He left the enclave and went out into the little town of Pershore itself. Walking through the gateway and back into the secular world, with shrill housewives calling children home to bed and ribald laughter emanating from the ale house, was balm to his troubled mind. Out here all the introverted, ritualised behaviour of the cloister took on a normal perspective. Bradecote wanted suddenly to go home to his manor and await the arrival of his child in peace, disturbed by no more than the rate of ripening in the wheat field, and the depredations of a roaming fox. Here was the everyday he understood, and it looked so deceptively simple. Only when Brother Porter closed the abbey gate with a deadening thump behind him did his disquiet return, and though Catchpoll snored contentedly in the sleep of the just, Bradecote spent another troubled night, his dreams a phantasmagoria of unknown hanging corpses, faces at windows, puddles so deep that they swallowed up those who trod in them, and a tall, alabaster-faced woman in Benedictine garb, who smiled at him with great, sad eyes as he approached her, and at the last moment withdrew her hand from beneath her scapular and, still smiling, stabbed him through the heart with a darning needle of impossible length.
The Fourth Day
Chapter Eleven
It was near dawn when Bradecote finally gave up hope of rest. He lay for a while with one hand behind his head, the other arm still too bruised to raise above his shoulder, revolving in his mind all the evidence and coming up each time with exactly the same unpalatable answer. His brain seemed to spin until he actually felt sick and dizzy.
Chinks of pale grey light pierced the edges of the shutter to the little window, and from without came the sound of the morning chorus, still in the preparatory stages with individual songs discernible. Bradecote rose, his limbs feeling leaden, pushed open the shutter, and thrust his head out into the new morning. The cold air made him catch his breath, but it was a deliciously sweet, fresh chill. Dew-bespangled spiders’ webs glistened like silver and rock crystal in the growing light, as the eastern horizon turned from the soft grey of putative dawn to the gentle colours of the real thing. A wren, hidden deep amongst the ivy that clung to the wall of the abbot’s garden, sang as if its tiny heart would burst. Bradecote wondered vaguely if it was the same bird he had heard the previous evening. A throstle’s melodious song drifted up from the orchards running down to the river, and undertook a vocal duel with a rival from another bough. There was something pure and unsullied about the notes that made Bradecote forget, for a few moments, the unsavoury duty ahead of him. He emptied his mind of thought and concentrated only on the sound.
The grass had taken on its daylight green now, and from a muted world of shade and shadow the brightness of the day emerged, as bright as a butterfly from its chrysalis. There were no people in sight, and without them it was possible to hide from the ugliness of their deeds.
The birdsong became a crescendo, as though the latecomers feared being ignored. Bradecote could not see the sunrise itself, for the church and the abbot’s garden wall and lodging blocked the horizon, but the change in the light was indicative enough. The long summer day lay ahead, and folk would be rising now to attend their tasks. Bradecote heard the first clumsy sounds of people, and then a yaffle calling in its distinctive dipping flight, somewhere among the beeches beyond the fishponds. It was well beyond Bradecote’s view, but its mocking laugh, carrying in the still air, was an insult. It told him he was a fool to pretend, that life was a cruel joke and he had to get on with it. The brief respite from gloom that the other birdsong had given him was gone. He withdrew his head and set about his preparations for the day with a heavy head and heart.
The firm knock that preceded Catchpoll’s cheerful arrival made Bradecote brace himself. The serjeant appeared far less lugubrious than usual, and rubbed his hands together as if in anticipation of some pleasant event.
‘Good morning, my lord,’ he announced airily. ‘I thought we …’ He halted as Bradecote slowly drew forth the pitcher from under the bed and held it up by the handle as if it was contaminated. He said nothing; words were unnecessary.
‘Ah.’ Catchpoll gazed at the jug, apparently in search of inspiration. ‘I take it that is not a jug you have been keeping under your cot for emergencies, my lord.’
‘No, Catchpoll, it is not. Nor was it put there by person or persons unknown. It was found by de Grismont’s servant, under de Grismont’s bed yesterday evening, and he called me to see it. He was less than pleased at having the finger of guilt pointed at him, you can be sure.’
‘Ah,’ said Catchpoll once more, ‘pox on it.’ His face worked for a moment as the full import of this information was considered. Then he sighed again. ‘Oh well, I suppose we’ll just have to let him go. No harm done, mind.’
‘Yes, Serjeant,’ Bradecote agreed, knowing who ‘he’ must be, ‘I think we must, since he cannot have secreted the pitcher while standing beside us.’
Catchpoll brightened for a moment. ‘How about he did so when we sent him off to the abbot?’
‘And where do you think he was concealing the jug? No, don’t bother to answer that one.’
‘Well, he could have brought the thing to the cloister on the way back from the murder and picked it up again on the way to the abbot.’ Catchpoll sounded marginally more hopeful.
Bradecote gave this idea some consideration, but then shook his head. ‘Too risky. There was no way he could have guaranteed the opportunity to go back to it before someone might notice it, and its position would point to him as the killer. Nor could he have put it in the workshop because it was crammed full of masons all keen to have a drink. They would certainly have noted the arrival of a pitcher, empty or otherwise. No. Whichever way you look at it, this puts Master Elias in the clear for the murder of Wulfstan. And if he was not guilty of that murder then neither was he guilty of the first. We therefore, reluctantly, return to the sacrist of Romsey as the killer.’
Serjeant Catchpoll looked most unhappy; not because, like Bradecote, he wanted her to be innocent, but because his ‘gut feeling’, his serjeant’s instinct, told him that the second murder was not a woman’s crime. It was he who now shook his head.
‘I really do not see how, my lord. It simply does not fit. You are asking me, and in the end, the lord sheriff, to believe that a nun who has led an almost certainly blameless existence for years and years, commits not just a crime of passion, which I grant to be possible in the circumstances, but then kills an apprentice in cold blood. Aye, and breaks his neck at that. I’m not saying it would be impossible for a woman to do it, but I’ve never come across a case where a woman did so, not in all my years. The lad was not strangled; his neck was broke clean. It takes a deal of strength, and it isn’t like killing a chicken. No, a woman would use a weapon, something heavy, or something sharp, and there was certainly no sign of marks from either on the body.’
Bradecote refused to be convinced, though Catchpoll’s disbelief was welcome.
‘And yet she did do it, Catchpoll. I am sure of it. If she is as cool and clever as we think, she may even have considered that an unwomanly method of killing would be an advantage. I accept it does not feel right, but there seems no alternative. Sister Ursula has no motive at all, and is probably not strong enough; the lady d’Achelie,’ he pulled a face, ‘would be too squeamish, and lady Courtney too fragile. Mistress Weaver, well, the only reason she could have for such violence upon the clerk would be if he was pressuring her more than she said, perhaps hinting that her husband’s death was not from illness.’
‘That thought had occurred to me too, my lord,’ agreed Catchpoll. ‘She might just have murdered him for that, whether the claim was true or false, but she has a lad only a couple of years younger than Wulfstan. Even given the strength, she would not have been able to kill him in cold blood.’
‘No, she would not.’ Bradecote sighed. ‘We have discounted Messire FitzHugh, and de Grismont lacks motive. Master Elias is now out of our reckoning and Brother Remigius would have been off to confess before h
is abbot within the hour.’
‘Don’t you think the same applies to your nun?’
‘She is not “my” nun, Catchpoll,’ snapped Bradecote, ‘and I’ll thank you to remember it. She is a suspect and I think you will have to admit now, our likely killer.’
‘But would she not have been driven to confess the second murder?’ Catchpoll was dogged.
‘I really do not know.’ Bradecote grimaced, and ran his hand through his hair. ‘As a religious, you would say almost certainly, but if her mind has warped with the recognition of Eudo, then we cannot assume anything any more. It is a tangle, Catchpoll, and Heaven knows I have struggled with it, but there is no other logical answer.’
Catchpoll rubbed his nose, and made one final attempt to dissuade his superior. ‘How did she kill the apprentice in the pouring rain, and then change so that she didn’t look like a drowned rat in a drain at supper?’
‘We never asked Sister Ursula if she changed her habit, and however little they admit to worldly interests such as their appearance, I am sure they would each have brought a spare habit so that they would not meet with Abbot William in an untidy state after days upon the road or, indeed, in case they were caught in a storm. Being prepared to contract an inflammation of the lungs, just to avoid the sin of enjoying a dry habit, is not part of their final vows, I am sure. And you yourself said that the best way not to be noticed is to be bold and normal. All she had to do was return to the guest hall slowly, as if she ignored the weather. It would fit with her general demeanour and she could have come from stable or cloister for all the other nun knew.’ Bradecote looked despondent, and closed his eyes wearily for a moment. ‘I just want to get it over with now. We will confront her after breaking of fast, and see if she will confess.’
Catchpoll regarded his superior, not unsympathetically. It wasn’t easy, the first time you sent someone to judicial death, even though you knew they deserved it, and it would be even worse if it were a woman, and one whom you, well, had taken a good look at, so to speak. Part of this he voiced.
‘It comes with time, the standing back from it all, my lord. The first time is never easy. Me, I had it better than most, for the first person I took for a hanging offence was a baker who had killed his neighbour because he wanted the man’s wife, and thought she would take him if she were a widow. Nasty bit of work he was, full of his own worth and caring of nobody else’s. But even then, I can tell you, it took some doing to actually take him in. He cringed like a whipped cur all the way, and mewled like an infant when they took him to dangle at the rope’s end.’ He shook his head, reminiscing. It had been said in an attempt to make things easier, but in fact it did not help at all.
Neither of them wished to eat with the woman they were about to arrest, and so they remained in the little room until the sounds from the main chamber, where the trestle tables had been set up, indicated that the brief meal was over. Bradecote took a deep breath, and got up from where he had been sitting on the bed.
‘Right, there is no point in delaying this. Off we go.’
The pair left Bradecote’s room and passed along the corridor to where the two nuns were accommodated. Catchpoll knocked firmly, and soft footsteps were heard. Sister Ursula opened the door cautiously, peering round the edge, her eyes pools of trepidation. The events of the last few days were totally beyond her comprehension, and had left her shocked, confused and very frightened. Death was not unknown to her, for everyone met it even early in their lives, but murder was something else entirely from accident and disease.
‘My lord?’ She looked past the serjeant and blinked at Bradecote in mild surprise, but sounded relieved. ‘You wish to see me again?’
‘No, Sister. It is Sister Edeva we wish to see.’ Catchpoll’s voice was colourless, and gave nothing away.
‘But she is not here,’ replied the young nun, opening the door wide. ‘She went out after breaking bread and I saw Father Abbot talking to her, so I crept back here. I am too junior to be involved in their important discussions. Perhaps they are ensuring everything is in order, in case you let us go home today.’ She frowned, as the sheriff’s men exchanged anxious glances. ‘There is nothing wrong, is there? I mean …’
They never found out what she meant, because at that moment there came a loud, anguished, female cry. Sister Ursula jumped, and put her hand to her mouth, but before she could exclaim, the two men were already running for the guest hall door.
The cry was not repeated, and they were not certain whence it came. Bradecote sent Catchpoll to the cloisters, and himself headed in the direction of the abbot’s lodging and walled garden. The garden door was ajar, and a sixth sense made Bradecote’s hackles rise, and his hand go to his sword hilt. He opened the door as cautiously as had Sister Ursula in her chamber only a few moments before. The first thing he saw in the narrow greensward that made the passage between lodging and garden wall was the large and crumpled figure of Ulf the Tongueless, who was making vague moaning noises. Bradecote advanced stealthily. At the rear of the lodging, the garden opened out in a pleasant arrangement of rose and lavender borders and green paths, where Abbot William could commune with his Maker amidst the wonders of nature and in grateful seclusion. Bradecote halted, feeling suddenly rather sick.
The sacrist of Romsey was on her knees beside a crumpled body. Bradecote approached, breathing unnaturally hard and moistening dry lips. The nun appeared not to notice him, even when he drew close enough to see who lay there.
‘Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa,’ she murmured, rocking slightly, her amber cross gripped tightly in her left hand and held before her face.
Bradecote’s feeling of nausea increased. Lady Courtney lay on her back upon the wet grass, her mouth open, her eyes staring up at him, starting from their sockets. They were no longer vague and watery; they were hard, and full of reproach. The poor woman had been strangled, and he realised with horror that his own complaisance had been instrumental in her death. If he had acted earlier, if he had acted last night, she would not now be lying dead at his feet.
He knelt down and put his hand to the dead woman’s cheek; it was as warm as if she still lived.
‘It is my fault, all my fault …’ Sister Edeva caught her breath. ‘It was I who …’
She was going to confess, confess at this moment to him, and although he knew beyond all doubt that she was guilty, yet he still wanted above all things for it not to be her. Sacrist of Romsey though she was, she would pay the penalty for murder. The Church would cast her out to the secular authorities and she would burn, not hang as a man. Bradecote had seen such a death, long ago. He could not face being the agent of that fate. Let her confess to Catchpoll, not to him. He had to silence her, and, reacting purely on impulse, he grabbed her roughly by the shoulders and pulled her towards him. She let go of the cross in surprise. His mouth covered hers. She did not struggle, in fact he felt her warm and responsive, though perhaps for barely more than a heartbeat before she became entirely impassive, withdrawn within herself.
They stayed thus for a few moments, which seemed to Bradecote an eternity. Then a tremor ran though her. Realisation of what he had done hit him, and he drew back as sharply as if she had slapped him across the face.
She was still within his hold, her eyes not flashing anger as he expected, but full of an immense sorrow that added to their depth.
‘I am sorry … I didn’t mean …’ Bradecote floundered. How could he excuse what he had done? Whatever else, she was a Benedictine nun, and he had kissed her. It was an appalling sin, even had he not been a married man. It was sacrilege. He was horrified and ashamed.
‘It matters not, my lord. It was not intended. It just happened.’ Her voice was suddenly flat and dead, as if her thoughts were elsewhere.
He tried to muster his own, for they were tangled.
‘My lord?’ It was Catchpoll’s voice, urgent and questioning. Bradecote let go of the nun’s shoulders. He wondered how much Catchpoll had seen.
&nbs
p; ‘Lady Courtney is dead, Catchpoll, though the murder took place but a short while ago.’ Bradecote stood up, hoping his face did not betray him, but the serjeant’s gaze was fixed upon the face of the victim.
After a moment, Catchpoll looked from the corpse to Sister Edeva.
‘Very upsetting for you, Sister, I’m sure, to find the body.’ His voice was matter of fact.
She frowned at him, bringing her thoughts back to reality. ‘I blame myself, Serjeant, for her death.’ Sister Edeva kept her eyes on Catchpoll, and avoided glancing at Bradecote, who had himself under control again. He could not have put this off. It was utter madness to have tried. He attempted to listen, unemotionally, to what she now said.
‘She had clearly remembered something important this morning, and would have spoken before all of us. But I bade her keep her own counsel and come straight to you.’ She now transferred her gaze to Bradecote. ‘If she had spoken, everyone would have known, and there would have been no need for the murderer to silence her.’
A wave of relief spread over the acting undersheriff, but it passed swiftly. What she said was true, but it could still be the nun who had done the silencing, if she was as cool and determined a dame as he imagined her. Had she even engineered the moment of his weakness?
‘Could you tell us exactly what happened, Sister, in case that gives us a clue?’ Catchpoll was focused on fact, not prey to Bradecote’s wild imaginings or rampant guilt.
‘Let me see.’ She closed her eyes, and pursed her lips in concentration. She spoke without opening her eyes. ‘Breaking of fast was nearly over in the guest hall. Lady d’Achelie was saying that she regretted not wearing a warmer gown, with the break in the weather making such a contrast in the early morning. Lady Courtney began to agree, and said that for her part, she always wore a warm cloak for church, where the summer warmth does not reach through the thick walls. Then suddenly she halted and said “Oh! But …” Her eyes grew very wide, and I thought she was about to say something important.’
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