last night… last night…”
Simon patted her shoulder as she began to sob. “The dwale didn’t kill Moll,” he said.
“But I’d already given her some! I gave it to Joan and Cecily as well so Elias and I wouldn’t be interrupted. If he gave them more, it could have poisoned them.”
“It didn’t, though, did it? The killer smothered Moll, then cut her, so my friend thinks, and I’ve never known him to be wrong. As for last night, I don’t think Elias is guilty – but you might be able to help me with some other thoughts.”
“Anything, if it will help you to discover who is doing all this!”
“Show me where Margherita would normally sleep.”
She turned and led the way to the dorter, stopping at a bed only a short way inside.
It was far from the hole in the roof, but close to the door. Simon pointed to the single bed between Margherita’s and the prioress’s chamber. “Who sleeps there?”
“That’s Joan’s.”
Beside the treasurer’s bed was a large chest, which Constance said was Margherita’s. It was of heavy wood and bound with iron. Simon idly tried to lift the lid. It was locked.
Seeing Simon’s questioning glance moving over the rest of the beds, Constance gave the names of the occupants. “At the far side, that is Denise’s, and that one, nearer the stairs, is Ela’s, the kitcheness’s.”
“So Ela could have risen last night without waking anyone.”
Constance pulled a face. Simon could see her nose wrinkling above her veil. “She wouldn’t have woken anyone anyway. Margherita often walks around late at night. Especially recently, with these murders and the pressure of the election. And Denise is usually downstairs with a pot of wine until very late. If Ela rose, I doubt anyone would have been here to stir.”
Godfrey’s anxious face appeared at the top of the stairs. “Constance? Oh, there you are. You have a patient who needs my help?”
Constance apologised to Simon and led the canon to the infirmary. They left the door wide open behind them, and Simon saw them march straight to Cecily’s bed. While he watched, he saw Godfrey begin to unwrap the dressing on the girl’s arm; the canon winced with distaste at the smell, while Cecily suddenly gave a great cry of agony.
Simon could stand most things, but not surgery. Such slicing of flesh and sawing of bone reminded him too forcibly of his own physical frailty. He turned and walked down the stairs while behind him Cecily’s voice rose to an insane shriek.
In the cloister he found Margherita sitting with Joan. Joan rose, giving Simon a deeply disapproving look. For her part, Margherita stared white-faced up at the infirmary’s window. In her left hand she gripped her string of prayer beads, which she paid out through her right.
Joan appeared enraged. “So, Master Bailiff, you consider that Margherita is a murderer?”
“I have said no such thing,” he replied. “But others have, and I must question her.”
“Ridiculous! A woman more dedicated to the priory you’ll never meet!” Joan looked at Margherita as if expecting a word from her, but the treasurer sat silently. After a moment Joan gave an exasperated “Oh!” and left them.
Margherita shivered as a fresh shriek came from the window. “How is she?”
“I don’t know. If Godfrey’s as good as some of you think, then Cecily may survive.” There was no need to stress the point: both knew even a young, healthy person could fade astonishingly quickly when gangrene set in. If the infected part was hacked off, the patient often died from shock. “May I have a few words with you?”
She looked him up and down. “After last night, I suppose I have little choice. The alternative would be to leave you still more suspicious of me.” She led Simon to a bench at the northernmost wall of the cloister. “I didn’t kill any of them, you know.“
“But you have stolen money from the priory.”
“No!” she declared, her eyes flashing as she spun to face him. “I would never take money from this place. I saved it so it could be used to serve the community better.”
As she spoke she turned away from Simon and glowered over the garth towards the church. “Look at it, just look! Roof falling in, tiles smashed – it’s a miracle only one man’s been hit by falling slates.”
“If you’d not embezzled the funds, the prioress could have repaired them.”
“Oh, the prioress!”
Simon snapped. “If you hadn’t concealed the true state of the accounts, maybe she could have repaired the roofs and wouldn’t have been forced to resort to begging a local knight to give her more money – and don’t tell me you were acting in the priory’s interests! You were hiding it so you could produce it later, when you had won the prioress’s job, in order to make yourself look better in the other sisters’ eyes.”
As Margherita turned to face Simon, there came a terrible scream from the infirmary, which faded slowly to a whimpering sob. “Benedicite!” she said in horror.
“They’re taking her arm off,” Simon said relentlessly. “Because she slipped on the laundry stairs and broke her wrist. You said the stairs were rotten – don’t you feel guilt for what you’ve done?”
“No. I did it for God and for this community!” she gasped. “I have done nothing for my own benefit, only for that of the people about me.“
“Would that include killing the girls?” Simon pressed. “Were they enough of a threat to your community for you to seek to destroy them all?”
“You imagine that I could…” She stared at him once more, her attention drifting from his stern brown eyes to his forehead, then his mouth and chin, as if seeking confirmation of his seriousness. Sinking back against the wall, she looked drained of all energy. Silently she reached inside her tunic and flung a key at him. “Take it! It’s all in my chest, and on top you’ll find a parchment with the amounts scribbled down so that everyone can witness nothing is stolen.”
Simon picked up the key from where it had fallen. Margherita sat like someone shrivelled, as if she had lost much of her substance; her head bowed, shoulders hunched. She didn’t meet his gaze. Very slowly she lifted both hands to her face and covered it as she began to sob.
He was about to make his way to the dorter to fetch the hidden money when he heard the brazen call of a trumpet. Surprised, he spun around, but here in the cloister he could see nothing beyond the surrounding walls. Filled with uneasiness, he strode towards the communicating door in the church.
Bishop Stapledon looked at the main gate to St Mary’s, Belstone with a significant seriousness in his expression. It didn’t go unnoticed by Jonathan when he pulled the little side door open and gaped at the cavalcade before him.
“Open the gate in the name of your bishop,” ordered Stapledon’s ecclesiastical staff-bearer, his crosier, who sat before his master near the gate, his trumpet resting on his thigh.
Jonathan swivelled slowly to stare. “Which?” he squeaked.
Stapledon kicked his horse forward until its head was pushing Jonathan backwards. “This one, Canon. I am your bishop. Now open that damned gate!”
As he spurred his mount, Stapledon took in the state of the precinct, squinting shortsightedly. His eyes had been failing him regularly for some time now, and he felt the need for his spectacles, but even without them the sight was not one to please the eye.
For Bishop Stapledon, a man used to residing with the King in the best abbeys and halls, it was shocking to see a place so derelict. The entire area appeared so rundown as to be ready for demolition. Still worse was the attitude of the workers. Those who should have been in the fields stood gaping at the sight of his entourage; those who should have been indoors seeing to the horses, working in the dairy, or producing the ale upon which the whole priory depended, thronged the lane to the stables.
Stapledon clenched his jaw and carefully lifted himself from his saddle, his eyes squeezed tight shut, standing in the stirrups with a small shiver of exquisite pain, holding his breath. Then, giving a little sigh of pure relief, he opened his eyes and permitted himself a faint smile as he leaned forward and swung his leg over the horse’s rump to dismount.
It was something that he had tried to think of as a minor cross to bear in this vale of adversity, but most of all he thought of it as a damned irritating affliction. Piles! he thought to himself as he stood a moment, feeling for a
