'Not a fat, drunken cleric?'
'Come, come!' Peckle snarled. 'Master Benjamin, tell us your conclusion.'
'Sir John, would the smell of blood drive Vulcan to a fury?'
'Of course. It would remind him of battle, of danger.'
Benjamin pointed towards the infirmary. 'Last night I examined Waldegrave's clothing. It was covered in blood and gore which was fresh. However, his tunic was also stained with dried blood.' He paused. 'So, Master Peckle, I will tell you my conclusions. Last night, Waldegrave drank himself into a stupor. Someone had earlier gutted a young pig, and drained off the blood. They went to Waldegrave's chamber and smeared it all over the tunic of our comatose priest. Our murderer then dragged the body silently across the yard, opened the door to Vulcan's stable, placed the sleeping priest on the straw, locked the stable door behind him and slipped quietly away. Vulcan, agitated by dark shapes in the night and inflamed by the stench of blood, was driven to fury. He pounded this strange, blood-stained visitor to his stable, now lying on his back in the straw beneath him. The fury of the attack, at least for a few seconds, drew Waldegrave from his drunken stupor. He screamed, perhaps struggled, but Vulcan lashed out once more with a sharpened hoof, shattering poor Waldegrave's head.' Benjamin folded his arms. 'Sir John, Sir Robert, Waldegrave was barbarously murdered.'
A babble of protest broke out but no one could deny the logic of my master's conclusions. He stilled the clamour with a wave of his hands.
'I should demand that everyone should account for their movements but,' he smiled thinly, 'in the main we all sleep alone and I have no authority to ask.' He clapped me on the shoulder. 'Even my good friend Shallot could not swear that I did not slip out of my chamber to commit this dreadful act.'
The rest of the group just stared wordlessly back. Benjamin shrugged.
'Sir John, I would be grateful for the loan of a groom who will show us the way to Abbe Gerard's Church of St Pierre in Maubisson village.'
Dacourt, lost in his own reverie, nodded and within the hour our horses were saddled and we followed the groom out of the chateau. Benjamin stopped for a while, staring across at the forest edge.
'We are being watched,' he repeated. 'All the time, we are being watched.'
'The Luciferi, master?'
Benjamin pulled a wry mouth. 'Perhaps, but the danger we face from them is nothing compared to what we face in the chateau. There is a murderer loose. Waldegrave was killed because of what he knew, something about that pathetic joke.' My master patted his horse absent-mindedly. 'Or was it that?' he continued as if speaking to himself. 'Or because I was the first to show any interest? We shall see. We shall see, eh, Roger?'
Chapter 6
I smiled to hide my own fears. I'll be honest, they weren't caused just by the Luciferi and some maniac loose in the chateau but by the Great Killer at Hampton Court and his desire to get that bloody ring back. I wanted to broach the matter with my master but he was lost in his own thoughts so I kept my fears hidden as we rode along the lee of the hill.
We wound our way past open fields into shady woods until we entered the neck of a small valley. Nestling at the bottom, on the banks of a sluggish stream, stood Maubisson village: a collection of wattle and daub huts with thatched roofs, two or three of stone and slate, each with its own fenced garden. On the far side of the village was a small water mill, probably used for grinding corn. In the centre of the village green stood a black-spired church, nothing more than a tower and nave hastily thrown together, the type you can see in any village in England or France. It was ringed by its own walls, a cemetery to one side, the priest's house to the other. Even from where we looked you could glimpse the glint of the huge carp pond where Abbe Gerard had drowned.
We rode slowly down the beaten track. Women in thick, serge dresses and wooden clogs gathered at the doors of their houses and watched us pass whilst half-naked children ran behind us, screaming in their patois for a sou or something to eat. A few old men dozed on benches. Around them scrawny-necked chickens pecked at the dust, jostling with thin-flanked pigs for something to eat. We reached the church and rode through the lych gate. Benjamin thanked the groom and told him to return to the chateau. We tied our horses to a small rail and knocked on the priest's house door.
A young, thin-faced man with brown hair, a sharp needle nose and watery eyes answered. His skin was rather yellow as if he had bile problems or a stone in his kidneys. He was friendly enough, thankfully a Norman born, so Benjamin could converse easily with him whilst I could follow the general gist of their conversation.
'I am the Cure Ricard,' he murmured. 'You are…?'
(I was sure he was going to say 'Goddamn'.)
'English, from the Chateau of Maubisson.'
'Come in. Come in.'
The cure ushered us in. He lived as poorly as his peasant parishioners. The room was simple. There were a few sticks of furniture and the floor was beaten earth, rather cold despite the summer. A fire burnt in the hearth. Next to it squatted a young girl about fifteen or sixteen years old. Her hair was thick and coarse, her face raw and peeling from work in the sun. She hardly looked up as we entered but continued to stir the huge, black pot which hung above the flames, now and again throwing in a scattering of herbs and the occasional piece of raw, fatty meat.
'My housekeeper,' Ricard shamefully announced. (Aye, I thought, and I wager she does more than just work in the kitchen, but who am I to judge the poor man's morals? Look at my chaplain! From what I gather he spends more time in the hay loft with young Mabel from the village than he does in his church. Ah, see, he squirms! He thinks I am old and senile. I tell you this, not even the bloody sparrows land on my lawns without my permission.) Anyway, back to the poor priest. At least he did an honest day's work. He told us to sit down and served us vinegar-tasting wine. When he wasn't looking I poured mine on to the floor.
'Monsieur le Cure,' Benjamin began, 'you came here after the Abbe Gerard died?'
'No, Monsieur, I served with him. But the bishop has yet to make up his mind about a successor.'
'So you were here the night he died?'
'Yes and no. On that Wednesday after Easter I was absent from the church. The abbe had allowed me to visit friends. He stayed and cooked his own dinner.' The cure spread his hands. 'Some scraps of beef, he opened a small jar of wine. The abbe liked his claret and he had been fasting during Lent.'
He must have seen the look in my eyes.
'No more than two cups, certainly not enough to make him drunk. Just before dusk one of the villagers, walking through the church grounds, saw the abbe in the garden looking down at the carp pond. I returned after dark.' He looked sideways at the girl stirring the pot. 'Simone and I returned. Abbe Gerard was not to be seen. I went down to the garden. It was a beautiful evening. I thought he might still have been there.' The cure's eyes filled with tears. 'He was floating face down in the carp pond!'
'And there was no mark or sign of violence?'
'No, Monsieur.'
'And the cup and jar of wine?'
'They were found with him in the pond.'
'Ask him where the wine came from,' I demanded.
Benjamin translated my question. The cure shrugged.
'God knows. The abbe may have bought it. But don't forget, Monsieur, it was Easter. Our parishioners, even the people of Maubisson, send us gifts. Fruit, flowers, wine and sweetmeats.'
'Why would the abbe stare at the carp pond?'
The cure laughed abruptly. 'Monsieur, everyone stands by the edge of the water and stares at the fish, that's why we have such ponds. It's a bit like asking why someone looks at the sky or watches the sunset.'
Benjamin smiled. 'A fair point, Monsieur. Can we see this carp pond?'
Ricard led us out into the garden. Really, it was a small orchard, with some apple and pear trees and untended grass. Here and there was the occasional flower bed; the lilies and other wild flowers struggling to thrive amongst the brambles and weeds. In the middle of the garden was a large, deep carp pond. It must have been
