by Alys Clare
Josse had drawn his sword and, using the point of the hilt as a mallet, was gently cracking the ice around the corpse’s head and shoulders, making attractive star patterns on the smooth surface. ‘I think,’ he said, ‘we might be able to release her fairly easily. The pond’s not frozen solid, it’s only the first few inches.’
Observing what he was doing, one or two of the brighter men came to help. Soon, the ice around the upper part of the corpse was shattered into a hundred fragments and Josse and his two assistants were able to extract the old woman from her frozen tomb.
Her face, Josse noticed as he turned her over on to her back, was badly bruised …
She must have banged her face on the ice,’ Sheriff Pelham observed, leaning over Josse’s shoulder and breathing open-mouthed into his ear.
‘Think again,’ Josse said. ‘If she fell when the pond was iced over, she wouldn’t have been down there beneath the surface, frozen into it.’
Momentarily, the Sheriff was silenced.
Rapidly Josse inspected the rest of the corpse. As well as the bruised face – the nose had taken a direct hit, and, as he gently probed inside the mouth, he saw what looked like a recently-broken tooth – she had damage to both hands.
Josse held the dead hands in his.
Pity surging through him, he realised that someone had deliberately broken two fingers on each of the dead woman’s hands.
He laid her head down again and, on the sloping bank, she rolled over until she was lying face-down.
And Josse saw, on the back of the carefully-laundered white cap, a clear boot print.
Someone had savagely beaten her, then dragged her to the pond and held her head under the water with a foot until she died.
Why the beating? To what purpose had somebody tortured her like that?
Why, he answered himself, were people usually tortured in this wicked world? To make them tell you something that they knew and you didn’t. Something that you badly wanted to know.
Oh, God, Josse thought.
‘When you’ve quite finished,’ the Sheriff said from just behind him, ‘we’d better see about taking this here into town for disposal.’
Disposal.
‘You’ve got a murder on your hands,’ Josse said softly. ‘Didn’t you realise?’
‘Murder my arse!’ The Sheriff spat on to the frosty grass. ‘She went to get water, slipped, bashed her head and fell in the water.’ He put his face up close to Josse’s and added with quiet intensity, ‘That’s what I say. And what I say goes.’
Unfortunately, as Josse well knew, it did.
He said, ‘Aren’t you even going to determine who she was?
The Sheriff, grinning, raised his eyebrows at one of his men. ‘No need for that. Hugh?’
The man, stepping forward, said, ‘She were Mag Hobson. She were my mam’s aunt.’
With nothing further to add, Josse watched as a hurdle was brought up, and, with a scant amount of respect which he felt was only employed because he happened to be watching, the men got the body on to it and began the long walk back to Tonbridge.
* * *
Leading Horace, Josse fell into step beside the man called Hugh.
‘Did you know her yourself?’ he said quietly; no need for the Sheriff to know he was asking questions.
‘Old Mag? No, can’t say as I did.’
‘But your mother did, presumably.’ The man didn’t answer. ‘Did she visit her aunt? Your mother, I mean.’
‘Might have done.’
Josse wondered why the man was being so wary. Then, thinking back to what he had already been told – and to that neat herb garden – he said, ‘She was a wise woman. Wasn’t she?’
Hugh shot him a swift look. He muttered, ‘Aye.’
‘That’s why she lived out here all alone,’ Josse went on, thinking out loud. ‘Why people preferred to keep her at arm’s length.’
‘She were good,’ Hugh supplied, as if belatedly prompted to defend his dead relative’s reputation. ‘Fixed things for lots of folk, though they didn’t like to say so. Me, I preferred to keep right out of it.’
Superstition, Josse thought. No, folks wouldn’t want it widely known that they had consulted a wise woman. You never knew, and it was best to be on the safe side where meddling in that sort of thing was concerned.
‘I understand,’ Josse said. ‘And many people wouldn’t want it known that their mother’s aunt was a wise woman.’
Hugh seemed to be battling with some inner conflict. ‘Makes me angry,’ he finally admitted. ‘They jeer at her and say she’s an old witch, but who is it they go running to after nightfall when they want a love potion or a wart charm? Ain’t right.’
‘It’s not,’ Josse agreed. ‘But it’s human nature, I’m afraid, Hugh.’
‘She learned her craft young, they do say,’ Hugh volunteered, As if, having admitted to the fact of his mother’s aunt’s oddness, there was no further barrier to discussing her, he went on, ‘When she were still at the big house, she were trained by an older woman, her what did the heavy washing. That’s the way of it, that an older one passes on the secrets to a young ‘un. Or so they do say.’
‘Aye, so I’ve heard,’ Josse agreed. ‘At the big house, you say? What, she lived in a house of her own?’ It didn’t seem very likely.
‘No, bless you!’ Hugh gave a faint laugh. ‘She were housekeeper. Well, that’s a deal too grand, it were only a small household. But she were their main indoor servant, that’s for sure.’
‘Whose?’
Hugh’s face creased into a frown of concentration. ‘I don’t know as I ever knew their name,’ he admitted. ‘They was old, an old man and an old woman. They lived alone, mostly, only they sometimes had folks visiting. Kin, I reckon. I know that for a fact because she – Mag – would get my mam in to help her with the cooking and that, when the visitors came.’
‘I see.’ Barely daring to ask the question, Josse said, ‘And you don’t know if they’re still there? The old couple?’
‘Lord, no, they’m dead.’ A reflective pause. ‘House’d be empty now, I reckon. Mag, she used to keep an eye on the place. Never could fathom why – maybe in case some long-lost relation came back to claim it one day. Or maybe because Mag weren’t a woman to let any place go to rack and ruin, not if she could help it.’ He sighed.
They walked in silence for some time. Josse, digesting what he had just been told and thinking furiously, was beginning to draw some tentative conclusions when Hugh said, ‘Do you reckon it were how the Sheriff says? An accident, like?’
And Josse said, ‘No, Hugh. I’m quite certain it wasn’t.’
‘Will you see her right?’ It was a whisper that Josse barely heard.
But he recognised the question for what it was. It was a man’s conscience speaking, a man who, stirred to pity by the brutal death of a relative – admittedly a distant one whom he usually preferred to forget about – wanted justice to be done.
‘Yes, Hugh,’ Josse whispered back. ‘I promise that, if it’s in my power, I will.’
Chapter Eight
‘… and I can’t help but think that it was Mag Hobson whom Joanna de Courtenay – Joanna de Lehon – came here to find,’ Josse concluded, having detailed his theory to Abbess Helewise for the last half hour.
‘She being the woman friend of whom Denys de Courtenay spoke? But –’ Helewise had her doubts, although, at first, she could not put a finger on them.
‘But?’
She thought back to that interview with de Courtenay. What had he said about the woman Joanna might be seeking? Precious little, now she came to think about it. She has a friend hereabouts. A woman. I’m not sure where she lives.
Was there anything in those few words to imply the woman must be a noblewoman, someone from the same station of life as Joanna de Courtenay? No. There wasn’t. The description could equally well apply to a wise woman living out in the forest, although quite how Joanna would have come to know such a person wa
s less easy to fathom …
Josse, she realised, was waiting. ‘There isn’t a but. You are right, Sir Josse. Poor Mag Hobson could well be Joanna’s friend.’
‘The Sheriff’s man, Hugh, told me Mag used to work for an elderly couple in some modest manor house,’ Josse said eagerly, ‘so it seems to me that—’
‘That they – the old people – were kin to Joanna, and that she met Mag, who was their servant, while staying with them. Yes, yes, it does appear to fit. Yet why did de Courtenay not mention the old couple?’
‘Hm.’ Josse’s heavy brows descended into a scowl. ‘Her mother’s kin, do you think? Distantly related, so that de Courtenay has never come to hear of their existence?’
‘No, no,’ Helewise protested, ‘he knows – or so we presume – of her connection with Mag Hobson. Surely he must also be aware of how she came to know her.’ A thought occurred to her. ‘Sir Josse, what do you think of this?’ She paused, putting her thoughts in order.
Yes.
‘It is significant,’ she said carefully, ‘that, during my interview with Denys de Courtenay, he did his best not to reveal anything he could avoid telling me. For instance, he made only the briefest mention of Joanna’s woman friend, revealing neither her name and her whereabouts, nor her occupation. Looking back, it seems to me that he only mentioned a friend in the area at all as a reason for his looking for Joanna around here.’
‘Ye-es,’ Josse said slowly.
Helewise leaned forward eagerly. ‘Don’t you see? He didn’t mention the elderly couple because he didn’t need to! Having told me about the woman friend, that was enough! So the fact that he didn’t mention the old people doesn’t for one moment mean he didn’t know about them, even though his knowledge did not extend to the details of where they lived!’ She sat back, elated.
‘You reason well, Abbess Helewise,’ Josse said.
‘Ah, but I do have the advantage of having spoken to Denys de Courtenay face to face,’ Helewise said modestly. ‘Not that it is an experience I would commend to you.’
‘No, indeed.’ The deep frown had descended again. ‘Especially now that we know what he’s capable of.’
Helewise felt a chill creeping over her flesh. ‘You really believe it was he who attacked and murdered that poor old woman?’
‘I do.’
‘But, Sir Josse, should we be accusing him, even in the privacy of this room, before he has had a chance to speak up for himself? For us to accuse, judge and condemn is surely going too far!’
‘Abbess, think it through!’ Josse protested. ‘De Courtenay learns that his niece has fled her marital home, has come over the Channel to England, where, instead of seeking out her sole male relative and putting herself under his protection, she heads off into the wilderness of the great forest to try to find some old wise woman she once knew, when she used to stay with her mother’s family. In a house whose whereabouts de Courtnay doesn’t know. Now doesn’t that alone make you suspect that de Courtenay had something planned for Joanna that she knew she wouldn’t like?’
‘Not necessarily!’ Helewise protested.
‘Well, at least would you agree that it suggests Joanna had very good reason to dislike her uncle?’
‘He’s not her uncle, he’s her second cousin. Well, actually, she is his cousin’s child.’
‘He’s what?’
‘Her second cousin. De Courtenay explained that he and her father were cousins, so she and Denys are cousins distanced by a degree.’
‘Don’t you see the relevance of that?’ Josse demanded. ‘Abbess, I do wish you’d told me this before!’
‘I thought I had,’ she said feebly. ‘And, yes, of course I see the relevance. It means—’
‘It surely means that, having acquired his dispensation, he can marry her!’ Josse exploded. ‘Great God above, Abbess, isn’t that motive enough for a man to torture an old woman for information, and kill her when she won’t oblige?’
‘You mean, if Joanna were an heiress, or something?’
Josse muttered something under his breath; he seemed to be appealing for divine patience. ‘Yes, Abbess dear, I do mean if she were an heiress or something.’ He shook his head, grinning at her. ‘I suppose I must make allowances,’ he said kindly, ‘you have, after all, recently been sick.’
‘I am perfectly well now, thank you very much!’ she said, stung. ‘And there is nothing whatsoever wrong with my reasoning powers. It is only your own imagination that makes Joanna a rich heiress. There is nothing to prove it!’
Josse looked downcast. ‘Aye, I hate to admit it but you’re right.’ He sighed. ‘The woman I met certainly shows no evidence of wealth. The house was pretty comfortless and Joanna herself was dressed more like a peasant than a noblewoman. But that could be to disguise herself!’
Helewise laughed. ‘You never give up, do you?’
‘No,’ he said, getting to his feet.
‘Where are you going?’
He stared down at her. ‘Abbess, we’re forgetting about the first murder. Somebody put poison in the pie meant for Denys de Courtenay and that somebody must have been inconspicuous enough to slip into Goody Anne’s tap room, hear de Courtenay give his order, then somehow get to the pie before the serving girl did and lace it with poison.’
‘Inconspicuous,’ Helewise repeated. ‘Which appears to rule out Joanna, since, even disguised as a peasant, her cousin would recognise her. Yes?’
‘Aye,’ Josse confirmed. Helewise noticed a slight softening of his expression as he added, ‘She’s a striking woman.’
‘Ah.’ Putting that aside to consider later, Helewise said, ‘So you’re thinking it must have been Mag Hobson who was the poisoner?’
‘She was a wise woman,’ Josse said, making for the door. ‘We know that she was skilled, that people spoke highly of her.’ He gave Helewise a courteous bow. ‘There’s an hour or two of daylight left – I’m going back to have a look in her herb garden. I know it’s February and nothing much is growing above ground, and I’ll probably fail miserably, but I’m going to see if I can find any sign of wolf’s bane.’
Instinctively she called out, ‘Be careful!’
But he had already gone.
* * *
He found the way back to the pond and Mag Hobson’s little hut quite easily; the track had been well marked by the boots of the Sheriff’s men, and here and there he saw snapped-off twigs and leafless branches where the hurdle-bearers had caught their burden against the trees.
The clearing was deserted now. Tying Horace’s rein to a tree trunk, Josse looked around him. The hole in the ice which he had made to extract the corpse had already frozen over again, but now the ice stood up in sharp little peaks, like a miniature mountain range. The many muddy footprints at the pond’s edge had also frozen hard.
With the body gone, the clearing felt different. Josse stood still, letting his senses absorb information. After a while, he thought: yes. That’s it. It feels – good now. Earlier, the horror of that brutal death had overlaid the normal atmosphere of this place, but now she’s been taken away, the positive mood is returning.
It felt, he thought, a nice place. The very air seemed to have a quality that promised to make a man feel well …
But he was not, he reminded himself firmly, there to take the air.
He strode over to the shack. The door was neatly tied shut by means of a length of twine passed through two iron eyes, one on the door, one on the door post. The Sheriff, Josse concluded, couldn’t have bothered to look inside Mag’s home; Sheriff Pelham wouldn’t have wasted his time tying the twine into that intricate and attractive knot.
Untying it, saying a silent apology to the dead woman for his violation of her handiwork, Josse unthreaded the twine and opened the door.
The interior was as neat, tidy and clean as he had expected. There was a small hearth in the centre of the beaten earth floor, stones laid in a circle, with kindling and small logs laid ready. Over the hearth, hanging from a si
mple tripod, was an ancient blackened pot. Empty.
On the far wall were several wooden planks serving as shelves, each bearing a load of containers of various sizes. There were also some implements: a knife, a mortar and pestle, some small pottery bowls, a row of flasks. All appeared scrupulously clean.
There was a three-legged stool beside the hearth, and, hanging on the wall behind it, a heavy cloak.
A short ladder led to an upper platform; standing on the second rung, Josse found his eyes came level with the platform. On it were a straw-stuffed palliasse and some covers.
Making a mental note to come back and inspect the shelves if he had no luck in the herb garden, Josse went outside again, looping the twine back through its eyes and re-tying it to secure the door. His knot, he noticed, was nowhere near as elegant as Mag’s.
He ignored the vegetable patch, on the grounds that even the most junior wise woman would know better than to grow her wolfs bane in with her cabbages. Squaring his shoulders – he was feeling distinctly uneasy about his quest – he walked over to the carefully-tended rectangle where Mag Hobson had cultivated her herbs.
Some plants he recognised straight away. Evergreen ivy, juniper and the tough, spineless stems of broom. Others he was less sure about: some tiny green shoots poking out from the ground could be saffron and these woody stems, sharp-edged where the dead growth of last year’s flowering had been cut back, might they be dill? He grinned to himself. They might. But, given the paucity of his herbal knowledge, they might be virtually anything.
Divisions had been made in the garden by means of low hedges of box. There was a small bed, roughly square, which was entirely hedged in; wondering if this were a method which Meg had employed to keep the most deadly plants separate, Josse went to have a closer look.
Hunching into his cloak, putting up the hood – he was rapidly becoming colder and colder – he crouched down over the sleeping ground.
The earth had recently been disturbed, that he could see. But it looked more as if someone had been planting things than digging them up. Would that be right? Would a herbalist be planting, in the middle of an icy February? He had no idea. This, he realised, was hopeless; unless he dug over the entire bed and just happened to find the radish-shaped tubers of wolf’s bane – and was he going to be able to distinguish them from similar tubers, without the grave risk to himself of putting them to the tasting test? – then he might as well give up.
