Servant of Death

by Sarah Hawkswood

  Catchpoll, who had apparently lost interest in the proceedings, and had been contemplating a woodlouse clambering, slowly and determinedly, across the rush-strewn floor, looked up suddenly, incredulous.

  ‘Him, a thief!’

  Bradecote shot him a quelling glance, and spoke to the lady, gently, as if eliciting information from a shy infant.

  ‘Did he steal something from you, lady?’

  Lady Courtney gazed at the floor and nodded, the action continuing as if she knew not how to stop it.

  ‘What was it?’ Bradecote was patient.

  She swallowed hard and raised her face to meet him eye to eye, suddenly distraught.

  ‘My husband.’

  There was a momentary silence. Catchpoll now regarded her warily, as if her madness might make her dangerous. Bradecote strove to overcome his own surprise and puzzlement. ‘I see,’ he said slowly, although it was far from the truth, ‘But how did he do that?’

  ‘My husband is … was … is, a good man, a fine man.’ Emma Courtney ceased to fidget. ‘He went to Winchester, and there fell sick of a fever. He was terribly ill, cared for in the infirmary of the New Minster, he was, and Henri de Blois himself came and prayed for him. After a week he began to recover, but while he was still weak, that Eudo came to him. He said how important the lord bishop’s intercessions had been, how little hope there had been before. He kept telling my poor husband how much he owed to God and to the Bishop of Winchester. He persuaded him to make over some land revenues to the abbey, but he also told him that God had spared his life and that he ought to show his gratitude by taking the cross and going on pilgrimage to Jerusalem. My lord returned home, and made instant preparations to leave. Goodness knows, I tried to prevent him, begged him to stay, but he said he had promised and that it was the will of God.’ She snorted. ‘The will of the lord bishop’s clerk, more like!’

  Suddenly the animation that had possessed her disappeared. She seemed to shrink before their eyes, and when she spoke, it was softly, to herself.

  ‘He should have returned around Michaelmas this last year, for I heard that he was on his way, but there was no word thereafter. I managed, because that is what he wanted of me, but it has been so hard, so hard, and now I fear the worst. I have been to shrines; I have lit so many candles; but in my heart I feel that he will not return to me … and it was all that man’s fault. God has punished him.’

  She was rocking gently to and fro by this time, her arms folded round herself as if she were cold. Bradecote had no wish to push this sad, distressed dame further, but he had one more question that had to be asked.

  ‘I am sorry, my lady, but I must ask you how you spent the time between Vespers and Compline.’

  She did not respond.

  ‘My lady Courtney?’

  She looked up at him, blinking away tears, her brow creased as if she was surprised to see him.

  ‘Me? I … I went to supper at the abbot’s lodging, but I was not very hungry. I excused myself as early as possible and went to the church.’

  ‘You were in the church.’ Here at last was something useful, but Bradecote felt the need to be certain of what she said.

  ‘Why, yes. I went to pray and light a candle. I left it before the high altar. When there is nobody else there I feel God may hear my poor supplications better.’

  Bradecote and the serjeant exchanged glances. They had gained, at least, an explanation of where the candle used to light the documents had originated, and it meant that the death must have taken place during the latter period between Vespers and Compline.

  ‘Did anyone see you … after supper, that is?’

  ‘Sister Ursula of Romsey left with me, but we parted when she returned to the guest hall. I saw no one else. Ulf does not count, of course, and he remained in the cloister while I was at my prayers. He does not like me to be out of his view, but I find his presence … distracting to prayer.’

  Ulf was presumably the name of her trusty follower. Bradecote focused on the nuns.

  ‘Was the other Romsey sister not with her?’

  ‘No. She did not come to supper.’ The voice was listless. Lady Courtney had no interest in the whereabouts of her fellow guests.

  Bradecote did not think there was more to be learnt from her, and had Catchpoll escort her back to the guest hall. When the serjeant returned he found Bradecote drawing on a scrap of vellum. Catchpoll sniffed and pulled a face. He did not see the need for writing, not that he could tell one letter from another. In fact, Bradecote was finishing a rough plan of the abbey enclave, and had marked the movements of the interviewees upon it. He did not raise his head from his work as Catchpoll entered.

  ‘So, what do you think we have learnt, Serjeant?’

  ‘That you’ve not done anything like this before, my lord,’ Serjeant Catchpoll grumbled, and looked genuinely aggrieved.

  ‘What do you mean, Catchpoll?’ Bradecote spoke sharply, defensive but equally aggravated, for Catchpoll’s tone was not in the least respectful.

  ‘Well, you see, my lord,’ the serjeant spoke patiently, but patronisingly. ‘We are here to find out things, not tell suspects what we have discovered ourselves.’ He paused, and added judiciously, ‘unless of course it is intentional, or to draw out something, or a plain lie.’

  ‘Yes.’ Bradecote was keeping a hold on his temper. ‘That is obvious.’

  ‘Obvious, is it? My lord, you just sat there and merrily told the lady Courtney exactly what the murder weapon was, didn’t you?’ Catchpoll was exasperated.

  ‘Ah.’

  There was a pause as Bradecote digested this error and Catchpoll fought not to tell his superior just how much of an idiot he thought him. Eventually he spoke, very calmly and slowly.

  ‘By keeping what we know to ourselves, we find out if folk have knowledge only the guilty could possess. If the lady had said, “But even a mallet can be an instrument of God”, then we would have known that either she committed the murder or discovered the body with the mallet beside it and had some motive for concealing the crime. But now, the chances are that everyone will know the murder weapon within the hour, especially since you told a woman.’

  ‘Perhaps she might not have taken much notice.’ Bradecote was trying to sound positive, but only managed to sound as if clutching at straws.

  Catchpoll looked gloomier than usual. ‘Perhaps, but I would doubt it, my lord.’

  There was another lengthy silence. Bradecote was angry with himself, both for what he had done, and for opening himself up to justified but insubordinate criticism. He was playing into the experienced man’s hands. Would Serjeant Catchpoll be able to stand before William de Beauchamp if they failed, and say, in truth, that he had been hampered by being yoked to an incompetent novice? Well, there was no point in dwelling upon a mistake that could not be rectified.

  ‘Let us consider what we have managed to discover from the lady Courtney, rather than what she has learnt from us. What have we got?’

  ‘Several things, my lord. Firstly, we can discount her as our murderer, as if she was ever a realistic possibility.’ Catchpoll did not look the least cheered.

  ‘She had good reason to want him dead.’

  ‘That’s as maybe, but she’s wodlic, that one, mind-twisted for sure. Besides, she hasn’t the strength to kill a man and move his body.’

  Bradecote nodded absently. ‘I know. But Ulf has, and with ease.’

  ‘Oh aye, but you’ll get nothing from him. He hasn’t any brains to speak of, nor any tongue to speak with. If he had committed the murder there would have been blood still upon him, sure as night follows day. If he killed to protect his lady, or if he did so at her command, he would have no more idea of concealing the fact than a hound, and when we arrived she was having one of those mad laughing-crying fits of hers. It was not put on for our benefit, and in such a state she would not have been thinking.’

  ‘Wodlic, perhaps, Catchpoll. Yet some of her information was worth having.’

&
nbsp; ‘If she can be relied on,’ scoffed Catchpoll, derisively.

  ‘Oh, I think she can for simple fact of place and time. We now know where the dithering sister was during supper, and we know that her senior was absent. I wonder where?’

  ‘That should be simple enough … the murmurer in St Eadburga’s chapel, the one that the master of masons heard.’ Catchpoll brightened at last.

  ‘Probably, but if she was there so long, why has she not come to us with the tale? Surely she heard something.’

  Catchpoll wrinkled his nose, meditatively. ‘The murder might have taken place after she left, so it would not occur to her to come forward? She was certainly on her way towards the church when Master Elias made his announcement.’

  ‘You said the murderer need not be a man, earlier, but surely while the act might as easily have been that of a woman, none here are burly enough to have dragged the dead weight.’

  ‘Burly, no, my lord. But Eudo was not a heavy man. The senior Sister of Romsey is no sparrow, but a fine figure of a woman, and about strong enough, I would say.’

  ‘But to place the body in such a position would be … sacrilege.’

  ‘Well, since whoever did so had just committed the sin of murder I do not think adding sacrilege to their list would worry the killer.’

  ‘Which ought to discount the religious even more than the laity. How could any of them contemplate killing?’

  Catchpoll laughed, and shook his head. ‘Never you think that the cowl or wimple makes a saint. They are all of ’em as human as us, and prey to the same thoughts of fear and vengeance and greed, just they try and pretend to themselves they do not. I grant you that if it was one of them, their motive would be strong and deep, not a sudden moment of anger, but they could be our killer just the same.’

  ‘So it does not reduce our number of suspects.’ Bradecote sighed. ‘Right.’ He slapped his hands on the table and got up. ‘We ought to see the Sisters of Romsey next. I think we will speak with the nervous one first.’

  He turned as the door was knocked, and Gyrth poked his head diffidently round it. Catchpoll made a low growling sound, like a dog with its hackles raised.

  ‘Wait until you’re called, Gyrth. Don’t knock like a battering ram and then peep round like a tirewoman.’

  ‘Sorry, Serjeant.’ Gyrth hung his head. ‘Should I go out and … No. Right, then. Well, I’m sorry to interrupt, my lord, but there’s something I think you should know. I have been in the stables, talking to the lay brothers from Romsey, like Serjeant Catchpoll told me.’ Gyrth paused, uncertain, for the sheriff’s new man had stiffened.

  Hugh Bradecote looked sharply at the serjeant. He resented the fact that Catchpoll had not thought to tell him what he had set the men-at-arms to do. He also regretted having not thought of setting tasks for them himself. Gyrth looked at Bradecote and then Catchpoll, who nodded for him to continue.

  ‘The lay brothers don’t say much about the sisters, except the younger one is in awe of the older one, as you might expect. The sacrist has been at Romsey over twenty years. She is said to be competent and good at keeping her own counsel. She’s not known for emotion at all, and they had no knowledge of the dead man visiting Romsey, though they would not be likely to have seen him if he had.’ He spoke in a monotone, ending in a rush.

  ‘And?’ Bradecote could not see this as important, and resented the disruption of his train of thought.

  ‘Well, my lord, we were next to the stall where the brother’s mule was tethered. The murdered one. It is a good beast, but one of the lay brothers noticed it was very lame this morning. I took a look at it, since it was connected with the dead man, and the injury was never an accident in a stable, my lord. Someone has driven something real sharp into the frog of the animal’s off hind. I’ve seen such wounds from caltrops, but there is nothing sharp among the straw. I dare swear it was done with a hammer and nail, but whoever did it was either quick or strong, because the mule would have kicked out hard when the blow struck home. She’ll not be fit to ride for nigh on a week.’

  ‘So somebody was determined that the lord Bishop of Winchester’s envoy did not reach his destination in good time,’ Bradecote mused. ‘Thank you, Gyrth. You were right to bring this to my attention. I want you to speak with the servants of those in the guest hall and find out what background information you can.’ That, he thought, should show who was in control.

  Catchpoll coughed in a meaningful way. ‘I took the liberty of talking with Messire FitzHugh’s men this morning, my lord, when we broke our bread. Not the best of servants I would have said. Far too ready to talk about their master.’

  ‘And was what they had to say of use to us?’ Bradecote tried not to sound peevish, but failed. Catchpoll was already ahead of him.

  ‘Not really. Had there been anything of importance I would have told you immediately, my lord.’

  Bradecote raised a sceptical eyebrow at this, but Catchpoll continued, unabashed. ‘The young man, Messire FitzHugh, seems to be a hot-headed youth given to acting without thinking of the consequences. It seems he has fallen foul of Robert de Beaumont’s temper and has taken the excuse of visiting his ailing father to let his lord’s displeasure fade. There is no indication, however, that he had ever set eyes on Eudo the Clerk before he saw him here, and whoever committed the murder did not do so without strong reason.’

  ‘And what,’ said Bradecote carefully, ‘if the noble earl had set his squire to remove a dangerous tale bearer? Eudo made many journeys and must have had his eyes ever open, and his poisonous tongue ready to wag.’

  Catchpoll gave the matter genuine consideration, his face working as Bradecote watched. It was not a thought that had occurred to the older man.

  ‘If that were the case, FitzHugh must have had very accurate knowledge as to where and when he could find his quarry, or else he was mighty fortunate. It might be possible, my lord, but I would not say it was at all likely. And,’ he added as a clincher, ‘the Earl of Leicester is known as a clever man, and a clever man would not send a shaveling to do a man’s job. I doubt the youth has ever killed anything bigger than a coney, though he would claim that was a boar.’ Catchpoll snorted derisively. Messire FitzHugh did not impress him.

  ‘No,’ agreed Bradecote, ‘I put it forward only as a possibility, not a probability. Yet until we have something better, we must bear it in mind. I wonder if it would be best to speak with the hot-headed squire now? No. We will continue as planned. Fetch the timid sister, and let us see if she can bring forth any gems of information.’

  Catchpoll sniffed derisively. ‘Likelier I’ll see the Avon run dry first.’

  Chapter Six

  Sister Ursula was not as useless as the sheriff’s officers had feared. True, she entered the room as if it were the den of some dangerous wild animal, and shrank in the chair placed for her, eyes downcast and hands visibly gripped together beneath the cover of her scapular. Her answers, though delivered in a high, almost musical voice, were quite clear. It was as if she were surprised at her own temerity in answering. She evidently had nothing to hide, and there were no considered hesitations in her speech.

  ‘We are seeking to piece together the events of yesterday evening, Sister …’ Bradecote left the question of her name hanging.

  ‘Sister Ursula, my lord.’ She looked him briefly in the eye and then lowered her gaze, lest it be thought immodest.

  ‘Sister Ursula, we would like to know what everyone was doing yesterday evening between Vespers and Compline so that we can get a full picture of what happened here.’ Bradecote’s tone was authoritative but calm, and designed to set her at ease. ‘Can you tell us where you were?’

  The young nun nodded, relief clear upon her face. She almost smiled, and raised her face again, confident. It was a simple question to answer, and not going to be the complicated interrogation she had feared.

  ‘I was at supper at Father Abbot’s table.’

  ‘Not all the time, though.’ Bradecote gave the g
host of a smile himself, and the youthful Benedictine dropped her gaze quickly again, her cheeks tinged pink.

  ‘Oh, no. I came from Vespers with Sister Edeva, but I am afraid she was not well. She complained of a fearful headache and could not face supper with Father Abbot. I offered to visit the herbalist for her but she was very stoic. Then I went to eat, and at the end of the meal I returned to our chamber in the guest hall, and finished darning a tear in my travelling cloak.’

  ‘So Sister Edeva did not accompany you to supper?’ Bradecote already knew the answer but posed the question nevertheless.

  ‘No. As I said, she had the headache and did not want food. It was a pity because there was a delicious partridge pudding.’ Sister Ursula put her hand to her mouth. ‘I should not be interested in such things. It is a weakness.’

  ‘We will not inform upon you, Sister.’ This time the acting undersheriff could not hold back a grin. ‘But where did Sister Edeva go when you enjoyed this pudding?’

  ‘She went to St Eadburga’s chapel to pray in peace, and then met me in the guest hall a short time before the bell for Compline. I think she was just a little better then.’

  Serjeant Catchpoll spoke, without glancing at Bradecote. ‘Did you actually see the sister go into the chapel?’

  The nun flinched, for Catchpoll’s voice, which he tried to make as smooth and calm as his superior’s, sounded sinister in the extreme.

  ‘No. No, of course not, because I did not follow her into the church. But I saw her enter the cloister and that was where she said she was going, so that is where she went.’ A note of irritation entered the soft voice, like a child who cannot make an adult believe what it is saying. ‘Sister Edeva would not tell me a lie.’

  Bradecote tried a change of tack, to prevent the younger Benedictine from withdrawing and becoming defensive. ‘Very well, then. Sister Edeva was at prayer. Who sat at table with you?’

  ‘Well, there was Father Abbot, of course, and the lord de Grismont beside him. The sad lady, my lady Courtney, sat next to me, and then there were the widows; the one from Winchester and the beautiful one. The weaver’s widow seemed very confident in company, though it did not appear seemly to me that she should take such an active part in conversation. The young man, Messire FitzHugh, was clearly not in good humour, and scowled a great deal. He arrived late to the meal, all in a rush, just before Grace was said. He had not even made himself presentable,’ she flushed, ‘for his boots were dusty and his nails dirty, and there was a straw stalk tucked in his jerkin.’ She paused. ‘I could not help but notice, because he was seated opposite to me, and … But the only woman not present was lady d’Achelie’s maidservant and surely in so short a time …’ her voice trailed away. She flushed, quite red this time, conscious of having admitted that she had studied a member of the opposite sex, which equated in her own mind with wickedness, and wondered if he had been engaged in carnal activities. She took a deep breath and continued. ‘That was everyone.’