her mother-in-law was doing, Constance retreated into wide-eyed silence. Eleanor could not shatter it. Had Constance seen something that would help identify the killer? Prayer would surely calm the woman enough to let her speak of it.
Yet the possibility of a new lover might be important as well. If Luce had found a replacement for Tobye, was he another man of low rank? Or might he have been Huet, someone else Constance disdained? If so, the revelation of such great sin between two people she hated would certainly give her great satisfaction.
As much as Eleanor hoped such a relationship did not exist, she was forced to consider the possibility. Huet had not demonstrated any interest in Luce, while her attentions to him were of questionable nature. Was it all quite innocent or was he simply better at dissemblance than she? He had proven his talent at that when he entertained them by skillfully imitating the ways of several different people. She could not discount the relationship as completely as she wished, and, although many had gathered to see the excitement surrounding Luce’s hanging, Huet was notably missing. Was that absence meaningful? Unable to come to any conclusion in that matter, she went on to consider another problem.
How had Constance learned that her mother-in-law was going to the stable at that hour? Although it seemed unlikely, Eleanor did wonder if Ranulf’s wife had actually been told by Mistress Luce. Might she even have been the visitor for whom the second cup had been brought by that rude servant?
Eleanor doubted the two women were ever in each other’s company, unless some event or custom demanded it, and was thus inclined to dismiss the idea of such a meeting. There was little enough privacy in any dwelling, and much was overheard that ought not to have been. It was possible that Constance had listened in on some conversation meant to be private or had accidentally overheard it.
When the prioress tried to discover why she had gone to the stable, however, the woman had retreated into terrified moans. Even though Eleanor rephrased her questions to gently include promises of God’s forgiveness, Constance had cried out in tremulous voice that she must go to the chapel for prayer before she spoke any more to mortals. Without pausing for more than the conventional courtesy, she had then pushed past the prioress, mumbling that she might seek her later, and rushed away,
The entire encounter had been bewildering to say the least-and yet so promising.
***
As the prioress climbed the stone stairs to the chambers above the main hall, she set aside all thoughts of Mistress Constance and concentrated on her next problem. How might she handle the examination of Luce’s corpse with the physician’s widow, a situation fraught with its own difficulties?
Eleanor bade her guard remain without, then entered the room where the body had been taken. The steward’s dead wife lay on the top of a large storage chest, her body both naked and still filthy. Someone had put lit candles around the corpse, both for light and to mask the stench of body waste. Nearby, on a small table, there was a basin of water that sat in front of a crude wooden cross, resting against the wall.
Mistress Maud knelt beside the corpse.
Apprehensive in the presence of a woman she liked but could not disregard as a murderer, the prioress left the chamber door open and walked to the widow’s side.
“What is your opinion on the manner of her death?”
“Murder is a cruel act. We all should have the chance to cleanse our souls before dying, and her sins were no worse than those of many others. She did not deserve such lack of mercy.”
“Then you conclude she was murdered?”
“Your monk was most observant. Indeed, he is as clever as he is handsome.” Maud smiled.
The smile was infectious, and the prioress returned it despite the grim discussion and her chaste vocation. “Why do you agree with him?”
“As Brother Thomas noted, someone attempting self-murder usually repents as soon as he begins to choke and tries to save himself by loosening the noose or trying to climb the rope to safety. There are no scratches around her neck from fingernails, nor are there rope burns on her palms. I think she was dead when hanged.” Maud brushed her hand over the corpse’s eyelids to shut them. “And the one who killed her was a poor dissembler.”
“How do you know such things?”
“A fair question. Have you seen men hanged for their crimes?”
“A common enough event,” Eleanor replied. “On my travels outside the priory, I have passed by gibbets where the condemned still danced in the air as well as those left as fodder for birds.” What she did not say was that the sight troubled her and she had never stopped to stare.
The widow fell silent and tears began to flow down her cheeks. “They claw at their necks…”
The prioress touched her arm in comfort.
“Forgive me, my lady,” Maud said, rubbing her cheeks dry. “I also accompanied my husband when he was summoned to examine those who died by their own hand as well as at the hand of others. Being a weak woman, I did not have his strength to look on their faces without emotion. Yet…” She straightened her shoulders and went on, pointing to Luce’s neck. “Now look here.”
Eleanor could not help thinking that the widow was showing courage enough now. Was it because she disliked the dead woman, or perhaps had even killed her? Or had she simply mustered the strength of will because a knowledgeable eye was required? The prioress bent to look at the two marks Mistress Maud was indicating.
“See this bruise? And the one here?” She shifted the body so Eleanor could see the back of Luce’s neck. “See how my hands might almost fit the marks? And the rope burn is minimal. It does not cut as deeply as it would if she had leapt from the loft and let the noose take the full weight of her falling body. I would say that Mistress Luce was strangled, then hanged to hide the finger marks.”
Eleanor knew she must consider whether or not this woman was the killer. As argument in
favor of that conclusion, the prioress noted that Maud’s appearance in the stable had been swift, yet her entrance unseen. The widow might be Huet’s lover, however she had never exhibited any greater affection for Mistress Luce than had Constance. The steward’s wife had also ordered Maud from the land, a command that had been blatantly ignored.
Against such a supposition, the prioress knew that few murderers would be so willing to argue that a body, which might yet be deemed a suicide, was the victim of foul play. And were she to take heed of her own observations, Eleanor would conclude that the bruises were too far apart to fit the span of Maud’s fingers no matter how she stretched them.
Taking a deep breath, Eleanor decided to trust her instinct and believe this woman to be innocent. The elimination of even one suspect was progress. As for the value of Maud’s testimony in law, it might not be taken with the seriousness granted a man of like background, but Brother Thomas would listen to her and give weight to her conclusions by taking them on as his own.
“You know everyone at this manor, Mistress. Who do you think had cause to kill the groom, attack the cook, and now murder the steward’s wife? Proof is still required for any finding of guilt, but your considered opinion might help bring a swifter end to these horrors.”
Maud stepped back from the body and turned her face to the window as if seeking some guidance from the light outside.
Eleanor continued to press for an answer. “I know Sir Reimund would prefer to find the slayer amongst the servants, but I fear the culprit may be of higher birth than that.”
She studied Maud, longing to read some hint of an answer in her expression. But the widow would not meet her eyes and remained as motionless as Lot’s wife when she was turned into the pillar of salt.
“Forgive me if I impugn an innocent, but I must ask if Master Stevyn might have committed all or one of the killings.”
Maud spun around, her face pale as she stared at the prioress with obvious shock. “Never, my lady! Flaws he most certainly has, but he would not have killed his wife or the groom. As for Hilda, she has long been in his service and high in his esteem. He would never have harmed her.”
“Surely he knew that Mistress Luce had put the cuckold’s horns on his head. Many would say such a betrayal gives any man just cause for killing the lover, even the wife. Less reason, perhaps, for what was done to Hilda.”
“I swear to you that he could never have killed either her or Tobye. Aye, he knew of the adultery, but he is innocent of murder!”
“I do not doubt your word but must understand the basis for your belief. Once more facts are made clear, perhaps they will point to another suspect. How can you be certain that he did not commit either crime?’
Maud began to twist her hands together as if trying to scrub an offensive stain away.
Eleanor tilted her head and remained silent, patiently waiting for the widow’s evident distress to birth an explanation, one she believed would surely be of import.
Bursting into broken sobs, Maud fell to her knees and lifted her hands, her expression piteous and pleading. “My lady, my soul is most wicked. I beg for your prayers and pity for I have a confession to make!”
Chapter Thirty-Five
The killer must be a man, Thomas decided. Stepping aside so a shepherd with his dog and many bouncing sheep could pass, the monk leaned against a white plaster wall, rough with cow hair, and considered the options.
In fact, Tobye might have been killed by either man or woman. Although the actual site of the murder had been befouled by the sheriff’s incurious men, the body itself bore no marks of any struggle. Thus Thomas felt it reasonable to assume the groom had been asleep when his throat was cut. As long as the killer approached without any sound, only stealth would have been needed to overpower him. A woman could have done it.
But Tobye must have made many enemies amongst the men here. The groom’s transgressions were more likely to enflame another man to revenge, if the groom had bedded someone’s wife, sister, or daughter. A jealous woman might have slit his throat, but the use of a knife was more a man’s way. That said, the manner in which it was done was cowardly, dishonorable.
Thomas was a priest, but his view on how insult should be dealt with was born in his youth, surrounded by men who reacted to perceived dishonor with swords and lances. Even amongst those of lesser rank, an honest man would demand the issue be settled by a fair and open fight. One less than honest might lie in wait with cudgel in hand after the sun had set. Yet, by either method, Tobye would have had a chance to defend himself. Slitting a man’s throat when he slept was a despicable act.
In any case, the potential number of suspects was significant and included every man in the vicinity who might have a beddable woman under his protection. Did the assault on Hilda diminish that number at all?
Pushing himself away from the wall, he sighed with frustration. If only he knew more about the people here, their kinships and ways, he might be able to answer that question with ease. He walked on, his head bent in thought, carefully avoiding the steaming dung left by several of the sheep.
As for eliminating any who were ignorant of her arrest, he could not. Hilda had been taken to the shed in full view of everyone working here. Few would have been ignorant of where she was held, and thus knowledge of her temporary prison was widespread.
There had been a local man set as guard by the barred door, but that turned out to be a weak defense. He had gotten drunk and fallen asleep for part of the night, which the sheriff discovered after the wounded Hilda was carried to the manor house. Thomas later heard the man’s cries as he was beaten for his negligence. Perhaps the fellow was lucky he had not been hanged, although the beating might have been severe enough to kill him anyway if sweet mercy was lacking in the heat of Sir Reimund’s fury.
Certainly the killer would not have taken long to notice that the guard was deep in a drunken sleep. Perhaps he even made sure the ale was waiting for him, knowing the weakness of this local man for strong drink. Getting into the shed had been far too easy.
The lack of evidence of any struggle suggested that Hilda knew her assailant well and, unlike Tobye, had been awake when she was stabbed. Indeed, she had felt safe enough to turn her back to the man. Might she have even expected him to free her? She did lie very close to the door and facing it. Had the door been left open to raise false hope that she might escape?
Briefly, the monk wondered if the culprit had been the sheriff. The man might have arrested her solely as a scapegoat, but there could be more to it. Had she seen him kill the groom?
The possibility pleased Thomas, but he chastised himself for malice. There was no indication that Sir Reimund was nearby until he came with his men later in the morning. His fury at finding his best suspect dying was far stronger proof that he had a better motive for keeping her alive-at least long enough to hang for the crime. Forcing himself to let logic win over his dislike of the man, Thomas reluctantly decided the sheriff had not tried to kill the cook.
So who did? If Hilda witnessed Tobye’s killing, or saw the man leave the stable, she would fear him. When she saw that familiar face enter her rough cell, she would assume he had come to kill her and would not have turned her back on him. She might even have fought him off. The cook was not a slight woman, and her arms were well-muscled after years of hacking animal carcasses with heavy cleavers.
Thomas stopped and stared up at the heavy clouds. Might the man have eased her fears by offering to bribe her? Did he promise enough money to allow her to escape and find safe haven far from here? If he convinced her that no one would believe what she had seen and that she would hang in any case, she might have accepted, deceiving herself into believing he would let her escape unharmed. If this is what happened, the man must have enough influence and coin to make such an offer believable.
“How clever of me to think of that,” Thomas muttered bitterly. “Such a conclusion eliminates most of those living here, but leaves no one I think likely to have assa
ulted Hilda as well.” Glancing at a nearby flock of pecking chickens, he was overcome by a feeling of kinship with the weak-minded fowl. With somber courtesy, and only half-amused, he nodded at them in familial greeting.
The murder of Mistress Luce, in conjunction with that of Tobye, pointed very specifically to Master Stevyn as the most likely suspect. Men, who discovered that their wives had cuckolded them, sometimes did kill both parties to the adultery, and judgements just as frequently found the husbands innocent of homicide, other men being sympathetic to such humiliation.
The steward would surely know all this. Since he must also realize that his humiliation was public enough already, he was clever enough to see the wisdom in admitting the deed and pleading for mercy due to the circumstances. This, he had not done. Did that mean he was innocent of the crime?
Perhaps. If the steward was the killer, he had behaved oddly for a man who had murdered two and perhaps a third. He had defended Hilda from the beginning. His shock and grief over the discovery of his wife’s body did not point to a man who had wantonly taken her life. With some men, Thomas might have concluded that Satan had so possessed their souls that they could feel no guilt, and thus sport the face of innocence, but he did not think that was the case here. Those men remained dry-eyed, as if hellfire had burned away all tears. Master Stevyn had wept.
As he considered the next logical step in his analysis, Thomas rounded the corner of the stable-and found himself face to face with the steward himself.
***
“Master Stevyn.” Thomas bowed his head in greeting.
The steward’s eyes were sunken deep into their sockets with weariness, and his hair had dulled to a grayer shade. He seemed a man of little joy, one who walked the earth solely out of habit.
“Ah, Brother,” he sighed, “tell me the limits on God’s forgiveness.”
Thomas hoped his surprise at such a remark was well hidden. “If a man is contrite and understands the horror of his sin,” he carefully replied, “God forgives much. Hard penance may be required, but such a man will welcome it to lift the unbearable guilt from his soul and keep it from the flames of Hell.”
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