by Alys Clare
The fat man went ahead of him into the end cell. ‘Here.’ He pointed. ‘Here he is. Tab, Seth, out of the way.’ He kicked at the two men crouching by the body and they leapt aside. The presence of a hurdle beside them on the wet and soiled floor suggested they had been about to put the dead man on to it and bear him away.
Josse looked down at the guard. He lay on his back and, as Josse had been told, had clearly suffered a fist in the face. The top lip was split and the nose squashed. Quite a sizeable fist, Josse thought, or else the assailant hit him more than once.
But he had to agree that the blow did not at first glance look as if it had been fatal. Perhaps the man had fallen and cracked his skull on the hard stone floor. Lifting the head, Josse felt all over it for the presence of a wound. There was nothing.
But something had killed him.
Leaving aside the vague and unlikely possibility that the man had been sick and just happened to die at the very moment that he was punched and two prisoners broke out of his gaol, Josse proceeded to examine the rest of the body.
There was not a mark on it.
He sat back on his heels, thinking.
Then, spotting something, he said, ‘Augustus?’
‘Here,’ came the lad’s instant reply.
‘Gus, can you get me a light?’
‘Aye.’ Augustus ran off, along the passage and up the stairs, quickly coming back again bearing a flaming torch. Good lad, that one, Josse thought. Keeps his eyes open. He must have noticed the torch when we were in the room upstairs.
By the light of the flame, Josse leaned forward and studied the dead man’s throat. Yes. He had been right.
‘Gus?’
In an instant the boy was crouching beside him. ‘Sir Josse?’
‘Look.’ Josse pointed. To the left of the throat, up under the ear, where there was a faint, dark bruise. And to the right, in the same place, where there were four more.
He heard Augustus’s sudden sharp gasp. And the boy said, ‘Someone throttled him.’
‘Aye,’ Josse agreed. ‘Gus, let’s have your hand . . .’
Comprehending instantly, Augustus put his hand around the dead man’s neck. His thumb and fingers, even at full stretch, came nowhere near the bruises. Josse then did the same. Although his hands were larger than Augustus’s, he could not have made the marks either.
‘He was a big man, this killer,’ Augustus breathed into Josse’s ear. ‘Uncommon big.’
‘Aye,’ Josse muttered back. ‘And there’s something else, Augustus.’ He waited, almost believing that he could hear the lad’s quick, intelligent brain at work.
Suddenly Augustus gave a sharp exclamation and swapped his hands over. Now his thumb was over the single bruise and his fingers a few inches short of the group of marks.
‘Aye,’ Josse whispered. ‘When I asked you to stretch out your hand, instinctively you put out the right, because you’re right-handed. But, as you have just realised, the killer used his left hand. Unless some circumstance prevented him from using his dominant hand – it was injured, or perhaps bound – then I think we can say we’re looking for a left-hander.’
Augustus whistled softly. ‘Aye,’ he added, his awe-filled eyes meeting Josse’s, ‘and a bloody great big one.’
5
While Josse was away, Helewise received another visit from Father Micah. The priest informed her that he was dissatisfied with standards within the Abbey and Helewise, controlling with some difficulty her instinctive, outraged reaction, asked him meekly to elaborate.
‘We will take a turn around the Abbey’s various departments,’ he said grandly. ‘I shall point out those areas which are of most concern.’ Rebellion seething under her quiet demeanour, Helewise fell into step beside him.
Within quite a short time, she had a good idea of what it was that formed the foundation of his complaint. In the small room behind the refectory where the cook nuns spent most of their working hours monotonously preparing large amounts of virtually the same few foods, Father Micah objected to the little songs some of the sisters sung and the occasional laughter-inducing pleasantry that helped to pass the long hours. In the infirmary anteroom, he objected to a weary young sister sitting down to roll bandages. The pain in her legs, which were swollen because she had spent much of the night on her feet caring for a very sick patient, should be, in Father Micah’s opinion, offered to God in penance for her sins. She must henceforth stand to do her work.
Out in the chilly cloister, the priest stood for some time over Sister Phillipa, seated at her desk and engaged in illuminating a capital letter A. The work was beautiful, Helewise thought, but Father Micah complained that over-use of blue and gold smacked of luxury, not seemly in an order vowed to poverty. About to tell him that the Queen herself had bestowed the wherewithal for the purchase of those very pigments, Helewise changed her mind. She would not explain herself to this man.
He passed through Sister Bernadine’s room without comment. Sister Bernadine was in charge of the Abbey’s small collection of precious manuscripts. Something about her austere manner and her air of detachment, as if she silently communed with the angels, earned Father Micah’s approval; with an all but imperceptible nod, he beckoned to the Abbess and left Sister Bernadine to her scripts.
Sister Emanuel, who had the care of the elderly in the small hostel that the Abbey ran for retired nuns and monks, also initially escaped without criticism. But then the retirement home was a quiet, devout place; aged men and women who were walking calmly and courageously towards their death and the hope of heaven tended not to sing and make jokes. When Sister Emanuel explained that she also helped the Abbess by taking over the keeping of the accounts ledger when Helewise was very busy, however, Father Micah fixed both nuns with an angry expression.
‘This duty then interferes with the devotion you owe to your patients, Sister.’
It was an accusation that was, Helewise knew quite well, totally unfounded. She was on the point of saying so when, to her amazement, the priest turned to her. ‘And, Abbess Helewise, you should not seek to ease your own burdens by increasing those of others.’
Helewise experienced the full range of emotions of the unjustly accused. Fury, resentment, humiliation and, yes, a certain amount of self-pity: she wanted to shout out, like a hurt and angry child, it’s not fair!
Taking a calming breath – if she were to remonstrate with Father Micah in her own defence, to do so in front of the astonished Sister Emanuel was not the place – she inclined her head and walked out of the retirement home into the fresh, cold air outside.
Rather to her surprise, she found that Father Micah had followed her. Did it count as a minor victory, that, instead of waiting for him decide when he was ready to leave and lead the way out, she had pre-empted him?
Probably not, in his view. But it certainly did in hers.
Father Micah reserved the greater part of his spleen for the home for fallen women. Unfortunately, this was the area of her responsibility in which Helewise felt the most satisfaction; during her time as Abbess of Hawkenlye, the Abbey had earned a reputation as a humane, instructive and encouraging place for those deemed by society to be outcasts. Yes, some of the older women were too set in their ways to heed the call back to the path of righteousness. But even they, whom the nuns knew would make their way straight back to the dark corners where they plied their trade and earned their crust, were given help when they asked for it and sent on their way with a good meal inside them. Their unwanted babies were loved and cherished in exactly the same manner as the legitimate offspring of the richest nobleman.
Younger women, some of them resorting to prostitution in desperation, some the victims of assault, some fooled by young men promising everlasting love and marriage if they would but give in just this once, came in shame to Hawkenlye and found there the answer to their prayers. The nuns cared for them in their pregnancies and, in return, they performed what tasks were set them usually without protest. They were encourag
ed – an encouragement that had the force of an order – to attend services in the Abbey church and to pray for the strength to amend their lives. Their babies were delivered under the watchful eyes of the infirmarer or one of her midwives and afterwards, when mother and child were strong enough, the nuns did their best to find them homes. Sometimes a reluctant father could, with a little pressure, be persuaded to take the mother of his child to wife and give her baby a home. Sometimes a baby would be adopted by some childless couple as their own. Sometimes the nuns themselves would keep the child in their care while the mother left and returned to her former life.
Few women presented themselves again at the Abbey for the same reason, which alone made Helewise believe that the Hawkenlye method was the right one.
Father Micah, it was immediately apparent, did not agree. The home was fairly quiet just then and, as he stalked into the low room, divided into one section for those who were pregnant and another for those who had given birth, only five women and two babies looked up to watch him.
‘Come to lead us in our prayers, Father?’ one of the recently delivered women asked cheerfully. She was a street woman from Tonbridge, known to the nuns because she had earlier brought a younger colleague to Hawkenlye. They had been surprised to see her present herself into their care; as Sister Tiphaine had remarked, she had been engaged in her trade for so long without mishap that they had imagined she could take care of herself.
Now, a first-time mother at the advanced age of twenty-nine, she held up her chubby and gurgling baby girl for the priest to bless.
He did no such thing. Instead, drawing his robes aside as if he feared that contact with a whore would pollute them, he said, ‘Begone from my sight, harlot! And take that spawn of Satan with you.’
Then he spun round and marched out of the room.
Helewise heard the noisy sobs of the woman, the angry cries of her fellow-patients and, as an inevitable aftermath, the crying of their babies, frightened and upset by the disturbance. Above the babble a single female voice shouted out, making a suggestion as to what Father Micah ought to do with himself that was highly imaginative, if biologically impossible.
Helewise hardly heard. Racing after the priest, she caught up with him on the threshold.
‘Father Micah, I must protest!’ she said, as quietly as she could manage. ‘In the name of Christ and his charity, I—’
He turned on her a face like thunder. ‘Do not dare to speak Our Lord’s name in such a context!’ he commanded. ‘That woman is shameless! Shameless! Holding up her bastard to receive the blessing of a man of God, with her cronies simpering around her, displaying their foul flesh, polluting God’s pure air with the stench of their rottenness, the smell of the disgusting, putrid substance that seeps from their swollen breasts! How dare she! They should be flogged, the lot of them, aye, and branded with the mark of their shame!’
His thin face had turned almost purple in his fury. His breathing came very fast and small bubbles of sweat were appearing on his brow and upper lip.
Helewise, observing him, feared for his health. And, in the midst of that detached thought, she suddenly felt sorry for him.
‘Let us return to my room,’ she said calmly. ‘Perhaps you will take a restorative glass of cool water, Father.’
He turned on her. ‘Not from you,’ he replied rudely. ‘I shall visit the holy brethren in the Vale.’
‘As you wish.’ She kept her tone neutral.
‘I expect there to be changes here.’ He was gazing out towards the Abbey church. ‘I want to see less flippancy and wasteful profligacy and more evidence of devotion.’ He turned to stare at Helewise. ‘And those filthy whores are to be gone when next I visit.’
He is mad, Helewise thought as she watched him stride away. That, surely, is the only answer. Walking back to the precious sanctuary of her little room, she wondered what on earth she was to do.
Some time later, there was a timid knock on her door and Brother Firmin came in. He was in tears. Father Micah, he said, had ordered him to stop being so generous with the Holy Water and to be sure to give it only to those who led a devout life and prayed several times a day for forgiveness. ‘But how am I to tell, my lady?’ the old monk sobbed. ‘He didn’t think to explain that!’
Trying to comfort him – which was not easy – Helewise told him to continue as he had always done for the time being, and promised that she would take the matter up with Father Gilbert.
‘He said he would be back,’ Brother Firmin said dully. ‘He told us he had other calls to make – he mentioned some noble lord who has to be reminded of God’s law and he said something about banishing lost souls to the eternal fires. But he’ll be back, my lady.’ His tear-reddened eyes met Helewise’s, and her heart turned over with pity.
‘Try not to worry, Brother Firmin,’ she said kindly. ‘Return to the Vale and to ministering to your pilgrims. Leave Father Micah to me.’
She saw, with relief, that her words seemed to bring some comfort to Brother Firmin. She wished, as she watched him shuffle away, that she could say the same for herself.
Josse’s return later in the day brought a very welcome distraction. Putting aside her own concerns, she asked him what he had discovered about the dead gaoler. Listening to his deep voice as he told her of the marks on the dead man’s throat, gratefully she turned her mind to the mystery.
‘Is it any way possible, Sir Josse, that one of the prisoners could have reached out through this trap door you speak of, where food is put into the cell?’
‘I think not, my lady. And, in any case, neither prisoner had noticeably large hands, apparently. One was an adult man, but short and slight, the other but a youth.’
‘And the cell door had not been forced?’
‘No. Opened with a key.’
‘The dead man’s own key?’
‘His colleagues believe so. But, my lady, they are a sorry lot and, I would guess, singularly dull-witted and unobservant.’
‘Hmm. I conclude, Sir Josse, as I am certain you do too, that the assailant came from outside, struck down the guard, took his key and released the prisoners.’
‘Quite so.’
‘But why? Who were they, Sir Josse? Were you able to discover?’
‘The other guards had little to offer on the matter.’ He sighed, and she could sense his frustration. ‘I dignify the three of them with the title of guard, but indeed two seemed to have been recruited merely to serve as bearers; they were on the point of removing the body when Augustus and I arrived. He’s a good lad, Augustus,’ he added. ‘Uses his head.’
‘I agree,’ she said quietly. Then: ‘You were saying, Sir Josse, that the guards had little to say?’
‘Aye, aye.’ He sighed again. ‘One of them reported that the prisoners were strangers. Foreign, he said. His friend the dead man had complained that they kept shouting out and he couldn’t make out what they wanted. Not that it would have made any difference, I imagine, since I’m sure he wouldn’t have given them what they were asking for even if he had understood what it was.’
He was, Helewise observed, looking uncharacteristically dejected. ‘What is it, my friend?’ she asked gently. ‘What is bothering you?’
‘Oh – I’m being soft,’ he said, rousing himself to a brief smile. ‘It is entirely possible that those two prisoners were justly jailed, that they were guilty of some crime which deserved harsh treatment. But, my lady, you and I would not keep an animal in such conditions as I found in those cells, let alone a human being.’
‘I do not think that your compassion earns you the accusation of being soft,’ she said. ‘If, indeed, such is a matter of accusation. But, Sir Josse, could you gain no idea of what their crime was?’
‘No. The gaolers didn’t seem to know and, when Gus and I tried making a few enquiries among the villagers, they wouldn’t talk to us. They seemed afraid.’
‘Of the gaolers?’
‘Funny that you should ask, but no, I don’t think that w
as it. There was someone else they feared. One woman Gus spoke to kept looking over her shoulder as if she feared the Devil himself was going to leap out at her. And a small child broke out in sobs and said something about the black man.’
‘The black man? Black-skinned, do you think?’
‘Aye, maybe.’
‘Could these foreign prisoners have been dark-skinned?’ Eager now, she pursued the idea. ‘Perhaps a really tall, broad, black man came to rescue his friends, killing the gaoler with a huge hand and scaring all the villagers with his very size!’
Josse looked indulgently at her. ‘I don’t know, my lady. But it’s as good a guess as any I’ve managed to come up with.’
In the morning, Helewise went to Prime with a heavy heart. She had slept badly, overcome with anxiety concerning what she was to do about Father Micah. Kneeling, she thanked God for that gift of pity for the priest, without which she would have been well on the way to hating him. ‘He needs help, dear Lord,’ she whispered, ‘for surely something is seriously amiss with him . . .’
As the office began, she gave herself to her devotions. Peace began to settle around her, as it always did, and she felt the inestimable help of a strong energy supporting her. Some time later, heartened, she went out to face the day.
The first of the dramas came in the middle of the morning, when Helewise was seated at her wide oak table studying a list of outstanding rents owed by some of the tenants who farmed the Abbey’s lands. Her concentration was broken by the faint sounds of someone outside her door. There was no knock, but she heard a quiet, suppressed cough and the sound of soft footfalls, as if someone were walking up and down the cloister.
Once she had noticed the noises, she found it impossible to ignore them. It seemed likely that, if she managed to do so and get back to work, whoever it was would instantly make up their mind that they really had to see her and tap on the door.
Helewise got up, went over to the door and opened it. Outside, her hand raised as if about to knock, was Sister Bernadine.
